Austentatious

by Alyssa Goodnight

  I’d given in and checked the calendar before turning off the lights. The quote of the day had changed yet again. Now it read, “ ‘Better be without sense than misapply it as you do.’ Emma.” Nice.

  The whole situation was mind-boggling. I’d spilled a chai latte onto something that had once belonged, however fleetingly, to Jane Austen and somehow summoned her ghost, or spirit, or lingering chi, and inspired her to become, at least for a time, my own personal fairy godmother, a.k.a. Fairy Jane. Her letter to her niece, now visible in its entirety with the turn of a key, clearly laid out her intentions. And yet, as interesting as this discovery was, it didn’t even begin to resolve the plethora of questions that fairly hovered around the journal. Beyond the lingering nuisance of how the hell she was getting words to disappear, there were now all sorts of new questions on the table.

  Like, how were the words coming back with a simple turn of the key? And how was she giving relevant advice from the beyond? Specific, detailed, kinda creepy advice. Was it possible that her spirit had lingered on after her death and then flourished with the widespread popularity of her books? Okay, maybe I could coax my brain around that possibility—maybe—but for God’s sake, how on earth was she reaching beyond the journal to wreak havoc in my actual life, switching the daily quotes on a tacky little calendar, insinuating herself into my work life, and blackmailing me in my romantic life?

  It seemed that, like it or not, I needed to start facing these problems head-on, starting with the journal.

  I may as well tell you everything, even though I suspect that in some way or another, you’re already “magically” informed. Today I had an unexpected visit from you know who, complete with flowers and an impromptu invitation to dinner. As you can probably guess, I accepted both. I also had a pop-in from Brett—remember him? the epitome of sensible romance???—which resulted in an invitation to lunch, which I also accepted. May the best man win, right?

  Dinner was lovely—Sean serenaded me! Cheesy as it is, it pretty much solidified my crush on the man. It was just going to be the one dance, then the one date, but now, suddenly it’s mushroomed into more than that. (Don’t you just love the pun?) I’d ask you to make it stop, but you wouldn’t, and honestly, I wouldn’t want you to.

  I let my pen tip back from the page and indulged in a deep, bittersweet sigh, remembering the oh-so-sensible “Before.” And envisioning the sure-to-be-crazy “After” life.

  Beck is beyond thrilled and a proponent of my scrapping The Plan in favor of Sean. But what about Brett? I’ve barely gotten a chance to know him, and already he’s getting the magical, not to mention the mentee, brush-off. I think, ultimately, I need to make the final decision, and I want to give them both an equal showing. What can I say, I like to play fair.

  With a deep and fairly optimistic sigh, I signed off.

  P.S. Now that I’ve come around on the romance, I expect you to keep up your end of the bargain!

  I felt compelled to add this last bit, a not-so-subtle reminder of our deal: She keeps out of my work life if I let her call a few shots on the romance front.

  Satisfied, I tipped the book closed, catching quick little glimpses of all the advice to date, all of it focused on a relationship with Sean. From the very beginning, Miss Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance, it had all been leading up to this—this moment. And now I’d caved; I was officially indulging, and “sensible” was not exactly the word that came to mind.

  Ignoring the fact that it was far past my bedtime, I slipped the newfound key off my nightstand and sat for a moment, the journal in one hand, the key in the other, imagining a subtle tingling in my fingers. I wanted another peek. I hoped it would take the edge off my uncertainty knowing that I wasn’t alone—that I wasn’t the only one who’d had her life turned inside out by deciding to blindly follow a seemingly arbitrary collection of fortune cookie–style instructions. You could say I was a little desperate.

  Bracing myself against the impossibility of it all, I slid the key home and turned it with a scraping twist, watching as sheaves of old pages appeared to grow out of the book’s binding, waiting until my heartbeat slowed to a dull thump. Then, ever a fan of the systematic approach, I started at the beginning, with the Dear Jane letter, and then avidly read on from there.

  There is to be a dance, and in as much as that is delightful all on its own merit, I have a better reason to be fidgety, for afterwards, I shall be out! I confess to being both nervous and excited at once. I am to have a new gown and am truly hoping for something lovely. Simply the thought of it will help me to happily endure the days—and moments—in between. Mother will surely endeavor to make use of these golden opportunities to warn me against future folly while at the same time urging me to embrace all that is good and true. But I will endure with high spirits, for I intend to remain, for as long as possible, pleased with the World in general and everyone in it, Mother included.

  As the first entry following the dedication, I assumed it was written by Jane Anna Elizabeth Austen herself, and I couldn’t help but wonder what little snippet of advice Aunt Jane had culled from this optimistic piece. And how the girl had reacted to a little magical interference. There were a few clues in the next entry.

  I find myself in quite a conundrum. Despite having written to you, Aunt Jane, and discovered that, by some strange magic, you are able to advise me through the pages of this very journal, I cannot claim even a vague understanding of how you are able to do so. And while you must know the esteem in which I hold your good advice and opinions, I admit that I can no longer consider this a private journal in the traditional sense, knowing that every careful word is on display. I can, however, delight in using it just as you intended, to record the little dilemmas that life presents, expecting, in response, your prompt and sound advice. I expect I will need it more than you know, because I have decided to follow in your footsteps, Aunt Jane, and dedicate myself to my writing, and I fear that Mother will take very vocal exception to this, a very much unintended path. With lifelong admiration and newfound awe, I remain your loving niece, Anna.

  I avidly read through the years of Anna’s journal correspondence with Aunt Jane, attempting to deduce the pertinent “miscellanious morsels” based on the clues provided in each subsequent entry. Beyond the inherent puzzle, I was fascinated ... and oblivious as the clock ticked away the hours of my good night’s sleep.

  Hours later, my eyes bleary and my thoughts tangled with stories, I tipped the volume closed, twisted out the key, and watched transfixed as it shrank down again to its deceptively slim self. Hoping for an out-of-sight, out-of-mind miracle, I slid book and key under my pillow and laid my head down, still completely frazzled. As I switched off the light, it occurred to me that from Sean’s perspective, everything was going precisely as planned.

  The morning started with a near fatality. Refusing to give up after at least fifteen whacks to the snooze bar, my alarm clock became the enemy. I barely resisted flinging it against the wall in a groggy haze of aggravation. But as I blinked my eyes open, desperate to get hold of the little beast, they shifted from fuzzy to focused, and registered that it was already seven o’ clock.

  Well, technically it was six forty-five—fifteen minutes fast translated to two guiltless snoozes—but still, I was way late. If I wanted to squeeze in a drive down to New Braunfels between a lunch with Brett and a date with Sean, then I really needed to get moving. This was what I got for staying up late (and out late) on a work night. Bleary-eyed and fuzzy-mouthed, I stumbled out of bed and scrambled to get ready. I was an efficient whirlwind, and twenty minutes later I was mixing up some cocoa in my travel mug when last night came avalanching back: the date, the decision, the journal.

  My eyes strayed to the calendar on the counter, and I read the day’s quote with a feeling of dread. “ ‘What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken!’ Persuasion.” That didn’t bode well at all. Evidently at least one part of my day
wasn’t going to go at all as expected.

  Sipping the warm chocolate, I walked cautiously back down the hall to my room, my heart pounding out a drumbeat as I considered the fraught-with-crazy potential of an overnight, personalized reply from my very own life coach.

  I suspect you know it’s mushroomed beyond magical

  Et tu, Fairy Jane? It was simply too much to process this early in the morning.

  I slid the snarky little book back onto the shelf, to the left of Sense and Sensibility, on what I imagined to be the “Sense” side. I was keeping it far, far away from Persuasion—it certainly didn’t need any help in that quarter; it was becoming quite adept at influencing me all on its own. So basically I’d turned into a superstitious kook, although still sufficiently detached to manage an eye roll for my own crazy antics. That was something, I supposed. Naturally I slipped the key into the cupcake tin in the cupboard beside the stove and pretended everything was normal.

  On my way out the door, my eye caught on yesterday’s valentine-red daisies now livening up the kitchen table, and a smile curved my lips. On impulse, I snatched a single bloom from the grouping and snipped a few inches off the stem before tucking it jauntily in the top buttonhole of my cropped navy blazer. Who said I couldn’t be spontaneous?

  13

  I suspect you know it’s mushroomed beyond magical

  I got an unexpected number of compliments on my flower, but that didn’t stop me from ditching it behind my computer just before Brett stopped by my cube for lunch. The last thing I wanted was to overshadow our lunch with shades of Sean MacInnes. My intention was not to think about him at all, to tune my romantic antennae on Brett and see how things played out with the Epitome of Sensible Romance. No pressure.

  While lunch wasn’t quite tinged with the whole first-date vibe, my heart rate was speeding slightly as I followed Brett downstairs, out through the lobby, and across the parking lot to his car. His silver Audi was sleek and spotless, and Brett oozed competence as he slid into the driver’s seat across from me. It was slightly awkward to hold my feet in the air while he repositioned my floor mat for maximum coverage, but really, fastidiousness was just fine with me.

  “So ... ?” I finally started, lunging into the silence. “Where should we go?”

  After cautiously (and silently) backing out of his parking spot, Brett turned to me with a grin. “Pizza Garden.” Not so much a suggestion as a done deal. Luckily it was one of my favorite lunch spots.

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “They have a great lunch deal,” he said, easing into a left turn, more serious than I would have thought necessary.

  “They do,” I agreed.

  Awkward silence, Take One. Luckily the restaurant was only minutes away.

  Quickly seating us at a scarred wooden table near the window, our waitress recited the day’s pizza specials (today’s were Greek, Texas Fajita, and Basilica) and left with our drink orders, promising to return momentarily to take our orders.

  “What are you getting?” I asked, flashing a smile.

  “Texas Fajita.”

  “Never tried it. I’m getting the Garden pizza.”

  My smile faltered just slightly in the face of Brett’s disbelieving stare.

  “But it’s not one of the specials.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s more expensive, but it’s a little bigger too. Six inches instead of four. I take the leftovers home.”

  “But even if you factor in the additional size of the pizza,” Brett protested, “it’s not nearly as good a deal. And you don’t get a salad.”

  “You’re right.” Maybe he just needed to know I’d done the math. “But it’s my favorite, and it’s loaded with vegetables, so I’m happy to splurge.” I could have jumped into a cost breakdown / nutritional analysis, but I didn’t think anyone wanted that.

  “Okay,” he said, with a baffled, slightly concerned little shake of his head.

  “Don’t worry, I can afford it,” I teased, linking my fingers, laying my palms flat on the table, and forcing myself to keep smiling.

  Awkward Silence, Take Two.

  The remainder of our lunch date was actually quite pleasant (if we didn’t count Brett’s quickly masked disapproving glance as my Garden pizza was slid onto the table in front of me). As expected, we had a lot in common, both past history and future goals, and I felt the tight coil of uncertainty in my chest begin to unfurl. This was what I’d expected, how I’d imagined my romantic life would be. Two compatible people blazing a sensible trail through life. My grin just kept on giving.

  Right up until the check came.

  We both reached for it, but Brett snatched it cleanly away.

  Biting my lower lip, feeling a little thrill zip through me, it was on the tip of my tongue to thank him for lunch.

  Thank God I controlled the urge, because two seconds later, he slid the bill back in my direction.

  “Since I got the special, it’s not going to be an even fifty-fifty split.” Pulling out his wallet, Brett went for one final gloat. “I tried to tell you... .”

  “You did,” I snapped, pulling the bill toward me and retrieving my own wallet. I yanked out several bills, including a generous tip, and placed them on the table, really hoping the topic was now officially closed.

  He didn’t say a word as I packed up the remains of my pizza in the cardboard to-go box, his jaw busy crunching every last bit of ice in the jumbo-sized glass he’d drained of iced tea. What could I say, the man liked to get his money’s worth.

  Awkward Silence, Take Three.

  But no butterflies, no queasiness, and no surprises. There was something to be said for quiet companionship. But it definitely wasn’t “Wowza!”

  Trapped on the test floor an hour later, my daisy defiantly back in place, I was bored senseless and figured it was as good a time as any to get the lowdown on Gabe’s burgeoning romance with my impressionable young mentee. Fishing my phone from the crowded pocket of my smock, I texted an opener.

  NJames: Any luck convincing Beck to show you her tattoo?

  Exactly seven parts ran through the full test suite at minus forty degrees before Gabe responded.

  GVogler: i’m building up to it. what’s up?

  NJames: I went out last night.

  GVogler: WHAT??? NOT with the dude from the band?

  NJames: Beck didn’t tell you?

  This was my sly attempt at deducing just how chummy they’d gotten in the last two days.

  GVogler: i see her tonight. spill!

  Interesting ...

  NJames: Yes, him. Where?

  GVogler: adh-sxsw

  ADH? Alamo Drafthouse? Probably. I glanced up to make sure the liquid nitrogen hadn’t frozen up the handler before quickly typing in my reply. I hated that I was going to miss seeing Gabe’s reaction, but it couldn’t be helped. I was stuck down here indefinitely.

  NJames: Me too. Paramount

  GVogler: serious!? with Scottie?

  NJames: Believe it or not. Any new matches?

  Another probe to determine Beck’s status.

  GVogler: haven’t checked. got a meeting. later.

  Anyone casually passing my tester might very well have mistakenly assumed I was absolutely thrilled over the effortless testing of a tray of parts at freezing temperatures. And technically, it was good news—a relief, really. But not as good as discovering that Beck might be on her way to vanquishing the One-Date Wonders. Whoot!

  Eventually, though, the red light on top of the parts handler started flashing, necessitating some actual work. Dipping my hand into a freezing chamber to unjam a couple of parts, the truth of my work situation hit me full in the face (along with a blast of liquid nitrogen–laced cold). I could either toe the line and wait for management to embrace me, or I could take the escape route I’d been offered and juice things up a little myself. As much as switching from one engineering job to another could juice things up.

  I didn’t dare risk asking Fairy Jane for advice, and
Beck, I’d discovered, was a bit of a wild card. Gabe, tired of my bitching, would most likely vote for a transfer. So I was pretty much on my own, with Friday only a few days away.

  Sean called around four to confirm our plans for the evening. The premiere was at eight, so we’d meet at the Paramount at seven-thirty. Apparently it was to be a red-carpet event, some dramedy called Peas and Carrots, with a couple of up-and-coming celebrities and likely a mad crush to get in. I was promised very good seats. We agreed to get dinner afterwards, which pretty much guaranteed that it would be a very late night indeed (for a Tuesday), and I spent the remainder of the afternoon riding the thrill of being—just for now—Sean’s “luv.”

  Well that, and trying to squeeze in a mini roadtrip and an awkward chat with an elderly gentleman about his sister’s once-upon-a-time love interest.

  Misty Glen Assisted Living Community, which I’d Googled and then phoned from my cubicle, was a trio of ranch-style buildings relaxing under the lacy shade of towering old pecan trees. The porches, clustered with rocking chairs and barrel tables holding giant checker sets, were empty, either due to the brisk spring breeze or the fact that my visit coincided with naptime. I asked at the desk for Mr. Nelson, crossing my fingers that he had few minutes to spare before an early-bird dinner at 4:45. I was in luck.