by Mary McNear
Billy pushed open the screen door and let Murphy out onto the back porch. She hesitated for a moment before following him. It was only the fifth of September, but already she could feel the approach of fall in the chilly night air. No matter, she decided, pulling her pale blue woolly cardigan closer around her and cradling her mug of lemon verbena tea. Soon she would have to trade her nightly ritual of reading in her wicker chair for reading in one of the cozy armchairs next to the living room fireplace. But for now, she thought, settling in with her tea, with Murphy lying at her feet, the back porch it was. After all, if you were afraid of a little chill in the air, you probably shouldn’t move to Northern Minnesota in the first place.
She sipped her tea slowly and listened carefully. The house was quiet. Luke had gone to bed. Tomorrow was his first day of eighth grade, and he’d promised to get a good night’s sleep. Billy needed to get one, too. The first week of school was always an incredibly busy time at the library. But she knew she’d end the night talking to Cal. It was how she ended most weeknights now that he was getting settled into his new apartment in St. Paul. And she smiled, thinking about how much she loved his voice over the phone. She would prefer it in person, of course, but he’d be coming up to stay at the cabin this weekend. He’d already invited her and Luke to join him and his sister’s family for a cookout on Friday night. Amazingly Luke had said yes to this, but only if he could bring Annabelle. Was something going on between them, she wondered, something more than friendship? She didn’t know. Not yet.
It had been a month since she, Luke, and Cal all had dinner together at the Corner Bar. And she felt as though the three of them were still learning how . . . how to be together. So for now they had the occasional dinner, or boat ride with Allie’s family, or trip to the beach to walk Murphy. Cal and Luke had done one thing alone. They’d gone to Duluth to test-drive Jeeps. And when Luke had gotten back, he’d been in a good mood. When she’d asked him about it though, he’d shrugged in a noncommittal way. Billy had suppressed a smile. Luke, she knew, didn’t want to make this too easy for her.
But though Luke seemed noncommittal about Cal, this was not the case with his dad and his two sisters. He and his dad Skyped once a week. He and his sisters more often. Billy had overheard a recent conversation in which Hannah and Eleanor were squabbling over who had talked to Luke the longest. Then Hannah had asked Luke if he was good at math; she was having trouble with fractions. He’d gallantly offered to help her. Billy noticed that Erin, Wesley’s wife, was polite but reserved with Luke. Clearly this was an adjustment process for all of them. What a summer!
She marveled at how much had changed over the course of the last three months. Before June her life had seemed relatively calm, if not downright predictable. There was Luke, the library, Rae, her mom, and Murphy. They were, in many ways, the sum total of her life. Now she had Luke’s relationships with Wesley, his sisters, and Cal to consider. And, of course, there was her own relationship with Cal, which continued to deepen. (More than once she’d daydreamed about getting married to Cal and perhaps having a child with him, too.) She couldn’t quite imagine how all this would work, and she didn’t want to get ahead of herself. But there it was. In any case, her life had not gotten simpler this summer; it had gotten more complicated. That wasn’t a bad thing. It was fuller and richer, too. She remembered something Pop-Pop had said to her the night he’d given her the envelope with Wesley’s contact information: life outside a Jane Austen novel usually was complicated.
Murphy stirred now and looked up at Billy, his liquid brown eyes patient but also plaintive. He was probably pining for his comfy bed in the corner of her room. “I know, Murph,” Billy said, petting him. “It’s late.” She started to gather up her things, but there was only her empty mug to carry inside with her. No Jane Austen tonight. She noticed then that she’d had less time and less need for her ritual lately. Over the years, Austen’s novels had offered Billy so many things: comfort, escape, wisdom, truth, beauty, wit, love, and of course, flawlessly happy endings. She would always be grateful to them. But now it was time for Billy to get out there in that big, messy, imperfect world. “What do you say?” she asked Murphy. He wagged his tail obligingly.
EPILOGUE
There’s a good turnout this year, isn’t there?” Billy commented, standing next to Rae on the front steps of the library. It was the Saturday of Columbus Day weekend, the first of three days of the annual Friends of the Library book sale, and the two of them were watching as several dozen people browsed through the books that volunteers had arranged on folding tables on the sidewalk in front of the library.
“It’s the best turnout I’ve ever seen,” Rae said with satisfaction. “And believe me, I’ve seen a lot of these sales. Of course, it helps that it’s such a nice day,” she added with a little sigh of pleasure.
“Absolutely,” Billy agreed. They’d had an early cold snap this fall. When Billy had gone out to walk Murphy that morning, the grass was white with frost and the chilly air smelled of wood smoke. But now it was almost noon, and the sun felt warm on Billy’s upturned face. Still, the leaves on the oak trees outside the library were already splashed with gold. By late afternoon, Billy knew, she would be glad of the wool cardigan she’d worn over her cotton dress.
“So, how’s Luke doing?” Rae asked.
“He’s doing . . . he’s doing really well,” Billy said, knowing that she was not exaggerating when she said this. “I mean, he and Wesley are still adjusting to their new relationship. It’s a work in progress.”
“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?” Rae said. “I wish there was a video of the two of them seeing each other for the first time, though.”
“Honestly, Rae, it never even occurred to me to film it. I was too nervous even to think straight,” Billy said.
“Can I see the picture again, though?” Rae asked now.
Billy took her phone out of her dress pocket, scrolled to find the picture, and handed it to Rae. She’d taken it of father and son sitting in the booth at the coffee shop. Luke had it, too. It was his phone’s wallpaper now.
“What do you think?” she asked Rae, looking over her shoulder at her phone screen. “Do you see a resemblance?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Rae said. “I mean, Luke has your coloring. But the shape of his eyes, his chin, his jawline . . . yeah, it’s all there. He’s his father’s son. And lucky for him, his father’s not bad-looking.”
“No, he’s not,” Billy said. But she saw something in the photo that Rae might not have. She saw Luke’s shy smile as he sat beside a father who looked bemused to have found himself with a thirteen-year-old son who, a month before, he hadn’t known existed.
“And what about his wife? Is she getting comfortable with this?” Rae asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, at first, as you know, it was hard for her,” Billy admitted. “But with two daughters who are so excited about having an older brother . . . I think that’s helped. Luke was Skyping with them last night. He might visit them over his spring break. We’re not sure yet.”
“Really?”
Billy nodded. “Wesley told Luke they could go to this place called the Great Bear Rainforest. There are Kermode bears there that you can observe—from a safe distance—so Luke is pretty excited about that. We’ll see. Fingers crossed.” Billy glanced now at her watch. “Oh, Rae. I have to go. It’s almost twelve. I’m supposed to meet Luke and Cal at Pearl’s for lunch.”
Rae shook her head admiringly. “I don’t know how you do it, Billy. At the beginning of the summer, Luke had zero fathers, and now he’s got two.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Billy smiled. Cal had told her he was in uncharted territory. He wanted to support her as a parent but didn’t want to overstep his boundaries with Luke. Fortunately, Luke seemed to like Cal, though he was still somewhat reserved around him.
“Speaking of Cal, how are things going for you two? Long-distance relationship and all.”
Billy smiled, rememb
ering last weekend at Cal’s cabin. They’d borrowed a motorboat from his sister and had taken a picnic out on the lake. Later that evening, he cooked a delicious pasta dinner and they cuddled on the couch in front of a roaring fire. (Luke had been away for the weekend visiting his grandma and his new friend, Travis.) The long distances hadn’t diminished Billy and Cal’s feelings for each other. Far from it.
“Well,” Rae broke into her thoughts, “I guess I know the answer to that question by the look on your face. Now get going,” she said cheerfully.
As Billy headed down the steps, Mara called out to her. “Hi, Mara,” Billy said. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here,” she added, smiling warmly.
“I guess not,” Mara said. “I have a question, though. Are these books really for sale?” She held up Billy’s box set of Jane Austen novels. She’d put them in the donation bin earlier in the week.
“Yes. They really are. Why do you ask?”
“Because they’re so beautiful,” Mara said. “Why would anybody want to give them away?”
“Well, to support a good cause,” Billy said reasonably. “And to make space for more books at home. And . . . to make time for other things they might want to do,” she added gently, not wanting to put a damper on Mara’s enthusiasm for the box set.
“Okay,” Mara said, apparently satisfied with this answer. “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a mistake. I mean, they’re only ten dollars.” She pointed at the price tag a volunteer had stuck on them.
“Ten dollars is still a lot of money for someone your age,” Billy said. “Are you sure you can afford them?”
“Uh-huh. I’ve been saving for this sale all summer.”
“I’ll bet you have,” Billy said. “Have you ever read Jane Austen, Mara?”
Mara shook her head.
“Well, then, you are in for a real treat,” Billy said.
“Is there . . . is there love in them?” Mara asked, a little shyly.
Billy resisted the urge to smile. So Mara did think about things other than books. “Oh, yeah. There’s love in them. Big-time love.” She reached for the box set and peeled the price tag off. “For you, Mara, these are free,” she said. “There. Now you have ten dollars to spend on other books.”
“But . . . can you do that?” Mara asked, looking around furtively.
“I can,” Billy assured her. “I can do that for an avid reader like you. I’ll tell Ms. Swanson they’re on the house,” she added of the volunteer in charge of the book sale.
“Thank you,” Mara said, pleased. “I’m going to browse a little more.”
Billy, surprising them both, gave her a quick hug. Then, realizing she was running late for her lunch with Cal and Luke, she hurried across the leaf-strewn street to Pearl’s.
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MARY McNEAR, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Butternut Lake series, writes in a local doughnut shop, where she sips Diet Pepsi, observes the hubbub of neighborhood life, and tries to resist the constant temptation of freshly made doughnuts. Mary bases her novels on a lifetime of summers spent in a small town on a lake in the northern Midwest.
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At first, I was reluctant to write about Jane Austen. There is always the danger, when writing about this beloved author, that you will be scolded by a Jane-ite, one of those defenders of the faith, someone with a passionate knowledge of the author. But I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a scholar. All I have is a rudimentary knowledge of the author’s life and a love of her books. If I tread on any great scholarly theories or rehash long acknowledged truths about her work, please forgive me!
Why I read Jane Austen’s novels during stressful or difficult times
What can an eighteenth-century “spinster,” consigned to the drawing room, raised in an English country parish, who died young, teach us about life, love, and character? Is it in fact possible, in a time when the world is infinitely complex and stressful, to glean any wisdom or relief from such a humble figure born over two hundred years ago? Well, the answer, for me at least, is a lot and yes. It turns out that the human heart and psyche can be plumbed from a parsonage window.
Jane Austen might not have traveled the world, or married and had children, or had the kind of education and independence women do now, but she had an ear exquisitely tuned to the people around her. She also had a finely calibrated intelligence and a magnanimous heart. What more could one ask for in an author?
So, when I am stressed out, or feeling sad or contemplative, or, just looking for a lift—not unlike my character Billy in this book—I thumb through the pages of one of my Jane Austen novels. And I have found over the years that even a random sampling can be a delight. Why? I’d boil it down to three overriding factors: Her novels, filled with wit and humor, always end happily; she is a true master of dialogue; and, finally, the world of a Jane Austen novel is firmly fixed in a moral universe.
Yes, one of the things I love about this author is her sunniness. They say Jane Austen is the first woman to write great comic novels. And by comic I mean they end happily: the misguided Emma finds her Mr. Knightly; the kind Colonel Brandon gets the lovely Marianne; the aging and heartbroken Anne is reunited with the now rich Captain Wentworth; the headstrong Lizzie Bennet finds love with the chastened Mr. Darcy, and on and on. But long before these happy endings there are enough mistaken entanglements, near misses, foolish decisions, lapses in judgment, and mismatches to make Shakespeare smile. And throughout, these machinations are all depicted with a deft brush. Wit, humor, and a healthy dose of irony prevail. For me, it is this infusion of humor and wit that makes these books and their characters interesting two hundred years after they were written.
All of this is not to say there isn’t heartbreak in her novels. Surely Marianne has lost much of her innocence and youthfulness by the end of Sense and Sensibility. And Anne Elliot is a sadly resigned woman for most of Persuasion. But almost always, especially for those characters who have the integrity to finally follow their heart, the ending is a happy one. And with so much unhappiness, seemingly, around every corner (one need just turn on the nightly news), why shouldn’t we seek out a “feel good” ending and some laughter in our fiction? After all, humor—which is always trying to nudge us toward happiness—is our last, and best, defense against despair. Fortunately, despair is never to have the upper hand in Jane Austen’s world.
The other thing I admire about Austen’s novels is her mastery of dialogue; she can reveal with two or three lines of conversation what might take another author many paragraphs of description or internal thinking. I would even suggest that if something is truly important, in one of these novels, it will be spoken. Maybe this is because in Austen’s world people are largely social creatures, integral parts of a social fabric, both bound together and, occasionally, torn apart, by talk. And as far as action goes, the main action is people either walking and talking, riding and talking, or dancing and talking. Conversation is the common denominator. It actually pushes the plot forward in her novels. It is how people connect, suffer, slight each other, articulate envy or disdain, and communicate love. It is also how Austen illustrates a person’s strengths, foibles, insecurities, and character. Sometimes it seems that some of Jane Austen’s characters don’t properly feel something until they actually say it. And, of course her dialogue is witty, ironic, and amusing. Nearly any line from the foolish Mrs. Bennet, the silly Mrs. Palmer, or the incessant chatter of Mrs. Bates should make you chuckle. Mrs. Bates, in Emma, once famously said that something left her so “speechless” that she hadn’t been able to stop talking about it. Or,
recently, I reread the exchange between Mrs. and Mr. Bennet at the beginning of Pride and Prejudice and found it to be a perfect rendering of an incompatible couple whose differences actually bring them into relief.
How does she pack so much witty dialogue into her rather compact books (several of them are under 300 pages)? Well, maybe she makes space by stinting on physical descriptions. Detailed descriptions of characters, places, rooms, clothes, and landscapes are scant, if not rare in her novels. Emma is simply “handsome, clever and rich,” and Mr. Knightly is “sensible.” There are hardly any descriptions of eye color, hair color, complexion, tallness or shortness, shape of the face, etc., in her novels. Unlike most contemporary novels, where rooms and clothes and surrounding landscapes are often described in detail in an effort to convey “realism,” Austen, it appears, will have none of it. For example, there is some expository setup in the beginning of Emma, but then she dives right into the dialogue between Emma and her father, never describing either the room they are sitting in, the town they live in, or the clothes they are wearing. Emma’s estate, Hartfield, is described as having “separate lawns, and shrubberies.” What? What kind of a description is that? And this lack of physical description continues throughout the book.
The truth is I don’t think Austen was particularly interested in “looks,” beauty, or the particulars of the physical world. The description of the sun setting beyond the distant fields, or embroidered roses on a pale pink ball gown, or a butterfly bending the stalk of a flower it lands on, simply did not interest her. Surely, she had the authorial genius to describe anything in the physical world. But she chose not to.
What did interest her, you might ask? Based on a lifetime of reading her books, I think she was predominantly concerned with a person’s character and interior mettle, and how these two factors enabled them to negotiate their social world. Was a person true to themselves? Were they capable of making sensible decisions? Were they honest, forthright, and good to others? Were they brave? Finally, and most importantly, did they have a moral compass?