Austensibly Ordinary (7 page)

“Would you say you make a worthy comparison?” I flicked one eyebrow teasingly up.

“In some ways,” he granted, setting down his fork and fingering his cocktail glass.

“Any of the good ones?” I pressed, completely amused with myself and him. I was all but oblivious to the homage going on around us. All but those damn birds.

“What are the good ones? Charm? I'd say I've got a bit of that, more if I try. Rugged, manly good looks? I'm obviously relatively secure in my mojo, or I wouldn't be out in the city in my pajamas—even if it is Austin. Charisma? I'm guessing that's the only reason you're sitting here right now. And oh yes, virility. I'd say that's a question that will have to be answered on its own.”

I was full-out grinning now, I couldn't help it. He was crunching into his focaccia, looking confidently insecure, as if he knew who he was but couldn't guess if I'd drawn the same conclusion. Far from being finished playing hard to get, I figured he deserved a little thumbs-up. It was just good sportsmanship.

I tipped my head down and bit my lip. On any other night, my ingrained shyness would have been calling the shots, but tonight flirty seduction was the name of the game. “It looks as though I'm sitting in exactly the right spot,” I said, edging out a wide close-lipped smile.

It wasn't long before Will and Oli sidled up in their catsuits, purveyors of Linzer cookies served facedown, the jam from the cut-out “windows” smearing bloodlike on the stark white plates, a nod to the classic Hitchcock
Rear Window.
They brought coffee too, steaming hot in old-fashioned diner cups.

We were quiet for a minute, letting the coffee and our flirtation cool off a little bit. Jake glanced at his watch—his very expensive-looking watch—glinting in the candlelight.

“It's closing in on midnight. . . . I'd offer to drive you home, but we both know the logistics of that would be crazy. It's a shame we aren't staying in adjacent rooms at the same hotel.”

Seeing my eyebrow shoot up in curiosity, he quickly added, “That's the Cary talking . . . remember
To Catch a Thief
? The man could work an angle.”

“He worked it better in
North by Northwest,”
I countered. “He ended up sharing her train compartment.”

“The man is a legend.”

I sipped carefully and felt the zing of caffeine spiral through my blood, causing trouble. I tamped it down with strict instructions from a certain high school teacher who had to be in her classroom by seven-thirty
A.M.

“How about,” I offered slowly, “I give you my number and you can call me when you think we could work something out.” Even I didn't know what I meant by that, but it felt suitably vague and surprisingly seductive. It was also possible the evening was getting to me—that I was on sensory overload and needed to get back to the Bat Cave to regroup. I reached into my purse for the little pad of paper and pen I'd intentionally planted there and dashed off the memorized burner phone number, folding the paper in half, very for-your-eyes-only.

This was the perfect moment to slip out and away, keeping to the shadows, but I'd let my emotions come into play: I wanted one of those Linzer cookies, and I wasn't leaving without one.

While Jake Tielman was eyeing my phone number, and me over the top of it, I slid a delicate cookie off the plate sitting between us on the table and indulged in a tiny bite, letting the buttery crumb dissolve on my tongue as a flurry of powdered sugar fluttered down around me. My cover was undeniably blown—it was literally impossible to be taken seriously as a femme fatale, not to mention a spy, with a dusting of powdered sugar covering your person. I used my napkin and subtly licked my lips, not wishing to get the flirtation started all over again, but evidently I wasn't thorough enough.

I was easing myself into the good-byes when Jake reached almost negligently across the table, cupped my chin in his hand, and brushed his thumb slowly and deliberately over my upper lip before letting his fingers slide away. My heart pounded and my breathing slowed, and as our eyes met, I wondered how best to respond to this seductive development.

James Bond's MO was not an option—I wasn't ready to seduce him just yet. As a woman with a secret and a flair for the dramatic, I decided to play it cool . . .
cagey
. . . and leave him wanting more.

Reaching for my bag, I got slowly to my feet, bent at the waist in my high heels and pencil skirt, licked a bit of moisture onto my lips, and slid a marginally wet kiss across his cheek. Hampered by the wheelchair, he was slow in scrambling to his feet, and I was three steps on my way to the door, calling back over my shoulder, “You have my number.”

I skipped half the way to my car, thrilled with the evening's success—even the powdered sugar had led to a whopper of a cliffhanger. I couldn't wait to “go rogue” all over again. And I was definitely going to need a theme song.

 

My phone didn't ring until I'd switched back to normal and was settled in on the couch, ready to delve into the mysteries of the Trailer Park Journal all over again. My real phone, that is, not the burner. I'd hidden the burner at the bottom of the bowl of Dum-Dum lollipops on my coffee table. I figured it was Ethan asking for a favor or wanting to remind me not to leave too many Internet browsers open on my classroom computer. But a tiny little girlish part of me wondered impossibly if, just maybe, it was Jake Tielman, itching to say good night. It wasn't either one of them. Syd had dialed me up, wanting to know why I'd left in such a hurry.

“You didn't get sick, did you? Tell me that's not what happened. Was it having to eat poultry with those creepy-ass birds draped from the ceiling? For the record, I voted against that.”

“No, Syd,” I assured her, my eyes falling closed on a wave of tiredness, “it wasn't food or décor-related, but those creepy-ass birds didn't make it easy. I left because it was almost midnight, and I need to work tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay, I get that,” she said. “So what'd you think? How'd we do on the homage?”

“Stellar, Syd. Honestly. It was creepy, and sexy, and super stylish. I loved how only half the guests came in character—it made things quirky and interesting. Even more than they already were. Seriously, it was awesome. Was there anyone there from
The Chronicle?”

“I think maybe one dude, and then a food writer for the
Statesman.”

“It's gonna be a great write-up,” I said, hoping to wrap things up.

“And what about you, showing up in that dress?! Hot damn, Cate . . . or should I say, Cat? What happened with the guy? The two of you were very private over in the corner by yourselves.”

“We flirted shamelessly. I'm sure you and your minions got an eyeful. But I came home alone. He went home with my phone number. We'll see.”

“This is going to be really good for you, Cate. I feel it.”

“Could I ask a favor?” I begged.

“Name it.”

“Could you not mention the alter ego to anyone?” Specifically Ethan, but honestly, I didn't want the gossip getting around, particularly back to the high school. It would be so much worse this time around. Being a teacher with a juicy secret was a little bit thrilling. Having the secret get out . . . not so much. My face was clenched, waiting for her response.

“It's in the vault, baby! Oh! Gotta go—apparently I'm supposed to be helping clean up.”

Letting out an all-encompassing sigh, I dropped the phone and focused on my quirky and interesting journal. I tapped the end of my pen on the cover in a quick, nervous tattoo. Far from being turned off by the inexplicable element of the journal, I was in awe. Nervous awe. The world was full of weird and unexplainable phenomena—who was I to question it? I'd never understood the city's annual Spam festival either, but I wasn't out there investigating SPAMARAMA. For all I knew, the end pages could be concealing a computer chip with a transmitter—but that was kind of creepy, and right now I was full up on creepy.

Clearly, someone was sending me messages. The trouble was that now I wasn't sure what to write. This could be important stuff. What if . . . what if I didn't use the right words? What if the journal couldn't work its magic because it couldn't parse my stream-of-consciousness jots into something useful? Crap. Well, I was just going to have to wing it and hope for the best. I was too tired for much more than that anyway.

Rolling my shoulders and then stretching my neck, I feinted once and then let her rip.

 

I tipped the journal closed again, freshly irritable over Ethan's surprise news. An entire week?? I'd need to have this secret identity thing down by the end of it . . . at least the secret part.

With a sudden flash of curiosity, I whipped the book back open again, wondering if my message had been read and answered.

It hadn't. But in fairness, I had asked a lot of questions. And probably my success as a virgin operative needed to be vetted somehow. I could wait.

U
tterly dependable, Ethan had worked his IT magic, getting my e-mail back online. I had to admit, dependability was an attractive quality in a man; overprotectiveness, not so much. I sat at my desk on my lunch break, reading through the e-mails that had just popped up in my in-box. There were three from concerned parents, one wishing to confirm that her child would not be reading any books that might have even brushed up against the possibility of getting banned.

I paused with a forkful of salad halfway to my lips and inhaled slowly, tipping my eyelids down, channeling inner calm. I did not want to get sucked into an e-mail smackdown. I could not educate these parents on my own, and neither the school officials nor the school board would thank me for trying. I typed back a brief response that I hoped would set her closed mind at ease that her child's mind would, at least on my watch, remain uncorrupted by controversial literature.

There was also a staff meeting reminder for tomorrow afternoon, which I confirmed was on my desk calendar and typed into my phone, a request for volunteers to sponsor a Model UN team (no thank you), and an invitation to a leadership conference hosted by the local arm of the teachers union (pass—two years in a row was more than I could take).

Courtney's e-mail I saved for last, figuring it would put a smile on my face to carry me through the afternoon. A can of Orange Crush from the school vending machine could only do so much.

Her new ghost-hunting gear? I could only imagine. Reading between the lines, I should prepare to look and act ridiculous and hope that no one I know sees me. Seeing as I didn't have any plans for Tuesday night, it looked like I was free for a little ghost hunting. At the very least it was the perfect excuse to dress like a ninja. With luck it might tide me over.

I didn't really have a good feel for when I'd next be going rogue, and I didn't know what to make of the cryptic message I'd found in the journal this morning:

This one was every bit as vague as the last one. They were like fortune cookie fortunes, open for interpretation no matter who cracked them.

As far as I was concerned, I'd had one “unexpected development” after another: the alter ego, the journal, Ethan's mysterious week-long disappearance, Jake Tielman. . . . I wondered if and when I'd hear from
him.
Crap! I'd forgotten to retrieve the burner phone from the Dum-Dum bowl! He'd just have to leave a message. Which meant he'd have to listen to the attempt I'd made at being mysterious and alluring in the space of a five-second greeting. I'd recorded it so many times I had it memorized:

[Slightly breathy] “Hi, this is Cat. I'm having entirely too much fun to answer my phone. Leave me a message and maybe I'll invite you along.”

I said it out loud into my empty classroom and suddenly wondered if it was too much. I cringed slightly, almost wishing I had it to do over. But then I rallied. No, this was good . . . this was exactly the sort of image I wanted to portray. A feisty femme . . . we could forget the fatale. Courtney was right—I didn't have it in me. I'd be the Sandra Bullock of spies.

With any luck he wouldn't go looking for me at my made-up museum job, because that had the potential to get a little awkward. I'd just have to wait, seeing as I had deliberately left without getting his number. Or I could Google him.

Goose bumps crowded up my arms as I checked the clock: ten minutes till next period. I opened up an Internet window and typed “Jake Tielman Austin.” The top five results referenced entrepreneur, philanthropist, sports enthusiast Jake Tielman. There was even an image, culled from the
Statesman
online, of the man I'd flirted with last night. I minimized the window, thoughts and questions flitting through my already slightly frazzled brain. Did I want to look? Could I resist the opportunity? I felt like I was running an unauthorized background check, but wasn't this what people did these days? Technology had corrupted us—we had too much information available to us, and it was impossible to know what to do with it. Was he Googling me?

With a flash of sudden insight, it occurred to me that I was impervious to the Google search. Cat Kennedy was a front woman for my little fantasy turned cover op. Nothing he found would lead him back to me.

It wasn't possible that he
was
the op, was it? Had I unintentionally gotten close to the target? My heart was pounding out an erratic beat. I'd really liked him too . . . but I wasn't about to sleep with him solely to get information. Hell. This stream-of-consciousness thing I had going was making things sound more and more ridiculous by the minute. And it was beyond obvious that I'd been watching way too many spy programs.

I focused on my salad, quickly scarfing it down before twenty kids trooped in, hoping to convince me that they'd read the assigned pages. And then I remembered . . .

I'd planned to do a quick search for the quote on the frontispiece of the journal, just in case something interesting came up. Key words, key words . . . I gently tapped the keys, searching my memory. “Miscellaneous morsels” stood out in my mind, seeing as it had made me think of Toll House chocolate chip cookies. I typed the words into the search box.

Jane Austen's name came up in the first four results. Weird. The next two offered up morsel-infused recipes. I clicked on the second of the four, scanned the contents, and blinked several times in mind-boggling disbelief. Taking a deep breath and hoping I still had a few moments to myself, I reread the words carefully.

The dedication in the journal was only an excerpt of this longer passage. Rather apropos. Even so, it made no sense to me. Did this mean that whoever was sending me these vague little instructions was an avid Jane Austen fan? Was the quote merely a diversionary tactic, to throw suspicion off the book's real purpose? Was I, in high school speak, just trippin'? It was impossible to tell. The undeniable facts were: I'd found a journal (outside a taco truck), which was inscribed with a quote from über-author Jane Austen; and somehow, some way, the journal was communicating with me. Making suggestions, giving advice. Seemingly irrelevant advice.

At that moment, my students traipsed into the classroom, thumping down their backpacks, sliding into their seats, delving into their backpacks for composition books and pens. I couldn't think about this right now. I needed to mentally switch gears and decode a different, relatively clear-cut morsel of Ms. Austen's writing for a bunch of jaded seniors.

 

Trying to teach with a conundrum swirling around in my head was exhausting, and by the time the bell rang, I'd had enough. Rather than sit for one more helpless minute in my classroom, I packed my leather satchel full of papers and trudged home, determined to get some answers from the journal, the universe, or the covert ops team running point from a utility van parked down the street from my house, lurking amid the leftover Halloween decorations.

I hadn't made it to the grocery store for more than a week, so I popped in at Mom's house first. She wasn't home, but she'd left the house looking oddly rumpled. Pillows were askew in the living room, as if she'd spun them away from her like Frisbees. The kitchen sink held two forks, the tines of both coated with chocolate frosting. The cake itself, displayed on Mom's favorite fancy glass cake stand, had a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on. One side was beautifully frosted in a smooth buttercream, and the other looked like a raccoon had mauled it and then left without using Saran Wrap. What the hell?

Clearly Mom was dealing with some sort of crisis of her own. She must have come home for lunch and had a little meltdown. I seriously hoped she hadn't been eating with two forks at once . . . although the evidence was pretty damning. I'd come down later and try to feel her out. Right now I was headed to the Bat Cave, and I needed sustenance. Pulling open the fridge, I grabbed a package of bagels and some feta cheese. Then a tomato off the counter and a twist of homegrown basil from the pot on the windowsill, and I was all set. Wine I had. Taking one more look around the place, I shook my head in bewilderment and pulled the door shut behind me.

Dinner could wait. I needed to get the crowd of thoughts out and on paper so I could have a moment of peace. This time feeling a little unsure of myself, as if someone was watching and waiting, I hurried through the writing.

 

 

That entry had felt particularly empowering. I decided to reward my indomitable spirit with a little TV before succumbing to the never-ending paper trail of high school English. I cued up Glee on my DVR, quick-prepped my dinner, and made an effort to relax.

Forty-five minutes later, buzzing through both the commercials and my glass of wine, I felt lighter, happier, and slightly bummed that real life never presented spontaneous song-and-dance numbers. Honestly, if people could pull together on occasion for an impromptu flash mob, the world's problems probably wouldn't seem so insurmountable. Maybe in a few years I could run for mayor of Austin on that platform.

Before settling in with my red pen, I decided to check the journal for a response.

 

 

Dislike. I was unimpressed with everything about this response, with the possible exception of its promptness. I flipped back to the previous little pearls of wisdom and read them in sequential order, looking for a clue, a pattern, a reason not to pursue a little Chinese water torture in the toilet tank in an attempt to short out all further communications.