Jane and Austen (10 page)

I closed the door between the two rooms to block Taylor from us. “Stop saying stuff like that, Austen!” It was really hard making a coherent argument with our hands together, and I jerked my fingers from his. Taylor was in the other room, and I decided the best thing was to tease Austen into a better mood. “Anyway, why do you care so much? You don’t have a crush on Taylor, do you?”

He straightened. “I’m concerned about Taylor as a friend.”

“That’s sweet,” I said. “Let Chuck worry about it. He’s the man who
loves
her.”

My light words didn’t exactly have the effect that I wanted. The muscle on Austen’s jaw twitched. Finally, he broke his silence. “Storms aren’t romantic,” he said under his breath.

That wasn’t what I expected him to say. It startled me into replying, “Huh?”

“It’s one of the lies from romantic movies that our little namesake Jane Austen started,” he said. “What perfect man did our author friend marry anyway? I bet he wasn’t half as good as Darcy.”

“She never married.”

“What? Why?” he sounded sarcastic. “No man could measure up to her creation?”

“How could you be so insensitive? Did you expect her to marry someone she didn’t love?”

He made a face. “Wasting away from a broken heart isn’t a happy ending. Sprained ankles aren’t romantic either. Blizzards, debilitating colds, broken down cars. They all go under the same category. Not romantic.”

“They
are
if someone saves you,” I argued. “Preferably on a white horse.”

“Oh yeah, like what happened to you last week?”

He knew very well that I had never seen a white horse up close—they were in short supply around here. “It doesn’t even have to be white,” I said, “. . . or a horse. It could be a beat-up car owned by a really nice guy who I just happen to like.”

“Talk about settling,” he said. “Who’s the last knight in shining armor who fixed a flat for you?”

I refused to answer. There were too many times to count where I had been stranded and had to help myself. I took a deep breath. “That’s only one lie,” I allowed.

“Cinderella doesn’t happen either,” he said.

I smirked. “You’re not even talking Jane Austen anymore.”

“Rich guy drops everything for poor girl. Sound familiar?”

I frowned. I was particularly attached to
Pride and Prejudice
right now, and he knew it. “Aristocracy marries just that—other aristocracy,” he said. “Social stations mean a lot more than you think. When have you gone for that stinky guy on the bus? And you know what else?” he asked. “Flirting gets you everywhere.”

This whole conversation was putting me on edge. Why was Austen trying to rip my happy little rug out from under me? “I don’t even know where you’re going with that one,” I said. “Are you asking me to flirt more?”

“I’m saying that it doesn’t matter how deserving, quirky, or nice a girl is—the guy won’t see her as a possibility until she lets him know she’s interested. It also helps if she does her hair once in a while. A meet-cute only gets you so far.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “A guy knows what he wants as soon as he sees it. If he’s not interested in that girl, then flirting won’t get her anywhere. That’s setting her up for heartbreak.”

“If she cuts the guy off and never speaks to him again, he won’t go for her either—unless he’s crazy. You into stalkers, Jane?”

“Austen!” This conversation was really hard to have with Austen so close, so I moved away from him. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m saying . . .”

His voice was louder now, and Taylor pushed into the room as if on cue. She glanced up at us absentmindedly. I got ready for her lecture. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to be my dolls anymore.” She held up her notebook. “I’m going to take this to my room and see if I can figure out what’s missing.”

Austen took a few breaths before he managed to get something pleasant out of his mouth. “You do that, Taylor.”

She ambled away from us. “Be nice to each other,” she warned. The door swung shut behind her.

My eyes went back to Austen. “She heard you!”

“Good. Someone has to tell girls that chick flicks aren’t real. You can’t keep believing that if you’re rude and mean that your guy will still give you undying loyalty. He won’t. Love doesn’t spring from a love-hate relationship. We’re not in a movie!”

“I got it, Austen.” I went back to the couch and found my cell phone. “Please say you’re done already?”

“No, this is for your own good.” He landed on the couch beside me and caught my hand again, forcing me to stay put with his eyes. Now he had my attention—this close, I could see that his right eye had a little freckle inside. “If a man is indifferent, he’s not secretly in love with you.” His words crashed me back to reality. “When a guy asks other girls out, he’s not trying to make you jealous so you’ll go out with him. He’s not intimidated, and he’s never going to change for you.”

I finally understood what Austen was trying to tell me. It felt like a slam to the gut. “Is that what you think that . . .” I gulped before I incriminated myself again, “is that what you think
other girls
want from you, Austen?”

“I’m not talking about me; I’m talking about jerks that won’t change for you.” Before I could call Austen a jerk, he went off again. “It’s as big a lie as finding out that the man you thought was your best friend was in love with you all along.”

There were times I considered Austen my best friend, so was he implying that I didn’t have a chance with him? I hated how he kept calling me on my mistakes. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but it was hard considering that my heart was breaking at his every word.

Austen looked like he was only getting started. “Love doesn’t spring from funerals, or reunions—and especially
not
from weddings. Family functions are chaotic, and no one has the time to have a meaningful conversation with anyone there. Ever.”

I felt my body go rigid, deciding that I had no intention of making that mistake with Austen ever again. “I completely agree.”

I saw the regret in his eyes the moment I said it, and he let me go to knead his forehead. “Look, my point is that when I say that I’m worried about Taylor, that doesn’t mean I’m in love with her, Jane. And when I say that Dancey is a jerk . . .”

Austen wasn’t in love with me.

“Yeah.” I really needed the sassy, best-friend “lie” right now—the one who featured in all chick flicks and let the heroine cry on her shoulder. Failing that, I was going jogging. Austen had just stomped on my heart again, which was stupid, because he had already rejected me. I had made it my rule to only be rejected once by a guy before moving on. It was the best way not to get hurt all over again, so I didn’t understand why I kept doing this to myself. I had to stop feeling anything for Austen.

I made the mistake of meeting eyes with him again. The way he looked at me almost blew me away. All we needed was to cue the romantic music. He leaned too close, his focus concentrated only on me, almost like we were having “a moment.” But we weren’t.

“Jane?” he asked.

Before he could say more, Ann-Marie rushed from the lounge with a skip to her step and smiled brightly when she saw that Austen was still in the lobby, his arm on the back of the couch behind me. “Wow, Austen.” She collapsed against the doorframe and sniffed the air. “Wow. I followed your scent in here. Do you bathe in that stuff? I could sniff you all day. You always smell so good.”

I mustered up a bitter laugh to defuse my feelings. “And I was wondering if he actually took a shower today.”

“That explains it.” Ann-Marie peeled away from the door, not expounding on her elusive comment. She switched the topic. “What did you think of that cake that I brought for you?”

His eyes were on mine—they were full of confusion as though he couldn’t figure out why I was so angry. He broke away to give Ann-Marie his attention. “Loved it. It was fantastic.”

“Oh.” She gave a little high-pitched laugh. “Don’t say that word.”

“What? Fantastic?”

“Mmm. You said it again.” She landed against the door again in her laughter and we both stared at her. Only she would assign deeper meaning to a normal word. She brought her hands to her mouth. “If you knew why, you wouldn’t say it.”

He looked like he was about to laugh. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m just glad that you can’t read minds,” Ann-Marie returned.

 “Why?” I cut in hotly. “Why
just
Austen? How come you’re not glad that I can’t read minds either, Ann-Marie?”

She smiled coyly. “I know what’s on your mind, Jane. You’re thinking the same thing that I am.”

“No, you’re on your own there.” I turned on Austen now. He watched me warily. “You want to talk unrealistic entertainment?” I asked. “You can’t tell me that your heart doesn’t speed up when you watch your man-crush run over an exploding mine with bare feet while dodging bullets or blowing away a million bad guys when they take someone he loves?”

“What movie is that?” he asked. “I want to see it.”

I ignored the question. “Admit it—you feel a little tougher coming out of that movie. So sue me if Jane Austen makes me more romantic. I don’t want much. I want a guy who loves me. I want him to pick a flower out of the ground and put it in my hair.”

He hesitated. “Even if he makes a garden out of your head, that doesn’t mean love.”

“That’s where we disagree,” I said. Ann-Marie watched us with big, saucer eyes and I glanced over at her. “Hey, and don’t worry, Ann-Marie. Austen doesn’t believe that guys can read girls’ minds, so you’re very,
very
safe. You have to flirt like mad to get anywhere, so keep it up.”

With my hands coiled into tight fists, I shoved off the couch.

“Hey,” Austen said.

I turned, only to have him push Dancey’s jacket in my arms. “This belongs in the box of destroyed dreams and unrealized potential.” He pointed to the “Unintended Gifts” basket near the register where pencil stubs, receipts, and other memoirs from cute men lay forgotten.

“No.” I threw the jacket over my shoulder. “I’m not happy with the jacket this time—I’m going after the man.”

It would be a matter of honor. After throwing down my proverbial gloves at Austen’s feet, I took his taunt as a challenge and stomped out.

Chapter 9

“Fanny! You are killing me!”

“No man dies of love but on the stage, Mr. Crawford.”

—Jane Austen,
Mansfield Park

I needed a good jog
to get Austen’s words out of my head, but I wasn’t able to escape my duties until later that night. I felt like a caged-up tiger. The first chance I got, I rushed out of my room in running shorts and a T-shirt. I fixed my iPod to my waist and zipped my green hoodie to my neck. Heat infused my cheeks when, for the hundredth time that day, I remembered what he had said. I knew what Austen was getting at:
Dancey was a jerk for liking me. He was the rich guy playing me
. . . If that was the case, then Austen had done the same thing to me, Mr. My-Parents-Own-North-Abbey.

Rage and embarrassment tingled through my body. So what if I was poor? I worked to survive. I didn’t care about having expensive cars. I didn’t have to pay for a house that I never got to live in. Entertainment wasn’t necessary—I could easily provide that myself. Luxury foods would only be gone the moment I consumed them. When I didn’t get as much in my paycheck as others got, I didn’t complain. I enjoyed my job, and that meant that I could look at my annual income and say I didn’t want riches anyway. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, and I didn’t expect anyone else to throw their money at me with some freak inheritance.

Sure, I had dreams like anyone else. We never had a lot of money growing up. My parents were both teachers in a school system raging with political intrigue, which meant layoffs every few years. Clothes were hand-me-downs from richer relatives, and soup for dinner was always on the menu. My brothers and I used to play a game where we’d pretend to fast-forward our lives into a future where we were rich snobs and we’d look back and say, “Remember when we were poor?”

Well, now I was halfway through my twenties and still poor. But worse, I realized that the rags-to-riches game meant more to others than I thought—Austen actually thought that my social status was a barrier to love. I sped out of the door of North Abbey to escape, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders as I broke free into the night. I headed down the trail leading through the grove of trees to the beach. Sand flew out from behind my sneakers.

There had to be more to life than this! A perfect man was supposed to be sweeping me off my feet. I wasn’t supposed to be making a fool of myself everywhere I went or losing my heart where I shouldn’t. It was hard for a romantic like me to take. I wished I could turn to Taylor for advice. That’s what I had done since I had started work here. But the closer her wedding loomed, the more we had drifted apart. The stress was turning us into strangers, and now Taylor was too busy entertaining her posh friends. I broke free from the trees, breathing in the scenery. The ocean looked like it had been ripped from poster board and pasted against a dark sky. It roared in defiance.

“Just try to own that!”
I wanted to shout to anyone who thought they were better because they had more than me. The moon, the ocean, the sky; it belonged to all of us.

Churchell’s Shack glimmered in a blur of tiki torches and decorative lights. I jogged around the deck and stopped short of the stairs to stretch out my hamstrings on the sand. The sound of a party drifted out from the opened windows. Laughter and music. Most of these voices had to come from Taylor’s wedding guests. Many of them I hadn’t met yet. Austen had taken most of their keys yesterday and this morning. I didn’t want to run into any of them. The partygoers dove into the pool. The water sprayed over the railing. I stepped away from it and turned to leave.

A few men streamed out from the doors. Girls latched onto them, giggling. The boldest of the gigglers jumped onto the guys’ backs as they walked down the beach. I jogged past the late-night revelers. One of the men called out to me. “Hey, green girl!”

I looked down at my green hoodie. That had to be me. I didn’t slow. “Fanny!” he called. “Hey Fanny.” I slowed and glanced back. The guy talking to me was a shadow in the darkness. “You came!” He held his arms out to give me a big hug.

I backpedaled away, laughing nervously while holding my arm out to stop him. “No, uh, I’m not Fanny. You’re mistaking me for someone else.”

The man stepped into the light of a tiki torch. With a start, I realized that it was the cute blond Bertie had been flirting with at the refreshment tables before I’d had to leave to park cars that morning.

“You’re not Fanny.” He grinned at me as if it was a happy surprise. He was one of those guys who knew he was adorable. Pretty confident, too, which normally I liked. “Can I have a hug anyway?” he asked.

“Nooo,” I said slowly. He also seemed a little too drunk to figure out personal boundaries.

“Oh, c’mon, green girl. I promise not to tell Taylor. She’s your boss, right?”

Wait. He knew who I was? I was still smarting from Austen’s words—social barriers didn’t cross. Taylor’s friends were rich, and I was Cinderella to them. Now I could see this handsome man for what he was—no matter the era.  “We’re getting a group together for a quick boat trip,” he said. He stepped into the light, and I studied his tan face, noticing strong shoulders that matched his muscular arms. He must be one of those boys with toys—a boating, snowboarding, paragliding, adrenaline junky. “You can ride in the front seat with me,” he offered.

“No,” I cut off the invitation. Back in Jane Austen’s day, this man would be an aristocrat giving the governess a hard time. Today, he was up to no good with the staff. “That’s super nice of you to offer,” I said just in case I misread his intentions, “but I need to check in early tonight. Wedding rehearsal is tomorrow.” I shrugged and stepped back.

His voice stopped me from taking off again. “C’mon, you need to be more fun than that. Don’t you have to earn your pay or something?”

Now I was sure I wasn’t misreading him. I glared. “I think you have the wrong idea.” My voice sounded harsher than I intended, but I wasn’t in the mood for flirtatious banter. “You realize an event coordinator isn’t some kind of escort, right?”

He laughed, his eyes taking me all in. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. Can we start over again? What’s your name?”

I swung away from him, getting ready to end this conversation by bolting away. “Jane.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Harry Crawley. The groom’s brother.”

I stopped running in place. “But your accent?”

“I know. It’s American. I’m Chuck Bigley’s
step
brother.”

I wanted to choke. I wasn’t supposed to be cutting off Bigley’s relatives. I forced my hand out to him to show I was willing to make a treaty. “Nice to meet you, Harry Crawley.”

Sorta.

He took my hand, holding it a little longer than necessary when he shook it. If anything, it was flattering after Austen’s
unflattering
conversation, but still I pulled back, trying not to yank my hand out of his grasp. I didn’t want my escape to be too obvious.

Harry Crawley studied me. “You’re different than the other girls here.”

“Doubtful.” My eyes went to the giggling bikini-clad girls who were pawing at his friends. I glanced down at my cut-off sweats. Okay, maybe I was a little different. “Well, I’m going to go finish my jog,” I said, “but let the front desk know if you need anything.”

“Wait, could I ask you something?”

I backed away. “Yeah, sure.”

“Not here,” he said. He stepped closer and took my wrist. Surrendering to the inevitable, I allowed him to lead me away from his friends to the little tables on the patio. “You’re Taylor’s right-hand woman, right?” his voice slurred a little.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got a surprise for the bride and groom at the wedding rehearsal tomorrow. You want to help us?”

My mind buzzed with the possibilities, and I sat down across from him at the table. Maybe this would help Taylor not be so uptight. “What were you thinking?”

“Chuck’s always rubbing it in my face how he never does anything wrong.” He guffawed. “What a lie. The guy just can’t get caught. If his mom knew half the things he did, she’d stop threatening to disinherit him and just do it. Have you met her yet?”

I shook my head, feeling confused—Bigley was practically perfect.

“Chuck’s mom makes Taylor look sane. No wonder my stepfather cheated on her.” I grimaced at that while he rubbed his arm across his face. “So the guys and I thought . . . we thought we’d switch out Taylor’s wedding ring for a cheap one from the quarter machine.”

“Um, no.” I put my finger up. “That’s a pretty awful idea actually.”

“He’d love it.”

“But Taylor wouldn’t, so I’m just going to have to tell you ‘no’ on that one.”

“You’re telling me ‘no’?” He leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading lazily over his face. “You really are different from other girls.”

“Not really.” I felt myself getting irritated, “it’s just that your idea’s stupid.” I squinted with remorse after the words came out. I had said that wrong. My present boldness had to do with going head to head with Austen earlier.

Harry Crawley laughed and took my unwilling hand. “You really don’t want me to do the switch? Do you say ‘yes’ to anything?”

“Yeah, ice cream and chocolate.”

It came out before I realized that it sounded like an invitation. He tried to stand up with my hand. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Hey!”

“How else are you going to make me behave?” he asked. “If you don’t, I’m switching the rings tomorrow.”

What? Was I on candid camera here? I took a deep breath. “Think about the most awkward date that you’ve ever been on and then multiply that pain by twenty. If you even think about doing a switch at the wedding rehearsal tomorrow, that’s what you’ll feel once Taylor and I are through with you.”

“Totally worth it.”

I jerked my hand from his and shot to my feet, the chair skidding across the sand behind me. “It’s your funeral, drunk guy, but if you plan more mischief, be sure to give me the head’s up, okay? I want to be sure to stop everything you do.”

“So you’re saying to give Taylor’s ring back?”

“What?” My voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “You have it already?”

“You want to pat me down for it?”

“Strangle you is more like it!”

He laughed and leaned closer. “It was really nice to meet you, Jane. Next time I’ll get you alone so we can really have some fun.”

All my romantic ideals of finding love at Taylor’s wedding fled out the door and instantly I was a hard woman. I gave Harry Crawley a cold smile. “You’re a guest here, and I’m a professional. That means you and I will
never
have fun.” There were social boundaries, after all. I realized that I was parroting Austen’s ideals, but I didn’t care. I’d use them when they suited me.

“You have a beautiful smile.” Harry Crawley pulled in even closer. “I’d almost say it was sweet.”

“Artificial sweetener,” I growled out. His face registered surprise at my retort, and I abruptly ended the conversation by jogging away.

The sand split under me, and the waves made an angry crashing in my ears that still buzzed with Crawley’s disturbing flirtation. He was so drunk he probably wouldn’t remember our conversation in the morning. And if he did? My thoughts went to Austen for help. I shook that thought away. This wasn’t fiction, and he’d never play the role of my hero. I’d take care of Mr. Crawley on my own.