Badly Done, Emma Lee

by Leah Marie Brown

  Chapter Fourteen

  Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:

  Y’all know I am a sucker for a Nicholas Sparks movie. Today, I was thinking about a line from The Lucky One. She was struck by the simple truth that sometimes the most ordinary things could be made extraordinary, simply by doing them with the right people . . . Like a walk in the rain.

  “Do you know what I fancy?”

  Our sodden coats are hanging from hooks affixed to the foyer wall. Bingley is in the bathroom, blow-drying his golden curls, and Knightley has just finished building a fire in the fireplace. He has finger-combed his wet hair in place, but my hands itch to mess it up, to ruffle it until he looks less serious, until he looks a little dangerous. His damp white button-down is clinging to his chest, revealing chiseled pecs and a sprinkling of dark hairs. He is staring at me with those smoldering hazel eyes and—sweet lawd!—he doesn’t need ruffled hair to be dangerous.

  “What do you fancy?”

  He smiles, and my breath catches.

  “A proper cup of tea.”

  “Of course,” I say, my cheeks flushing with embarrassed heat. “You must think I am a rude American, not offering you a drink. I promise my daddy raised me right. Only . . .”

  “Only?”

  “The electric kettle stopped working this morning, and I don’t know how to light that bl—”

  “Blasted stove?”

  “I was going to say bleeping stove, but blasted works, too.”

  “Come on.” He laughs, grabbing my hand. “I will show you how to light your bleeping stove.”

  “You will?”

  “Absolutely,” he says, leading me into the kitchen. “What sort of chap would I be if I allowed my favorite American to begin her new life in England without the means to make a proper cuppa?”

  He shows me how to light the stove, taking me through the procedure step-by-step. I half pay attention, because in my head a clip of him calling me his favorite American is playing on loop. My favorite American. My favorite American. Knightley Nickerson is the first man who has made me feel like . . . like . . . like I don’t know what. Just all distracted and self-conscious.

  “Your turn,” he says, extinguishing the stove and handing me a match. “Think you can manage it?”

  I want to muster up some of my sister’s fierceness and audacity. Tara would slant a seriously sassy, seriously sexy look at him and say, Can I manage? A Southern woman is only helpless when her nails are wet, darlin’. Of course I can manage! Now, step your sexy self back because I am fixing to light me a stove.

  I am not Tara.

  I am tempted to do what I always do when faced with a daunting task: pout my bottom lip, bat my eyelashes, and ask a big, strong man for help. Instead, I take the match and, even though I fumble a step or two, I light that blasted, bleeping stove. I light it like nobody’s business!

  “Well done, you!” Knightley cries.

  I am so stinking proud of myself I can practically taste it! And you know what? It tastes as fine as a bag of bourbon balls from the Candy Kitchen, as a slice of Tara’s fresh-out-of-the-oven pecan pie. Shoot! It tastes as fine as the salty-sweet golden breading on a piece of Cane’s fried chicken.

  I assemble the accoutrements necessary for a proper English tea tray and Knightley carries the tray into the living room.

  “Bloody hell!” Bingley emerges from the bathroom, his curls artfully styled again, and collapses on the couch. “Why must I live in a climate that is not conducive to my coiffure? It is only half three and I am knackered from wrestling my curls—twice!” He notices the tea tray and leans forward. “Are these ginger crisps? Mind if I have one?”

  I pour tea into three cups and offer the first cup to Knightley, trying not to react as his fingers touch mine. I hand Bingley the second cup and then settle myself in a chair across from the Nickerson men, balancing the delicate saucer on my hand.

  “Thanks for the tea, Emma Lee,” Bingley says.

  “Don’t thank me,” I say, smiling. “You would be dunking your ginger crisps in tepid tap water if your brother hadn’t shown me how to light that blasted stove.”

  “What’s this?” He looks at his brother, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you possessed domestic skills, old bean.”

  “This might astonish, Dear Brother, but there are things you don’t know about me.”

  “Interesting,” Bingley says, stroking his chin. “I thought I was the only one with secrets.”

  The brothers exchange an unreadable look—volumes of unspoken words passing between them in a single glance. Is it my imagination, or did Bingley’s comment seem to carry a deeper message? What secrets are Knightley hiding? I wonder.

  “Bingley?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Why do you call your brother old bean?”

  Bingley grins. “Well now”—he brushes ginger crumbs from his fingers and leans back, wriggling himself between two down pillows—“that is a story I would be happy to share.”

  “Naturally,” Knightley says, rolling his eyes.

  “Come now, old bean, you would not deny me the pleasure of sharing an embarrassing story, would you? After all, sharing a revealing story is the best way for people to become better acquainted, and we want to become better acquainted with Emma Lee, don’t we?”

  “I would prefer if the story you shared revealed your humiliations.”

  “Very well,” Bingley says, crossing his arms. “I will tell Emma Lee the reason I call you old bean, and then you tell her what happened the first time I flew on an airplane, the year we flew to Gstaad for Christmas.”

  Knightley clears his throat.

  “On second thought”—he shifts in his seat—“perhaps we should limit the stories to one per day. We don’t want to overwhelm the poor girl.”

  “Ooo!” I clap my hand on my knee, causing my teacup to rattle against the saucer. A drop of tea splashes onto my knee. “Tell me what happened on your way to Gstaad! Something tells me it is a far more interesting story than the old bean one.”

  Truth, y’all? They both sound like interesting stories, but Knightley’s palpable discomfort is rousing my protective, momma hen instincts.

  “Right, then,” Bingley says, rubbing his hands together. “It was Knightley’s winter break during his first year at Oxford. This was when he was running with the Devonshire set.”

  “Devonshire? As in the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire?”

  “Yes.” Bingley looks at me quizzically. “Are you acquainted with the Duke of Devonshire?”

  “I have no desire to be acquainted with him. I saw The Duchess.”

  Knightley chuckles.

  “The Duchess of Devonshire?”

  “The Duchess was a movie, starring Keira Knightley and Ralph Fiennes,” Knightley explains. “A biographical drama about Georgiana Cavendish, the fifth Duchess of Devonshire. I believe that is the duchess to which Emma Lee was referring.”

  “Did you know the screenplay was an adaptation of a book?”

  “Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, by Amanda Foreman. Brilliant book,” Knightley says. “Did you read it?”

  Oh, yes, I did! World History 101. My midterm assignment was to write an essay on a notable person from the eighteenth century. I watched The Duchess because I thought I could glean enough pertinent facts to bluff my way through a thousand words, but I was so moved by Georgiana’s loveless marriage and tragic affair with Charles Grey that I went straight to the library and checked out a copy of Amanda Foreman’s book.

  “Why, yes,” I say, smiling proudly. “The Duchess of Devonshire’s influence on eighteenth-century British politics and fashion was the subject of one of my college papers. I idolize her. Georgiana is BAE!”

  “Ugh,” Bingley says, wrinkling his nose. “For the sake of our rapidly developing friendship, I am going to pretend you did not just utter that wretched slang word. It’s sooo two thousand sixteen.”

  I roll my eyes and mouth the word whatever.
r />   Knightley chuckles.

  The first notes of Ed Sheeran’s latest love ballad begin playing. I jump up, run over to the foyer, and fish my iPhone out of the pocket of my Burberry. I look at the screen. It’s Lexi. I excuse myself and step into the kitchen.

  “Hey, girl,” I say. “What’s up?”

  Lexi sniffles.

  “Lex?”

  “C-C-Cash said he needs a b-b-break,” she sobs.

  I sink down onto a kitchen chair, feeling as if the wind has been violently knocked from my lungs.

  “A break-break?” I say. “A Ross-and-Rachel break?”

  Ross and Rachel, two characters from the television show Friends, took a break from dating each other, with Ross immediately engaging in a drunken hookup with a skank he met in a bar.

  “No,” Lexi sniffs. “Not a Ross-and-Rachel break.”

  “What kind of a break?”

  “He wants to go on a boys only weekend to Pigeon Forge.”

  “Pigeon Forge? Where in God’s creation is Pigeon Forge?”

  “Tennessee.”

  “Tennessee?”

  “Right.”

  “What is there to do in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee?”

  “That’s what I asked!” Lexi does a sad little laugh-cry. “He said he just wants to blow off a little steam with his boys. Do a little fishing, maybe hit a water park.”

  “Is that all?” I laugh. “Girl, let the boy have his break.”

  “You think?”

  “Cash loves you or he wouldn’t have gotten down on one knee and asked you to marry him in front of his momma, your momma, and half of Charleston!”

  “You think?”

  “Alexandria Armistead!” I adopt my best scolding, Manderleylike voice. “It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is that you know the man you are about to promise to love, honor, and obey forever and ever, amen, loves you as much as you love him!”

  “You’re right.”

  “No doubts?”

  “No doubts.” She takes a deep, jagged breath. “You’re the best, Ems.”

  “Yes, I am!”

  We laugh.

  “How are things there?”

  “Great!”

  “Are you making friends?”

  I lean forward and crane my neck so I can look out into the living room. Knightley and Bingley are chatting quietly.

  “I am making friends,” I say, lowering my voice. “In fact, I am entertaining now. A proper afternoon tea party.”

  “Who are the girls?”

  I cup my hand around my mouth.

  “They’re not girls.”

  “Boys?” she squeals. “You’re having an afternoon tea party with boys?”

  “Proper English boys.”

  “Are they cute?”

  I look at the back of Knightley’s head, the rectangle of exposed skin between his white shirt collar and dark hairline, and feel that flushed-all-over feeling again.

  “One of them is very cute.”

  “How cute?”

  “Lexi! They’re right here.”

  “I don’t care! I need a reading, please. Where does the cute English boy fall on the Disney hero hotness scale?”

  Flynn Rider!

  “I don’t know, Lexi,” I say, still whispering behind my hand. “I have to go.”

  “Uh-uh. Where, Ems? Prince Phillip? Shang? Eric?”

  “Eric? Ugh! That chauvinist?”

  “Okay, which hero?”

  “You’re a nag.”

  “Oh my god! He’s a Flynn Rider. Isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I hiss. “Now hush.”

  “Try to snap a selfie with him. I want to see.”

  “I am not snapping a selfie with him.”

  “You love selfies.”

  “I really do have to go now,” I say, raising my voice again. “Listen, Lex, stop worrying about Cash. Let him go on his little weekend. While he’s whooping it up in Pigeon Gorge—”

  “—Forge.”

  “Grab your girls and hit the spa.”

  “Ooo, that sounds like fun, but it would be way more fun if you were here. I miss you, Emma Lee.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  We say good-bye and disconnect. I walk back into the living room, misty-eyed, a tiny bit homesick, and concerned about Lexi’s insecurity. I sit across from Knightley and force a bright smile.

  “Sorry about the interruption.”

  “Is there something wrong?” Knightley asks.

  “My best friend needed me to talk her down from an emotional ledge.” I retrieve my cup from where I left it on the tray and take a sip of the lukewarm tea. I am not thirsty, but Knightley is staring at me with such concern, like he knows my smile is as fake as Kylie Jenner’s lips, that I want to avert my gaze. A Southern woman doesn’t burden others with her concerns. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes! Bingley, you were about to tell me what Knightley did to earn the nickname old bean.”

  “Yes, I was!” Bingley grins like a gargoyle and rubs his hands together. “Knightley went off to Oxford wearing jeans, a Swansea football jersey, and trainers. He returned that first winter break looking like a character from Jeeves and Wooster—”

  “Jeeves and Wooster?”

  “An old British comedy series starring Hugh Laurie,” Knightley explains. “It was based on the works of P. G. Wodehouse.”

  “P. G. Wodehouse,” I repeat. “Of course.”

  Of course, I have not heard of P. G. Wodehouse and I have not read her (his?) works. I can only hope Bingley will describe how a Wodehouse character might dress.

  “Knightley strolled into the library wearing a Savile Row tweed jacket, a silk ascot tucked into his button-down, and a pipe clenched between his teeth.”

  “I have never smoked a pipe,” Knightley protests.

  “I remember a pipe.” Bingley sniffs.

  “There was no pipe.” Knightley rolls his eyes, and I laugh.

  “It pains me to admit this now, but I was obsessed with Assassin’s Creed and spent an inordinate amount of time with a PlayStation controller in my hand, fighting off Crusader attacks on the home base.”

  I have a difficult time imagining someone as stylish and energetic as Bingley Nickerson loafing around paying video games.

  “Knightley strolled into the library, pipe clenched between his teeth, and declared in a nasal voice, Video games will bloody well rot your brain, Bingley. Reading is a far healthier pursuit for a lad, develops the intellect, and all that.” Bingley is practically snorting with laughter. “Then he thrust a copy of The Inimitable Jeeves in my hands and strolled out of the room.”

  “I have never affected a nasally tone,” Knightley says.

  “I remember a nasally tone.” Bingley wraps his arm around his middle and leans forward, hooting with laughter. “I borrowed a line from The Inimitable Jeeves and began greeting Knightley by saying, I say, Old Bean, frightfully good to see you. That is how he became old bean.”

  I laugh until I remember Isabella telling me her husband passed away the year Knightley went to university. I glance at Knightley. He is smiling at Bingley the same way Manderley smiles at me when I needle her for being too serious. I suddenly wonder if Knightley’s old bean routine was an attempt at being the man of the house, the same way Manderley assumed a maternal role after our momma died. Knightley notices me looking at him. I expect him to be self-conscious, but he shows no signs that he is embarrassed.

  “I would be crazy rich if someone had given me a dollar every time my sister Manderley said, Read a book, Emma Lee. Read a book! Read a book! Lawd! It annoyed me something fierce.”

  “Right?” Bingley asks.

  “Right,” I say. “Only . . .”

  “Only?”

  “Only, I wish I would have listened to her and read a few of those books. Manderley is the smartest person I know. She is creative and clever, a brilliant conversationalist. She can talk to practically anyone about practically anything.” I look at my teacup. “I imagine you feel
the same way about Knightley, don’t you, Bingley?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely,” he says, sarcastically blowing a kiss at his brother. “I am afraid that’s the best you are going to get from me, old bean. Mum said we were to treat Emma Lee like a sister; she did not say we had to adopt her sickeningly sentimental American ways. So, do not expect me to leap up and throw my arms around you.”

  “Thank God!” Knightley says, chuckling.

  We all laugh.

  “Speaking of books.” Knightley snaps his fingers, then walks over to the foyer and retrieves the book he had tucked under his arm from the table near the door. “My mother asked us to bring you this with her compliments.”

  Knightley presents the book with a slight bow.

  “Thank you.” I accept the heavy volume and trace a finger over the roses and vines embossed in gold and silver on the Tiffany-blue leather cover. Seven Novels of Jane Austen is also embossed on the cover. “Seven novels? Sweet literate lawd have mercy! How long does it take someone to write seven novels? Jane Austen must have died a very old woman, quill in hand, scratching away until her last breath.”

  Knightley chuckles.

  “Would you believe she was only forty-one when she passed?”

  “How saaad.” I open the cover, turn the gilt-edged pages until I arrive at the table of contents, and read the titles. “Should I read them in order, starting with Sense and Sensibility?”

  “Mum recommends you begin with Emma.”

  “Ugh!” Bingley groans.

  “I am curious.” I focus on Bingley, who looks as if he just swallowed the bitter dregs at the bottom of his teacup. “Why don’t you like Jane Austen novels?”

  My iPhone chimes, alerting me to a new text, but I ignore it and wait for Bingley’s response.

  “I do not find them to be revolutionary masterpieces of literature. When it comes right down to it, they are snarky little romance novels, aren’t they? Don’t get me wrong. I adore snark and romance”—he chuckles and points at his brother—“there’s a name for your next modern retelling of a Jane Austen novel, Snark and Romance. I can see the opening line now: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a wife must be in want of an unjaded heart, free of bitter disillusionment and the accompanying snark. What do you say, old bean? The makings of another best seller?”