Austensibly Ordinary (24 page)

Ethan stayed away, and I decided, for the time being at least, to respect his space and privacy. It was unfortunate (and damn awkward) that things had played out the way they had, but I couldn't help but think that maybe it was easier this way, and less awkward in the long run. I'd been second-guessing the “benefits” all along, and now I was even wondering if I'd made a slight error in judgment by throwing Mr. Darcy over so quickly in favor of Mr. Knightley.

I didn't bother writing in the journal—I was confident I could predict Gypsy Jane's response. She'd somehow finagle my next entry into a suggestion to apologize to Ethan (likely suggesting I grovel if need be), and get him back. I wasn't in the mood.

Friday night and Saturday I held a Jane Austen film festival all alone in my apartment. My intentions were threefold: I watched the Gwyneth Paltrow version of
Emma
to pin down the most direct way of separating the men in my senior British Lit class from the boys. The men were classified as anyone choosing the novel over a movie adaptation, and as a group were, rather ironically, dominated by the fairer sex. I watched the Keira Knightley version of
Pride and Prejudice
as a counterpoint, and found myself comparing Darcy and Knightley frame by frame. And finally, I watched
Clueless,
pondering Jane Austen's influence on modern culture, wondering whether I should reconsider my quick dismissal of her rather high-handed approach to journalistic integrity.

I'd give it some thought. But first I was giving it one more shot with Mr. Jake Tielman. In truth I was attempting to muster up the courage to kiss him. For real this time. I knew how Ethan's kisses made me feel—even the
anticipation
of one made me feel fidgety, achy, and on the verge of something wonderful. And while kisses weren't enough just on their own (and neither were
really
amazing benefits), they were a deal breaker. If Jake's kisses didn't inspire the same feeling of exuberant possibility, then I was cheating myself.

So that was my plan. Dress like a knockout and act like a siren. And remember this was a Sunday brunch. Should be interesting . . .

 

It took me a little while to work up the courage to abandon the security of my car and walk around the side of the house, through the garden gate, and out onto the wide expanse of tiered decking. The views took my breath away (well, the little I had available given my intentions), and I stood rooted to one spot gazing east toward the city skyline and then northwest along the river snaking its way into Texas Hill Country under a wide-open November sky. I wished, a little bit, that I was only here for the pancakes and the views. But I wasn't, and I needed to get on with it. The coffee was calling to me, and Dmitri was nowhere in sight.

There was a cold snap in the air today, and I'd been worried about chilly November breezes blowing over the cliff tops, so I'd tried to balance warmth with va-va-voom. I was wearing a curve-hugging hunter green sweater dress, cinched at the waist with a cream and coral scarf, paired with dark tights and heeled loafers. I'd clipped my hair back in defense against the wind and wore little makeup besides deep red lipstick. I felt particularly autumnal.

There was a good-sized group already congregating around the mimosas, and I slipped in among them, looking for a familiar face. I accepted a cup of coffee from Willow, who told me with an overly bubbly smile that Syd had just stepped into the kitchen. And there was Olivia, manning an impressive makeshift griddle on the home's outdoor barbecue grill. The smell of bacon was beginning to distract me.

I wondered if it would be good strategy to eat first and seduce on a full stomach. Then again, bacon breath might be a turn-off. I stared down into my coffee cup. Not to mention coffee breath. I rolled my eyes in utter exasperation. Not only did I not have a mint—I hadn't remembered my lipstick either. I couldn't help it; I wasn't used to getting my vixen on at eleven in the morning.

I turned to the buffet table, looking longingly as my stomach rumbled its opinion. On the end was a chalkboard menu, listing all the options, pancakes, and toppings. There were stacks of white plates just waiting to be plied with pancakes and bacon, bowls of fresh fruit garnished with mint, and a mind-boggling array of homemade syrups and compotes. I decided to risk it. I'd seen enough romantic comedies to know that guys actually preferred girls who liked food. Heck, I loved food—maybe a pile of pancakes smothered in blueberry syrup would play to my advantage. Afterwards I'd force myself to chew on a mint leaf and then scrupulously check my teeth before I put my plan into action.

In a quirk of perfect timing, I'd just finished discreetly swishing some ice water through my teeth when I turned to see Jake slip through the garden gate looking adorably cozy in a deep red sweater and butterscotch tan corduroys. I decided to waylay him before he had a chance at the coffee—for what I had planned, I needed him all to myself.

I'm proud to say I sashayed right up to him. My hair caught on a ruffly breeze, along with a handful of red and gold leaves from a towering pear tree, and for just a moment, I felt that the morning couldn't be more perfect. I couldn't have been more wrong.

“Good morning. Remember me?” I said, holding my hands behind my back in full-on flirt mode.

“The secret agent looking for Cary Grant? You are impossible to forget,” he informed me, his eyes scanning the deck and the yard beyond. It didn't register that he might be looking for someone other than me.

“I'd hoped to have you to myself for a few minutes,” I confided, my pulse suddenly riotous with nervous energy. “Before you go pancake-crazy.”

This brought his gaze quickly back to me. We shared a secret smile. “I'm yours,” he said, dipping his hands comfortably into his pockets.

“Excellent. I had a little experiment in mind.” Feeling distractedly déjà vu, I remembered Ethan . . . and the kiss . . . and cursed myself for an utter lack of creativity.

“What sort of experiment?” Jake asked, his eyebrow adorably quirked with curiosity.

I stepped forward—one step. I was simultaneously working up my courage and playing the tease. “I'd like the answer to something I've been wondering about ever since you rolled up in your pajamas,” I admitted slyly. I looked up at him from under my lashes.

“And what might that be?” Jake's smile hitched up at the corner.

I took another step, moving determinedly into his personal space.

“I'd like to know,” I leaned slowly, inexorably forward, “what sort of k—”

“Jake!”

The familiar voice, coming unexpectedly from behind me, nearly tipped me off balance, but the awkwardness of getting caught in a compromising position at a pancake breakfast rallied me. I stepped back and swung around in one motion, feeling like I'd been spun out in a clumsy dance move. Only to see Syd approaching in black utility boots, with a belted wool skirt and vintage red ruffled blouse, her miniature sleeping dragon tattoo just peeking out from beneath the right cuff.

“Hey, Cate,” she said, linking her arm with mine. “I've been stuck in the kitchen, dealing with a dishwasher disaster.” She bumped her hip against mine. “You're a regular Pop-up Girl now, huh?” She turned to Jake and grinned, her face glowing with happiness. I glanced up to find him grinning back at her. I felt my lips curving into a grin just so I wouldn't feel left out.

“We can let her in on the secret, right?” Syd asked him.

“Why not,” he agreed, expansively.

And suddenly I wondered if this had all been a setup. Jake had said he was a Pop-up regular . . . maybe Syd had told him about me, and I'd sauntered into that Hitchcock party all dolled up and raring to flirt and played right into his hands. Figuratively. I hadn't quite made it, literally speaking. . . .

Syd spun to face me and smiled with her lips while leaving her teeth locked tight together in a zany sort of grin. “It's gonna blow your freakin' mind,” she assured me, probably mistaking the rigid set of my jaw for curious uncertainty.

“Blow away,” I told her, conscious of the double entendre.

Her left arm shot out and hung there between us, her hand flexed and fidgety. I glanced at it and slowly registered the ring on her third finger—an artsy ring with a lovely, faceted ruby set in warm gold. It wasn't a typical engagement ring, but I knew instinctively that that was precisely what it was.

I looked up at Syd's shining, fresh-scrubbed face and smiled against the hurt. I held her chilly hand and examined the ring, not really seeing it, and then engulfed her in a fiercely protective hug. “My mind is freakin'.” I admitted. “And blown.”

By the time I stepped back, Dmitri had walked up behind me in navy jeans, a layered ensemble of T-shirts and sweaters, and Converse sneakers. He was also sporting a brand-new shock of neon orange hair gelled up in casual fashion. The man's timing was impeccable.

Once the introductions were made, it took him all of two seconds to size up the situation. Two seconds to realize that the pair of us had reached our lowest common denominator—as of right now, we were both here for the pancakes. And I'd already eaten.

We left the happy couple to dispense its news to other unsuspecting friends and even strangers, and Dmitri pulled me away to gossip over grapefruit mimosas. We stood on the farthest, chilliest corner of the deck, and I told him everything—refusing to leave even Ethan out of the confession. I was chilly and wishing I'd skipped the dress, glamorous as it was, in favor of pants and a sweater. And I discovered the hard way that Dmitri didn't dish “poor babys”.

“So, you got your feelings hurt. Well, I'd say Ethan's got you beat. And that Jake dude was never going to be your ‘one true love.' Because he's a Willoughby and you're an Elizabeth.”

I turned away from the view and looked at him, intently curious. And more than a little shocked.

“You can stop your second tier wondering as to whether I'm gay. I went to college; I took British lit.” His friendly bluster suddenly turned into a vaguely disconcerted defense. “Okay, I was curious about the world's fascination with Colin Firth. And I knew that if I could work even the smallest Jane Austen reference into casual conversation, you'd be impressed. And confused. And you'd wonder. . .” He dimpled at me, slung his arm around my shoulders, and turned us back in the direction of the food.

“Okay, now that I've played the part of your gay friend for the morning, I think I should be rewarded. I want pancakes. Stacks of pancakes. And bacon. And coffee. You might as well have another plate yourself. You're gonna need your energy if you want to seduce Ethan a second time,” he said with a wink. Luckily, any blush that comment might have elicited was simply swept up into the pink already staining my cheeks on this chilly morning that had gone completely and utterly awry.

I
didn't speak to Jake Tielman again. He simply disappeared. But after I'd hugged Dmitri good-bye, thanking him for his tough love and promising to be on the lookout for someone more suited than Syd to his unique personality (I'd told him that part too), I snuck into the kitchen and volunteered my services as a dishwasher. And that's how I got the whole story.

Syd had met Jake at the launch party for Pop-up Culture and been utterly swept off her feet. They'd spent a wild weekend at the Hotel San José (I did not need to hear that) and she thought that was that. But then he showed up at the next event, and the next, each time pretending they were strangers, flirting heavily, seducing her, and then disappearing. Until the next time. I didn't bother to ask whether Halloween had been an exception—I simply didn't want to know.

After a month or so of this, Syd looked him up (just as I had), pinned him down, and they'd talked. For lack of a better term, he was a trust-fund grown-up, hoping to springboard off his family connections and bank account to make a name for himself. But he was still, somewhat, in his mother's pocket, and Syd wasn't the sort of daughter-in-law she'd let quietly slide by without objection. So Jake was keeping Syd secret and finding other girls to attend high-profile or family events with him (which was why he'd invited me to his cousin's wedding).

Syd did what any self-respecting girl would do. She invited Mum to tea and sorted the whole thing out. Turns out Jake's mom
did
approve of Syd, thought she'd be a wonderful influence on her son, “despite the tattoos and occasional, indiscriminate use of the f-bomb,” but encouraged Syd to keep that confidence between the two of them.

Jake had proposed the night before, apparently secure enough in his manhood to take on a firecracker like Syd, not to mention his mother. Syd was over the moon, while keeping two feet on the ground and both eyes open. She knew his faults—both the ones she'd discovered for herself and the ones his mother had thought prudent to mention—and thought it might be her job to fix him.

This confession sent a jolt right through me. He
was
a Willoughby, and everybody had seen it but me. How could I be an Elizabeth, worthy of a Mr. Darcy, if I couldn't even identify a Willoughby? Although, come to think of it, Lizzie had been bamboozled too, at least at the beginning. As wishy-washy as it sounded, I was beginning to think I really was an Emma . . . in love with a Knightley.

I didn't bother admitting to Syd that I'd almost kissed her recently landed fiance. In all likelihood, she would have taken it in stride. But
I
wanted to forget. I'd made way too many mistakes lately, and I was facing a long lonely evening, with no Scrabble
or
benefits. Things were bad enough just as they were.

 

After that my schedule opened up again. I'd had a whirlwind couple of weeks, but now it was over, and I was floundering. Ethan had turned into the equivalent of a high school crush. I wanted him from afar, but didn't act on it, unsure of how he'd react. Courtney was busy ghost hunting with an
experienced
amateur who offered side benefits I couldn't, and Mom was instructing Brady on the care and feeding of cougars. And I was taking a break from Pop-up Culture for a while—Cat Kennedy was officially on hiatus.

I'd decided that my stint as a superhero slash sexy spy slash matchmaking siren had run its course. I'd even steam-cleaned all the glamorous vintage couture I'd had on indefinite loan from the shop and returned it—including the midnight blue dress that had started it all. I knew now that it wasn't critical to the happily-ever-after I wanted. The burner phone was unceremoniously tossed in a Dumpster.

The highlight, by far, of the week before Thanksgiving break was a Thursday/Friday screening—complete with teacher commentary—of the Gwyneth Paltrow adaptation of
Emma.
When gossip started swirling on screen about Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I paused the movie for a little discussion.

“A piano is a pretty significant gift,” I began offhandedly, strolling back toward Alex's desk with my arms crossed and the remote cradled on top. “Why do you think Frank Churchill sent one to Jane Fairfax, particularly when he barely knew her? Alex?”

I could feel a classroom full of gazes switching back and forth between me and Alex, and I waited, confidently curious.

Alex smiled at me. “But he did know her. He'd met her months ago at Weymouth and they'd gotten secretly engaged. He sent her the gift because he couldn't express his feelings in person. Same with Knightley hanging around Hartford all the time. Sort of like the way Mr. Chavez brings you coffee in the mornings.”

Suddenly panicky, I swiveled my gaze around the room to gauge the class's reaction to this latest “connection.” Quite a few weren't paying attention to my little sideline chat with Alex, but rather waiting to get on with the movie, but several students were nodding, ostensibly in full agreement with Alex's assessment of my relationship with Ethan.

I schooled my reaction, despite the
WTH?
flashing through my brain and the nervous, edgy feeling any mention of Ethan conjured. “Mr. Chavez
occasionally
brings me coffee, because we're friends. I do the same for him . . .
occasionally
,” I told them, hoping that quelled any further commentary on a secret love life playing out between Ethan and me.
These kids are too damn perceptive.

“And after Emma learned the truth of all this,” I continued briskly, “she felt guilty in gossiping about Jane Fairfax. What specifically had she and Frank Churchill speculated on, with regard to Jane Fairfax?” I stared down at Alex from my high-heeled perch, the classroom dark and silent, the movie on hold.

“What? Me again?”

“Why not? You're doing great,” I encouraged, really hoping I could catch him with this one, shoot him the teacher glare, and get on with the movie.

He shrugged and answered. “She felt guilty hinting around that Jane Fairfax had fallen in love with her friend's husband.” There were a couple of outbursts from the guys—a sort of audible shakedown—but I narrowed my gaze on Alex.

“You read the book, didn't you?” I accused him in a quiet murmur.

Alex feigned surprise and mild offense. “Of course I read the book!”

I leaned down, bracing my arms on his desk, and muttered, “There was no archery in the novel, Alex.”

“I wondered if you'd pick up on that,” the little smart-ass replied. Evidently, no one in my life was as they seemed. And secrets weren't necessarily secret.

I pushed myself off his desk, conscious of a new, grudging respect for him and the conflicted feeling of being outed in my “bonus feature” relationship with Ethan. Part of me wished I could still pretend it was our little secret, and the other part thrilled in the knowledge that these kids could see in Ethan the beginnings of a little crush. I just hoped it hadn't been trampled by everything that had happened. If I could just talk to him—explain about Jake, and what a fool I'd made of myself—maybe we could try again.

Feeling very wistful, I pressed Play and let myself imagine—in the dark—the sexy dependability of my own Mr. Knightley.

That bittersweet bubble burst when the bell rang, hurtling us all unceremoniously back to the twenty-first century. I slung my arm over Piper's shoulders as she moved slowly toward the door.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Not great,” she confirmed, looking up at me. “My parents are acting kind of weird.”

My heart took up an erratic beat, as naturally I was wondering if it had anything to do with my awkward confrontation with her father. Was a posse of investigators using her house as a headquarters to plan and execute my downfall? Or had her mother figured out that her father was a cheating bastard with delusions of grandeur? I kept my voice steady. “Maybe things will get back to normal during the holiday,” I suggested randomly.

I gave her shoulder a commiserative squeeze, bestowed a heartfelt “poor baby” smile and an offer to talk if ever she needed it, hoping her situation wouldn't escalate and require a parent/ teacher conference. In true head-in-sand fashion, I'd been tiptoeing around, trying not to call attention to myself, imagining that if I didn't catch anyone investigating me, then maybe no one was. Maybe it had all been a lot of bluster. I was also counting on the impending holiday season to work in my favor. Things would get dropped and forgotten, and I was hoping to be one of them.

Except where Ethan was concerned.

I had a sudden, urgent need to see him. He might not be ready to talk to me yet, and honestly, I wasn't decided on the best way to approach him, but right now there was a big awkward void overshadowing every day. In one way or another, he'd managed to insinuate himself into almost every little part of my life, and now all the bits were broken and I was having trouble putting them all back together again. Particularly as he was still the missing piece. . . .

I strode down the hall, cautiously optimistic, wondering if I could lead with the “secret love” bomb Alex had just dropped during last period. We could shake our heads in disbelief over the relationship savvy of kids today, and then, just maybe, concede that perhaps we shouldn't be so surprised that people could see the connection between us.

This little soda fountain fantasy fizzed off like a shaken up bottle of Orange Crush when I came around the corner and heard Ethan on the phone.

“Are you flirting with me?” A pause and then a warm, deep laugh. “You know that could get us both in trouble, right?”

I instinctively flattened myself against the wall outside the IT room, and then I bolted, running down the hall in heels, my A-line skirt shifting and sliding and my French-striped boatneck coming quickly untucked. Back in my classroom, I collapsed onto my chair and dropped my head in my hands.

Either Ethan had already moved on or else I'd never had him to begin with. Clearly my seniors had a bit more to learn about romance, because they were way off with us. With a tightness in my chest that I wondered if I could technically claim as a heavy heart, I packed my carryall for the long Thanksgiving break. I was powering down my computer when my phone chimed with a text from Gemma.

 

 

I stared down at my phone, now feeling baffled
and
sad. Since when did Gemma care about holiday dinners with specific guests? We were lucky if she was around for the whole thing. I texted quickly back.

 

 

I was unlocking my car when I got her unexpected reply. There hadn't really been anything more to say.

 

 

I rolled my eyes, not sure what her angle was, and glanced back at the school. I could go ask him. . . . No. I couldn't. I couldn't go back in there and invite him to a family dinner after I'd just eavesdropped on him talking to—
flirting with
—some other chick. I glanced down at my phone again and then threw it in my bag and got in the car, planning on drowning my sorrows in a basket of chips and queso at Torchy's.

A text came in as I was driving, and I nearly clipped an aggressive cyclist in my scramble to get to the phone, my desperation to hear from Ethan having ratcheted up considerably in the last few hours. But it was only another one from Gemma.

 

 

That was apparently what I had to look forward to over Thanksgiving break.

I was under the trees, braving the cold snap of a late-November breeze, staring down at the dregs in my bowl of cheese dip when I finally gave in and texted him. Giving in took all of two seconds; texting him took considerably longer. Whereas two weeks ago I would have tossed off a misspelled or autocorrected message and remained blissfully unconcerned, today I agonized over every character. Even punctuation was important. Not that it wasn't always important—as an English teacher I knew that better than most people—but it wasn't necessarily critical in a casual text between friends.

But I wasn't even sure we had that anymore. I hadn't spoken to him since the burner phone debacle. I finally decided on simple and straightforward, familiar but not forced.