by Dawn Calvert
"Do you like being called Mildred?" Jane inquired as her finger tapped faster.
"I do not understand," Mildred said, her Finely arched brows wrinkling in confusion. Exactly how did she accomplish that without tweezers and a template? Jane wondered.
"No, no. You wouldn't," Jane mused, watching her intently. Then she glanced over at James, who was standing next to his sister, talking with mourners and the minister. Back to Uma. "What would you think about being called Jane Ellingson, instead of Mildred Watkins?"
"One does not choose a different name than that which was given." The sweetness of her expression was replaced with the ladylike equivalent of Are you an idiot?
"Mary Bellingham is the one who gave your name to you. She can change it."
The nostrils in Mildred's finely sculpted nose flared as she raised her chin. "Perhaps you did not understand that I am called Mildred."
So… part Uma, part Paris Hilton.
"I'm not sure, but I think this could all be very simple." Jane flicked a finger in the direction of James, taking care not to look at him while she did it. "You're familiar with our hero, I presume?"
"Mr. Dempsey?" Mildred's eyes grew wide.
"Yes." Whoops. Better clarify, just to be sure. "Mr. James Dempsey."
A fervent nod.
"What do you think of him?"
"Oh, Miss Ellingson, I could not say."
Jane lowered her voice. "I'm not going to tell anyone. But he is handsome, isn't he?"
"Terribly handsome." It came out in one breathless whisper before Mildred clamped her mouth shut.
"Let me try something out here. I know you're called Mildred and you're probably very happy with that, but bear with me." Jane raised her voice to call, "James?"
He glanced over and excused himself from a group of people to walk to Jane. Then he saw Mildred. "Hello." He gave a half bow.
"Sir. It is a pleasure." Mildred cast her eyes down again, the picture of a demure woman. "My family was well acquainted with your father."
"Indeed?" A smile curved at his lips and he bent his head toward her.
Granted, a funeral wasn't the ideal place for James to be hitting on women, but he was a self-proclaimed ladies' man and Jane was trying to make this exact thing happen, so… She bent her own head down, trying to see his eyes. That would tell her if he was interested—
His head popped back up. "Oh. Jane."
"James." She glanced at Mildred and then back at James. They stood looking at each other. "Mildred was just telling me what high regard she has for your family. Especially you, James. I can't imagine why you haven't met before."
"I confess I cannot, either," James replied, his voice taking on a new huskiness. "I would have remembered."
Mildred dipped her chin and let it roll toward her shoulder in a display of shyness.
James reacted by straightening, putting one foot toward her and puffing out his chest. The peacock spreading his feathers.
Jane smiled brightly, having seen enough. "I think your sister is looking for you, James."
"Uh, yes. Of course. I must go to her." He ran a hand through his hair, eyes still on Mildred. "Violet is quite distraught."
"Sir, I am most sorry to hear that," Mildred murmured.
"Yes. Well." He paused. "Your family name. I did not ask it. How very foolish."
Mildred had just opened her mouth when Jane cut in.
"James! Violet really needs you." To emphasize the point, she gave him a little push.
He frowned at his arm and then at her. "Of course." He left, but with two backward glances at Mildred.
Jane crossed her arms in front of her, satisfied. Did she know how to pick 'em or what? Then she turned to Mildred. "How would you feel about playing a heroine?"
It took some convincing, because Mildred seemed certain she would go straight to literary Hell if she tried to take on another character's role, but Jane finally got the woman to agree that slipping into the role of Jane Ellingson, just for a minute or two, could be worth it.
"If it works," she entreated Mildred, "Mary will go with it. She'll think she got the eye color and some other things wrong earlier and she'll start writing Jane as you because you're a much better Fit." A few more things than eye color, but it was all just physical description. Damn. She wouldn't mind having that nose. Never mind. "You'll be the heroine of the story, with a handsome guy, lots of money. Security."
The other woman's eyes lit up. "Everything I have longed for."
"See? It's perfect."
Mildred's expression changed to one of trepidation. "And if it does not work? I shall be written out." Her voice trembled.
"No. "Jane shook her head. "I have this all figured out. I will be Mildred Watkins, here in the back. So your character is not gone. I'll be sort of holding your place."
"Mr. Dempsey is most handsome," Mildred breathed.
Well, that was one thing Mildred and James could agree upon immediately.
Mildred's hands grasped Jane's. "You are certain it is allowed?"
No. "Yes," she assured her. "Really. It will be fine."
A hesitation and then, "Forgive me, Miss Ellingson, but why would you wish for another to take your place?"
People were actively milling about now, their voices rising to echo in the cavernous stone hall. No time for anything but direct, blunt honesty. "I don't love him," Jane answered. "I've tried, but I just don't. He deserves better than that" She paused. "And so do I."
Forehead wrinkled, Mildred seemed to be trying hard to puzzle that one out, but was apparently too polite to question it. She was perfect.
"There's only one thing I ask," Jane said.
"Yes?"
"He has somewhat of a gambling problem. You need to help him stay away from that. Can you do that?"
A firm nod this time. "My father had the love of strong drink. My mother and I turned him from it."
How had Mary missed her? Talk about inattention to detail. "Okay. Let's go see James." She took hold of Mildred's arm. "Quick, before that pen starts going. Remember, once it does, you're Jane Ellingson, here with an aunt and sister, and I'm Mildred Watkins." They started making their way toward James. "Are you actually here with anyone?"
"My mother. She was feeling quite faint. She is seated there, in the corner."
The mother would have to be clued in so that she didn't make… a scene. Jane choked back a nervous giggle.
When they arrived at James's side, Jane reached behind her to pull forth Mildred. "James, I want you to meet the new Jane Ellingson."
Chapter 21
James's eyes lit up with interest when he saw Mildred at Jane's side. Then he seemed to hear what she had said. He shook his head. "Forgive me, but—?"
"This is your new heroine. Her name was Mildred, but now it's not. It's Jane."
"You cannot choose a new heroine. That is only for our author to determine." But his words were spoken slowly and while his eyes were fixed on Mildred.
Jane moved between them and into James's line of vision. He blinked and stepped back. "Why not?" she asked. "Mary made a mistake. This is who the real heroine should be."
"Our author does not simply discard characters."
Jane clasped her hands behind her and took a step away from them, looking around her. Was it her imagination or did it seem as though these people were shifting positions, becoming more organized in where and how they stood? Mary must be moving around her desk, getting ready to pick up the pen. "She won't be discarding a character, James. I will be Mildred. We're substituting someone who will work better for you and we're giving Mary a chance to see that."
He cleared his throat. "It is you I shall marry, Jane. And only you."
"Me?" She had to point to herself to be sure, since James's eyes were again on Mildred. If she were a person who took offense easily, she might do so right now because he seemed to be protesting this whole thing a little less vehemently than he could.
Actually, any woman, whether she took
offense easily or not, would be a little miffed at the way James was getting ready to strut his stuff for a new heroine. His "only you, Jane," had lacked a little something known as sincerity.
On the other hand, this was what she had wanted and what she'd set up to happen. Mildred's eyes were already sparkling. She'd do. Just fine.
A hush began to descend on the room, starting at one end and rippling through to the other. "It's time!" Jane ran, as fast as she could, to the back wall of the church, where she'd first seen Mildred.
She hadn't quite made it there when she felt the familiar grip come over her, raising her chin and lifting her shoulders. She fought against Mary's hold with all of her might, trying to make it to the fringes of the action. It felt as though she were pushing against an invisible brick wall.
Then she heard James in a raised, clear voice, say, "Come, my dear."
Since she wasn't the dear on his arm, she suspected he'd decided to plunge in with both feet and go with this new heroine. It wouldn't take a person with a low threshold for taking offense to question the depth of his affection if he would so easily take up with someone else. And be just fine with it.
She could breathe again. Barely, but she could. She used that to get herself the rest of the way to the safety of the wall, where she tried to blend in with the other mourners.
An older woman glared up at her from a chair. "Who are you?" she asked in a fierce whisper.
"Ja—I mean, Mildred." She nodded her head, hoping to convince herself. "Mildred Watkins."
"My daughter?" asked the woman. She didn't sound pleased. "I believe you looked quite different not ten minutes ago."
Jane gave a nervous laugh and was immediately subjected to scowls from other mourners. Right. A funeral. But Mary's attention must be completely focused on the two in the center of the church to be allowing this side dialogue to happen unnoticed. To Mrs. Watkins, she said, "People put far too much emphasis on appearance. Do you not agree, Mother?"
The woman gave an audible "Humph" and turned her attention back to the Dempsey family and James's new heroine.
So far, no cry of "Imposter!" No repercussions from the heroine switch. Mary would, it appeared, go with the change and change the details of physical description later, Jane supposed. Too bad the author had nothing like a global search-and-replace function. It would save all that ink.
Curran wasn't here. He was missing his own father's funeral, the chance to say good-bye. And Jane was missing Curran, with a fierceness she'd never known existed inside her. The hole inside her heart, the sense of emptiness, grew until it seemed it would consume her entire being in one gigantic ache of loss. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn't here. Seeing him would only cause her heart to shatter into the two millionth piece.
It was time. She had to go. Back to her real life. To give Curran, James, Anne, Mildred, Violet… all of them, a chance at continuing on to that happy ending, she had to leave.
She let her eyes sweep over them one last time. James, standing stiffly upright. An okay guy, all things considered. But not someone she could make a happy-ever-after life with. Anne, with a spirit and budding sense of adventure this era desperately needed. Violet, a woman who'd been given a rough road in life and a backpack of bitterness to take with her on the journey. And even Mildred, who'd had the courage to go for something bigger than the role she'd been assigned.
There was another reason Jane had to leave this place. Until she came to terms with everything she'd left behind, she wouldn't be able to move ahead. She'd live every day wondering if she could have said something different, done something different, on her own, without someone else writing it, and had everything turn out okay. And those accidents she was so prone to. What if— and this was a very big what if, but it had only just popped into her head—What if they weren't accidents at all but rather things she did to sabotage others… and herself?
She let that one roll around in her mind for a minute, clunking and clanging against all the outraged reasons it wasn't true. But those reasons weren't out in full force, it turned out, because they became very quiet, very fast.
Ah-ha, you might say if you were a Dr. Phil type of person. Might be onto something here. No way to tell for sure, but she owed it to herself, and her beaten-down sense of self-esteem, to find out.
Jane reached into the secret pocket in her dress to pull out the stone. Her ticket back home. As soon as Mary had finished writing this scene, maybe even before, she would be gone, no longer a part of the story. Her fingers stabbed at the fabric, searching. Mildred's mother would have to find another daughter… She pulled at the pocket, growing more agitated with each passing second. What was this? The stone had been right—
It was gone. Gone. It couldn't be. She'd put it there earlier. For safekeeping. And in its place a—piece of paper?
This couldn't be happening. Her thoughts were bumping, crashing into each other, spinning out and diving off cliffs. Without that stone, she couldn't leave. And if she couldn't leave… She pulled out the piece of paper with trembling fingers and raised it to her eyes. Bold handwriting, in dashes of black ink. "Come to me," it said. The message was signed with a single letter: C.
She had to go to him. Now.
The relative ease of her shoulder and chin movement told her she was flying under Mary's radar, allowing Jane to fall back behind the others and move slowly along the cold wall undetected, her heart pounding at the thought of seeing Curran. How had he managed to slip a note inside her pocket? To move his fingers so close to hers without her knowing and turning into a quivering bowl of mush at his feet. Oh God.
When at last she reached outside, she breathed in huge gulps of air, just to give herself some grounding in… what? Reality? A laugh that swirled and choked came out of her until she could imagine herself in a rocking chair, muttering with each forward and back motion about the life she'd almost had. And the love she'd almost—
He wasn't there. Anxiously, she scanned the landscape near and far, the village houses, the blacksmith's place, the tree horizon and gently rolling hills in the distance. He had to be. She couldn't stand it if he wasn't.
"Looking for someone?" she heard a voice ask from behind her.
She spun around. "Curran!" She stepped forward to fall into his arms in relief so great it rendered her limbs useless.
He caught and held her tight The ache inside her faded, one small piece at a time, until an unbelievable longing flooded through her. "You're here," she whispered.
"I did not leave," he whispered back.
"I was so worried."
He brushed a piece of hair from her forehead. "You must not worry, my love. It takes up areas of your heart best put to other use."
She pulled back, gripping his arms. "Are you going to be all right?"
His expression turned deadly serious, even as his eyes melted everything inside her that wasn't already lava. "With you at my side. Yes."
"I can't." She shook her head. "I'm not supposed to stay with you. I left a life that—that didn't work. I have to put it right before I can be with—be with anyone." What was she doing, saying? Was she out of her mind?
"I have horses waiting. Leave with me now. We shall ride far from here." His voice was low, urgent.
She could see them doing just that She and Curran, riding far, far away. It was the stuff fairy tales were made of.
And she couldn't do it. No matter how much she wanted to. Even as she yearned to jump into his arms and run away with him, galloping into the sunset on a horse, she couldn't do it. She'd be offering him only half a person. The other half was in Seattle, waiting for a come-to-Jesus soul searching that might answer the questions that had plagued her for much of her life.
He deserved more than half a woman.
"Curran." She put her index fingers to his lips. "I cannot go with you. But as you leave, I want you to know that I will never, ever forget you." A lump the size of a tennis ball formed in her throat, making it difficult to swallow, to talk. She tri
ed, anyway. "You are absolutely the hero of this story, whether you want to be, or not." Then she gave him a wobbly smile. "I've never met anyone quite like you. Which makes me think I've had a very big hole in my life. Until now."
He trailed his finger gently down her cheek. "And shall I, as I leave, take your love with me? Tucked safely in my heart?"
"Yes," she breathed. "You will." An explosion of tears hovered dangerously close by.
"You shall have mine, as if you did not know," he rumbled. His thumb moved across her cheek, with a touch both rough and soft. "My love shall occupy the part of your heart you had previously given over to worry. Leaving you quite without the ability to grieve as we part, but only to remember what we had for far too short a time."
She couldn't even answer that one. If she had tried, nothing would have come out. She wanted to say how desperately she would miss him, how much she loved their conversations, their kisses, the way he'd teased her, held her. She wanted to say how much she regretted that they'd never share a night together, making love over and over, until the sun streamed over their glistening bodies in the morning. How she would have liked to have had an entire lifetime of moonlit nights and sun-kissed days with him. Grown old together, strolling in a garden on afternoons when they both had white hair and wrinkled memories.
Somehow, it seemed as though he understood she couldn't talk, and instead he read it all in her eyes.
"Yes," he whispered. "We are of the same mind." Then he folded her into his arms, held her tight, and put his mouth on hers in a kiss that had her lifting not one, but both feet from the ground.
All conscious thought suspended, drowned out as it was by surging, rushing love, lust and lunacy. She almost abruptly changed course and told him she'd go with him. Instead, she sank back downward until her feet again touched the ground. When he released her, she concentrated on getting back her breath. It was the only thing she could concentrate on.
He held out the palm of his hand. "Could this be what you seek?"
She looked. The wishing stone sat squarely in the middle, glinting up at her. Her knees buckled and he caught her with his free hand. "Yes," she said. "That's my stone." She tried to smile, but it came out in something closer to a quiver. "You're a pickpocket."