Austensibly Ordinary (25 page)

 

I sat shivering all alone, grading papers at a picnic table in the shade until the sky dimmed to twilight purple, the fairy lights blinked on, and the dinner crowd started to arrive. I'd chosen to sit at the same table I'd shared with Ethan and Courtney almost a month ago . . . before Cat Kennedy . . . before Jake Tielman . . . before ghost hunting and Gypsy Jane. Before I'd made a colossal idiot of myself. I tipped my head to peek up underneath and check the table supports, just on the off chance that something else had been left to be found. A love potion or a magical scarf . . .

There was nothing. But if there had been, I so would have used it. I was that desperate.

I was packing up to go when his text came in:

 

 

My shoulders slumped in defeat. Nothing. I got nothing from that. I couldn't tell if it conveyed distraction, uncertainty, anger, or a simple noncommittal maybe. Exhausted, I trudged back to my car and drove home and let one day blur into the next.

After a good amount of nudging from my mom, I called Courtney and invited her and Micah to Thanksgiving dinner. After she gabbled on a few minutes about Micah and ghosts, she asked how things were going with Ethan.

I cringed, but came clean. “He kinda found out about Jake. And then there was the cheating bastard from the Driskill. . . .” Naturally that prompted a whole new line of questioning, and a bit of nuancing to keep Ethan's secret life out of it.

“Aw, sweetie! If this were a noir film and you were still a femme fatale, you'd be ready to bitch-slap someone and make off with the cash.”

“That does sound good,” I admitted. “But I don't think that'll get Ethan to talk to me, particularly if he's the one to get the slap.”

“Good point. What can I do? Want me to go back to the bathroom with Micah, see if Lady Jane reappears? Quiz her a little?”

“I appreciate the offer, Court, but you and Micah should probably stay out of the ladies' bathroom. Besides, I sort of have a feeling that she's connected to the journal and that she wouldn't make an appearance without it being somewhere in the vicinity.”

“Gotcha. Hang in there, Cate. Knightley is a sure thing.”

The sentiment was comforting. Trouble was, I wasn't convinced it was accurate.

I spent a good amount of time wearing sweats and my reading glasses, poring over the entries in the journal. Not surprisingly, Gypsy Jane had been right all along, but I didn't need “I told you so”s. I needed practical, step-by-step instructions that I could meticulously follow in a effort to at least get Ethan talking to me again, beyond the prickly “Your e-mail is back online” I'd gotten via voice mail the Thursday before the weeklong Thanksgiving holiday.

Clearly that wasn't her style. So I let myself enjoy the romantic successes of others, feeling terribly martyred as I lay on the couch and dined on Chinese takeout.

 

 

I read that last bit while biting into an egg roll and felt simultaneously pitiful and intrigued. I'd had a chance to conspire with someone, and I'd let it slip away. And now I was alone, vicariously conspiring, a century and a half after the fact. I flipped the page, being careful of greasy fingers.

 

 

Hmm. I had my suspicions as to how this would play out.

 

 

That was all I could take. I didn't want to read about this particular adventure seeker and her Gypsy Jane Success Story. I could already predict the outcome: Irritation with this interfering junior officer soon gave way to an easy flirtation, and before long the pair had fallen hopelessly in love and ridden off into the sunset on the Orient Express. Not. In. The. Mood.

I also wasn't in the mood to pour my heart out only to have my words taken out of context and crafted into a little snatch of life wisdom that was completely irrelevant to my current, rather precarious situation. The truth was, I was itching for a confrontation. I'd tried calling Ethan on his cell, and when he didn't answer, I'd biked over to his house … but he didn't answer there either. Probably on secret assignment. Perhaps taking care of our Bad Manners problem with a little
Burn Notice
—style vigilante justice. I biked home feeling thwarted and more determined than ever to get into it with someone.

And that is how I ended up in the mezzanine ladies' bathroom at the Driskill Hotel on a Saturday afternoon. Holed up in the handicapped stall, carefully poised on a Texas Longhorn stadium seat that was teetering on the closed lid of the toilet. (I was prepared, if necessary, to vacate my impromptu headquarters, should the need arise.) I'd packed my clipboard, a bottle of Orange Crush, a bag of Chex Mix, and my clothbound Coralie Bickford-Smith copy of
Emma.
And, of course, the journal. I hadn't told Courtney I was here, nor that I was holding an amateurish sort of seance. Anyone who ventured into the bathroom would only think they were catching one side of a phone conversation. Admittedly a particularly odd one.

“I think you made the connection before I did, but now I've realized it: My life has turned into a parody of
Emma.
Every instinct I had about matchmaking was wrong, including the ones I reserved for myself. Jake was the rake in my tale of romantic woe, my Frank Churchill.” I paused to take a sip of soda and lick the salt from my fingers, silently berating myself yet again for not having seen that. “And Ethan was my Knightley.
Is
my Knightley,” I corrected. I was going to cling to that until all hope was lost. Gemma could just keep her hot little hands off.

“So what I really need from you,” I continued, “is a little gypsy magic. I need a second chance. In other words, I need some more ‘surprises' to finish out the story so I can earn my happily-ever-after. So . . . if you want to come chat, I'm here. Waiting. Hanging out in a bathroom stall.” I paused in my little speech to see if anything would happen. Nothing did. I glanced around, wondering if the ghost of Jane Austen had higher standards than a little chat around a toilet. It was probably best if I just checked the rest of the bathroom.

I stood up, clutching my clipboard and ballpoint pen, and took a deep breath, feeling all jittery at the prospect of another ghostly visitation. I left the stadium seat in position and my day bag slumped in the corner and slowly opened the stall door. When I saw her shimmery nineteenth-century self perched primly on the bathroom counter beside the fancy soaps, the triumph of success was promptly edged out by “crazed celebrity fan” nerves and excitement. I was tempted to flick the lock on the bathroom's outer door to ensure that I had Miss Jane all to myself for a few critical minutes, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. If someone chose this moment to breeze in and freshen their makeup, well, she'd just have to deal.

I took a moment to bask in the unbelievability of the entire situation. I had summoned the ghost of Jane Austen. All by myself. While sitting on the toilet! That last bit would likely not make it into the retelling. Should I decide to tell anyone . . . Who was I kidding? Courtney was a must-tell, and Ethan . . . Well, if things ever got back to normal with him, I was going to use this little doozy to whip up on his logical ass! I'd never even gotten the chance to tell him about the first sighting, what with Bad Manners and the burner phone.

Suddenly my smile faltered and I was hesitant. If there'd been a secret mission associated with my turn at the Jane journal, it had been to hook Ethan and reel him in. But I'd failed. Judging from past experience with her close-lipped self, I probably shouldn't expect any poor babys. A glance at her face confirmed my suspicions. Her knowing smile and single lifted eyebrow were clearly willing me to get on with things.

I straightened my shoulders and hitched my clipboard into position. I figured if I wanted any response at all I'd need to get my words down on paper, but it seemed overly weird to chat up a ghost without a peep from either of us, and I didn't see her making any concessions, so I talked us through it too.

 

 

My pen was flying over the page, scrawling out the bleak reality of my situation as my eyes blurred with prickly tears.

 

My voice had risen in urgency and was now echoing loudly through the bathroom, but I couldn't rein myself in.

 

 

I glanced up at this point, slightly chagrined that I was asking Jane freakin' Austen to tweak a few things. In any other situation I would readily concede her indisputable qualifications to call the shots, but not this one. Gypsy Jane could help me or not, but one way or another, I was getting my Mr. Knightley. I firmed up my smile and straightened my shoulders, hoping I was projecting confidence and determination.

My shimmery companion tipped her head to the side and glanced up to the ceiling, biting her lip. I couldn't tell if she was planning her escape or brainstorming possible alternate endings. I decided to keep jotting and hope for the best.

 

 

I was getting off task and so reined myself in with effort.