Austen Box Set

by Hart, Staci

  Jett, the manager of our extensive romance department, who had hair out of a fashion ad and a smile out of a toothpaste commercial, stepped up to the bar where Annie had been and extended his hand for a bro-clap. I obliged.

  “What’s up, man?” I asked.

  “Nothing much. Good night, huh? Man, the new girl can sing.”

  I smiled. “She’s something else.”

  “Yeah, she is. Harrison said he was going to make a move on her before he found out she’s only eighteen.” He shook his head. “Brutal.”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  His expression shifted into assessment, then realization. “Ah. You too?”

  I made a half-assed psh noise. “Please. I like her, but she’s barely out of high school. We’re just friends.”

  Jett didn’t say anything, but one dark eyebrow rose.

  Annie pushed back through the crowd, breathless and grinning. “She’s got us all set up! Come on!”

  Cam’s voice came through the speakers announcing us, and Annie hurried me out from behind the bar, all while Jett watched, laughing so hard, his hand was pressed to his stomach.

  I shrugged at him, which only made him laugh harder.

  The second Cam thrust a microphone in my hand, I regretted every decision I’d made to bring me to that point in my life.

  The opening piano riff began to play, and I held that mic with a sweaty fist as I looked over the expectant faces of the bar patrons and my coworkers, who had incidentally halted all work and were watching with unbridled anticipation.

  Worse: they were listening.

  But then Annie took my hand, looking up at me with big, encouraging eyes and a smile that made me feel like I could climb mountains.

  And with my magic feather in my hand, I sang.

  I sang with timid discord at first, but Annie was unabashed, nurturing my courage. But she didn’t sing to the crowd. She sang to me. And then it was like it was just her and me.

  We air-guitared—I had logged hundreds of air-guitar hours in my youth, and I had to say I was really convincing—and we got a little psychedelic during the bridge. The crowd sang through the end with us, and we were all sailing away to our futures together.

  When the song was finally over and the crowd clapped and cheered, Annie bounded into my arms, saying with her lips near my ear, “See? It’s about how you feel. I hope you feel good, Greg.”

  And I did, better than I would ever be allowed to admit.

  Hearts On Fire

  Annie

  “Who’s that one?” I asked, pointing to the extra-fat goldfish in Meg’s tank as his tail worked a little too fast to keep him afloat.

  “That’s Titus. And that one in the back is Athena. This one in the grass is Bruce Wayne because he’s a loner, and that one is Giggles because it looks like it’s smiling. See?”

  I did see and laughed.

  “That’s the one I named after Aunt Susan.”

  “I love that.”

  “So,” Meg said, “how was Greg?” She stretched his name into three syllables, fluttering her lashes.

  “He’s fine, thank you. We sang at karaoke last night. He’d never done it; can you believe it?”

  “That’s so sad,” she said as she sat at the foot of her bed where Balthazar, the golden retriever, had taken up residence.

  “I know! Oh, and he convinced me to eat a Monte Cristo.”

  Her mouth popped open. “He got you to abandon the sweet-and-salty rule? Are you sure he’s not your boyfriend?”

  I made a face. “Since when are you so into boys? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She shrugged and ran her hand down Balthazar’s shaggy back. “Maybe.”

  It was my turn to gape. “Well, go on and tell me.”

  “His name is Jake. He brings me a brownie every day, and he always picks me for his team in recess, no matter what we’re playing. We’re reading The Hobbit together.”

  I shook my head, smiling. “That’s some serious reading for the fourth grade.”

  “It’s kind of hard, but I’ve got a dictionary on my phone. And Jake and I talk about it, so that makes it easier.”

  “I still can’t believe Mama let Susan get you a phone.”

  “It was the only way they’d let me walk to school by myself,” she said. “Anyway, is sweet-and-salty Greg your boyfriend or what?”

  “I don’t know where you get these ideas,” I said. “I shouldn’t have even told you his name.”

  “Why shouldn’t I know the name of your future husband?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my friend. He’s way too old to be my boyfriend. He’s almost too old to be Elle’s boyfriend. It would be…weird. Like if Jake were twenty.”

  She paled. “Ew.”

  “And anyway, why am I defending myself to a ten-year-old?”

  “Because I’m adorable and persistent.”

  “That is certainly true—and too smart for your own good,” I said on a laugh. “I’m going to go rest for a little before this dinner tonight. Hopefully, it’s not too weird.”

  Meg’s eyes lit up. “Aunt Susan said earlier—she didn’t know I was sitting behind the couch—that Fanny’s name is appropriate because she’s a complete a-s-s.” She snickered.

  “Well then, dinner should be interesting.”

  I ruffled her hair and made my way to my room with about an hour to spare before the Ferrars arrived. I didn’t have much to do in the way of freshening my exterior, but my interior reveled in the solitude for a little while. First, I dug through the piano bench in my room and the wealth of sheet music stored there. I was too happy for Rachmaninoff or Brahms but found a book of Haydn pieces and smiled, flipping to Sonata No. 59.

  It was romantic and beautiful and happy, and my fingers played the cool keys with gladness, high off the day, holding my face just above the surface of the water, ignoring what lay beneath. For now, the sun warmed my cheeks, and I would enjoy it until I was pulled under again.

  A quarter to seven, the dogs took up their barking, thundering toward the door. I closed the piano lid and left my room, moving toward the sound of voices, my sisters and Mama joining me in the hallway.

  The dogs wouldn’t allow passage for everyone from the entryway beyond the door, though Susan was shooing and nudging and asking John for help. Behind her was a man who looked unyielding though not unpleasant, more apathetic than stern. He stretched over the dogs and Susan to shake hands with my uncle, who was smiling, seemingly unaware of the obstruction his wife’s dogs had created.

  Behind Mr. Ferrars was a proud and pinched woman, her face hard angles and her eyes shrewd. She wore a smile that looked more like a scar than an expression, strict and humorless, her back as straight as a razor and her sharp chin lifted so that it seemed she had to look down her nose at you.

  The dogs finally unjammed the doorway. Mrs. Ferrars eyed them with a level of disgust, masked ineptly by that cruel smile of hers. And as she moved out of the way, I caught sight of a third member of their party and wondered where in the world he had come from.

  He was tall and dark, his face kind and smile quiet with eyes that sparked intelligently under his brow. I determined his age to be far too old for me, but when I looked over at Elle, a smile of my own graced my lips as I noted he wouldn’t at all be too old for her. And by the way she was looking at him, I thought she might have figured the same.

  Introductions went around. Mr. Ferrars had a handshake like a cowboy, strong and curt, while Mrs. Ferrars’s handshake reminded me of a dead fish, cold and floppy and inanimate.

  “And this,” Susan said proudly, “is Ward Ferrars, their son.”

  My jaw would have popped open and hit the ground if I hadn’t had it affixed into a smile. He shook hands with everyone in greeting, all while I dissected his appearance, trying to figure out how they had produced him. But I could see it, if I looked closely. His eyes were the color and shape of his mother’s though with a merriment I doubted hers had ever possessed. He
was a similar height and build as his father, and on closer inspection, I could see in the lines of his nose and jaw where the two men were virtually genetic copies, separated only by age.

  I also noted that he greeted Elle last and lingered for a second too long.

  This was maybe the highlight of the whole ordeal. My sister had had exactly one boyfriend, years ago. And the thought of her with someone so dashing—it really was the only word I could think to describe him—was enough to set my imagination skipping into the future to name their children for them (Marianne Margaret Ferrars for the girl and Fredrick Fitzwilliam Ferrars for the boy, respectively. Fitz for short.)

  We were led into the living room for a drink before dinner, Uncle John and Mr. Ferrars—Frank—sojourning to the cocktail tray to pour scotch with Ward trailing behind them, leaving the women to sit in the living room.

  “Emily and the girls have been New Yorkers for only a week—” Susan started jovially, but Fanny cut her off.

  “Yes, we were supposed to have dinner ages ago to celebrate,” she said coolly, eyeing Mama. “I trust you’ve been able to…adjust.”

  Color smudged Mama’s cheeks, her head held high. “Yes, thank you,” was all she said, not bothering to explain herself.

  “Good. I can’t understand why you all didn’t fly. Three days in a car seems…excessive.”

  I opened my mouth to give her something to consider, but she kept talking. “You were the one in the car accident, yes?”

  My eyes narrowed at her intrusive lack of manners. “No, the wheelchair is just a prop,” I popped, not even realizing I’d said it until it left my mouth.

  I put on a smile, as if it had been a joke.

  Fanny laughed, the sound tight and awkward. “Yes, well, I’m sorry for the loss of your husband. It must have been a shock to lose him so suddenly and at such a young age.”

  Mama looked like a storm in a bottle. “Yes, it was.”

  “And then to have to take charity from family?” She shook her head and said with an unbelievable air of condescension, “You’re very fortunate to have such a generous brother.”

  Susan wasn’t smiling anymore. “It’s not really about generosity as much as it’s about right and wrong. Having the Daschles here has been nothing but a pleasure and a joy.” The words rose and fell with cheery inflection and a warning edge.

  Fanny smiled, lips together and curling at the corners. “Of course.”

  “I think we could all use a drink. John!” Susan called over her shoulder a little too loudly. “Would you mind pouring us wine?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. That will be good,” she said as she settled back in.

  The conversation momentarily lulled, something that never happened in Susan’s company. Mine either, but my quick tongue was too shocked to even gather up a response. This was probably a good thing. I doubted anything I had to say would be in any way acceptable.

  The men joined us a moment later with wine for everyone but me and Meg, carrying the conversation back into familiar territory. Uncle John was happily in his element at his friend’s side, and when Susan looked up at him, her face touched in adoration and joy, I understood why she put up with Fanny; it made John happy.

  Good manners are made of small sacrifices.

  With that reminder, I resolved to keep my mouth shut.

  A half hour later, I realized this might actually be impossible, though keeping my mouth full helped.

  Fanny was sure to remark on dinner with an unwelcome abundance of deprecating compliments. The meal was quaint, she remarked, barely touching her steak which she noted was gamy, smiling while she cut off delicate slivers to slip past her thin lips. The wine was very stout, she was sure to say, and from a vineyard she hadn’t heard of, though she was certain she was familiar with all the good wineries in La Rioja.

  All the while, I chewed my steak—which was delicious by the way and was one of the best meals I’d had in several years, Monte Cristo included—doing my very best to keep quiet.

  Susan kept Fanny on the safest of topics, steering her around with the mastery of a lion tamer. That probably gave Fanny too much credit. As much as she wanted to be majestic, she was more like a cold, slick python. No, not even that. She wasn’t quiet or clever enough to be a snake. Maybe a rabid poodle, coiffed with a ridiculous haircut meant to make her look fancy. Because it was painfully clear that Fanny thought she was fancy. But it was hard to take her seriously when she was foaming at the mouth.

  My only respite from Fanny was watching Elle and Ward.

  It was almost imperceptible—the stolen glances, the inclination to look at each other when they laughed. I hoped beyond hope that something would come of it.

  John and Frank took over the conversation, reminiscing about their college days and running the Valentin Fabre magazine empire.

  The history of the magazine was largely unknown to me; we never spoke of this part of the family, and it wasn’t until I was a teenager that I’d ever even known the broad-stroke details of that side of my family. I listened, enraptured.

  “My grandfather was the son of French aristocrats, a family that immigrated to New York a generation before. He grew up in Manhattan at the turn of the century. Harvard Medical wasn’t for him; what he adored was marketing. When he got his first job as an advertising executive for Ladies’ Weekly, he turned it around and enjoyed doing it so much, he bought his first magazine—Nouvelle—with the help of his parents’ fortune. And when he built that one up, he bought another. Then another. Twenty years in, he owned fifteen magazines, each of them still thriving today.

  “My mother—your grandmother,” he said with a nod in our direction, “was his only child, and he groomed her to take over for him when he retired. It was where she met your grandfather.”

  Mama sat silently, eating with her eyes down.

  Meg launched into a string of questions, and everyone laughed.

  “Too many questions for a full plate,” Elle said gently, redirecting the conversation to something safer, for Mama’s sake. “It must be very exciting, working in the magazine business,” she said to no one in particular.

  “It’s long work and a great deal of stress,” John said, “but it helps to run it all with people I enjoy so much.”

  Frank held up his glass, tipping it first to John, then to Ward. “Hear, hear.”

  Fanny spoke while they were occupied drinking “It’s the legacy that I find so exciting. Having something to pass on, like Frank will pass on to Ward.”

  Susan’s face betrayed her annoyance, but Fanny was too self-absorbed to notice. Neither of my cousins had gone into the magazine business, and the dig was heard all too clearly.

  “Ward is our shining star,” she continued, beaming. It was the first genuine emotion I’d seen from her other than general discontent or condescension. “He’s currently the associate publisher at Nouvelle. We have grand plans for him, don’t we, Frank?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes,” Frank answered absently.

  Ward gave Elle an apologetic look as Fanny rattled on.

  “He’s just simply amazing at it. They say they’ve never seen anyone quite like him, and I’d have to agree. Wouldn’t you?” she asked no one as she speared a green bean, which she insisted on calling haricot verts, and forked it into her horrible mouth.

  “Do you enjoy it?” Elle asked him once Fanny’s mouth was full.

  Ward watched her with a light of surprise in his eyes, as if no one had ever asked him that so directly. “It…keeps me busy,” was his answer. “And what do you do?”

  Elle blushed at that, looking down at her fork as she rolled a green bean away from her. “Oh, I—”

  Susan brightened up and interrupted, as she so often did. “Oh! I nearly forgot! John, Elle was a secretary in Boerne; do you think we could place her at one of the magazines? I think she’d be quite an addition to your staff.”

  John nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, of course. I’m sure we have something you coul
d do, if you’d like.”

  “Exactly what kind of secretarial work did you do in Boerne?” Fanny asked with her eyes on her fork, which politely stabbed another green bean. She glanced at Elle as she lifted her fork.

  Elle’s hands fell to her lap, and I imagined she was twisting her fingers under the table, her voice gone a little soft. “I worked for a small insurance agency.”

  Fanny hummed. “How charming. But I wouldn’t want you to overextend yourself, dear. The magazine is very busy. Things move quickly, and if you’re not prepared, I fear you’d be swept away.” She laughed—at least, I thought it was a laugh—an odd, successive intake of air, followed by a sound of mild amusement.

  I set my fork down with a clank and glared, breaking my vow of silence. “Elle happens to be one of the most organized, composed women I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. She works tirelessly and thanklessly just for the sake of a job well done, and I honestly can’t think of a better person to nominate to handle such a busy environment.”

  Fanny glared back at me.

  “Thank you,” Elle started quietly, “but—”

  “I was only stating the nature of the competitive, high-level work, so your sister could make a wise decision,” Fanny said, her eyes like fiery laser beams.

  In that moment, I didn’t have a single wonder as to how she managed to steamroll her entire family.

  Fortunately, I wasn’t part of her family.

  “Oh, I think we all understood you quite well.”

  Her mouth popped open in furious shock at that, but Susan laughed, a big, happy sound that I sensed was orchestrated.

  “Maybe we could all use another glass of wine—Annie included.”

  Elle was still staring down at her hands, and I endeavored to keep the spotlight on me.

  “I’d love one,” I sang cheerily.

  Mama didn’t think it was funny.

  Frank chose the moment to speak up. “Elle, we’d love to have you at one of the magazines.” He completely ignored Fanny when her head swiveled on her neck to gape at him. “I’ve never known Susan to recommend anyone who wasn’t exactly what we needed. In fact, Ward just lost his executive assistant. Think you could come in Monday and take a look around? See if it interests you?”