The Austen Escape

by Katherine Reay

  My laugh morphed to a snort. That was a good memory. At twenty-three, twenty-five, and twenty-seven, all three of them complained the entire weekend, especially about being called to task by a “five-foot-two pip-squeak.” But they showed up, each of them bearing a gift wrapped in newspaper—no bows. They had their limits.

  Dad shook his head and continued. “We laugh that she’s silly, but those things weren’t silly. They were important, and I—we would’ve missed them. If she needs you now, that’s what family does. We’re there for each other.”

  “Isabel is family now?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  I raised my hand before he could reply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  And I didn’t. Isabel was family and had been since the first day she came home with me after school. She was there for every occasion. And when my mom died two years ago, Isabel showed up at my apartment every night for almost three months, often waiting hours while I worked late. She always brought something—ice cream, a movie, chocolate, a magazine—to make me feel better, laugh, and forget for a while. She was the author of those easy-to-freeze meals. Dad was right—Isabel knew how to make things fun and pretty, even when they hurt.

  “So you’ll go?”

  Before I could answer, Dad quirked a sideways smile. Deep lines trailed through his temples. He knew he’d won—again.

  “Goodness’ sake, girl, you should see your face. She wants to take you to some fancy English estate for a costume party, not torture you.”

  I lifted a single brow.

  “Stop that. You’ll have a great time. You love wearing skirts. Like the ones you used to wear, the pretty ones that swirled and bounced.”

  “Dad, those went out of style long ago.”

  “Your mom used to say pretty never goes out of style. Forget the skirts, Mary . . . This is a real opportunity for you. We could never afford to do stuff like this.”

  There it was—the vast, barren landscape that spread between Dad and me. Mom had been sick, and he’d worked to feed and clothe and send four of us to college. There had been room for little else.

  “It didn’t matter, Dad.” I reached for his hand now. “I’ll go.”

  His sideways smile evened out to a full grin. “Text her now.”

  “No cell phones at the dinner table.”

  “Don’t be sassy. Go on, text her.” He picked up his menu again. “I’ll look this over while you do.”

  I pulled out my phone.

  I’m in if the offer stands. Thanks for invite. Send me details and let’s get together this weekend.

  “Happy now?” I dropped my phone back into my bag. “Or do you have more surprises? Because it’s been a big day and I’m not sure I can handle any more tonight.”

  “You need more sleep.” He laid down his menu.

  I laughed. A smile and sleep were Dad’s answers to everything—and he was probably right. “What are you ordering?”

  He dropped his eyes. “Chiles rellenos.”

  Chapter 4

  I pushed my way through Crow Bar’s Friday throng to find Isabel seated, drink in hand, with an empty stool beside her. She’d texted back during Dad’s trés lechés cake that her weekend was packed and tonight was her only chance to meet. She’d wanted HandleBar; I was committed to Crow Bar. She only had fifteen minutes to spare; I couldn’t change my plans. She would try to make it work; I would hurry.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. Dad had a new gizmo to shove into my car, then he wanted to see the bats fly out from the bridge tonight. They’ll migrate soon.”

  “They’re still doing that?” Isabel pushed off the stool and dodged her head from side to side for her signature double air kiss. On any other Texan the move would seem pretentious, but with Isabel it was just what she did.

  “I think it’s hard to get a couple million Mexican free-tailed bats to do anything different. It’s kinda their thing.”

  She pushed at the empty stool beside her and glanced down the bar. “I wasn’t going to be able to hold this much longer. Do you know how many guys asked to sit here?”

  “Five? Seven?”

  “Ha-ha.” She lifted my low ponytail and inspected it. “Did you do something with your hair? It’s different. I love the colors.”

  I leaned back to draw it from her fingers. “Nothing new. It’s the usual summer highlights that haven’t faded yet. But you—”

  “What do you think?” She pulled a chunk of black curls forward. “It’s a little dark, isn’t it? My colorist says it’s very in, matte black, no variation whatsoever, but I’m not sure.” She widened her eyes.

  “It’s dramatic, but good. I like it.”

  She twirled the section of hair. “You know me, I don’t really care what it looks like as long as it’s not dreadful, but he was so set on it.”

  I dropped onto the stool. “What are you drinking?”

  She tapped the base of her martini glass. The liquid inside was clear with bright green flecks and a dark berry resting on the bottom. It looked like fall, but not quite Christmas.

  “The guys at the end of the bar, the blond and the stocky one in the suit, ordered this for me. They wanted your stool. I suspect they thought this would get it for them.” She slid it away from me. “I’d share, but the green flecks are cilantro. You hate the stuff.” She stretched up and waved at the bartender.

  “I don’t hate cilantro.” I leaned around her. “It just tastes like soap.”

  She blocked my view. “Don’t look at them, it’ll only encourage them. Here . . .” She twirled a finger at the bartender, now standing in front of us. “Hang on, someone’s calling. Order while I get this.”

  Isabel pulled her phone out of her bag. I ordered a glass of Prosecco.

  “TCG.” Her voice arced, high and flirtatious. “How’s your Friday? . . . I can’t tonight. I’m out with SK.”

  SK. I hadn’t heard that nickname in a long time. So long, I’d almost forgotten it. Part of me was surprised Isabel still used it, another part surprised it still hurt.

  “I’ll call you when I get home later? . . . Maybe . . .” She turned her wrist, checking her silver-and-diamond watch. “Sure . . . I’m actually near there . . . See you later.” She tapped off the phone and laid it on the polished wood between us.

  “You call him TCG to his face?”

  “Not like that. Never. He saw my contacts list once and I came up with ‘Tall Consultant Guy’ on the fly.” Her fingers flicked air quotes before she reached for her drink again. “He loves it.”

  Isabel’s nicknames. Whenever anyone got one, they felt special—initiated into an exclusive club. She fed the image by keeping the translations tightly held secrets, objects of curiosity and mystery. I’d discovered mine years ago and TCG’s more recently, by accident.

  “You’re seeing him tonight? Did you upgrade him?”

  “No, but he’s a nice guy.” She watched me with a scrunched face. I couldn’t tell if she wanted to say more or if the cilantro suddenly tasted like dishwashing soap to her too.

  Tall, cute, quiet, a little boring, but sweet had been her dismissive description of TCG six months ago.

  “I’m surprised he’s still around.”

  “He doesn’t take it any more seriously than I do. We have a few mutual friends, that’s all; I may go meet up with them later. But while I’m here . . .” She raised her glass and tapped the rim of mine. “To Bath. To England. And to Jane.” Her eyes lit with excitement. “This is it. The final piece of the puzzle. I can’t believe my father finally gave in.”

  Isabel’s dissertation, “Refined Escapism: The Twenty-First Century Appropriation of Jane Austen,” had lain in limbo for the past couple years. She claimed she couldn’t finish it because she hadn’t experienced the “ultimate escapist experience.” No grant would finance it, and her dad had staunchly refused.

  “What made him agree now?”

  Her pleasure wavered, and she trailed a finger around the rim of her glass. Her dad w
as never an easy subject. Whenever I doubted the saying that hate wasn’t the opposite of love, I thought of Isabel’s father and remembered—indifference was.

  “Honestly, I think he’s tired of me. He pointed out that most of my cohorts have submitted, even graduated already. He said he doubted I had it in me. Do you think I can finish it?”

  “Of course you can. And if everyone has graduated, then your friends are a bunch of overachievers, because five years is fast. The average length for an English doctoral program these days is more like six or seven.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I looked it up.” I took a sip of my Prosecco and waited. Isabel disliked silences and usually spoke into them quickly.

  Not this time. I looked up, and she widened her eyes as if to say, And?

  “It was last year when I ran into him at Christmas. He was on your case, so I found a few sites and sent him the links . . . I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it. But you were really low. And he was behaving badly.”

  Isabel’s bottom lip pouted out on her exhale. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

  “Well . . . someone had to tell him.”

  She took a pull on her drink and changed the subject. “Did you know his new girlfriend is thirty? We would’ve been in high school together.”

  “Is she the one I met last Christmas?”

  “Different. This one’s been around three months and twenty-two days. We had a fight about her last month. Don’t you love that? We barely talk, but he’ll sure defend her. He started yelling in that horrid low way that I didn’t respect his sacrifices, the decisions he’s had to make, the life she brings to him—” She stopped and drew in a deep breath, then blew it out slowly, yoga fashion. “It doesn’t matter . . . Thank you, Mary. Thank you for standing up to him and for coming with me.”

  I opened my mouth, but she raised a hand to stop me. “Please don’t say anything. I know you don’t really want to come, and it was kinda dirty pool to call your dad, but I had to. I needed family and that’s you. You always have been and also . . . I owe you. I don’t want you to be angry, but I did something. I . . .” Her eyes darted over my shoulder and she swallowed whatever she was about to say. “Oh. Your friend Moira is headed this way.”

  “I told you that. That’s why I couldn’t go to HandleBar. All the guys are coming here tonight.”

  The “guys” consisted of our little tribe from work—Benson and Rodriguez, WATT’s two other engineers; our three physicists; a couple from the finance team, including Moira; and another few from marketing. We got together almost every Friday night.

  I spun and waved to Moira. Turning back, I was surprised by the look of swamped loss pulling at Isabel’s face. “You can stay if you want. You know you’re always welcome. You know everyone.”

  She shrugged away the expression and my invitation. “No worries. We’ll have plenty of time to talk, and I told you I couldn’t stay. I’m already late.”

  She pushed off the stool as I reached for her. “Stay. Finish your drink at least.”

  “Friday night with engineers and physicists?” She glanced at the crew entering behind Moira. “Benson continues to look like a twitchy mouse, I see.”

  “Did you expect him to change?”

  Rodriguez and Benson had come in together, and Isabel was right. Benson looked anxious. His eyes darted around the room. But I knew Benson. He wasn’t anxious. He was taking it all in.

  “He’s just reveling in a Friday night. He’s ready to relax, have fun . . . And don’t smirk. Your pretentious academics don’t rank any higher on the Friday-night-fun scale.” I worked to hide my smile.

  “You got me.” Isabel grinned. “There was a debate the other day on whether Browning was a Merlot poet or more Pinot Noir.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “No clue. I said any poet above beer was pretentious and a whiskey one was more my style. No one appreciated that.” Isabel gave me a quick hug. “I gotta go.”

  I noticed movement in my periphery. “Your timing is impeccable. Blond and Stocky just stood too. They look like they’re leaving.”

  “Well, then . . .” She widened her eyes and added that flirtatious glint only Isabel knew how to manufacture. “They can walk me out while I thank them again. One can’t be rude about these things.”

  Her parting laugh danced over the noise as she wove her way through the crowd. She paused at Moira and each woman gave the other a cursory glance and a sharp nod. I smiled—I always did when those two squared off. If they ever stopped sizing each other up, they might be friends.

  Isabel now stood about ten feet away chatting with Blond and Stocky, and Moira joined me at the bar.

  “You didn’t tell me Little Miss All That was going to be here.” When Moira heard how Isabel gave everyone nicknames, she’d returned the favor.

  “There’s something so painfully eager and needy about her. She has to be everyone’s focal point.” She slid onto Isabel’s stool and we faced the bar again.

  “I decided to accept that trip she invited me on. Dad twisted my arm.”

  “Good for him. You need a vacation even if it comes with corsets—and her.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, probably to defend Isabel, when someone pushed into me from behind.

  It was Isabel. She was back, hugging me tight and whispering into my ear. “Blond and Stocky come here all the time. When we get back from England, we’ll come celebrate again. Maybe we’ll both get free drinks.”

  “Maybe.” I clasped her arms and squeezed. “But you promised you wouldn’t set me up anymore.”

  She laughed and stepped back. I twisted the stool to face her. Sitting to standing, we were eye to eye.

  “Sharing a couple drinks with two cute guys is hardly a setup. I’d never break my promise.”

  I arched a brow.

  “Not until I forget it, at least.” She flapped her hand in front of my face. “Never mind all that. I came back to thank you. This trip is going to be amazing. I’ll forward you the link and our flight info.”

  “Do I need to do anything?”

  Isabel shook her head. “It’s all scheduled and paid for, but you should at least check out the website. It’s gorgeous—dresses are supplied, hats, shoes, everything. Wait till you read about all the activities.” She glanced at her watch again. “Now I really do need to run.”

  With that, she waved and disappeared.

  I looked to Moira. “I don’t think she ever doubted I’d say yes.”

  Chapter 5

  I received copious e-mails and texts over the weekend. Isabel didn’t have time to meet again, much too overwhelmed, but she did have time to send long lists of to-dos, to-packs, to-sign-up-fors, and to-read-up-ons. It was a good thing Golightly was off my plate, because I was now overwhelmed too—by Regency England.

  Feeling a little bored on Sunday, I played with my dad’s latest gift. It was an extraordinary dispenser made from antique kitchen tools, fine copper wires, and several porcelain knobs used for electrical wiring back in the 1920s. It dropped out Skittles for me—one every 2.2 minutes.

  “I figure at fifty-four Skittles per bag, if it takes you two hours to eat a bag, you might stop at one,” he’d said.

  He had made it for work. He knew Golightly was giving me fits and that I either constructed wire animals or ate Skittles when concentrating. After dinner, while we dismantled some of its larger parts to fit into my car, I didn’t have the heart to tell him of Golightly’s demise. I simply gave him a kiss, a hug, and a thank-you.

  So instead of measuring life at work, my gizmo measured cleaning at home. My apartment took half a bag, and my car a quarter. When I called Dad to report, we spent fifteen minutes pondering what we could measure in Skittles and how many each project might take. We determined cleaning his garage workspace would take at least three family-size bags.

  “It’s only noon. What will you do with the rest of your day?”

  I looked around t
he apartment. I often worked on Sundays, not because I had to, but because I found doodling and design relaxing. There was no work. But there were lists.

  “Isabel sent me tons of stuff about our trip. I need to sort through it all, and I think I better brush up on my Austen. Maybe grab a book or two.”

  “That’d be nice.” I could hear him nod with each word.

  He said little after that and we hung up, both lost in thought. Dad probably headed to the garage, his sanctuary. I grabbed my keys, headed for my clean car and for BookPeople on Lamar.

  After riffling through the entire Austen selection, I chose its only copy of all Austen’s novels in one volume. It was huge and heavy and smelled like leather. The woman at checkout turned it over and over in her hands.

  “You can get these for free on an e-reader. They’re in the public domain.”

  “I know and I probably will, but I love books. The weight. The smell. The bigger the better. It’s a shame Encyclopedia Britannica doesn’t print all those encyclopedias anymore. Weren’t those the best?”

  The woman sighed the equivalent of a Whatever and rang the sale.

  I patted the book’s dark green cover as if to soothe any hurt feelings. I’d gone over the top with the whole Encyclopedia Britannica thing, but books—heavy books—meant something to me, and at well over a thousand pages, this one was larger and heavier than my meatiest college textbook. I already loved it.

  My mom had always insisted on paper, and because she couldn’t do much but read, people gave her books. She loved them all—and the heavier, the better. She said they felt like blankets resting on her lap. Our house growing up was filled with electrical wires, brothers, and books. So purchasing a large book in her honor was only right.