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Authors: Alyssa Goodnight

BOOK: Austentatious
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“You’re coming back?” My voice was brittle and breathless.
“Ahhh ... you didn’t know that.” I couldn’t decide if I appreciated the sympathy in his eyes or not. Nor could I tell if he was faking it. “Because you heard ‘Scotland’ and panicked. You said good-bye before I could tell you about our record deal.” My eyes widened, a thrill whipping through me, and I opened my mouth to respond. He cut me off. “Uh-uh. This time you’re listening, Ms. James. After our showcase Thursday night, we got a call and an offer to have our next record produced in the States. The chaps and I discussed it and voted unanimously to relocate to Texas. Austin specifically. We’d actually discussed that possibility before getting the offer, so when the deal came through, everything was damn near perfect, it being ‘the Live Music Capital of the World’ and all.” He smiled. “I’ll admit you sweetened the deal a bit yourself.”
He paused and leveled me with a meaningful gaze. I wondered if I should tell him that I was willing to move to Scotland, trudge around in wellies, and spend the rest of my life coexisting with the fairies. I promptly decided against it.
I
knew it, and for now, that was enough. Instead I gushed and squealed my congratulations until I found a better use for my mouth entirely.
Minutes passed quite delightfully, but Sean eventually pulled back, obviously with more to say.
“The return tickets were already booked, and there was packing to do here, and good-byes. Funnily enough, I’d thought I’d convince you to come along,” he told me, starting to get adorably huffy, “but you never even gave me the chance to ask.”
It occurred to me that the man
could
hold a wicked grudge. For some reason, that little surprise had me grinning like a fool despite the reprimand. Nevertheless, I was effusive in my apologies, soothing and patting. Nothing, not even my own bad behavior, could trouble me now. “So you punished me,” I accused him. “Made me sweat a little—okay, a lot—and come haring after you. I’d say you got what you deserved.” My lips curved into a playful smirk, remembering my impromptu performance.
“Do you, now?” Sean’s mouth quirked into a matching smirk, and we stared at each other, smitten. “Turns out, I agree with you.” His arm snaked away from me, taking the warmth with it, and I stood waiting, oddly bereft, as he rummaged about for something in his wallet. I was fervently praying it wasn’t a condom and that he wasn’t about to spring a one-with-nature fantasy on me.
A not-so-subtle breath whooshed out of me and hung shimmering in the cold air between us as his palm extended toward me, holding only a narrow rectangle of paper.
“What is it?” My voice was barely audible, fraught with nerves and ponderous with possibility. And I waited for his answer despite its being unnecessary.
“My fortune,” he confided with a cocky grin that tingled along my nerve endings.
Flicking an uncertain glance in his direction, I reached for it. Tilting it first toward the moonlight and then toward the pub lantern, I could just barely make out the tiny typed words.
“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”
Oscar Wilde
“I don’t get it,” I insisted, wondering if it was possible at this stage in the game that another fortune could possibly be a coincidence.
“I cracked it out of a cookie my first night in Austin—a comforting bit of British wisdom deep in the heart of Texas.” It was kind of cute how amused he was with the cliché. “I liked the sound of it. Then I met you, a damsel in distress, and you became the embodiment of that quote.”
My mind wrapped instantly around the negative. “If you want to be rid someone, I’d advise against stalking, flowers, and serenades,” I retorted, pulling away a bit.
“Don’t pout, luv. You’re missing the point. I wanted you, so I set about getting you.”
Oh. Well, phrased like that, it sounds perfectly lovely.
I stepped closer again, tucking my arm into Sean’s and looking out over the shimmer on the loch. For him, one cookie made all the difference. I, on the other hand, needed a magical journal, a considerable amount of nudging from a medley of friends, and
four
cookies before things finally clicked for me. Who knew that first bit of advice was so particularly profound ...
Miss Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance.
Not to mention prophetic.
Huddled beside Sean, gauzy bits of cloud sailing above us, wispy grass twittering in the breeze, and the air laden heavy with mystery and barely veiled giddiness, I could admit that none of this—not one bit of it—made sense. And yet ... it was imminently sensible, perfectly juicy, and a real-life fairy tale.
Score one for Fairy Jane.
And one for me for going chips all in.
All tied up.
A little gust moved toward us across the surface of the loch, ruffling everything in its path. As it tousled my hair and tugged at my sweater, I imagined it intent on whipping up mischief. Content to let it, I went up on tiptoe, letting my lips brush against the curve of Sean’s ear as I whispered, “Wanna score?”
21
In which a bit of dandelion fluff is well and truly caught
It seems that in an odd confluence of fortune cookies, fairy magic, and “weird,” Sean and I have ended up together. I should probably say thank you, Dear Journal ... Fairy Jane ... Miss Austen. You’ve been quite the interfering busybody, and yet ... without you I’d still be daydreaming of Brett, baking the same old chocolate cupcakes, and listening to Leslie rant about men and rave about women. You swooped in, an honest-to-goodness, no-nonsense fairy godmother, grabbed me by the ear, and shook some sense into me. Evidently you’re not a fan of the pumpkin carriage / glass slipper method, but whatever works, right?
And sitting here, on the shore of the mysterious and truly magical Isle of Skye, watching Sean skip stones over the water, I have to admit, it worked like gangbusters. The thongs are in play, and tomorrow we’re flying back to Austin and a new and different weird life. I can’t wait ... if for nothing else than an ice cube and a cloudless sky.
Turns out Sean is a sensible investor in not only his pension but a slew of stocks and mutual funds as well. How sexy is that?? Evidently the man is destined to surprise and delight me at every turn, a situation I’m finding increasingly appealing. Clearly I’d been mistaken in classifying him as a Henry Crawford—he is most definitely a Mr. Darcy, my Mr. Darcy. I must admit, I don’t know quite what to do with you, Dear Journal, and yet I suspect you would agree that your “unique powers” are better suited to the individual rather than the collective world of Jane Austen devotees. In particular, my own perfectly happy ending makes me wonder how Beck is faring with her current romantic entanglement and whether she might welcome a little magical interference. That is, if you’re up to it ...
 
O
n that note, I tucked the journal back into my messenger bag, eager for this last chance to spend time with Sean on this side of the pond—at least for a while. We hadn’t had the “journal talk” yet, but it would need to be soon, for the sake of my sanity. Besides, I rather suspected Sean would take it all in stride.
Fairy Jane’s response I once again saved for the plane. With Sean napping beside me, his hand warm on my thigh, I skipped through the pages till I found the one I was looking for.
You have to admit, weird is sensible and sexy, and a happy ending is magical.
A Note from Alyssa: How Jane Austen Edited My Book
In 2006 I became obsessed with all-things-Austen, and despite my relatively blissful ten-year-to-date marriage, that obsession manifested itself in part with the purchase of
Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating
by Lauren Henderson. I was fascinated by the premise of the book—that Jane Austen’s six novels, written two centuries ago, could offer relevant and adaptable romantic advice to modern-day women looking for Mr. Right—and I wondered whether I could work a similar concept into my current work in progress.
Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating
is broken down by chapters, highlighting ten key points of timeless Austen advice, each supported by anecdotes from her novels and modern-day examples. And then at the end, there is a quiz ... well, two: “Which Jane Austen character are you?” and “Which Jane Austen character is the man you like?” Naturally I took the quizzes. Who wouldn’t?
Based on my answers, I am “Anne [Elliot]—quiet, composed, and cautious.” My best matches are Captain Wentworth, Colonel Brandon, and Edmund Bertram, according to Ms. Henderson’s compatibility matrix. I can definitely see that.... I am all of those things. (Once you get to know me, I am also funny, direct, and outgoing, like Elizabeth. Just FYI ...) My husband is characterized (based on my answers) as “straightforward, happy, and looking for love,” and might be a Captain Wentworth, Henry Tilney, or Mr. Bingley. So, generally speaking, we’re compatible. I may have already figured that out for myself, but it’s good to know that our relationship is Jane Austen–approved.
The early brainstorming stages of
Austentatious
are a little fuzzy. Nicola was at all the meetings, as was Sean, looking very sexy indeed. The journal was there, too, not yet corrupted by the advice and magic of Jane Austen. What I do remember is being struck by the perfect, world-altering moment in which it occurred to me that maybe I should squeeze a little Austen into my Austin-set story. Maybe the journal, somehow channeling the still-spunky spirit of Jane Austen, i.e.,
Fairy Jane
, could offer up useful bits of modern-day romantic advice. Bits that would throw a kink in the romantic works of the ever-so-sensible Nicola James. I
adored
this idea, and I was thrilled to get back to work.
After that, Jane pretty much took over. She nuanced her way into every aspect of the book, and I just went along for the ride.
Austentatious
is, in part, a (loosely interpreted) modern-day retelling of
Pride and Prejudice
, and part homage to the wit and timelessness of Ms. Jane Austen. The dedication on the first page of the journal attributed to Ms. Austen was actually written by her, in a similar (although presumably not magical) journal given to her niece. Cool, huh? Stumbling across it and having it fit so perfectly with the story line of
Austentatious
, I could not help but consider it a little bit of magic from Fairy Jane herself.
Keep an eye out for Alyssa’s next novel, coming next year!
1
“
W
hat does it say about me that I’m jealous of the lives of fictional characters?”
I posed the question nonchalantly as I nudged my Scrabble tiles around on the stand.
“Given that you’re a high school English teacher, referring to eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British lit, it says you’re glamorizing an era before indoor plumbing and takeout,” Ethan said in his calm, rational manner. He glanced up at me, over the top of his tortoiseshell frames, gauging my reaction before refocusing his concentration on his own tiles.
I smiled ruefully and supposed in some ways, he had a point.
“Besides,” he continued, “what do you have to complain about?”
“Not complain, exactly. More lament.”
Prefacing his turn with an eyeroll and playing off the “T” from my wildly impressive “TRAMP,” he neatly laid down all his letters to play “INTRIGUE,” on a double word score, earning him a whopping seventy points to my seven. It was doubtful I could come back from this, particularly given the slew of vowels I’d just drawn, but I tried not to let it bother me. I never won against Ethan. Besides, I didn’t need the distraction, being as I was in the middle of my own pity party.
Ethan tallied his score and slid his hand into the bag of remaining tiles. “I’ll bite.... What are you
lamenting?
”
“The reality that I may as well be wearing a tracking anklet, for all the excitement going on in my life. Then again,” I said, looking out into the yard at the Bradford pear tree that had stripped down to bare branches, “the FBI would never bother to issue me an anklet, because I’ve ceased to be a ‘person of interest.’ Literally.”
“You either deserve the anklet or you don’t, Cate. Pick a side.”
I wasn’t particularly interested in continuing our Scrabble game, both because I was losing badly and because I was trying to make a point, so I ignored the board—and the fact that it was my turn—and focused on the pita chips I’d “borrowed” from my mom’s pantry.
“Fine. I’m lamenting the fact that my life would never make the cut in publishing. I don’t have any big moments—no cliffhangers, no happily ever after, no thrilling action sequence—just filler.”
I crunched a chip loudly, feeling violently frustrated. Yep, that was me: violently frustrated and taking it out on a pita chip. My shoulders slumped.
“This isn’t about
Pride and Prejudice
again, is it? Because that book is a menace.”
“We’ve already determined that you, Mr. Chavez, are jealous of Mr. Darcy, so your opinion is moot. Besides, you’re well aware that
P&P
isn’t on the district reading list this year—this year’s graduates are going to go off to college without ever experiencing the wit of Lizzy Bennett and the serious sex appeal of Mr. Darcy.” I gazed off into the distance, hamming it up for Ethan’s benefit, before getting back to business. “They did substitute
Emma,
so at least we know they’re not completely uncultured.” Willing myself back from the tangent, I grabbed another chip and swiped it through the hummus I’d found in my own refrigerator.
“Are you planning to play your turn?”
I looked up at Ethan, exasperated at his inability to focus.
“Are you here for the Scrabble or the company? Because if you’re just here for the Scrabble, then maybe we should stick with the iPhone app and save ourselves the face-to-face.” I knew I was starting to sound snippy, maybe even a little hurt, so I abruptly stopped talking.
Ethan reached for the Corona beer, sweating and forgotten, in front of him and sat back in his chair. He lifted one eyebrow in invitation for me to continue to talk my heart out.
I stared at him, with his tousled dark hair and weekend stubble, his deep brown eyes worldly wise behind his glasses, and I instantly regretted my snappish words. Scrabble notwithstanding, I would hate it if I missed my Sunday evenings with Ethan. He was the yin to my yang—or, more accurately, the squelch to my whine, and I needed that more often than I cared to admit.
I sipped my own beer with its tang of lime, puckered my lips, and prepared to make my point.
“Much as you’d probably hate to admit it, you’re living the male version of my life. We both work in a high school—I teach English; you teach French and German. You live alone; I live alone, although admittedly in my mom’s backyard. You haven’t had a girlfriend for as long as I’ve known you, and you never talk about the women you’re dating. I can’t get further with a man than the first Saturday night date because you pick him apart over Scrabble on Sunday. Why I continue to confide in you is beyond me.” I stopped, letting that all sink in.
“That’s what friends do,” he said, taking another pull on his beer and keeping his tone matter-of-fact. “They warn you off unsuitable men. Men have a way of impairing your judgment—I call it the Darcy Effect. Bad manners and mediocre good looks and you think he’s a worthy specimen. Turns out he’s more like a bug. So I dissect him.”
“I’m so glad we’re friends.”
“If you’re looking to change things up a little, friends with benefits would be acceptable to me.” He grinned, a boyish, mischievous grin that convinced me he was definitely kidding. Which was a relief. Because that would be weird. So weird.
I needed to meet someone before ...
I blinked and shook my head slightly, hoping to dislodge that train of thought.
“I need to do something,” I finally said, glossing right over his provocative suggestion.
“Dare I suggest finishing the game?” He lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head, indicating my little row of vowels.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I said, sour-sweet.
“Okay, does that mean you’ll pay the forfeit? I’m thinking pepperoni pizza.”
“Fine. I’ll trade you the pizza for an honest answer.”
“That’s gonna depend on the question.”
I pierced him with a quizzical stare. “What have you got going on in your life that has you looking so self-satisfied all the time?”
Ethan’s mouth hitched up at the corner, putting the smug out on display. “That’s pretty personal.”
“Interesting comment coming from the man who just suggested we upgrade our Scrabble matches to include benefits.”
“I meant pizza,” he deadpanned.
“Evidently you’re not so much a man of mystery as a man of mystery meats.” I shook my head, biting back a smile, and looked away from him out over the darkened yard. Obviously Ethan was keeping his secrets close—assuming he had any that didn’t involve hot cheese.
Sitting here under the brightly decorated Japanese lanterns I’d convinced my mom we should string up under the oaks, the possibilities seemed endless, the world glowing—I just needed to hold on to this feeling and find a way to have a little adventure. It couldn’t be anything too risqué—one amateur videographer with a camera phone was all it took for things to get very hairy indeed. A good friend of mine had learned that the hard way. I needed a buffer, a way to keep my real, respectable everyday life separate from a little after-hours adventure.
An alter ego would be perfect ... sort of a secret identity. I could be the kind of girl who would wear red lipstick and a secret smile and agree to a “friends with benefits” arrangement without batting an eye. Or maybe batting them madly ...
“Want me to order the pizza?”
My gaze whipped back to Ethan, his face fringed in shadow as he searched his phone for the number of the pizza place. I blinked rapidly, trying to get my thought processes back on track, hoping the darkened twilight hid the flush in my cheeks and the nervous whites of my eyes.
“Knock yourself out,” I finally agreed.
As we waited for the pizza and I considered, and discarded, a number of “alternative” options, opportunity e-mailed an invitation.
Derring-Do and Savoir Faire ...
presented by Pop-up Culture
Join us for an evening inspired by the films of Alfred Hitchcock.
Suspense, my dears, is key, and so the evening’s menu must remain
a mystery....
The cast of characters: charismatic men, intriguing women,
and glamorous, grown-up drinks.
When? Sunday, All Hallow’s Eve, 9:00 p.m.–midnight
Where? Location to be revealed on confirmed reservation
Entrée? $40, suggested donation
RSVP to this email address by Tuesday, October 26
Chills edged up my arms as I scrolled through each consecutive line. This was
it!
A perfect departure from my bookish, Darcy-obsessed self.
Pop-up Culture was the current business venture of my good friend/bad influence Syd Carmelo and fellow food junkies Olivia Westin and Willow Burke. It was a sort-of culinary underground, hosting über-cool, invitation-only “pop-up” events all over the city. Austin was cooler than ever. I’d been on the mailing list from Day 1, but had yet to make it to an event—I either had a parent conference, a family commitment ... or a long-standing Scrabble match. I ended up getting the details with the rest of the city in the paper’s Lifestyle section. Halloween was only a week away. And this time, I was going.
Not as myself, though. I was in the mood for a little “mysterious.”
Maybe I’d be a Hitchcock blonde ... with a long, slow smile and a whiff of suggestion. The blonde aspect, I had covered. The rest might require a little practice. I hurried to RSVP before I could lose my nerve. Next Sunday ... I glanced at Ethan, who was randomly arranging tiles on the Scrabble board. Sundays were currently reserved for my “friend sans benefits.” I could either ask him to go with me or I could strike out on my own. Chances were we’d be done with Scrabble in plenty of time for me to transform myself into a blond bombshell.
I’d started to type in my RSVP, single lady attending, when car doors slammed in the front yard, signaling that the pizza had arrived. Pocketing my phone, I grinned to myself, smirked in Ethan’s direction, and nearly skipped through the gate at the side of the house. Only to stumble across my mother, holding a large white pizza box up over her head.
“Mom!” I glanced at the pizza dude, collapsing back into his tiny car, counting the bills in his hands.
“Hi,” she said, dodging carefully around me. “I took a chance—thought maybe if I sprung for the pizza, you’d let me share.”
“Sure,” I agreed, trailing along behind her. “Where have you been?” Somewhere casual, I assumed, judging by the charcoal gray track pants and raspberry Polarfleece pullover she was wearing.
“Just out,” she answered, vaguely waving her free hand, seeming to encompass all the options the city had to offer for an active fifty-something.
“Hello, Ms. Kendall,” Ethan said, politely rising to his feet while surreptitiously eyeing the pizza box currently being held out of reach. He’d been a quick study, clueing in early on to the whole “recently divorced, taking my life back” attitude my mom was projecting. As far as he was concerned, “anything goes” was a bit of a watchword when it came to my mom.
My mother smiled at him. “Final score?”
Ethan glanced over at me, leaving me to answer.
“He’s waiting for you to relinquish the price of my forfeit,” I confessed, not even the slightest bit embarrassed. “Mom paid, so you’re going to have to share,” I informed him.
“Okay if we rough it and eat straight from the box?” he said, hurriedly gathering up the Scrabble board to make room for the pizza box in the center of the table. “I’m starving.”
“A picnic under the stars—lovely,” said my mother, smiling approvingly at Ethan before turning to me to flash the twinkle in her eye. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
Honestly, I think my mom would be thrilled if I answered Ethan’s teasing booty call.
The next ten minutes were blissfully quiet as we devoured gigantic greasy triangles of pizza with single-minded determination. I noticed a few bats winging gracefully overhead, but otherwise I was distracted by the opportunity burning a hole in my pocket. Suddenly I worried that a flood of people would jump at the chance to attend a Hitchcock-inspired party and edge me out with their quick-fingered RSVPs.
“Anyone need anything from the kitchen?” I yelped, standing suddenly, my legs pushing my chair away from the table. “Napkins have become necessary.”
The pair of them eyed me quizzically but declined my offer. But as I neared the French doors leading into my mom’s kitchen, she called out, “Cate, I’ve changed my mind. Will you pour me a glass of the Cabernet on the counter?”
“Got it,” I said, stepping into the dim kitchen. The desk light in the corner was on, pooling a warm glow, so, preferring to keep my little secret from the pair outside, I decided to make do without additional lighting. It seemed irrational, but I couldn’t help it; I wanted this one little secret for myself. My life wasn’t just an open book with these two, it was an interactive free-for-all. Mom had been running interference in my life long before Dad and Gemma had left two years ago, within three weeks of each other, leaving us only to breathe an anticlimactic sigh of relief.

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