Austentatious (13 page)

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Authors: Alyssa Goodnight

BOOK: Austentatious
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Pulling into the driveway in record time, I fully intended to run in and back out again with the journal in my hot little hands, but once it had been pulled from the shelf, a mingling of temper and curiosity double-teamed my typical efficiency. Grabbing a handful of dark chocolate M&M’s from the bowl on the counter, I parked myself cross-legged in a chair at the kitchen table.
I’d popped open an Internet window during that morning’s fidgety waiting period, typed “fairies” into the search box, and learned way more than I’d cared to. They were quite the little bitches—devious, self-serving, and prone to trickery. Fairy godmothers, on the other hand, were known for having their wards’ best interests at heart. So which was I dealing with? It was mighty hard to say.
With fairies of all sorts flitting about in my head, I jotted off the day’s entry, short and just shy of sweet.
 
Okay, what is the deal?! Seriously. I assumed we had some sort of arrangement: You supply the crazy, mixed-up romantic advice, and I let you. On condition that the magic is kept safely tucked away in its own little quiet corner,
inside
the journal. No spells, enchantments, or charms—nothing devious or underhanded. And that’s it. My job has always been
positively off-limits
.
And yet ... surprise, surprise ... when asked today whether I’d consider a job transfer, out of nowhere, I said I would. The funny (you could say suspicious) thing about that is that I won’t! I’ve worked my way up through the ranks of this job, and I’m holding out for management—I’ve
earned
management. I don’t want to start over on a whim.
You want to know what I think? You’re not just omniscient, you’re hands-on. A couple of magic words, a sprinkling of fairy dust, a little wave of the proverbial wand, and there I am talking crazy, soundly hexed. Well, I’d like to respectfully request that it doesn’t happen again—not ever. I’d like you to keep your charms to yourself. If you need to take a break from all the romance stuff for a little while, how about some savvy investment tips? ... seriously!
 
Glancing over my words, I wondered how well Fairy Jane dealt with sass. Feeling a little gutsy, I snapped the book closed, ready for the next round. Honestly, I would have much preferred to banish it back to the bookshelf, but today, it seemed, absolutely everything was outside my control.
And then, on the way out the door, as I grabbed a couple more M&M’s, my gaze happened to catch on the little square calendar propped jauntily beside the door. It clearly displayed today’s date, but the quote had changed from the one that had been there this morning. Now it read, “ ‘When he was present she had no eyes for anyone else. Everything he did was right. Everything he said was clever.’
Sense and Sensibility
.” I smacked it face-down on the counter and slid it into the closest kitchen drawer.
I guess I had my answer. The crazy was no longer confined to the journal—it was on the loose, in Austin. I couldn’t imagine a more dangerous combination.
 
I tried calling Beck on my way downtown, but it rolled to voice mail. As soon as her class was over, she’d be getting quite the earful. I truly hoped she had a logical explanation for this, although, knowing her, it probably wouldn’t be the least bit reassuring—or logical.
Violet’s seemed a little less quirky on a Monday at noon, and after parking on the street, I hurried inside, the journal tucked away in my purse. Deciding to risk another run-in with the Shop Nazi before launching an all-out search for the key myself, I headed for the counter. She saw me coming and crinkled her lips into a thin line.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she inquired, clearly hoping my answer was negative.
“I hope so,” I answered, exuding friendly, encouraging vibes. “I’m actually looking for a key to fit this lock.” I held up the journal and watched as it triggered her memory: me groveling unattractively, Beck being Beck. I couldn’t tell her I’d talked to Mr. Nelson—she’d wonder how I’d gotten his name and number, since she hadn’t been willing to give it up. This was going to go great. “I really feel like there should be a key.” Well done.
“I don’t recall a key, but you’re free to look.” That was evidently all I was going to get out of her.
“Are you the owner here?” I was holding out for the possibility that there was a sweet little lady locked in a closet somewhere in the back. If I could bust her out, maybe
she’d
help me.
“I am, yes.”
Wishful thinking foiled again.
“O-kay then,” I said brightly. “Well I guess I’ll just start looking. Any suggestions on where to start ... ?” I asked, turning slightly, ready to rummage.
“There is a small collection of keys on the marble-topped console by the door.” It clearly pained her to offer up even this stingy bit of information. “And a few scattered about in various vignettes around the shop. Enjoy.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I tossed back, smiling widely. On the outside chance that I found the key and managed to unlock some magical mojo, at least she wouldn’t be there looking over my shoulder.
And so, for the next forty-five minutes, I combed the shop, painstakingly searching through an eclectic collection of hiding spots for a magical key. From silk-lined jewelry cases to cigar boxes, crystal candy dishes to cedar-lined drawers. There was no shortage of keys, but none of them fit and, as ridiculous as it sounded, none of them looked quite right, magically speaking. Whatever that meant. I was just about to give up and resign myself to never experiencing the deluxe version of the journal when my tired gaze caught on a dainty brass key on a thin crimson ribbon, winking in a stream of sunlight. I had the weirdest sense that it had been hiding, lurking as it was amid a jumbled mix of dominos and mah-jong tiles in a carved wooden ashtray. I’d scanned this particular menagerie at least once before and come up empty.
Moving closer, my heart starting to pound and my throat constricting with incredulous wonder, I glanced at the key plate on the journal, gauging the size of the keyhole. And then, suddenly, I was standing in the glare of the sun, fitting the key to the lock, feeling a quivering, tingling excitement as I realized that this was the one. With a gentle twist the journal came to life in my hands.
It was all relatively low-key: no shimmering swirls of fairy dust spiraling crazily, no inanimate objects skittering about, just quiet freakiness. The slim little volume that had once fit in my purse expanded, growing heavy in my hands, becoming a veritable tome as pages crowded into its spine. I was quite proud not to have dropped it like a hot potato and was praying the Shop Nazi wouldn’t come looking for me, having been summoned by the pounding of my telltale heart. When it finished its magical metamorphosis, I cautiously lifted the cover to peek at the first page. The page was now blanketed with a familiar old-fashioned script.
To Miss Jane Anna Elizabeth Austen
 
MY DEAR NEICE:
 
Though you are at this period not many degrees removed from Infancy, Yet trusting that you will in time be older, and that through the care of your excellent Parents, You will one day or another be able to read written hand, I dedicate to You the following Miscellanious Morsels, convinced that if you seriously attend to them, You will derive from them very important Instructions, with regard to your Conduct in Life.—If such my hopes should hereafter be realized, never shall I regret the Days and Nights that have been spent in composing these Treatises for your Benefit. I am, my dear Neice
 
Your very Affectionate
Aunt
 
June 2d. 1793
Oh. My. God! It
couldn’t
be—it couldn’t
possibly
be! Beck had suspected, and I had been, ever so slowly, starting to believe that maybe the journal’s cheeky bits of advice had been conceived by the mind of Jane Austen, but this, this was proof! Omigod, omigod, omigod! Completely thrown by Beck’s utterly implausible theory, I had totally forgotten about the inscription, which, it was now clear, was only an excerpt of a more lengthy dedication to Miss Austen’s niece!
I tipped the book closed, releasing a puff of dust—it could have been fairy or otherwise, it was impossible to tell. Then eyes wide, movements jerky, I scanned the store around me in a panic. I couldn’t think what to do. This book had historical significance, seeing as it contained some lost writings of literary darling Jane Austen. But at the same time, I was kinda in the middle of something here—my life was in an uproar. To say nothing of my sincere desire to keep my journaling secrets strictly need-to-know. And how would the world handle the whole mystic, paranormal element, the one I was currently struggling with myself? Tough call.
Mired in confusion, I tipped the book open again. Hurriedly riffling past the first few pages, I flipped pages quickly, standing transfixed as one set of tidy handwriting gave way to the next. I was scanning only, trying not to focus on anything too closely, more than a little disconcerted with the journal’s latest bout of showmanship. I felt suddenly out of breath and helplessly overwhelmed, my thoughts and uncertainties churning themselves into a sickly stew. These were other people’s private thoughts—or else they had been two minutes ago when I was still keyless and blissfully clueless. I kept going, spurred by avid curiosity. Pages whizzed past until I’d reached the end—my handwriting, my turn with the journal.
Miss Nicola James, 1 will attend.
My words were there, but I’d replaced them myself—inconclusive. The next page confirmed what I’d already suspected....
Miss Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance ... Not with a man, with a dress ...
The cheeky little cleavage excerpt à la Fairy Jane had disappeared just as stealthily as it had arrived. I flipped ahead to check the other entries—all fully intact—and then let the journal thump closed, quickly yanking the key out of the lock. The reverse transformation was no less awe-inspiring, and suddenly the stocky volume had once again turned slim, and I held the key in the palm of my hand.
Glancing casually in the direction of the counter, I made a snap decision: This key clearly belonged with the journal, so by rights, it was included in the original purchase price. I refused to run the risk of Shop Nazi–induced complications for an item that was justifiably mine. What if she insisted I demonstrate lock/key compatibility? I wasn’t willing to take that risk. So feeling very cloak and dagger, I slipped out of the shop without a word.
On the walk back to the car, it occurred to me that with the key removed, the excerpts had probably returned to the journal. Which made me wonder whether a new one had appeared in response to my latest rant.
Curious, I tipped open the cover and tried to subdue the pages as they riffled in the wind. Carefully turning past the controversial “pencil him in,” I saw that Fairy Jane had struck again. I reread the leftover words with mounting anxiety, feeling undeniably trapped.
10
On condition that you take the romance seriously.
E
vidently Fairy Jane was not above a little quid pro quo, and as disturbing as that was, I didn’t want to think about it right now. I didn’t particularly care to think about the fact that my little plan—
the Nic James Life Plan
—was being systematically dismantled, and I was standing helplessly by, struggling to decide whether I even wanted to piece it back together. My world had gone topsy-turvy.
My favorite cupcake spot was nearby, tucked into a shiny silver Airstream trailer, and right now, I needed a fix—bad. Winking in the sunlight with a giant rotating cupcake on its roof, Hey Cupcake! was a city treasure. I stepped up to the window under the frosting-pink awning, closed my eyes, and inhaled the sweet scent of cake and frosting. Today I needed the Double Dose Whipper Snapper, with its injection of whipped cream, and of course, the requisite carton of milk.
Carrying my order to an umbrella-covered table just beyond the metallic glare of the trailer, I let myself be hypnotized by the sprinkle-topped jumbo replica on the roof, and for five solid minutes just let it be about the cupcake. At five minutes, two seconds, I simultaneously got a “Where are you?” text and remembered the meeting for which I was now horribly late.
Shit! I’d
never
missed a meeting—never even been late—and now all I could think was that I didn’t want to leave my happy cupcake place. I wanted to hide out inside the trailer and forget everything that had happened in the last seventy-two hours. I. Was. Not. Myself.
Time to regroup. First I needed to ground myself, because right now I was either floating or free-falling, it was difficult to tell. The answers I wanted—some of them at least—were in the journal, and it seemed like Cat Nelson’s entries might be the perfect place to find them. Depending on what I found, I might even want to roadtrip down to New Braunfels to quiz Mr. Nelson in person on what he knew about his sister’s experience with an honest-to-God Fairy Jane.
Pulling the journal out of my bag as covertly as possible, I tucked it under the table in front of me and glanced around to see if I had an audience. I didn’t—evidently no one went for cupcakes at one-thirty
P.M.
on a weekday. I turned the key and felt the weight of a hundred secrets on my lap—a couple of hefty pounds.
Riding high on a sugar rush, I flipped to the end, searching for Cat’s first entry. It appeared she was already a little sweet on Tyler Honeycutt.
 
Everywhere I turn, he’s holding a door or tipping his hat. Seeing his clean-shaven face smiling down at me underneath the brim of his Stetson, a shiver of excitement runs through me. He’s wearing me down, little by little—it makes me nervous to think about it.
 
The second entry covered the barbeque and dance held at the VFW hall and a corsage of yellow roses.
 
I don’t even pretend to know how you seem to “know” certain things—about me, about him—but I figure this is my life, and I need to make my own decisions. And I think Tyler is the man for me.
 
The next couple of entries came off as vaguely snide—much like my own entries—as if Cat was getting advice she wasn’t prepared to take. I could relate. It seemed as if Fairy Jane was fighting a losing battle. But something must have shifted the balance....
Then I found it.
 
Tyler’s older brother Jameson lost his leg today working on a combine. I’m doing my best to be useful in this time of tragedy and praying for the family, but I can’t help but consider how this all affects Tyler and me. I don’t imagine that Jameson can manage to run the ranch now, which means the job will fall to Tyler. We had big plans—plans to see the world, to have adventures, and now he’ll be tied to the ranch, and me with him if I agree to marry him. I’ve already said yes, and while, in most cases, I reserve the right to change my mind, I can’t decide what to do. I don’t want to jilt him, but I don’t want to be trapped here either. What can I do? What would
you
do?
 
A quick scan produced the relevant words: “don’t marry him.” And much as I felt for Tyler—not to mention Jameson—I had to side with Fairy Jane on this one. And judging by my brief conversation with Mr. Nelson, Cat had ultimately decided to do the same.
So she’d taken Fairy Jane’s advice and seemingly gone on to live a lovely life. Seemingly. I gulped down the rest of my milk, scoped out my surroundings—I still had my picnic table to myself—and kept reading.
 
I did it—I broke it off with Tyler. It was harder than I thought it would be. I guess I thought he’d understand since he’d had the same dreams I had, but he didn’t, not at all. He went on and on about family obligations and responsibility, and I understood that, I really did, but Fredericksburg was never going to be big enough for me. I’d been waiting for as long as I could remember to get out, and I just couldn’t stay. I kissed him good-bye and tasted my own salty tears. He didn’t shed a single one for me, and when I left, there was only anger and hurt in his eyes. I know I made the right decision, and I’m relieved to have, if not an actual person, then at least a voice on my side, so thank you... .
After that, Cat’s entries ran to her involvement with the USO, her training in the Army Nurse Corps and deployment to Normandy, France, and other adventures after the war. Her entries were a little spottier as time passed, and they never made mention of another man, which, of course, made me wonder: Had Tyler Honeycutt been her one true love? Had she traded her happily-ever-after for a chance to see the world? Had she had any regrets, held a grudge against Fairy Jane? Had she ever come back to Texas?
I snapped the journal shut and twisted out the key, conscious of a subtle, sucking sound as the secrets retreated back inside the journal.
Cat Nelson had clearly had a rewarding life, but what about love? I certainly didn’t want to stick to the Nic James Life Plan if it meant I’d spend the rest of my life as a Do-It-Yourself-er. As far as I was concerned, the matter was inconclusive.
And I supposed, in my brave new world, the next step was obvious: Tomorrow’s lunch hour would be spent on a roadtrip to New Braunfels. I’d track down Mr. Nelson and hope to get a few answers.
Resigned, I headed back to work, watching the giant rotating cupcake in my rearview mirror until it disappeared, wondering if it was possible that this was all a really detailed, highly involved dream sequence. Thank God there’d been cupcakes.
 
By the time I got back to work I was dreading the rest of the afternoon—not to mention a run-in with my boss. Within seconds of dropping into my chair, my phone trilled loudly into the subdued hush of murmured conversation and clicking keyboards, popping my private little bubble.
“Nicola James,” I answered, sounding deflated.
“Yeah, this is Steve in the lobby. Some flowers have been delivered for you.”
I stared at the phone and frowned. “Some flowers?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All riiight. I’m coming down.” This was definitely a mistake—I was not the type of girl who got roses on a random weekday. But today I was happy for any reason to escape.
I took the stairs down to the lobby and beelined for the security desk. A single bouquet of flowers sat on the black granite counter, and I had to admit, I wanted them. No vase, just a clutch of cranberry red gerbera daisies wrapped up in florist’s tape and tied with a skinny sapphire ribbon. The fact that there’d clearly been a mistake was going to make marching back upstairs into a gray-walled windowless cubicle more than a little depressing. Particularly today.
Stepping up to the desk, I flashed my badge to the well-identified Steve, and he announced, quite unnecessarily, “Here they are.”
Yearning just slightly for a miracle, the general gist of which was that a certain smitten stranger had managed, despite my evasive maneuvers, to track me down, my heart thumped steadily in my chest. Wanting a little privacy, I shifted to the corner of the desk and opened the card that, oddly enough, had my name on it.
I’m not above a good old-fashioned bribe.
Please come Thursday,
Sean.
I reread the words, disbelieving, and then lifted my hand to my lips, only slightly worried that I might let out an embarrassing screech right there in the lobby.
“Pretty please?”
I jerked at the voice just outside my peripheral vision and whipped my head around in shock. An accent wasn’t so uncommon around here, but the voice was unmistakable.
“Sean?” My voice sounded strangled; breath escaped me. Scruffy around the edges in jeans, a SXSW T-shirt, and a three o’ clock shadow, Sean was larger than life. He’d found me. Here at Micro. Worlds were definitely colliding. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. This was big—pivotal even—and with the latest excerpt still fresh in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder if this pretty little bouquet was doing double duty.
Sean stepped closer, his presence working like interference on all logical thought processes, and reached for my hand. As his thumb grazed my knuckles, I melted a little. I tried for a deep, steadying breath, but it came out shakier than I’d hoped.
“What are you doing here?”
“A harmless bit of self-promotion to jog your memory.”
Very deliberately, he leaned in, his whole body shifting toward mine. For a fleeting, obscenely thrilling moment, I imagined that he was going to kiss me right there in the Micro lobby. I closed my eyes, breathed in his citrusy scent, and indulged in this ephemeral moment.
When my eyes fluttered back open, I realized he’d only been reaching for the bouquet, sitting on the counter behind me. Disoriented and a little disappointed to have misread his intentions, I tried to rally, taking the flowers he was nudging into my hands. Grinning at the daisies’ happy little faces, I tipped them up to my nose.
“They’re beautiful—thank you!—but they’re totally unnecessary. You were
very
memorable.”
“They suit you. Now you just need a meadow behind you.” His voice was low, half-serious, half-teasing, and I couldn’t help but smile. I glanced down at myself in jeans and a ruffle-edged white blouse.
“No argument here.” I couldn’t figure how it was possible, but he was waaay more charming and fly-away-to-Scotland sexy than I remembered. “But I’m guessing it’s not waiting in the car?”
My smile quirked up, a surefire hint that I was kidding about the meadow. A little too late, I remembered my own advice: Geeky girls did not flirt with über-sexy men and come away unscathed. What if he assumed I was interested?
Idiot!
I
was
interested. But what if he thought I was seriously interested? Well, I
was
seriously interested—I just wasn’t interested in anything serious. And therein lay the rub.
I dipped my head down abruptly and feathered my fingers over the delicate fringe of petals.
“No room on the back of the bike.”
“You
biked
here?” My head whipped back up at this stunning news.
His laugh rolled out like faraway thunder as he gave my fingers a friendly squeeze.
“Nothing quite so crazy. The bike is a motorcycle.”
Why was I not surprised? “In that case,” I assured him, “you’re off the hook—I’ll be responsible for my own meadow.” Was it just me, or did that sound kinky?
“I was hoping the flowers would persuade you to come out to dinner with me tonight. I brought along a spare helmet.”
I was busy being amused by his negotiation tactics when it hit me—he was expecting me to ride on the back of his motorcycle.
“Uh-uh.” I shook my head in quick little spastic jerks. “I don’t do motorcycles. I like a good steel door, a snug seat belt, and a Freon-powered air conditioner—or on a day like today, a trusty heater.”
“You’re really quite adorable,” he mused, sliding his finger along the edge of my jaw. And I had to admit, at this moment, that finger was welcome almost anywhere. “Right, then. Rain check on the bike,” he said, breaking contact. Even in my muddled state I could recognize the tone of his voice—he was totally confident he’d be able to persuade me onto that bike. Poor guy, he had no idea who he was dealing with.
But the motorcycle was the least of my problems. He was looking for a date—for tonight! I’d thought we’d kind of mutually agreed at the wedding that this little mini-crush going on between us was a one-night deal. (I may have been deluding myself, but I wasn’t counting my appearance at his band’s Thursday night exhibition as anything more than a casual night out.) Yet here he was, looking for night number two.
And he looked sooo good.
And he’d brought me flowers.
And Fairy Jane was essentially blackmailing me into giving him a chance. She fought dirty, but with
very
good taste—I considered that a truly redeeming quality.
I needed a second to think this through. I hadn’t exactly had time since discovering the latest excerpt, with its blatant attempt at blackmail, not to mention the calendar, with its eerily timely quotes, to formulate a plan. The fact that I’d decided to see Sean’s band on Thursday and subsequently raced out to buy their CD and play it just shy of obsession didn’t necessarily justify any sort of “date” between us. Even running the risk of blackmail, I didn’t think a date would be a good idea.

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