by Sarah Title
“Nice to see you, Jake,” Grace said. She was polite now. She must have her company manners on. Jake rolled his eyes, and tried to recapture that perfect comfort equilibrium. But the sun was too hot and the kiddie pool water was starting to boil. He got up to stand with the other men, supervising the meat.
Grace had never had an easy time talking to strangers, and if her house wasn’t being overrun by gigantic hell-beasts, she would have stayed away from the barbecue. Everyone else was wearing red, white, and blue, drinking beer, and being normal, barbecue-going Americans. Grace was holding a completely inappropriate bottle of wine and wearing the first thing she’d grabbed on her way out of the house.
So she was now at a Fourth of July barbecue with strangers, carrying around a bottle of wine (and no corkscrew), and wearing her pajamas.
Her pajamas were clean, and in a pinch they could pass as a cute, if short, sundress. But they were neither red, white, nor blue, and she felt sure they weren’t fooling most of the women at the party. Mary Beth hadn’t said anything, but she did look at her funny when Grace climbed into her car.
Jane always said that when Grace found herself in situations like this—which she often did—she needed to raise her chin and brazen through it. Nobody ever need know that Grace was doing absolutely everything wrong. Of course, Jane’s idea of brazening through it was admitting her mistakes and charming everyone into laughing with her.
But Grace had never found it easy to talk to strangers. She got so nervous that all of her polite small-talk skills, practiced with Jane over the phone, went flying out of her head like a woman with a mouse in her kitchen.
“Hey, Missy,” said Mary Beth, hugging a woman in a red halter top and blue denim shorts. “Great party.”
“Thanks,” said Missy. “Just do me a favor, and let Kyle pretend he did all the work? He gets cold feet when he thinks we’re throwing parties together.”
That sounded like a terrible boyfriend to Grace. But what did she know? She didn’t have one.
“Missy, this is Grace. She moved into the old house on Grant.”
Grace took Missy’s outstretched hand and tried to return her warm smile. “I brought wine,” Grace said. “And I’m accidentally wearing pajamas.”
Missy’s eyes widened for a second, but she quickly recovered her polite smile. “Thanks,” she said, taking the inappropriate wine. “I’m not sure if we have a corkscrew.”
“There was a mouse,” said Grace.
Missy just smiled and took the wine into the house.
Grace turned to explain to Mary Beth that she was not having a stroke, but, really, it was all the mouse’s fault, but Mary Beth had turned to talk to some friends on the other end of the long picnic table. Grace looked around, hoping for some kind of lifeline to pull her from the whirlpool of her own stupidity. The only other person she knew, though, was Jake, and he was scowling at her from under his baseball cap.
Fine, thought Grace. Brazen through it. She channeled her inner Jane.
“Beer?”
Grace hated beer. She knew red wine was a terrible thing to drink on a hot summer afternoon, but beer gave her a headache and she thought it tasted like smelly feet. But the guy standing in front of her was cute, and if he brought her a beer, he’d probably want to flirt with her. She didn’t much like flirting, but at least she wouldn’t be standing alone like an idiot.
“Thanks,” she said, taking it from him.
“I’m Kyle,” he said, holding out his hand.
Uh oh. Missy’s Kyle. “Grace,” she responded in her most platonic tone.
“So, Mary Beth tells me you’re new in town?”
“Yes.”
“Bought that old house on Grant?” Kyle asked after a long pause.
“Yes.”
“Jake helping you fix it up?”
What a strange thing to ask. Was Jake telling people that he was fixing up her house? “Sort of.” But that didn’t feel right, to throw him under the bus like that. He had helped her out of a few bad spots. And she was probably going to ask him to catch a mouse later. “Actually, yeah. He’s doing great.”
“I’ll bet,” snorted Kyle.
Grace wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was probably some sort of sexist innuendo. In the interest of small talk, she ignored it. “So, Kyle, what do you do?” she asked, doing exactly the thing Jane had told her not to do.
Kyle didn’t seem to mind. “I do landscaping.” His hand swept over the expanse of newly cut grass. “And I’m a firefighter,” he added.
“Wow. That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“Yeah, well, the firefighting is volunteer. I just, you know, do what I can.”
“Great,” said Grace, meaning it, but not sure it came out that way.
“So, you’re a professor?”
“Yes. I focus on British literature from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I’m starting at Pembroke in a few weeks.”
“Cool. You must read a lot.”
“I guess,” Grace said with a laugh. People always said that. She didn’t know that she read more than the average person. She certainly didn’t read for fun as much as she wanted to.
“I think the last time I read a book was in high school. What was that one about the rich guy and the eye thing and then he gets shot in the pool?” Grace had no idea what he was talking about. “They just made a movie of it with that kid from Titanic,” Kyle added.
“The Great Gatsby?”
“Yeah, that one. Have you read that?”
“Sure, yeah. But that’s not really my focus. My area of study is Regency-era British literature. Jane Austen mostly.”
“Hmm,” said Kyle. Then, after a long pause, “What kind of music do you like?”
“Oh.” Grace was a little surprised at his topic shift, but she tried to keep up. “Um, I like all kinds, I guess.”
“There you are.” Missy came toward the table carrying a gigantic plastic container full of what appeared to be potato salad. She put it on the table, then put an arm around Kyle’s waist.
“Hey, babe,” said Kyle, shifting his beer and throwing his arm around Missy’s shoulder. “This here is, uh—”
“Grace,” said Grace.
“Yeah, Grace. She’s a professor. English or something. Missy here loves reading,” said Kyle.
“Great,” said Grace, in her most chipper, I-swear-I-wasn’t-hitting-on-your-boyfriend tone.
Missy shrugged. “Just trashy stuff. Probably not the smart stuff you read.”
“Oh, I like all kinds of books,” said Grace, thinking of The Greek Tycoon’s Virgin Secretary on her bedside table.
“She does that one author you always talk about. The one with the movies you make me watch.”
“Jane Austen?” asked Missy. “You teach Jane Austen?”
“Yes,” said Grace. “Wait a second . . . Jane Austen’s not trashy.”
“No, that’s my smart trash. To be honest, when I’m reading it, I’m mostly just picturing Colin Firth.”
“Hey, I thought you were picturing me.”
“No, babe, I picture you when I’m reading the really trashy stuff.”
Kyle murmured something Grace pretended not to understand and leaned in to give Missy a kiss that made Grace blush.
“Knock it off,” Missy said fifteen seconds after Grace was sure she would die of embarrassment. “That’s cool that you teach Jane Austen. It must be fun to read those love stories every day.”
“Oh, well, I don’t really read them as love stories. I mean, there is love in them,” Grace added quickly when Missy raised her eyebrows. “It’s just not what I focus on. I’m more concerned with her advances in the structure of the novel, and the ways she used the form to address social irony and the situation of women. Women of her class, of course, but what I’m most excited about—” Grace stopped when she noticed that Kyle’s eyes had glazed over. That was fast. Maybe a boring-strangers-at-a-party record for her.
Missy still had her eye
brows raised. “I just can’t believe you don’t think those are love stories. The end of Persuasion? That letter? ‘You pierce my soul’? Are you kidding me? That’s, like, swoon city. If someone said that to me, I swear I would do anything for that man.”
“Hey, babe, I gotta get back to the grill,” said Kyle. “And I need another beer. Nice to meet you, Grace. Good luck with the lady books.”
“Lady books?” said Missy. “Get your own beer.”
Kyle was already halfway to the grill. He shouted over his shoulder, “Hey, Missy! You pierce my soul!”
Missy, soul pierced, rolled her eyes and headed to the cooler.
And Grace was standing by herself again. She edged over to one of the flowering bushes lining the garage and tilted her beer into it. Then, avoiding Jake’s glare, she looked around for someone else to alienate with her awkwardness.
Chapter 8
Jake could not believe he’d been roped into driving Grace home. She barely talked to anyone at the barbecue, wasted a perfectly good beer, and now was sitting in his truck in a too-short dress and he didn’t like it. Those cyclist’s legs made him want to forget what a snob she was, and how she wasted beer. She’d only talked to Mary Beth and Todd, and Missy a little bit. Actually, she’d talked to most of the women at the party. And most of the single men. But she always had this weird look on her face like she couldn’t wait to get out of the conversation. Like she was scared of talking to regular people.
That’s what Mary Beth got for bringing a professor to a townie party.
And now he was stuck driving her home.
Which was also Mary Beth’s fault. Grace had a mouse, apparently, although she repeatedly referred to it as a “hell-beast.” So Big Manly Jake had to get involved. All the stores were closed for the Fourth of July, so they couldn’t get any traps, and he was going to have to use all of his MacGyver skills to catch this sucker. He had to admit, he was a little excited about that. Poor mouse didn’t know what was coming at him.
If the mouse was smart, it would get out of that house fast, and not just because of Jake’s ingenuity. The house was falling apart. No, that wasn’t it. It was a good house, solid bones, and, frankly, it was in excellent shape for its age. Jake probably would have passed on a house like that. There wouldn’t have been enough work for him to do to justify flipping it. Maybe he could have updated the kitchen. But he liked that old gas range and the big checkerboard tiles. The built-in glass cabinet was in kind of a strange spot—across from the stove and the sink, totally inconvenient for fast dish-reaching—but it was a beautiful piece of carpentry.
Whenever he bought a house to flip, he would walk through each room and close his eyes until he got a vision for what it should look like. Then he had to think about neutral décor and neighborhood comparables and all the stuff that made his job work. Then he’d measure and calculate and make it happen.
He’d have to spend some time in Grace’s house. He’d barely seen the living room when he came in to do the wallpaper, and was so annoyed with her when he left that he forgot all about his curiosity. But he was curious. He wanted to see how Grace envisioned the rooms, how she used the unusual spaces in the house. Probably a lot of throw pillows. She probably embroidered them. With pictures of cats.
By the time he pulled into her driveway, he realized he’d barely said two words to her the whole ride over. A taste of her own medicine, he thought, but that idea didn’t turn out to be very appealing. He didn’t have to sink to her level.
She climbed out of the car and yanked her sundress down. She’d seemed uncomfortable all afternoon in that thing. Why did she wear it, then? What was she trying to prove?
“Would you mind going in first?” she asked, holding out her keys. “I’m sorry. I know this is ridiculous, but it has been a very strange and stressful day, and I’m pretty sure if I see a mouse, I’ll cry.”
The only thing Jake disliked more than snotty professors was a crying woman. He took the keys from her and led the way up the stairs. But when he turned the key, nothing happened. He tried jamming it to the left, then to the right, but it was so stuck that he was afraid he was going to break the key off in the door.
“Is it stuck again? Here, let me,” Grace said, reaching around him for the key. She reinserted it into the lock, jiggled it up and down twice, pulled it out a little, and turned. The door opened.
“Interesting,” he said, stepping into the house in front of her.
“I like to think of it as a home security system.”
“Grace, I don’t think a burglar is going to try the lock.”
He could see on her face that she was working on a pithy comeback, one of her self-deprecating little barbs that would have him laughing despite himself. But then her face turned ghost-white and he could actually see the scream working its way up her throat.
He turned just as she threw herself onto his back. The scream worked its way out, straight into his ear. He wrestled her off his back, but held her close behind him. She was annoying and deafening, but he was a gentleman.
And what kind of gentleman lets a terrified woman face down a cat sitting proudly in front of a dead mouse?
Not Jake.
“Do you have a cat?” he asked her as soon as her screams devolved into breathy whimpers.
“No,” she whispered.
Jake looked at the cat. It was black and its long hair was surprisingly neat and clean. If this was a stray, it had been well-loved by the neighbors. Jake leaned down, and Grace came with him, crouching behind him crouching in front of the cat. He felt for a collar, and when the cat didn’t attack him, ran a hand down its back. It seemed too skinny under all that fur. Its yellow eyes were a little too close together, making the cat look young and innocent and pleading. Jake stood up, and so did Grace. The cat followed their movements with its eyes, then stepped over the dead mouse to wind its way between their legs, purring so hard Jake felt it through his jeans.
“I think you have a cat now,” said Jake.
“I can’t have a cat.” Grace leaned down and gave the cat a tentative rub. It stopped in its tracks and pushed its head against her hand. Grace scratched its ears and leaned in to touch noses.
She didn’t look like a woman who couldn’t have a cat.
“If I get a cat, then my spinsterhood will be complete. I’m already independent, bookish, and terrible at small talk. I can’t have a cat on top of that.”
“But you have all those cat shirts,” he pointed out.
“They’re supposed to be a joke,” she said. “Jane and her daughter find them at thrift stores.”
“But you wear them anyway?”
“They’re comfortable,” she said with a shrug. “Would you believe me if I said I was being ironic?”
“Nope,” said Jake. He got a handful of paper towels from the kitchen and scooped up the mouse. Grace’s back stiffened, but she stayed calm—relatively. He took the unfortunate creature out to the garbage can, then went inside to wash his hands and make sure there was nothing else Grace couldn’t handle.
He came through the kitchen door—which happily stayed on its hinges—to find Grace on the floor in front of her sofa, dangling a shoelace in front of the cat. The cat swatted and climbed on her lap and swatted more.
“You definitely have a cat now,” he said, sitting on the couch next to her shoulder. The cat looked up at him with those wide, too-close eyes, then curled up to lick its butt.
Grace sighed. “He’s pretty cute. And he’s too skinny. I’ll have to get some cat food and some proper toys. Oh, God, I really have a cat now.” She scooped the cat up and nuzzled its neck. “I’m going to call you Mr. Bingley.”
The name rang a vague bell in Jake’s head. “What if it’s a girl?”
“Hmm. If you’re a girl, I’ll still call you Mr. Bingley,” Grace said to Mr. Bingley. “Because Mr. Bingley is Mr. Darcy’s best friend and I just know that you’re going to be . . . oh God.”
“Too late,” said Jake. “I
heard it. The cat is your best friend.”
Grace turned to him long enough to glare at Jake, then returned to Mr. Bingley’s ears.
Jake decided he would put Grace in touch with his cousin, Keith, who was a vet over in Hollow Bend. He was the only vet nearby, and Jake knew he would have enough sense to convince Grace not to call a girl cat “Mr.” At least he hoped so. For the cat’s sake.
Mr. Bingley seemed to have Grace’s rodent problem under control, but Jake wasn’t ready to leave yet. The room was comfortable, and he found himself appreciating the way she’d arranged the big sectional sofa, and the way the soft yellow of the walls set off the eclectic colors of the rest of the furniture. There were a few boxes around the room, and he peeked into the one closest to his elbow. Books. Of course.
He picked up the one on top. What’s Love Got To Do With It? Beyond Romance in Jane Austen by Grace Williams.
“You wrote this?” he asked, even though, duh, there was her name.
She looked up, and he enjoyed watching the flush that spread from her cheeks down her neck.
“It’s based on my dissertation. I tried to get it published by a university press, but it got picked up by a more mainstream publisher. So I didn’t get a ton of academic cred out of it, but it made the outer reaches of the New York Times bestseller list.”
Jake didn’t understand the disappointment in her voice. She was upset that her book made money? Her peers didn’t appreciate that it did?
He put the book on the couch next to him. When he read, he stuck to biographies and spy thrillers. Definitely not the kind of stuff the professor would be into. He went back to the box.
“Are you unpacking for me?” she asked, her attention back on the cat.
“Just curious what kind of books a smart lady like you likes to read.” He pulled out a worn paperback. Tempest of the Heart it declared, in shiny, raised script. There was definitely a storm going on, and it was a windy one. The woman’s dress was being torn off her shoulder, and the man’s shirt was hanging on by a thread, his hair flowing dramatically behind them both.
He held it up to her, his eyebrows raised. He watched that blush creep lower down her neck onto her chest.