“Hey, listen to this,” my mother says, pointing to an ad in the calendar section. “The Rec Center is offering a cake-decorating class this winter.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, not really paying attention.
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“The class. It starts next month.” She shoves the paper across the table at me.
I flick a glance at it. “Uh, sure, go for it.”
“No, silly, I mean both of us.”
“Cake decorating?” I look up, surprised. Doesn’t she know me better than that? “Not really my thing, Mom.”
“Oh, come on, it might be fun,” she coaxes. “You and I need more fun in our lives. We work too hard. Plus, it would be nice to do something together.”
“We’re in book club together,” I remind her.
“Yes, but this is different. I’m talking about something just for you and me.”
She has such a hopeful look on her face that she reminds me of Sugar and Spice, our two Shetland sheepdogs, when they patrol the kitchen scouting for snacks. I almost burst out laughing. “Okay, I guess. But don’t you think it sounds kind of old-fashioned? It’s like something one of Jane Austen’s characters would do, you know? Like embroidery and playing the piano or all those accomplishments for young ladies they’re always talking about.”
“All the more reason for us to take the class. It was meant to be.” And she goes to the phone right then and there and signs us up for it.
We spend the day working together in the creamery. Half Moon Farm’s goat cheese has really taken off this past year, thanks in part to the fact that it was featured on an episode of Cooking with Clementine. My parents can hardly keep up with the orders from stores and restaurants. They say it’s a good thing, but I can tell it’s a lot more work for them and I feel really guilty for being away so much when I should probably be here, helping out.
“Don’t be silly,” my mother says when I tell her this. “Your education is much more important. Besides, we’re thinking about hiring some part-time help.”
“Really?” Somehow this makes me feel even guiltier. What’s the point of a family farm if the family isn’t pitching in to run it?
“Absolutely. We can afford it. You still do plenty around here, Jess, and you always have. And believe it or not, the boys are helping out a lot more these days too. They’re setting their own alarm clocks and getting up to help with the milking without me having to nag them.”
I stop in to visit Sundance, the goat I raised a few years ago for 4-H, and Cedar, her daughter. Cedar is nine months old now, and it won’t be too long before she’s ready for a kid of her own.
“You’re quite the young lady, aren’t you?” I tell her, scratching her behind her soft ears. “You don’t have to worry about what you’re going to be when you grow up, do you?”
The day passes quickly, and after a flurry of activity late in the afternoon getting my dad and brothers packed up for their overnight, the house is quiet again. The Leonid meteor shower won’t peak until around midnight, so my mother and I have a lot of time to kill.
“How about we have dinner in the keeping room tonight?” my mother suggests. “We can eat in front of the fire.”
Half Moon Farm is really old—it’s been around since the Revolutionary War—and there are fireplaces in almost every room. The keeping room is my favorite, though. It’s a cozy little nook off the kitchen, and would have been used like a family room back in Colonial times or for sleeping in when the rest of the house got too cold during the winter. I build a fire in the fireplace, and put a tablecloth on the coffee table.
“Can we use the good china?” I call.
“You bet,” my mother calls back.
We hardly ever use our good china. The last time I remember besides the holidays was back in seventh grade, when we hosted an Anne of Green Gables tea party for our book club. Along with the china, I dig out two place settings of my grandmother’s silver and polish them up.
“Jane Austen would definitely approve,” says my mother, when I show off the gleaming result. “It looks fit for a ball at Netherfield.”
I love the way all the houses in Pride and Prejudice have names. Netherfield. Longbourn. Pemberley. I guess it must be a tradition in England, because even the house where Emma is staying this year has a name—Ivy Cottage. Over here, people don’t do that as much. Half Moon Farm is kind of unique that way.
My mother’s had beef stew simmering on the stove all day, and she made homemade rolls to go with it. Afterward, for dessert, there’s apple skillet cake hot out of the oven.
“My grandmother always told me that a cast iron skillet in the kitchen is the sign of a good cook,” she tells me, dishing us each up a generous slice and adding a dollop of whipped cream.
We take our plates back into the keeping room and curl up on the sofa again. The fire has burned down, so I add another log.
“Shall we pay a call on the Bennets?” my mother asks, which is her way of saying let’s read some more Pride and Prejudice.
Megan and her mom and Gigi are listening to the audio version of the book together, and so are Cassidy and her mom. My mother and I decided we’d try reading it aloud instead. So far, it’s been really fun. Of course, it helps that my mother is an actress. She’s every bit as good as the lady who reads it on the audio version. I try my best when it’s my turn to read, but I’m nowhere near as good as she is.
We’re at the part where Elizabeth Bennet’s sister Jane catches a cold and has to stay at Netherfield—part of her mother’s scheme to get Mr. Bingley to fall in love with her. Things are heating up because when Elizabeth comes to check on Jane, all of a sudden Mr. Darcy, who was so rude to her at the ball, seems a little interested. This makes Caroline Bingley mad. She’s Mr. Bingley’s sister and a total queen bee. You can tell she wants Mr. Darcy all to herself because she keeps trying to put Elizabeth down, but she only ends up making herself look stupid because Elizabeth is much, much smarter than she is.
“Elizabeth kind of reminds me of Cassidy,” I tell my mother.
“Our Cassidy?” she replies, surprised.
“Yeah, you know, she’s really feisty. She says whatever’s on her mind.”
My mother laughs. “Well, maybe a little. But somehow I can’t picture Elizabeth Bennet playing hockey.”
By now it’s ten o’clock, but we still have a couple of hours to go so we watch some TV. Finally, it’s time to head outside. The pasture behind the barn has the best view, and I get dressed in my warmest clothes while my mother rustles up sleeping bags for both of us. We bring along pillows, too, and a big beach blanket to spread underneath us.
People assume I get my interest in math and science from my dad, but I actually get it from my mom. She’s always been interested in nature. When I was little she used to check books out of the library for us so we could learn about plants and animals and clouds and stars and stuff.
Scanning the pasture with our flashlights for a spot with no goat or horse droppings, we spread out the blanket and sleeping bags. Sugar and Spice are wild with excitement at this unexpected outing. When they’re finished chasing each other all around, they trot over, panting frosty puffs of air.
“Settle down now, girls,” my mother tells them, and they curl up by our legs.
Lying back, I cross my arms under my head. I love looking up at the night sky. If you stare at the stars long enough, it’s almost as if you leave Earth behind. Everything fades into the background, and it’s only you and the darkness and the stars. On nights like this, I almost feel like I can wrap my mind around those questions like what’s beyond the edge of the universe, and what exactly is infinity?
“Mom, when did you know you wanted to be an actress?”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “When I was around your age, I guess. Why?”
I tell her how it seems like everybody but me already knows what they want to do with their lives.
“Swee
theart, you can hardly expect to know that at fourteen.”
“Almost fifteen. And you did, you just said so.”
She sighs, and we stare at the stars again for a while. Then she continues, “Well, I suppose I had an inkling at your age that I wanted to be an actress, but I didn’t know if I could actually do it or not. And then once I did, I still wanted more—marriage, and a family. Life took me in a different direction for a while, and then—well, I still had some sorting out to do.”
I know she’s talking about the year she moved to New York, to be on a soap opera called HeartBeats, back when I was in sixth grade. “Larissa LaRue,” I whisper. That was the name of her character.
“Yeah,” she says. “Good old Larissa. Anyway, the main thing is, you have plenty of time to decide. You don’t need to start worrying about it now.”
“Do you miss it?”
“What?”
“Acting.”
She hesitates. “Sometimes. I’ve been thinking maybe I’d try out for some local theater, just to keep my hand in. But for the most part, not really. I love our life here on the farm.”
I roll over on my side to face her. “I still wish I knew what I wanted to be when I grow up. It’s just that I like so many things, you know?”
“What do you enjoy most of all?”
I have to think about that. “MadriGals, I guess.” I love to ride, and I love my science classes, but I really, really love to sing.
“Why don’t you just pour your heart into that right now, and see what happens. Didn’t you tell me that tryouts are coming up for some solos?”
I nod in the darkness. “There’s a choral competition after the holidays.”
“And Jess, just because you’re focusing on something now, at this stage of your life, doesn’t mean that shuts the door on doing anything you want to do in the future, anything at all.”
“What, like becoming a singing veterinarian?”
This makes her giggle. “Who visits her patients on horseback,” she adds.
Now we’re both giggling.
“And teaches math on the side,” I finish. Our giggles turn to belly laughs, and even though it’s not that funny, because it’s late and we’re tired, pretty soon we’re howling. The dogs get excited and run around barking, and we have to settle them down all over again.
Overhead, the shooting stars are falling thick and fast now, and I get tears in my eyes, but whether it’s because it’s cold out or because the meteor shower is so beautiful or because I’m just happy to be here with my mother, I’m not sure.
My mother starts to sing softly. “When you wish upon a star . . .”
I join in too. “Makes no difference who you are . . .”
We sing the next bit together: “Anything your heart desires will come to you.”
I don’t know the rest of the song, but my mother does, and I listen to her sing it, joining in again for the final refrain: “When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true.”
We’re quiet for a while after that, just watching the sky.
“Mom, can I ask you something else?” I say finally.
“Sure, honey.”
“How do you know when somebody likes you?”
“You mean a boy?”
“Yeah.”
“Anybody in particular?”
“Um . . .” I almost tell her about Darcy Hawthorne, but I’m still kind of keeping that to myself. A few people know—Emma, of course, and Savannah found out too, which makes me a little uncomfortable.
“It wouldn’t be Darcy Hawthorne, would it?”
My mouth drops open. “How did you know?”
“Jess, I’m your mother! Besides, you do kind of start glowing when he’s around.”
I heave a sigh. “I just wish I knew whether he liked me or not. I’ve liked him for such a long time. Sometimes I think maybe he does, but he never says anything, you know?”
My mother reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I know, honey. This is a tough one, and I don’t really have any answers for you. You’re just going to have to wait and see.”
“I feel like I’m stuck in a Jane Austen novel,” I grumble. “You know, like one of those girls in long dresses who have to sit around waiting for a guy to ask them to marry them—not that I’m expecting Darcy to do that.”
My mother laughs. “No, I don’t suppose your Mr. Darcy will be doing that anytime soon. But I understand what you mean. You don’t feel like you can be the one to say something first.”
“Exactly! And it’s so stupid! Here it is nearly two hundred years after Pride and Prejudice was written, and I’m in stuck in that same mold. I’m still waiting for Darcy—my Darcy, not Elizabeth Bennet’s Darcy—to notice me.”
“Oh, I have no doubt he notices you,” says my mother, squeezing my hand again. “How could he not notice a beautiful creature like you?”
“You’re my mother,” I protest. “You have to say that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
We start to laugh again.
“Maybe it’s good for Darcy to be so far away,” my mother says. “They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know?”
“Maybe,” I reply, and we stop talking then and watch the stars.
The next day, my father and brothers arrive home after church, and the boys give us a blow-by-blow account of their night at the museum.
“Our den got to sleep in the dinosaur exhibit!” crows Dylan.
“It was awesome,” Ryan adds.
“I’ll bet,” I tell them, envying them their uncomplicated lives. My brothers are only in fourth grade. They haven’t started worrying about girls yet, or their future careers.
After lunch, I excuse myself and go upstairs to my room. One of the great things about Colonial Academy, besides the fact that they have MadriGals and horses and an observatory, is that every student, even the ones on scholarship like me, gets a laptop. I guess some wealthy alumna set up a fund for it, which was really nice.
I flip my computer open to find Emma online already and waiting for me.
“I am so glad that we can do this,” I tell her when her video feed flashes onto my screen. “It’s not the same as having you here in Concord—”
“—but it’s pretty close,” says Emma, finishing my sentence. “I know, I’m glad too.”
“So how was London?”
“Amazing. Beyond amazing. Incredible. I want to live there someday.” She launches into an enthusiastic account of everything that they saw and did, from the B&B they stayed at in Notting Hill to their visits to places like the Tower of London and Kensington Palace and Westminster Cathedral. “My dad posted a bunch of pictures on his blog.”
“I’ll check them out. How’s everything going otherwise?”
Emma shrugs. “Okay, I guess. I wish you were here to help me with maths, though. Math, I mean.”
“Anything new with Rupert?” I’m as fascinated with her nitwit of a neighbor as she was last year with Savannah Sinclair.
“Roooooo-pert!” she moos, and we both laugh. “Have you gotten to the part in Pride and Prejudice yet about Mr. Collins?”
I shake my head.
“Well, when you do, you’re going to love him. I don’t want to spoil it for you, but he’s hilarious—really pompous and dull. My mother says he’s a booby. Anyway, Rupert Loomis could be his little brother. You’ll see what I mean.”
“Sounds fun,” I tell her.
Emma leans closer to the webcam, looks over her shoulder, and drops her voice. “Guess what? I think he likes me.”
“Who likes you?”
“Rupert.”
“WHAT?!”
Emma nods. “I know, isn’t it horrible? It’s way worse than Kevin Mullins’s crush on you. I swear, every time I turn a corner at school, there he is. And he’s always making excuses to come over here and check on Toby. I taught him—the parrot, not Rupert—to say ’ROOOPERT’ whenever he sees him.”
“Emm
a, you are bad!”
She grins. “I know. But I’ve got to cheer myself up somehow. It’s not fun having a wet blanket like Rupert Loomis mooning over me, you know?”
“Tell me about it. Kevin Mullins still won’t take a hint. So what does Stewart think about your new crush?”
“Jess! He’s not my crush!”
Now it’s my turn to grin.
Emma shrugs. “I haven’t said anything. There’s no point.”
We talk for a while about what’s going on in her village—they just celebrated something called Guy Fawkes Night last week, which she tells me was when some plot to blow up parliament a zillion years ago was foiled.
“It was fun. There were fireworks, and we baked potatoes in a big bonfire, which was kind of weird but I guess it’s traditional.”
“Cool.”
“So how’s everybody over there doing?” Emma asks.
“Pretty good, I guess. Cassidy’s hardly ever around because of hockey. You’ve read Megan’s blog, right?”
Emma nods. “Isn’t it hilarious? I especially love the Fashion Faux Pas.”
Megan’s been posting pictures online of random people, mostly at school, whose outfits she doesn’t like, and having Fashionista Jane make snarky comments about them.
“She’s getting really good at Austen-speak,” Emma continues.
“I know!”
Emma coined that expression. It’s what she calls the way Fashionista Jane talks, and the way we all do too, sometimes, when we’re imitating Pride and Prejudice.
“I loved the picture of the guy in the suit wearing flip-flops,” she says. “Sir Flops-a-lot?”
I laugh. “Yeah, that’s the one. Cassidy says he’s one of the teachers.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t gotten into trouble.”
“I don’t think anybody but us knows who’s writing it.”
“Emma!” Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice floats up the stairs.
“That’s my mother. It’s probably time for me to set the table or something.”
Pies & Prejudice Page 7