Jane Austen Girl - A Timbell Creek Contemporary Romance

by Inglath Cooper

  When the reality of it began to sink in, she sat down on the bench, staring at the half-torn flyer still clutched in her right hand.

  She stifled a scream of frustration. She was just so mad at him.

  Not that she’d ever bothered to tell him, pride keeping her silent. Instead, she’d acted as if she thought it was great that he was dating the captain of the cheerleading squad, thought it fine that he had a whole new group of friends she had absolutely nothing in common with.

  The truth? Sometimes she missed him so much, she actually ached inside. It was like having an arm or leg removed, knowing it was no longer there, and yet phantom pain throbbed in the place where the limb had once been.

  But the simple fact was that Kyle had moved on. Outgrown her. Oh, he tried to touch base with her often enough to keep from ditching their friendship altogether, but the last thing Andy wanted to be to Kyle was a noose around his neck. So maybe it was better for them both that she’d cut him loose. He didn’t have to feel obligated to her any longer.

  He could get on with his life. And she could get on with hers.

  She glanced down at the ripped flyer in her hand. Which was exactly what she intended to do. Starting now.

  I’m going to make sure my daughter knows what’s important and what’s not. No cheerleading, no beauty contests. Just the stuff that will actually make a difference in the real world.

  Bobby Jack Randall’s famous last words on the day his divorce became final

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bobby Jack had his speech all prepared. Along with it, Andy’s favorite supper of veggie burgers sizzled on the grill out back, and crinkle cut French fries baked in the oven.

  It was seven o’clock though, and she still wasn’t home. He’d started to get worried about an hour ago. Bobby Jack hated worrying. He’d made a pact with his daughter when she’d turned thirteen and started going more places without him that she would always call if she were going to be late. He’d now tried her cell phone six or seven times, only to have her voice mail pick up.

  At seven-fifteen, just as he was considering calling everyone they knew, the front door opened, and Andy breezed in.

  He heard Flo jump off the living room sofa and trot out to greet her.

  Within a few moments, the two of them appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “Hey,” Andy said, dropping her book bag on the kitchen counter and heading for the refrigerator where she pulled out a bottle of water and guzzled a third before saying, “I’m going up for a shower.”

  Bobby Jack stared at her for a few moments, wondering who this teenager with an attitude was and what she’d done with his daughter. “Hold on a minute,” he said to her retreating back.

  She turned, arched an eyebrow, took another sip of her water.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked, trying to insert calm into his voice.

  “Just doing stuff,” she said, annoyance in her tone.

  “I’ve been trying to get you on the phone for over an hour. You said you’d be home at six.”

  She glanced at her watch, lifted a shoulder. “Sorry,” she said, breaking the word into two syllables.

  “What’s going on, Andy?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the kitchen doorjamb.

  “Nothing, Daddy. Look, I’m tired. And I’ve got homework.”

  “Supper’s ready.”

  She glanced at the plate of veggie burgers on the counter, then looked down at her shoes before saying, “I’m not hungry. I’ll fix a salad or something later.”

  “Is this about this morning? Are you angry because I don’t think you should waste your time on that ridiculous—”

  She threw up a hand to stop him. “I don’t think it’s ridiculous!” she cried. “Why can’t you be happy that I want to do something different?”

  On that, she turned and ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. A few seconds later, he heard her bedroom door slam.

  Flo looked up at him, her big brown eyes worried.

  “I know,” he said, rubbing the top of her head. “I need to learn when to keep my mouth shut.”

  He stood in the same place for a long time, trying to decide when life as he knew it had turned inside out, so that he recognized virtually nothing of the current landscape.

  The phone rang, jangling him out of his state of stunned shock. He picked it up with a distracted hello.

  “Let me speak to Andy.”

  Priscilla’s highhanded demand tipped Bobby Jack right over the edge. “Why? So you can brainwash her with more of your ideas on how to get ahead in this world?”

  “Oh, Bobby Jack, we all know you have the only secret formula available, so why would I bother?”

  Her sarcasm ignited him even further. “There’s no secret to where hard work and a good college will get her. Where do you think winning a date with a duke will get her?”

  “Maybe she’ll marry him. Don’t they come with country houses and servants?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said on a choked laugh. “This is your idea of parental guidance? No, wait. Forget I said that. You don’t have the slightest idea of what it takes to be a parent. Because you weren’t around for eleven years of her life. Now that you’ve remembered you have a daughter, this is your contribution to her development? Filling her head with garbage?”

  “She doesn’t think it’s garbage. You’re the only one who seems to think that. And as a matter of fact, I met the woman who’s going to be choosing the makeover candidate. I’d like to give Andy a few tips before her interview tomorrow.”

  Beneath her breezy arrogance, Bobby Jack broke. “Or why don’t you just skip to the part you know best? Maybe you could tell her how to get pregnant and force the guy to marry her. There’s some wisdom you could surely pass down to her.”

  “You are such an asshole, Bobby Jack.”

  “Because I don’t choose to drape our history in pink roses?”

  “That’s your version of our history,” Priscilla said, her voice suddenly flat.

  “No, that’s the truth.”

  With that, Bobby Jack clicked off the phone and tossed it on the kitchen counter. He forced in several deep, calming breaths. Hearing a noise, he walked down the hallway, suddenly sorry he’d let temper bring out accusations he’d long ago shelved and catalogued as irrelevant.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He reached the bottom of the staircase only to see Andy take off running mid-way up. “Andy!” he called out.

  But she ignored him, again slamming the door to her bedroom. This time, he heard the click of the lock. And along with it came the sickening realization that she’d heard every word he’d said.

  If you believe in yourself

  and what you’re doing with your life, stand tall

  and don’t make excuses for who you are.

  Grier McAllister - Blog at Jane Austen Girl

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At just after nine o’clock, Grier climbed into the comfortable king-size bed from which Sebbie had only moved when she took him out for a walk to do his business. She tucked his head against her shoulder and rubbed his side with her thumb, taking pleasure in his soft snoring.

  Too restless to sleep, she picked up the remote control and flicked through fifty or so channels, not a single one catching her interest.

  For the past few hours, she’d immersed herself in work she’d brought along on her laptop, answered e-mails and reviewed her notes for tomorrow’s interviews. All in a futile attempt to avoid thinking about what Priscilla Randall had said about her mother and whether it was true that she was living in the nursing home at the edge of town.

  She flicked off the TV and dropped back against the pillows behind her, one arm flung over her eyes. The thought was too horrible to contemplate.

  She let herself remember the place now. At Christmas, during her sophomore year in high school, she’d gone there with the choir to visit with the residents and sing carols. They’d taken along h
ot chocolate and cookies, as well as some gifts she’d quickly realized were the only ones most of them would be getting that holiday. Before leaving they’d sung one last song, Oh Come, All Ye Faithful, and she’d stood in the back row, looking out at the faces staring up at them with such gratitude. That was the part that humbled her, lifted sobs from deep inside her so that she could only stand there, mute, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  She pictured her mother now sitting in that audience of faces, and an actual pain knifed through her chest. Even all those years ago, the place had been a rundown, sad excuse for an ending. Maybe someone had bought it and turned it into something different than what it had been then. But judging from the look on Priscilla Randall’s face when she’d mentioned it earlier, that wasn’t too likely.

  What had she expected, though? For most of Grier’s childhood, her mama had lived her life paycheck-to-paycheck, bottle of booze to bottle of booze.

  Truthfully, she guessed she’d imagined her finally finding a decent man to love her. She wasn’t sure what kind of logic she could possibly attach to this assumption, since a decent man had never once managed to find his way to her mother’s door while she’d been living with her.

  Guilt nagged low inside her now, even as she determined to push it back. Choices, she reminded herself. Life was all about choices. Every single one mattered somewhere down the line. For the bad ones, there was eventually a price to pay.

  And still.

  She was her mother.

  A knock sounded at the door. She sat straight up on the bed, startled out of her misery. Sebbie woke up and started barking. “Shh,” she said. “It’s probably just Beaner with some ice.” He’d already been up three times, once with a newspaper, once with flowers and the last time with complimentary coffee and dessert.

  Sebbie resumed his position, head on his paws, eyes wide open.

  She reached for a robe to pull over her cotton pajamas and went to the door. But the man standing outside was not Beaner. The man outside her door was Bobby Jack Randall, Darryl Lee’s brother.

  She stared at him, at a loss.

  He stared back.

  “Could I help you with something?” she finally managed, pulling her robe closed at the neck.

  He shook his head, blinked hard. “I—you’re—”

  “Grier McAllister,” she finished for him. “We met this afternoon. With Darryl Lee.”

  “Yeah. I know,” he said, running a hand through wavy black hair. “I thought you were—”

  “The current wedge in your brother’s marriage.”

  He folded his arms across his expansive chest, giving her a long look. “And you’re not?”

  “Hardly. Look, Mr. Randall, would you like to tell me how you found my room?”

  He hesitated and then admitted, “Beaner Purdy’s a sucker for banana splits.”

  “Ah. Nice to know the security here is of such high standards. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Randall?”

  “You’re doing the interviews for that show – Dream Date?”

  He said the show’s name as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I am,” she said, bristling a little.

  “Could we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure,” she said, waving a hand for him to continue.

  He glanced over his shoulder and then back at her, his green eyes lasering her to the spot. “Somewhere a little more public,” he said, his gaze lifting over her shoulder to the room behind her.

  She tightened the belt of her robe, cleared her throat. “Mr. Randall, I was about to go to bed. I’m expecting a long day tomorrow.”

  “It’s Bobby Jack. And please, this won’t take long.”

  She glanced back at Sebbie, now studying them both through eyes at half-mast, his chin still resting on his paws. “Why don’t I meet you downstairs? Give me a few minutes to change.”

  “Thanks,” he said, taking a step back. “I’d appreciate it.”

  He turned and headed for the elevator while she stood for a moment, noticing the ways in which he favored Darryl Lee. An athlete’s build. Wide shoulders, long legs. And yet, there was a noticeable difference, too. In high school, Darryl Lee’s walk had defined confidence. Bobby Jack’s took it a step further, and she could imagine that he wasn’t used to taking no for an answer.

  Maybe he needed some practice.

  DOWNSTAIRS, SHE FOUND HIM waiting for her in a sitting area off the main lobby. Lamplight threw soft shadows across the sofa and chairs arranged in the center of the room. Upon spotting her, he stood, wiping his hands down the front of his blue jeans, as if he were nervous.

  “Please,” he said. “Sit down.”

  She took the chair opposite his corner of the couch, crossed her legs and said, “Mr. Randall, what can I do for you?”

  He studied her for several long moments, until she began to feel uncomfortable under his assessing gaze. “I mean you no disrespect, Ms. McAllister, but this thing you’re doing here tomorrow. I don’t want my daughter to have any part of it.”

  For a moment, Grier had no idea what to say, the disapproval in his tone impossible to miss. And not a little insulting. “How old is your daughter?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Well, since she’s under eighteen, there’s a consent form. It has to be signed by a parent.”

  “That would be her mother.”

  “Let me guess. Priscilla.”

  “I believe you two met this afternoon.”

  “Yes. We did.”

  “Priscilla thinks this is a good thing for our daughter. I don’t.”

  Grier sat up in her chair, tugging at the collar of her blouse. She suddenly felt as if she’d arrived in Timbell Creek pulling a trailer full of snake oil. “I’m not sure what you’ve been told about the show—”

  “I know enough,” he interrupted. “Andy’s a smart girl. She doesn’t need something like this.”

  “And what exactly is this?”

  “Frankly?”

  “By all means,” she said.

  “Nonsense.”

  She managed a short laugh. “That’s frank.”

  “As I said, I mean no disrespect.”

  “Mr. Randall—”

  “Bobby Jack.”

  “Bobby Jack,” she said, attempting to keep her voice even, “I’m obviously an outsider, but it seems to me that the person you’re disrespecting here is your daughter.”

  Heat flared in his eyes, and she could see that she’d overstepped her boundaries.

  “You know nothing about my daughter,” he said.

  “You’re right. I don’t. And you’re also right that there’s no Nobel Prize waiting for the winner of this contest. But neither is there a bloody death or a one-way ticket to life-is-over-as-you-know-it.”

  He sat for a good minute without responding. Grier determined to wait him out. “I’m not criticizing other people’s choices,” he finally said. “Frankly, I don’t care what other people do. But I do care about my daughter and what happens to her. You’re not here to watch out for her best interest. You’re here to pick some girl who’s going to think she’s won a fairy tale when the ending will not be happily ever after.”

  Despite her best efforts at composure, Grier wilted a little beneath the heat of the words. “And how do you know that?” she asked, her voice not as steady as she would have liked.

  He stood up abruptly and headed for the door. “Because,” he said, turning to glance back at her, “there’s no such thing, Ms. McAllister. And that I know for a fact.”

  When I look in the mirror, what I see is someone I never wanted to be.

  Andy Randall in a chat room confession

  at LivingSolo.com

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Andy sat in front of her computer screen, staring at the blinking cursor. When the conversations got too personal, the questions too intense, she just backed out. That was the great thing about the Internet. Now you see her. Now you don’t. A girl could be her own Houdini.

&
nbsp; She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the desk chair. She heard her father’s voice, his words pounding at her temples. Maybe you could tell her how to get pregnant and force the guy to marry her.

  Somewhere deep inside, maybe she’d always known the truth. She wondered now if this was something a baby could feel, even inside its mother, whether it was wanted or not.

  For Andy, hearing the truth was like throwing light across the nagging feeling she’d always had about her parents’ marriage. She got up and walked over to the bed, dropping onto the pillows. She rolled over and curled up in a ball, her knees drawn tight against her chest.

  From beneath her bed, Tangerine meowed, then shimmied out and jumped up beside her. She rubbed a hand across the back of the orange tabby cat, smiling a little as he arched high, his tail straight in the air.

  He meowed again, then leaned down to rub his face against hers. She pulled him close and held him in the curve of her arm while he began to purr, the noise rising in volume until it sounded like the idling engine of a small car.

  She’d spotted him on the side of the road one morning when her daddy had been driving her to school. At first, she’d thought it might be a little roll of yarn someone had tossed out the window, but after seeing it move, Andy had pleaded with him to stop. They’d pulled over to the side of the road, and she’d jumped out, running back to the spot where the little orange kitten sat, mewling. As gently as she could, Andy had picked him up, a soft cry of despair erupting from her throat at the sight of his crusted-together eyes and the little body that was nothing but fur and bones.

  They’d driven him straight to the vet who’d pronounced him blind from the infection that had gone too far to save his vision. With the realization that he would never see, Andy had cupped the tiny kitten to her chest and promised she would take care of him for the rest of his life.

  And she had.

  He never left her room, his food and water bowl always placed in the same spot where he knew to find them. The same for his litter box. He roamed the room as if he could see every inch of it, napping on the windowsill in the afternoon sun, waiting by the door for her return and pouncing on her shoestrings when she did with absolute joy for the game.