Chasing Jane (3 page)

“I’m sure he’ll catch up as soon as he can and send you a
lengthy tome about the beauty of the bluebirds.”

I narrow my eyes. “He doesn’t write about bluebirds.”

“Or whatever.”

“Don’t be snotty about him. He’s a good guy.”

“I’m sure he is. Let’s just hope he’s not a brooding
fourteen-year-old boy.”

I burst into laughter, and I don’t really know why, since I
should be annoyed by the comment. “Oh, he’s very mature. I can tell.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t be that way. You should join the site too and find yourself
a nice, pretty girl who likes golf.”

“I don’t want a nice, pretty girl who likes golf.”

He’s staring idly at the fire, and I give him a quick
glance, wondering for the millionth time what he does want in a girl. It won’t
do me any good to ask about it, though. He’ll never share it with me.

He tells me about his dates sometimes, but he never talks
seriously about his dreams for a romantic partner. We have some sort of unspoken
understanding that the topic is off-limits, so I never push him on it.

Everyone needs a few private spaces in their lives. If
that’s his, then I can completely understand it.

The truth is, I don’t know if I really want him to have a
serious girlfriend. As selfish as it sounds, I’d be afraid she’d take parts of
him away from me.

Nate wouldn’t be mine anymore.

I don’t like that thought. And I don’t like the
self-centered parts of myself that it comes from. I sigh and feel kind of glum
as I finish my block of chocolate.

“Are you sleepy?” Nate asks.

“A little. I’m not sure I can actually sleep yet, though.” I
remember that I’m supposed to stay hydrated so I take four big gulps from my
water bottle.

“I can read with you, if you want,” he suggests. “If you
want to get one of your Jane books, I mean. I’d read with you.”

I suck in a short gasp. “You would? You don’t like those
books.”

“I know.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “But I’ve sat through
endless movies with you, so I guess I can handle the books too. We don’t have
to, but I thought maybe you’d like it, since you and your mom always did that.”

“I would,” I say, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. “That’s
so nice of you. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just run grab a book before I change my
mind.”

I jump up and run into my bedroom to snatch a paperback copy
of
Persuasion
from my bag. I brought three Austen books to reread on the
trip. I would have brought them all, but I ran out of room in my bags.

Nate is waiting for me when I return, and I sit down closer
to him on the sofa, so he can see the pages too as we read.

I start reading out loud, taking the first few pages. Then I
pass it on to Nate, and he reads in his pleasant, intelligent voice.

I’m having a really good time, thinking about the story,
thinking about my mom, thinking about how glad I am to be here with Nate right
now, when he reaches the end of the first chapter.

It’s not a particularly moving or emotional part. In fact,
it’s the line about Sir Walter condescending to mortgage the estate but never
sell. It’s just that I remember my mother reading that exact line a few years
ago, making her voice all snotty to match Sir Walter’s attitude.

And I miss her so much I can’t bear it, I can’t stand it. It
hurts like a bleeding wound that she’s not here, that she’ll never get to go to
England with me now.

My whole body shakes desperately as I fight to repress the
sobs that rip up through my throat. I turn my face away from Nate, since I
don’t want him to see.

He held me as I cried night after night last year, as my
mother slowly slipped out of my grasp. I know it must have been hard for him,
since he’s not an emotional person and he’s never been comfortable with intense
feelings like that. But he was always there when I needed him—he’s never not
been there for me. And I don’t want to ruin his trip by being an emotional
basket-case.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, lowering the book. I’ve obviously
not hidden my tears from him.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m not crying.”

“Sure, you’re not.” He reaches over to pull me into a hug.

So there’s no help for me after that. I sob helplessly
against his shirt for a minute.

The storm passes as quickly as it came, and I feel a lot
better after a minute. I still miss my mom. I know I always will. But it’s not
threatening to tear me apart the way it used to.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling away from him and feeling strangely
embarrassed. “I don’t know what happened.”

“I know it’s hard,” he says quietly, reaching up to very
gently swipe a tear off my cheek with his thumb. “I know it’s going to be hard.
You were supposed to do this trip with her.”

“Yeah.” I sniff and clear my throat and straighten my
shoulders. “But I promise I’m not going to cry all the time.”

“You can cry as much as you want.”

“That’s not fair to you, though.”

“This trip isn’t about me.”

“Well, I want you to have a good time too.” I suddenly feel
a stab of worry, that he’s just tolerating the trip for my sake instead of
really enjoying it.

He must see what I’m thinking because he immediately
reassures me. “I am having a good time.” He gives me a smile and raised
eyebrows. “I get to feel all strong and manly when you cry on my shoulder.”

I laugh. He can always make me laugh. “You
are
strong
and manly,” I murmur, leaning over to kiss him on the jaw. “And very sweet.”

“That doesn’t sound very manly.”

“Well, I think it’s very manly.” I take the book out of his
hand, and I wrap his arm around me, curling up at his side. “If a man doesn’t
have a little sweetness in him, then I don’t want anything to do with him.”

He chuckles, adjusting so he’s slouching a little on the
couch, getting more comfortable. “All right then. Strong and manly and sweet it
is.”

I’m smiling now, and I keep smiling as I relax against him,
warm and safe and comforted, in the heat of the fireplace, surrounded by his
arm.

I guess I’m probably still smiling as I fall asleep, but
that’s not something I know for sure.

***

I have no idea what time it is when
I wake up, but I slowly realize I’m sleeping all over Nate.

Like
all over
him.

My head is in his lap, and I’m kind of clutching at his
side. After a minute, I discover he’s trying to get me off him.

“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to wake up. “Did I fall sleep?”

Nate doesn’t give this ridiculous question the response it deserves.
Instead, he says, “Sorry to wake you. I need to get up.”

“Okay.” I’m trying to help get myself off him, but I’m not
awake enough to have much coordination. As I’m trying to sit up and he’s trying
to stand up, I end up elbowing him.

I’m not actually sure where I hit him, since we’re both
moving at the same time, but he releases a muffled grunt—the kind he makes when
something really hurts.

“Sorry.” I cringe as I finally get myself up. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he mutters, sounding strangely breathless. He
doesn’t look back at me. Just walks a little stiffly across the room and to the
hall that leads to his bedroom.

I sit for a minute, trying to orient myself. Then I check
the time to see that it’s almost one in the morning. I must have been sleeping
on him for a couple of hours. No wonder he needed to get up. He should have
woken me a long time ago.

Maybe he fell asleep too. I sure hope so. I hate the idea of
him sitting there trapped while I’m sleeping all over him.

Then I start to worry about how he acted just now. It’s not
like him at all to leave so abruptly. Concerned, I get up and walk to his
bedroom door. It’s shut, and for some reason the closed door looks forbidding,
as if I’m not welcome.

But I tap on the door anyway.

“What?” His voice sounds muffled, faintly impatient.

“Are you okay?” I call through the door.

“Of course, I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He doesn’t sound
at all like his normal self.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you.”

“Then can I come in?”

“No!”

I pause, startled by the curtness of the response. “Did I do
something wrong?”

“No.” His voice is softer now, slightly rough. “Sorry if I
was rude.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I had a leg cramp and needed to move. Now I’m just
tired and want to go to bed. You should go to bed too.”

“Okay.”

I don’t leave immediately, though. I stand at the door and
think through what just happened, making sure I hadn’t unintentionally offended
him or hurt him. He sounded more normal just now, but before he sounded
very…strange.

I can’t think of anything I might have done.

I’m tempted to give him an equally curt response, which is
what I’d normally do. But I want this trip to be perfect. I don’t want to get
into an argument. Plus, I’m really worried about him. Something is wrong.

“Are you still standing at the door?” he asks from inside
the room.

“No,” I lie.

“Go to bed, Jane. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

I do go to bed, since I’m exhausted and kind of fuzzy, but
I’m still thinking about Nate as I finally go to sleep.

I intend to get up early the next
day so I can take an early morning walk, but I don’t wake up until almost nine.

I lie in bed for a few minutes, stretching under the covers
and enjoying the comfort of the bed and the excitement of actually being here
in England.

Then I start wondering about Nate. He’s probably awake by
now. Hopefully, whatever was bothering him last night has passed.

I finally remember Rochester. I didn’t check my messages
before bed, and I even forgot to reply to the brief one he sent me. Maybe he’s
had time to write another note by now.

I reach onto the nightstand for my phone and pull up my email.
I wait for what seems like forever for the new emails to load. The reception
out here is kind of spotty.

Finally, however, I see that I’ve gotten a new message from
Rochester, so I pull it up, wondering why I’m not feeling quite as excited as I
normally do.

He’s sent me a very nice note—a really long, rich,
thoughtful one. He says he’s barely had time to sit down for the last
twenty-four hours, but he’s been thinking about me the whole time. He says he
hopes I’m having a great time on my trip, although he knows it might be
emotional for me because of my memories of my mother. He says I have a habit of
being too hard on myself, expecting too much out of myself, and he hopes that
I’ll let myself be sad if I feel like it—that it won’t necessarily ruin my time
here. He says being happy all the time isn’t necessarily the way to have the
best trip.

He’s so right. I have no idea how he knows me so well, but
he does. I think about his note for a long time before I send the reply.

I tell him about the cottage and about our trip here
yesterday. I tell him he’s exactly right about how I’m feeling. I read my
message over quickly after I write it and wonder for a minute if there’s too
much about Nate in it. Then I decide it doesn’t matter.

If I’m going to be in a relationship with Rochester, he’s
going to have to accept that Nate will always be part of my life.

I send the message on, pleased when I check the timestamp on
his note and see that he just sent it an hour ago. I haven’t made him wait too
long. He won’t think I’m ignoring him, even though I forgot to reply to his
first message last night.

I’m feeling relaxed and pleased with the world in general as
I leave my room in search of coffee.

As I expect, Nate is already up. He’s wearing jeans and a retro
Batman T-shirt, and he’s sitting in a lounge chair in the garden with a cup of
coffee and his tablet.

I pour myself a cup from the pot he’s brewed, and I go out
to join him.

The clouds from yesterday have cleared, and it’s a cool and
sunny morning. I’m charmed by the sight of the early flowers blooming in the
garden and all the green that surrounds us, so I’m smiling as I sit in the
chair next to him.

“It’s beautiful out here,” I say.

“It’s not bad.” High praise, from Nate.

“This coffee is really strong,” I add, after I take a sip.

He always makes coffee too strong, and I always comment on
it. It’s one of our things.

He takes another swallow and frowns. “Tastes about right to
me.”

“It would.”

“How did you sleep?”

I glance over and see that he’s peering at me closely, and I
wonder if he thinks I stayed up all night crying or something. “Good,” I tell
him, speaking only the truth. “I feel great this morning.”

“Good.”

We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. He checks
something on his tablet, and he must have an interesting email, since he’s
absorbed in reading it for a minute. But then he relaxes and puts the tablet
down on the little table between the chairs.

I’m glad. I’d hate for him to be distracted by work on our
vacation.

When I look over, he smiles at me. “What do you want to do
today?”

“I don’t know. What did you have planned?”

“I don’t have anything planned until we take the train up
north. I looked into all the Jane Austen sites in the area, so I know where
they are. We can do them whenever you want to. And one day we’ll have to go to
Bath, but that will be a long day, so we could wait a day or two before we do
that, so we’re rested up.”

“Yeah. That sounds great. Let’s do Bath the day after
tomorrow.”

“We have plenty of time to do everything, so we can take it
easy today if you want. We can go out and see one site this afternoon and then
have dinner, unless you want to do more.”

“No, that sounds perfect. Maybe we can do a walk this
morning. Apparently, there are several good ones in the area.”

“Yeah.” He puts down his coffee cup as he stands up. “I
picked up a brochure about that. Hold on.”

Sure enough, he returns with a three-fold brochure about the
Hampshire walks. There’s even a map on the back with them traced out. I scoot
my chair over so we can study it together, and we find one that looks good—not
too strenuous—that starts on the other side of the village.

When this is decided, I pick up our coffee cups and go into
the kitchen to refill them. When I return, Nate is still studying the map. His
familiar face is focused and intent, like he’s trying to memorize the route.

As I sit down, I’m overwhelmed with a wave of fondness for
him. He put a lot of work into planning this trip. It isn’t just the money he
spent. Even now, he’s working hard to make sure everything goes smoothly. And
he’s doing it all for me.

I don’t know anyone in the world who has a better friend
than I have.

He glances up, and then looks again, evidently noticing
something in my expression. “What?” he demands.

“What, what?” I try to look innocent but don’t do a very
good job.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to pat my head or something.”

I giggle. “I don’t want to pat your head.”

“Good. Because I’m not going to let you.”

“I bet you would.”

“Would what?”

“Let me pat your head. If I ask nicely, I bet you’d let me.”

His gives me a look of exaggerated malevolence. “I
definitely would not.”

“Now I kind of want to do it.”

“Well, you’re shit out of luck.”

I’m trying to suppress my giggles as I reach over toward his
head. “Please? I really want to do it now.”

“Don’t even think about it.” He ducks away from my hand and
puts down his coffee cup.

I put mine down too, since I’m close to spilling it. I reach
over toward him again, and this time I almost reach his head, but he jumps to
his feet before I can make it.

Still laughing, I get up and come after him. I corner him
against the cottage wall, and we have a silly, playful tussle as I fight to
reach his head in order to pat it. He grabs hold of both of my wrists to keep my
hands from reaching their target, and both of us are laughing as I finally give
up.

“You’re no fun,” I say breathlessly, making a face at him.

“Sometimes you have to learn to live with disappointment.”
Despite his words, his blue eyes are soft and warm and laughing as they rest on
my face.

I love the way he’s looking at me now. No one else looks at
me that way, and I don’t really want Nate to look at anyone else with that
particular expression. It feels like it’s
mine
.

To hide my random thoughts, I stick out my tongue at him.

He chuckles again and pulls me into a soft hug.

I hug him back. I love to hug him. I always have. And it
feels a little different this morning, like he’s holding me more possessively,
like it means even more.

I’m almost dizzy with how deeply I’m feeling toward him, how
much I want him to hold me like this, how much I want him to touch me.

I hope it’s not inappropriate. Maybe it’s just normal,
natural, given how needy I’ve been since my mother died and how incredibly
sweet Nate has been.

I don’t want to start feeling things that are inappropriate
and somehow mess things up between us. We’ve been together for twenty years
now. If something came between us, it would break me.

It would
break
me.

The thought upsets me so much that I pull away, keeping my
eyes down so he doesn’t see anything unusual in my expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his laughter fading immediately.

“Nothing.” I have to make sure he doesn’t see what I’ve been
thinking. He’s so observant that it’s hard to hide anything from him. Then I
get a brainstorm.

While he’s distracted, I reach up and give him a firm pat on
the head. “There,” I say. “That’s what I wanted to do.”

He lets out a roar and comes after me, thinking I tricked
him on purpose. I flee into the house and get to my room just in time to shut
the door on him. I laughingly tell him that I’ve won and that now I need to
take a shower.

He grumbles audibly but doesn’t object.

I feel better as I pick out my clothes for the day. A random
flicker of inappropriate feelings isn’t the end of the world, as long as Nate
doesn’t find out.

He’ll feel awkward. And then he’ll feel guilty. And then
he’ll be stiff and reserved. Everything will change. Nothing will be like it’s
always been between us.

I can never let him find out.

***

We set out on our walk an hour
later, stopping first in the village to get some lunch to bring with us. Nate
puts the lunch and the map and our phones and our water bottles in his backpack,
and both of us are pleased with the prospect of the walk as we begin.

It’s a very good walk. We follow a path over a hill and by a
lake and then through scenic pastures. We see sheep and farmhouses and lovely
stone walls and loads of wildflowers. We stop to eat a picnic lunch, leaning
against a big tree, and then we start back home.

That’s when I see a lake in the distance that I want to
explore.

It’s not on the map, but it’s quite clearly visible, so
neither one of us thinks it will be a problem. The lake is farther away than we
originally believed, but it’s gorgeous and we rest for a while at its shore,
taking pictures and chatting amiably.

It’s the return trip when we run into problems. There isn’t
a landmark to get us back to where we started from. It’s just acres and acres
of pastures and farms, all of which look the same. Nate is sure we’re headed in
the right direction, but we walk for an hour and still don’t recognize
anything.

That’s when I start to worry.

I try to pull up GPS on my phone, but we’re too far out in
the country to get reception. So we keep walking.

I don’t mind being lost—not really—but Nate always gets
crabby. He hates being lost more than anything. Once, in college, we were
looking for a little restaurant his friend had told him about, and we spent an
hour downtown trying to find it. He finally got so fed up that he just drove
home. I was mad at him—not for getting lost but for acting that way—so I made
him stop to get me a hamburger first. He refused to eat anything.

So that’s what I’m really worried about. I don’t want Nate
to get angry or upset, since I’m still concerned about this trip being good for
him too. I can see the frustration in his face as he looks at the map and then
at the pastures and hedgerows around us.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t have taken us off the
path to go to that lake.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He’s not angry with me. He’s angry with himself. He thinks
he should be able to find our way back, and he hates that he’s not able to do
it.

“Well, you said we should be heading east, so let’s just
keep walking that way.” The sun is still out, so at least we’re able to tell
directions. “We’ll eventually run into something.”

“But we might have already walked past the village,” he
grumbles, looking at the map again. “Just give me a minute.”

I swallow. “Okay.”

He’ll feel better if he feels like he has an idea about
where we should go, even though I’m quite sure that—no matter how much we think
about it—any way we set out on will be mostly a guessing game.

I’m not about to complain, since getting lost is basically
my fault, but I’m actually getting really tired. I’m not in bad shape, but I’m
also not any sort of athlete, and we’ve been walking for hours. The sun is
beating down on us now, and I wish I hadn’t put on long sleeves this morning.

After a few minutes, he says, “Let’s go this way.”

“Okay.” I try to smile as I push up the sleeves to my shirt
for the hundredth time.

“Just take the shirt off,” he says.

“What?”

“You have something under it, don’t you?”

“Just a thin tank top.”

“Well, who cares? If you’re hot, take it off instead of
messing with your sleeves all the time.”

I glare at him, since there’s no reason to be so rude to me.
I’ve thought about taking the shirt off—it’s a cotton button-up in pink and
green plaid—but the tank top is not really the kind of thing I use as outerwear.

But sweat is starting to run down between my breasts and my
shoulder blades, and who knows how much longer we’ll be walking. So I unbutton
the shirt and slide it off, feeling ridiculously self-conscious about the way
the thin cotton of the tank clings to my breasts and rides up on my belly.

I pull it down to cover the strip of skin above my jeans and
reach over to unzip Nate’s backpack and stuff the shirt in.

We walk for twenty minutes until I see an old man walking
across the grass with a huge flock of sheep.

“Why don’t we ask him?” I suggest. “He probably knows how to
get back to the village.”

When I see Nate hesitate, I roll my eyes. “Well, I’m going
to ask him.”

I walk away before Nate can argue. He doesn’t like to ask
for directions. Just another one of his annoying habits when he’s lost.

The man is very nice, but his accent is so thick that I can
barely understand him. It takes a while for him to figure out where I want to
go, since I pronounce the name of the village different from him. But we finally
work it out, and he gives me directions accompanied by a series of gestures and
hand-motions.