Austensibly Ordinary (6 page)

Friday's class discussion of
Emma
had touched on this very topic: how one person's preconceptions about another can blind them to the reality. I'd considered it an elegant little tease, hinting at the undercurrents of my own personality. I seriously doubt any of my students picked up on it.

“You all may only see a high school English teacher, but what
don't
you see? For all you know, I'm a millionaire with an altruistic love of the classics.” I leaned my rear against the front of my desk facing the smirks and twitters, lifting my eyebrows in question, daring them to look closer. “An undercover narcotics officer . . . a jewel thief . . . a government operative. I could be anything with the cover of a high school English teacher, using my position on the faculty, spying for personal gain.”

“Seems like the irritations would far outweigh any potential benefits,” Alex murmured sardonically.

“Oh, it definitely
seems
that way. But perhaps that's what makes me the perfect candidate. Beyond reproach, above suspicion,” I said, walking around the side of my desk. A mystery,” I said, meeting his eyes with a smile and relishing everything the word implied.

The bell rang then, with impeccable timing, and I imagined they all trailed out wondering about me and my secret life. Deluded, I know. Still,
I
knew, and that was plenty.

With the recent developments in the found-object department, my status as a woman of mystery was now spot-on. Beyond my evening in character, I was now on the verge of something pivotal, the scope of which, for the time being, remained boundless and undefined. It made me wonder now about the man standing in front of me, ready to bandy words.

Maybe Ethan was the answer. Heck, maybe he had an undercurrent of his own—the Will Schuester of Travis Oaks High, minus the singing. (Or maybe not minus the singing—what the heck did
I
know?) He definitely wasn't above keeping secrets, and he was “in plain sight” on a regular basis. I'd give it some thought—I wanted a bit longer to think things through on my own first. If I pulled Ethan in now,
I'd
be relegated to the position of sidekick, and I wasn't about to put up with that.

“Cate . . . ?” By the time my eyes focused in on Ethan, I'm sure he'd seen a schizophrenic play of emotions run across my face. I smiled, smoothing them all out.

“Yes. Ready for Scrabble.” I reached behind me for the box I kept on the little table just inside the door. “How about we play outside?” I didn't want to take any chances with all the secrets I now had packed into this tiny apartment.

“Sounds good,” he agreed companionably. Ethan was always in a winning mood on Scrabble day. I grabbed a sweater from the hook by the door and followed him down to certain defeat.

By the time I swung back in the door, it was 7:30. Mom had made Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, and Ethan had devoured every last bit she'd forced upon him. I needed to get on with the total transformation, and it was imperative that I not forget to brush my teeth. Sautéed pepper and onion breath didn't really send out the vibe I was going for.

Dress first. Part of me was excited just to slip into my make-believe phone booth again, and the rest was totally psyched to be zipped into that dress, for real this time. It inspired confidence and took sexiness to a whole different level. The same was true of the heels, but they could wait.

I'd just finished smoothing the fabric over my curves when I heard the knock. Mom probably just wanted to double-check that Ethan and I weren't engaged . . . or better yet, engaged in something frisky. I slipped around the sofa, tying on the filmy little wrap, and pulled the door wide.

It wasn't my mother. And sidekick or not, it looked like I was going to have to come clean on a few things with Ethan.

“Whoa!”

As responses went, it was certainly gratifying.

“Did you decide to cancel your plans and tag along with Courtney tonight instead?”

“What?” I propped my fists on my hips and waited, my synapses trudging along in confusion.

“Eliot Ness, Bonnie and Clyde . . . the Driskill?” When I didn't respond, he added, “Are you packin' a flask under that skirt? Because it doesn't look like there's room—”

“No, and no. What are you doing here, Chavez?” I snapped, simultaneously wanting to share my secrets and keep them to myself.

He held up his hands to ward off further waspishness. “Just wanted to let you know that I'll be out of town next week . . . in case you're looking for me.”

I dropped my arms and frowned in confusion. “The whole week? Where are you going?”

He suddenly looked vague, suspiciously vague. Ethan never looked vague. Slippery, cagey, evasive . . . yes. “I just have some things to take care of.”

“In the middle of the semester? Can't it wait until the Thanksgiving holiday?”

“No, Lady Buttinski, it can't. And why are you so concerned?”

“I'm not.”

“No? Okay, well then, are you going to tell me where you're going, all vamped up?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, the corset top tightening up. Ethan flicked his gaze down and blinked twice before whipping it back up again. I waited till I had his full attention before answering. “No. I'm not,” I said flatly. “You keep your secrets, I'll keep mine. And I'll see you when you get back.” I smiled, trying my damnedest to convey that he was missing out on some
really
good stuff.

Ethan's jaw tightened fractionally. “Isn't that a little juvenile?”

“Quite possibly,” I said. “I'm good with that.” I raised an eyebrow and pressed my lips together, refusing to break even though it would be
really
nice to tell somebody about the secret messages.

Ethan held my gaze for one last excruciating moment before turning to walk back down the stairs and mysteriously disappear for one long week.

T
he Hitchcock soiree was being held in a finished but unrented space in the Second Street district. Waffling over whether to get there early or a little late, I chose early. Better parking, and a bit of time to test out my new “by-night” personality before the crowd descended.

The split second before I slid through the glass door decorated with a full-body silhouette of Alfred Hitchcock, I had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me. Holding tight to the door handle, I pivoted on my heel, glancing behind me, right and left, my newly sleek bob shifting against my cheek. I saw no one even remotely suspicious—this was Austin, after all. Nothing seemed out of place.

All at once, I felt in character . . . a Hitchcock blonde, edgy and on the run. Not to mention off the grid. As ridiculous as it was, I'd stopped to buy a burner phone just in case (in case of what, I had no idea), and I'd sat in the car until I'd memorized the number so I wouldn't have to write it down. I was positively itching to make a call.

I smiled to myself. I was totally getting caught up and it was awesome!

Slipping through the door, I nearly screamed my head off. Somehow they'd managed to rig some of those cheapy black birds that go on sale at craft stores every Halloween to attack unsuspecting partygoers as they came through the door. I was certain my hand had come up exactly like Tippi Hedren's trying to ward them off. Damn sproingy things.

Smoothing my hair in case I was sporting beak-head, I inched farther into the space, my gaze panning over the spotlit walls decorated with Hitchcock movie scenes. It was like the sets from a year's worth of high school drama productions: Mount Rushmore, a cramped city apartment building, the roof of a French villa high above a glittering party, an apartment with a desk in the foreground holding an old-timey phone and pair of sewing scissors, and a bell tower. And hanging suspended above it all were cables dangling those creepy black birds.

“Ms. Kendall has arrived!” I swiveled to see Sydney bearing down on me in a catsuit that left nothing to the imagination. “Should I call you Cate, or would you prefer Eve for tonight?” Her grin was edged out by surprise as she looked me over. “Holy crap, you're a fox! But you've still got your brainy school—”

“Don't say it,” I interrupted, whipping off my glasses, which I sometimes used for night driving, not wanting to jinx what I had going here. “Tonight I want to be someone different. Not Eve or Cate. I created a whole new identity . . . just for one night.” The rest of my plans weren't quite fully baked yet. “Tonight I'm Cat Kennedy, Hitchcock blonde, woman of mystery.”

“And sexy as hell! If I didn't know you'd be going back to life as a schoolteacher tomorrow, I'd be coming on to you myself.” She winked and commenced a full perusal all over again.

Beyond the dress, which was smokin', I'd slipped on my highest heels, slicked on my reddest lipstick, and lined my eyes with sultry black, layering on the mascara at the end. I was minus a cape, but I felt totally transformed . . . sort of like a superhero. Except without a project—a regular Mr. Incredible.

“Oli and Will are in our little makeshift kitchen, but they'll be out in a minute. You are gonna blow their minds. Hell, you're gonna blow everyone's mind. And Cary Grant, if he shows, will be in the palm of your hand.”

I looked around us. Tables were scattered, draped in black, each with a movie-themed centerpiece. And in between, a trio of partygoers mingled, all of them in stark black, with maybe a sparkle or two. I might just be a standout, and that was fine with me.

Within fifteen minutes the place was packed, and I wasn't the only one in costume. One woman had shown up with her own birds attached to her head, complete with blood spots, and believe it or not, a guy in baby blue pj's and full leg cast rolled through the door in a wheelchair with a floaty Grace Kelly companion. No more than ten minutes later he stood beside me, the evening's signature drink, a limoncello, in hand, his look-alike companion nowhere in sight.

Judging by the look in his eye and the amused quirk of his lips, I got the impression that this was the Cary Grant of the evening. Tonight though, he was disguised as Jimmy Stewart and hampered by a couple feet of gauze and Mod Podge.

“You're not Grace Kelly or Tippi Hedren. . . .” He tipped his head, seeming to study me closely for clues, but I wasn't fooled. “Eva Marie Saint . . . the sexy spy who handled the inestimable Cary Grant.” It wasn't a question.

“What gave me away?” I'd briefly considered shifting my voice to be throaty or breathless, but decided I didn't have the follow-through to carry that out beyond the introductions. I tried for flirty, though.

“You have an obvious backbone . . . a very attractive one. And you look dangerously capable.” Damn, he was good. I sidled right into the picture he was painting.

“You have a good eye. I'm Cat Kennedy,” I told him, extending my hand, daring him to expose me as a wannabe.

“Cat, hmm? Very nice. Jake Tielman.” His grip was cool and smooth but for a few calluses. It gave me chills.

“You lost your wheelchair,” I said, glancing down at the bandaged leg that now supported his sturdy six-foot frame. “Not an easy thing to do,” I said.

“Not to worry. It's valet parked.” He smiled and looked curiously at me. “I come to a lot of these Pop-up events, but you're a new development. First time?”

“It is,” I confirmed, turning slightly away from him to face Oli and her tray of drinks. Amusement twinkled in her eyes—after being introduced to my evening persona, she and Will had made a point of circulating past me on a very regular basis.

“Dinner will be served shortly. Seating is open and at your discretion.” Biting her lip, she aimed a subtle wink before moving on.

“Shall we?” suggested the charmer, offering his arm. What can I say—I took it.

After seating me at an empty table under Mount Rushmore, Jake Tielman retrieved his wheelchair and managed to position himself so awkwardly as to discourage anyone from joining our little party of two. I had no doubt it was intentional, and I was very impressed.

He flirted easily in the candlelight as we carved up our Cornish game hens under the watchful, beady eyes above. Even the vegetables were creepy, roasted haricot beans and root vegetables, looking enough like colorful finger and knuckle bones to be off-putting.

“New in town or Hitchcock devotee?”

“It's a little more complicated than that,” I admitted. His hair was slicked back and parted with precision, clearly in character as Jimmy Stewart's
Rear Window
'do, but I got the impression he wasn't quite so fastidious on an average day-in-the-life. We were both playing a part. Made me wonder which of us would be exposed first. And that thought led to another, which likely led to some very pink cheeks on my part.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't press the issue or inquire over my sudden blush. “Which are you?” I asked.

“Neither. I try to surround myself with unique and imaginative people as often as possible.”

“Should I feel flattered?”

“Absolutely . . . but for a different reason entirely. I gravitate toward dangerously sexy women too. Besides, I don't know anything about you.”

“Is it possible you're not trying hard enough?”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement evident in the set of his lips. “Gloves are off, then; gauntlet's down. Let's get to it. You up for twenty questions?”

“Yes or no, or anything goes?”

“Oh, I'll always vote anything goes.” He smiled. Great teeth, classic cheekbones, dangerous dimple. His eyes were deep, dark chocolate brown. Willy Wonka would have been jealous. The pajamas, while kitschy, didn't have the same appeal as a well-cut suit. They could have been saved for a more private showing. Then again, maybe he didn't have any use for pajamas. . . .

“Fine, but I expect you to answer the same questions,” I insisted, still waffling as to whether I should fabricate an entire alternate universe for myself.

He conceded the suggestion with a slight nod and promptly posed the first question. “Single or something else?”

“Single.” That, at least, was woefully true.

“Same,” he concurred, with a sly grin.

“Last serious relationship?”

I had to think a minute. “Three years ago.”

“Two,” he countered, sipping his drink.

“Work?”

Trial by fire . . . “Austin Museum of Art.” I thought it sounded sufficiently cosmopolitan and comfortably vague, and I figured “spy in training” would skew the next seventeen questions.

“Entrepreneur.”
Very interesting. I just might have some follow-up questions of my own.

“School?”

“Brown, BA in art history.” I was becoming fast friends with the little white lie.

“UCLA, BS in physics, UT MBA.” Impressive.

“Perfect. Now for the good stuff.”

“Favorite Hitchcock film?”

“Charade.”
The irony was my little secret.

“The best Hitchcock movie Hitchcock never made?” His grin was cocky.

“Honestly?” This was a shocker—and even more ironic.
“North by Northwest,
then,” I said truthfully.

“Rear Window.
” He grinned. “I drew the line at carting a camera in here.”

“The wheelchair was a nice touch. And the tag-along Grace Kelly even better.”

He leaned in, his eyes shifting left and right, clearly not trusting our self-imposed privacy. Unable to resist any sort of secret, I met him halfway. “I met her outside and convinced her to walk in with me—even got her to push the wheelchair.” He winked mischievously. Made me wonder about his plans for me. And mine for him.

“Very crafty,” I said, impressed, flirting ever so slightly behind the swing of my hair.

“So why not Audrey Hepburn?” He had a knowing look in his eye, which had my nerves crackling.

“Is this one of the twenty?” I said, stalling. Truthfully I think I would have had an easier time with Audrey. More wide-eyed wonder and shy ingénue. I'd likely have spent the evening lurking in the kitchen with the girls.

“Absolutely.”

“I can't blame Audrey—I might not have been able to resist a sixty-year-old Cary Grant either, but I'd much prefer a younger version. So my choices were Grace Kelly or Eva Marie Saint.”

“If you'd come as Grace Kelly, I might have bumped into you outside instead.”

“True, but if you had, would you be talking to me right now?”

“I'd like to think so, but maybe not. Excellent decision.” He raised his glass and downed the contents just as Will made the rounds with a blood-red cocktail and Syd served a portobello mushroom salad drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette and paired with a wafer-thin piece of herbed focaccia. Mine was shaped like a butcher knife, his a pair of sewing scissors—classic Hitchcock murder weapons. The Pop-up Culture chicks had achieved an impressive level of creepiness, aided considerably by their cat-burglar costumes, the heavy shadows in the room, and the element of surprise.

I carefully sipped my drink, eyeing the focaccia. I tasted pomegranate, felt the quick trail of heat from the vodka, and focused on settling the nerves in my stomach. Damn if I didn't feel like an operative, finessed, via some tech-savvy cohorts, into a critical situation to play a part and steal away before my cover was blown. But nobody was parked outside in a van, talking into my earpiece. I was playing this all on my own. I spared a quick thought for Ethan, but tamped it ruthlessly down. He would never approve.

“Reading between the lines . . . should I assume you're on the hunt for a modern-day, Austinized Cary Grant? Should
I
be flattered?”

A little smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, and all at once, I felt quite the vixen. Leaning my elbow on the table, I propped my chin on my hand and looked past the centerpiece, at Mr. Jake Tielman, through lowered lashes. “Hard to say. Technically you found me, but I let you drag me along. And now it's just the two of us. . . .” I slid my lips into a long, slow smile, starting to get the hang of things. Less was definitely more. Conversationally speaking.

I took my time with a slow perusal, squelching the self-consciousness as he watched. He was obviously pulling off charming, seeing as I'd let myself be cornered by a cute Jimmy Stewart in old-fashioned pajamas. And I suspected there was a great deal of sexy just below the surface. It occurred to me that I needed to wrap things up or risk sending the wrong message.