I Could Write a Book: A Modern Variation of Jane Austen's Emma

by Karen M Cox

  Bob did have us all together at a big round table for lunch, and Frank perked right up, enough to flirt with me, almost shamelessly. Enough for Edie and Tim to exchange sneering looks, and for George to look somber by comparison. Enough for Jane to just stare at her plate.

  I smiled and laughed, not because I was really enjoying myself, but because flirting was the best substitute I had for the real fun I had anticipated. It was all surface buffoonery, all shallow interchanges, and while my vanity was pleased, I myself was not.

  “You did right, persuading me to come along today,” Frank said to me as we sat after lunch, drinking coffee. “I really would have missed out. Last Sunday, I was ready to hit the road for Alabama.”

  “You were a grouch last weekend,” I answered. “I’m not sure what your problem was, but I was nicer to you than I should have been. You certainly worked hard enough to make me beg you to join us.”

  “I was not a grouch,” he pouted. “I was hot and tired.”

  “Then Alabama would not have been a good solution. It’s even hotter down there.”

  “Then where should I have landed? Tell me, oh wise one, for I’m at your command.” He winked at me.

  “Well, that’s for you to decide. I have no hand in it.”

  “You might have more of a hand than you realize.”

  I laughed, a bitter sound, even to my own ears. “Such flattery. If I had so much influence on you, you wouldn’t have been so cross last weekend at Donwell.”

  “Oh, sweet Emma, you influence all things around you, including me, from the moment you cast your attention upon me. I saw you first on a winter day that was as dreary as this summer one, and you brightened everything around you.”

  I glanced around, aware for the first time that no one else was laughing or joining in the banter. “Hush, you’re being ridiculous,” I whispered to him. “And the rest of the table is not amused.”

  “Well, why not?” Frank raised his voice and infused it with a mocking tone. “I saw you on a cold, gray February morning, and I remember it as if it were yesterday.” He leaned over and poured some cream in my fresh cup of coffee. “May I?”

  I nodded, and he whispered as he poured. “What will liven up this party, do you think? Any kind of silly small talk is preferable to this silence.” Louder, he announced to the table. “My friends, this quiet has gone on long enough. Emma, who as we know is mistress of us all, demands to know what you all are thinking. Speak up, now!”

  Helen laughed. Mary Jo smiled. Edie scowled. But George spoke up first.

  “At this moment, I’m not so sure Emma would want to know what we’re thinking.”

  His words made me squirm, but I tried to laugh it off. “I’m not sure I would want to know what you all think either. Well, maybe one or two of you might be kind to me.” I glanced over at Bob and Mary Jo.

  Edie turned to her fiancé. “My mother always taught us to respect other people’s privacy. As far as their thoughts go. Yes. But she was from another generation. Perhaps that kind of discretion is perceived as old-fashioned these days.”

  “Your mother was quite right, I think.” Tim leaned toward her. “Some young women in this Me Generation will say most anything. Best to just gloss over it as if it were a joke.”

  “She has thrown down the gauntlet,” Frank whispered as he handed me a sugar packet. “So, I’ll up the challenge.” To the table he said, “Very well, then. Emma waives her right to know your most intimate thoughts, and instead, will settle for some clever contribution to our table’s discussion. Doesn’t matter what it is, as long as you can entertain Emma, at least as well as she says I entertain her. One golden nugget of sparkling conversation. Or two moderately interesting ones.” He laughed. “Or three mediocre topics will do, in a pinch.”

  Helen giggled. “Oh, I could do that. Three mediocre topics. No problem for me. Not at all.”

  My temper finally escaped, disguised under the cover of flippant, careless words. “Oh, I don’t know, Helen. Do you think you could limit yourself to only three?” I grinned without humor at Frank and Mary Jo. Frank was staring across the table, not paying attention. Mary Jo smiled uncertainly. Helen sat, speechless for once, mouth open. After several seconds, she closed her lips, her face turning beet red.

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure. I often talk about mediocre things, don’t I, Jane?” Helen didn’t wait for an answer. “I must stomp on everyone’s last nerve, or she wouldn’t have said…. Well…”

  “Sparkling conversation topics,” Bob cut in. “Emma would be the perfect person to start one.”

  Some of table laughed nervously, and George, wearing a stern expression, spoke up. “Well, that relieves the rest of us of the burden of conversation. Perfection, apparently, has already been discovered.”

  “Well, this is all well and good, but I can’t think of a thing, sparkling or otherwise to add.” Edie stood up and laid her napkin beside her plate. “Oh, look. It’s stopped raining. Let’s go out and walk around a bit, Tim.”

  “Of course, honey. I know I wouldn’t have anything to say that Emma would like to hear. We’ll go enjoy the sunshine.”

  “Come with us, Jane.” Edie reached out her hand.

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll finish my coffee.” But she didn’t touch it after they left.

  “There goes the happy couple,” Frank said. “How long have they known each other anyway?”

  “Since January 10,” Mary Jo answered.

  “Not long, then. A whirlwind romance. How lucky for them, that it worked out. Whirlwind romances, you know, don’t always have such happy endings. After some time, when people really start to know each other, they discover little habits and quirks that maybe aren’t quite as appealing as the qualities they saw in that first blinding rush of attraction. Many a man has made a commitment based on a quick infatuation, and then lived to regret it.”

  Jane surprised the table by speaking up. “It happens. I’ve seen it all the time in the theater crowd. Both men and women can succumb to infatuation, overwhelmed by the emotion and drama of the theater. I guess it could happen in a variety of places—at an ocean resort, on a cruise ship, during a semester abroad.” She looked around the table, finally resting her gaze on Frank.

  “Go on,” he said softly.

  “Oh, nothing really.” She shrugged. “Just that people rarely regret those affairs over the long term. There’s usually time for the lovers to come to their senses before they do anything permanent. Then they put the infatuation in its proper place—an affaire de coeur, a passing phase, a fling—nothing more. And then, they each go on with their lives, sadder but wiser.”

  I stared at her, not sure whether I had ever heard that many words come out of her mouth at one time. Frank stared at her too, a cool assessment, before turning back to me.

  “Well then, in order to avoid that depressing scenario, I’ll ask someone sensible to choose when it’s time for me to settle down.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “How about you?”

  “How about I what?”

  “You pick the perfect girl for me. After all, you did the job for Dad—and a splendid job it was. I’m sure I’ll love the gal, whomever you pick. Find her. Train her up. Make her over.”

  “In my own image, I suppose?”

  “Exactly. I’ll go backpack through Europe, then fly back to New York and find the perfect job. When I return in a year or two, you can present me with the perfect woman.”

  “I accept the challenge.”

  “I like ’em lively. And blonde, too, if you can manage it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I wondered if Mary Jo had ever considered going blonde.

  Jane stood. “Helen, let’s go outside and get some air. Would you come with me?”

  “I’d be happy to, honey. I was going before, but this is better. We’ll catch up with Tim and Edie. There they are.” She pointed out the window. “Oh no, that’s not them. Goodness, she doesn’t look anything like Edie. Bless me.�
�

  George followed them after a minute, and I remained at the table with Bob, Frank, and Mary Jo, until even I grew tired of Frank’s flattery. It was an almost manic level of ingratiation that soured my stomach. I excused myself and wandered aimlessly out by the stables, in the cool quiet left by the rain. The stable smell soon returned with the heat, and I turned back, preparing myself for the ride home with Frank and wondering which Frank would be my companion on the return trip: flirty, nuisance Frank, bad-tempered, sullen Frank, or hopefully, Southern-charmer Frank would magically reappear.

  I saw him, waiting for my car alongside Mary Jo, and quickened my pace, when a hand caught mine from behind. It was George Knightley.

  “Emma,” he said in a low voice, leading me slightly off the path and out of sight of the others, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure, Professor. What’s up?”

  “We’ve known each other forever, all your life, in fact, and that connection brings with it a familiarity that you’ve probably endured rather than enjoyed all these years. But when I see a wrong, I have to try and make it right.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “That dig you took on Helen. How could you be so mean to her? I didn’t think you had that kind of malice in you.”

  I stopped, and I felt the red flush of shame creep up my cheeks. I tried to dismiss it. “Oh that? It was just a joke.”

  “I’ve heard you say that phrase ‘just a joke’ more than once recently—in situations I didn’t think were all that funny.”

  “Good gravy! Helen is so harebrained sometimes! How could I help saying it? Besides, it wasn’t that bad. She probably didn’t even catch my meaning.”

  “Oh, she caught it all right. She’s talked about it non-stop ever since she and Jane left the table. Talked about how patient you must have been with her all these years when she annoyed you so.”

  “Come on, George. I know she has a good heart, but as good as she is, she can be pretty ridiculous.”

  “That’s another word I’ve heard you say more than once recently. Look, I know Helen has her issues. But no matter how she tries your patience, she doesn’t deserve to have you embarrass her—laugh at her—in front of people that might be influenced by your treatment of her.”

  “I—I…”

  “I don’t know what put you in such a mood today but lack of kindness and grace for a woman not as capable or as fortunate as you are? That’s beneath you, Emma, the real you, the Emma that I know and lo—I could hardly believe what I saw today. It was like watching a polite society train wreck. I don’t even want to imagine what your parents would think if they had heard you.”

  Tears began to well up behind my eyes. “George—”

  “Look, I hate this…this…lecturing you, as if you were still a little girl. But you need to hear this, and it seems I’m the only one who has the gumption to tell you: you are not a girl anymore. You are a young woman, an adult, blessed by Providence with beauty, intelligence, and grace—and your actions should reflect those qualities.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked off into the distance. “And now, I know you’re angry with me, but I speak only out of lo— As your friend, Emma Kate.” Car doors slammed and voices called from the entrance. “I’ve been your friend forever and a day, and friends tell each other the truth. Even when it hurts or angers. I hope…” He hesitated. “Someday, you might remember that.” He didn’t look back at me. “Let’s go home.”

  I followed him in silence, my own emotions rioting just below the surface and threatening to boil over—not in anger, but in embarrassment, followed closely by soul-bruising remorse. He walked me to the car and handed me in without a word. Mary Jo and Frank chatted all the way home, but I didn’t chime in, didn’t even listen. My feelings consumed my thoughts.

  George was mistaken about me, that’s all. I wasn’t a mean person! I loved my family, my friends. I looked out for them. I helped them. I wasn’t cruel. Was I? Maybe not cruel. That was too harsh. But selfish? Yes, as I thought back over the last several hours, I could admit I’d been selfish and vain all day. Or, maybe all my life.

  I was half-way home before I realized I hadn’t even told George goodbye or thanked Bob for the outing. The opportunity for thanking Bob came easily enough. I found him before I left Randalls’ for home. But George went straight to his car and left with only a brief word to Bob. I tried—twice—to call his townhouse and attempt to explain, apologize, something.

  But there was no answer.

  On Monday, I stopped by Knightley and Woodhouse. Mary Jo was cagey, which was completely unlike her. No, George wasn’t in the office today. No, she wasn’t sure why not. No, she wasn’t sure when he would be back. Or why he wasn’t answering his home phone. I left after five minutes, feeling uneasy and annoyed. What right did she have to keep George’s whereabouts from me?

  By Thursday, I was at my wits’ end with unanswered phone calls. I even inquired after him at Donwell, but the staff hadn’t seen him all week. In a panic, I took a third trip in as many days by his townhouse and was relieved to see his Volvo in the driveway.

  I knocked, but there was no answer. Music blared from inside the house. Concerned, I tried the door and found it unlocked. I made a mental note to fuss at him about the danger of leaving his house open. He lived downtown after all. I pushed the door open.

  “George?” I called, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. The foyer was completely dark, but I could see the waning evening light coming from the living room window. An orange glowing ember at the side of the sofa drew my attention. That was when I saw the wisp of smoke.

  “George!” I gasped, hurrying forward, but he couldn’t hear me for the loud music. I rounded the end of the couch and there he sat. The lit cigarette was in the ashtray and his head was in his hands, obscuring his face.

  Sensing movement, his head snapped up. Somehow, he recognized me in that almost dark room. I reached over, turned off the stereo and turned on a lamp by the chair. When I faced him again, we just stared at each other for several seconds. Then, he smiled.

  “Hello, Emma.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you for four days. Where have you been? I was worried sick.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been in Ocala, checking on a new client for the firm—a pair of brothers who have a farm there in addition to one they own around here.” He picked up the cigarette, leaned back and took a drag off it, leaving it between his fingers when he was done.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the other hand. “I didn’t know anyone would be checking up on me, or I would have left a clearer message about my whereabouts. The client wanted to remain anonymous until they met with us, so I told Mary Jo to just say I was out of the office.”

  “Well, that explains that.”

  “She didn’t give me up?”

  “No, but I kept looking until I found you.”

  He chuckled. “Miss Woodhouse always finds her man.”

  “Yes, she does.” I walked over to him, lifted the cigarette out of his hand, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Part of me wanted to chide him for smoking, but I judged this wasn’t the time. I sank down on the couch beside him. He stiffened and turned his back to the corner, so he faced me head on.

  “So, why are you here, Emma Kate?”

  “A couple of reasons. One was being worried, of course.”

  “I’m fine, as you see.”

  I gave him a dubious once over. “Mm-hmm, I see. I also wanted to apologize to you for my behavior at Churchill Downs last weekend.”

  He shook his head and started to speak.

  “No, let me finish.” I didn’t want to be interrupted. Saying sorry was hard enough; admitting I had been mean to someone was a new, uncomfortable experience—uncharted territory and nigh impossible to travel. “You were right to tell me off. I should never have said those things to Helen. It was wrong of me. I have apologized to her, even though I’m sure after last weekend, you think I don’t
have a kind bone in my body—”

  “You’re wrong, Em. I think you’re capable of great kindness. I’m glad you’re making amends with Helen. She’s nuts about you.”

  “Well, personally, I think she’s just nuts—”

  “Emma,” he drawled, but there was an undertone of amusement to it.

  “But she’s family, and I do love her. I told her that too. It may take some time to earn her forgiveness, but God love her, she’ll forgive pretty darn near anything. We should all take that particular page out of her book, I guess.”

  He reached over and put his hand on mine, then retrieved it quickly. He stood up and went over to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of Woodford Reserve. He tilted the bottle at me. “Drink?”

  I shook my head. He had never offered me whiskey before.

  Looking down into the glass, he said, “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I wanted to talk to you before I left.”

  “You’re leaving again?”

  He nodded, then took a drink and closed his eyes. Never had I seen him look so distressed, and I found it distressed me to no end.

  “I’m going back to Ocala. I’ll be gone for a few weeks. These men are important clients and they need to be handled personally. We were going to send William Cox, but I told Jack I’d go instead. I’m on a red eye tonight, in fact. While I’m there, I’m going to drive over and visit Jack and Isabel at their beach house on the Gulf.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you have anything to send Izzy and the children? Except for your love, of course, which nobody carries.”

  He was hiding something. Now that I was paying attention to him, I could see the tension written all over him. “Is something the matter, George?”

  He took another drink. “No. I…no.”