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Authors: Alyssa Goodnight

BOOK: Austentatious
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“I’ll see what I can do,” I muttered, desperately wanting to add “Mrs. Bennet,” but too chicken to pull it off. I grabbed the platter, slid the remaining cupcakes onto the table, and skirted around her on my way toward the gate. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”
“Come on, stay for a while, Nic. If you leave now, things will just get awkward.” Laura’s voice slowed my retreat but didn’t halt it.
“Inconceivable,” I answered, still moving. Too late ... things had gone way beyond awkward.
“Start small!” Leslie called after me. “Try sleeping naked tonight! I think it’s a safe assumption that that would be new and different.” The last part was muttered, but I could hear it ringing through the night air, just like I could feel the grudge starting to build in my chest. Little by little, I was moving away from the color and light, navigating the pavers into darkness.
Confidence bolstered, I called back, “You know ... Elizabeth Bennet was content simply to be witty and charming. Meeting Mr. Darcy was just a sexy coincidence.”
“Oh that we all could have such ‘sexy coincidences,’ ” Leslie drawled, a regular Southern belle. “But you gotta play to win, sweetie. And a couple little changes could make all the difference.”
“You are pulling out every cliché in the book,” came Laura’s murmured reply, but it barely registered.
Mental snapshots of my journal suddenly flashed in my mind like before and after photos, triggered by the echoing finale of Leslie’s rousing little pep talk. Heedless of the perils of lumpy lawns and nighttime critters, I ran the rest of the way home, in a sudden manic dread over the possibility of “a couple of little changes” and who or what might have made them. Leslie would assume I was spooked by the very idea of sleeping naked. And with that funky little journal in the house, who could blame me?
 
The quiet at home was a little creepy, and the fact that my ears were tingling with cold and Leslie’s parting words didn’t help engender the feeling of normalcy I was really kind of desperate for. Plunking the platter down on the counter, I ignored the blinking message light on my answering machine and squinted toward the bookcase. If I was willing to ride out the metaphor to the point of ridiculousness, imagining that the journal was Mr. Darcy, then was this whole thing somehow my very own sexy coincidence? The possibility was a little bit terrifying, a good clue that maybe I needed to dial back on the
Pride and Prejudice
complex.
It occurred to me that maybe I should come up with some sort of game plan before I braved another look at the journal. Like what to do if nothing had changed versus what to do if
everything
had. But with my mouth drying up and my stomach roiling with nerves and the liquor from the cranberry lemonade, I couldn’t think. Strategy eluded me, right along with common sense. I wanted to look ... but I didn’t. I wanted everything to be normal, and yet, perversely, a little mystery held a certain appeal.
Squaring my shoulders, I stepped out of the light in the kitchen and moved into the dimness of the living room. It felt like high noon in an old-time TV Western, except that I was facing down a
word
slinger closer to midnight. My fingers curled in and out of fists, and I gulped big breaths of air, as if I could somehow load up on normal before stepping into a bizarro world of unexplained and unsolicited matchmaking.
I cautiously reached between the preselected cookbooks and snagged the leather-bound volume with my index finger and thumb. Hotfooting it back to the kitchen, I dropped my catch on the table and sat down to face the situation head-on—whatever that might entail. With a burst of courage, I flipped back the cover. The journal’s little doorknob thwacked loudly against the table, unleashing a new wave of nerves. So much for all my carefully built-up calm ... there was no going back now.
Seeing the first page still intact, complete with rewritten journal entry and underlined words, gave me a fleeting moment of confidence—just enough to catch my breath. These words, at least, hadn’t disappeared.
Spurred on by my thunderous heartbeat, I cautiously turned the page—and saw only white. Until the few remaining words came clearly into focus. At which point the curse words were falling off my tongue like an avalanche as I started to panic.
I really hadn’t expected a second message.
One
could have been written off as a fluke or ...
something
. But two was a definite situation. Particularly with Leslie off the hook with her airtight alibi.
Willing myself to pull it together, I read the remaining words.
cleavage
is
as cleavage
does
Every bit of tension suddenly came crashing down in the face of sheer ridiculousness. Oh, I was still panicked all right, but at that moment I was simply bowled over by the unpredictability of the situation. There I was, dealing with someone who had the mind-boggling ability to send private messages by erasing selected words in a seemingly unremarkable journal, and he / she chose to use this power to spout off on cleavage and issue a call to romance? It was like I was dealing with a teenage techie with a crush. Although I had to admit, the element of ridiculousness made things feel a little less threatening and more just
odd
. Number one, I had no cleavage worth discussing, and number two, I’d learned long ago that it was impossible to strong-arm a romance because romance was like dandelion fluff, floating out there, everywhere. And while we all chased it, grabbed hold of it, and hated to let it go, it was fickle and flighty—and impervious to even the most careful planning.
The little dandelion analogy had come to me during a particularly loopy marshmallow-crème-by-the-jar sugar high right after the demise of my only really serious relationship. I met Ethan my first year in the MBA program. Like me, he was an engineer with big dreams, but unlike me, he had no plans on how to reach them—zero. I suppose you could say the detailed nature of my Plan (and his inclusion in it) freaked him out a little. As did my “freakish obsession” with Jane Austen—his words. So he’d dumped me, and truly, I’d been a little relieved to be dumped—saved me the trouble of dumping him. I didn’t want a guy with no plans—I wanted a guy who had big dreams and the motivation to go after them. After that, romance had gotten postponed indefinitely. And
Pushing Daisies
had taught me that a to-do list wasn’t nearly enough. The man I wanted would come with the schematics and tools to hotwire a Norwegian RV. I’d been content to wait.
But clearly someone—or something—wasn’t. Someone besides Leslie.
I shivered, both from the chill in the air and the realization that, like it or not, I had a problem ... a Big Problem.
I stared into the darkness of the living room, my imagination casting me in the starring role of a B-movie thriller. Who knew what was lurking, waiting ... watching ... ready to comment.
I stood quickly, the backs of my knees pushing my chair back in a loud screech. I lunged toward the light switch, flipping on the overhead light before tussling with the lamp beside the sofa. Right now I needed lights on and voices of reason. I glanced over at the blinking light on my answering machine and decided to take a chance.
My heart beating wildly, I played the message.
“Hi, Nic, it’s Beck. I thought that since the pair of us is in a boyfriend slump—yours by choice, mine, not so much—maybe we could meet up for coffee or go troll for guys. They can all be for me. Call soon or I’ll be left to my own devices—not pretty, I warn you.”
I let my eyes shutter closed. Beck wasn’t exactly a voice of reason, but she was available, and I needed a little distance from the evening’s Snowball’s Chance in Hell. She answered on the third ring, and I determinedly stepped away from the knife drawer—I wasn’t that far gone yet.
“Beck? Hey, it’s Nic,” I said, plowing over the frog in my throat. “Still want to meet?”
“Definitely! How about Central Market? Good coffee and a full gamut of guys.”
“I’m sticking with tea tonight. Meet you in the café in fifteen?”
I didn’t respond to the muttered “party pooper” accusation.
Hanging up, I stared down at my generic jeans, nubby sweater, and ballet flats, getting a “parent or guardian” vibe. In the interest of avoiding further name-calling, I darted back to my room for a quick fix, flipping lights on as I went, hurriedly trading my brown sweater for a sleeker black one and my flats for heeled boots. A wave of the mascara wand and a slick of lip color, and I was hurrying out the door.
Then I remembered.
The journal was still splayed open on the table with all that cleavage wisdom gracing its pages. I couldn’t just leave it there. The little Pandora’s book definitely needed to be relocated, and later, we needed to have a few words. Or not. I suppose that was always an option. I slid it back onto the shelf between
Persuasion
and
Sense and Sensibility,
figuring that couldn’t be any worse than shelving it with the cookbooks.
My life had gone seriously wacko. The whole evening suddenly felt like a Vaseline-edged dream, and I desperately needed a squeegee.
3
cleavage is as cleavage does
I
saw her as soon as I stepped into the café, her wild froth of hair bent over what was undoubtedly a decaf soy mocha something-or-other.
Beck was the intern assigned to me at work, and also, by way of some sweet-talking, my mentee through the University of Texas Women in Engineering Program. I’d signed up for the program last spring, viewing it as one of those great give-back opportunities that fit in nicely with a well-rounded life plan. Honestly, I’d envisioned myself as sort of a big sister, dispensing life advice along with gourmet cupcakes. Beck was content with just the cupcakes—cupcakes were the one thing we had in common, other than our chosen career path.
She had magenta highlights and a sparkly pink nose stud
and
a Weird shirt. Not to mention a healthy interest in all sorts of new-age stuff, a willingness to try anything once, and a never-say-die attitude. She was single-handedly turning the engineering stereotype on its head.
Weaving through the maze of tables, I came up behind her. “I’m gonna go order,” I said, thumbing in the direction of the counter. “Back in a sec.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said jauntily, glancing up through her lashes at me, her eyes twinkling in amusement.
“Don’t make me punish you,” I warned, heading for the counter. She knew I hated to be ma’am’d. I ordered a nonfat chai latte and had the barista add a pair of coconut macaroons dipped in dark chocolate to my order before turning back to the table.
Settling myself across from her, I guarded the cookies close and quizzed her. “What’s the first rule of being a mentee?”
“Never call your mentor ma’am,” she recited in a pseudo-sullen mutter.
“Good girl,” I said, handing over the lumpy wax paper sleeve filled with macaroon.
“You’re the best! Next time’s on me.”
Scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, and coconut swirled around us in a yummy confluence while the café hummed with nightlife. I quietly sipped my drink and watched Beck forge a plan of attack against her mound of macaroon. I hadn’t yet mustered the courage to ask the tough questions:
Do you have to stick your finger up your nose to change the stud? If you take it out while you have a cold, does goo ooze out the hole? What about the hair—why pink?
Probably best if I didn’t. My street cred, what there was of it, would take a definite hit.
Given my train of thought, I had only myself to blame for the trend the conversation eventually took.
Looking me straight, and curiously, in the eye, Beck launched with, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Anything?”
Her intensity made me pause, but not for long. I didn’t have any skeletons in my closet. My bookshelf maybe ...
Placing her forearms on the table, she leaned in and quietly asked, “What’s going on with your chi?”
“My
chi?
” That was unexpected. “Chi as in
tai
-chi?” Immediately I pictured myself on a hilltop, stretching and reaching, for what I had no idea.
“Minus the tai. Your chi is Chinese-speak for the life force flowing through you. The positive and negative elements should always be in balance. Yours are out of whack.”
Direct hit! I could almost hear the air-raid siren. I set my cup down, troubled on two separate levels. Not only was my chi “out of whack,” but it was enough out of whack for Beck to notice and address it! This wasn’t good.
Feeling like an idiot, I asked, “How can you tell? Do I even want to know?”
“My roommate is into all sorts of stuff: crystals, chakra, tarot. Talitha taught me how to tune in to my own life forces and understand their effect on my world. Occasionally I practice reading other people.”
“Awesome.” When I realized my mouth was still hanging open, I immediately popped it shut. “So what exactly is my chi telling you?”
“Just that you’re out of balance. Something’s on your mind—something big—and it’s affecting your aura.”
“My aura?”
“Very Harry Potter, isn’t it?”
“A little, yeah.” I sat back, a little weirded out, and picked up my tea, hiding, scanning the café, looking anywhere but at Beck.
“You okay?”
My gaze slid back to her, and I couldn’t help but think,
After the evening I’ve had, “okay” is just a pie-in-the-sky fantasy for me. I’m pretty sure it’ll be a while before I’m okay again
.
“I’m just ... surprised at how dead-on your reading is,” I finally answered. Breaking off a bite of cookie, I popped it into my mouth, buying myself some time with a good-manners defense.
“Really?” She seemed very proud of herself. “Awesome. I don’t suppose you want to”—she paused to shrug casually—“talk about it?”
My initial reaction was a polite but emphatic “no thanks.” I’d known Beck for several months now, and we’d gotten to be friends beyond work and school, but I was supposed to be the
mentor
here, not the lunatic with the
issues
.
But maybe Beck had a karmic or astrological explanation for my situation. Maybe I was standing under the wrong planet rising. At that point, I was willing to listen to anything. And seriously, how judgmental could she afford to be?
I glanced at Beck, who was still peering at me encouragingly, waiting for my decision. Honestly, I was nearly twitching with the urge to let all the pent-up craziness spill out of me.
“I think that maybe I would like to talk about it,” I finally admitted, oozing calm. “But it’s a little bizarre, so I want to offer you an out—”
“I’m good, so whenever you’re ready.”
Lowering my cup, I did a quick assessment. She looked good—solid—like maybe she could handle my little nugget of news with no problem. Maybe even solve it for me. So I decided to give it a shot.
She dropped her chin into her raised palms and settled in for a good story.
“I’m just gonna blurt it out,” I glanced around, suddenly self-conscious, and lowered my voice, “
quietly,
and we’ll go from there. Sound good?”
“Great.” She wasn’t fazed at all. Evidently I just needed to get on with it.
Eyes closed, fists clenched, deep breath, and go ...
“I bought a journal at an antiques store down on SoCo and wrote in it last week. I opened it today, and words were missing.” I glanced up in the middle of my confession and paused for just the barest second, waiting to see if she was going to stop me or worse, scoff in patent disbelief. But her clear brown eyes were riveted and wide with attention, and her only change of expression was the slight lift of a single eyebrow as she waited for me to continue. I was impressed.
I took another breath and forced myself to speak slowly. “Not all of them are missing. A few are left, scattered around, and they read kind of like a ... message.”
Beck dropped her hands, straightened to perfect posture, and hitched up the corner of her mouth. “Do I get to hear what it is?”
“Um, I suppose so.” I took a breath and chickened out. On the second try, I managed to get it out. “ ‘Miss Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance.’ ” I really hoped I hadn’t made the wrong call here.
“Whoa! Like a personalized fortune cookie.” Her eyes got huge. “The entry you wrote was condensed into that?”
“Right.” I nodded and felt like a bobblehead.
She sat back in her chair and bit her lip, her eyes bright with possibilities I probably didn’t even want to consider. I wondered if I should push my luck and mention entry number two and its hints about cleavage. None of this was mentor material.
Beck leaned casually forward and asked, “Is there more?”
“Um, yeah.” That’s all it took to get her hunkered down for the rest.
Her reaction was unfathomable.
“Aren’t you the slightest bit fazed by all this?”
She shrugged. “There’s obviously an explanation.”
“Really?” I was suddenly on the edge of my chair, quivering with anticipation.
“It’s magic.”
My whole body slumped. I did
not
need to hear that. “Thanks, Luna Lovegood—that clears things right up.” It came out a bit sharper than I’d intended. “Sorry. I guess you could say I’m not quite so open-minded.”
“Well, what’s your take on things?”
“My take is that magic is for prime-time specials and Las Vegas shows—none of it is actually real. There’s always an explanation, a trick, a sleight of hand. I’m missing something—
I must be
—and tomorrow I’m going back to that antiques store to grill the shop owner for any useful information.” I wasn’t about to tell her that my confidence in this plan of action was waning with each missing word.
Beck slapped her hands palms down on the table, making little flakes of coconut jump and our drinks slosh in their cups. Her eyes flared with excitement. “When? When are you going to do that?”
“Around lunchtime.”
“Can I come? Do you mind?”
Slightly baffled by her exuberance, but not opposed to having her tag along, I shook my head and offered, “Sure. You’ll have to meet me, though—I’ll be coming from work.”
“Well, that sucks.”
“Hell, yeah it does.” I was
beyond
tired of going above and beyond.
“Okay,” she enthused, “how about I meet you around one? We can get lunch, come up with a strategy before we go in.”
“We need a strategy?” I was well on my way to being thoroughly gobsmacked.
“Well, this isn’t exactly
Lord of the Rings,
but I think a little pre-planning would be good. Has the student suddenly become the master?” she teased.
“Okay, just so you know, strategizing is tough when you’re in denial. In case you hadn’t noticed, ‘My Precious’ is sort of throwing me off my game.”
I couldn’t decide who was crazier—Beck for coming up with the analogy or me for running with it.
“So, we need a strategy,” she concluded. “Let me hear the rest of the story.”
“I’ll give you the condensed version.” I paused before revealing, “I wrote back.” Beck’s eyes widened considerably at this little tidbit. “Earlier tonight. Then I was gone for three hours, and I got another fortune.” I paused out of sheer embarrassment and then laid it on her. “ ‘Cleavage is as cleavage does.’ ”
Beck clapped a hand over her mouth, and with her eyes twinkling, it abruptly occurred to me that the little traitor was laughing! This was sooo not laughable. I propped my elbow on the table and covered my eyes with my hand. Oh, but it was. If this was happening to anyone else, it would be incontrovertibly hilarious. I made myself promise not to hold a grudge. But I did spear her with a glare.
“That is just so unbelievably cool. Not to mention ironic.”
Curious, I lifted an eyebrow.
“That out of all the weird souls in Austin, you’d be the one to end up with a fairy godmother.” She chuckled to herself.
That
got my attention. “A fairy godmother? Get serious.” I made a point of rolling my eyes for Beck’s benefit.
She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Uh-huh. And what’s your
serious
explanation for all this?”
She had me there. I straightened my spine and scraped away imaginary crumbs, refusing to meet her eyes. “I haven’t hit on a legitimate explanation yet. Right now, I’m still gathering data.”
“You mean writing in your magical journal and waiting for your fairy godmother to answer?”
“I wouldn’t describe my procedure in precisely that way, but ...”
Now it was Beck’s turn at the eye-rolling. But before I could counter, she had leaned forward, widened her eyes, and begun speaking in an urgent undertone. “Don’t you get it? It makes perfect sense. Your journal is obviously magical—what other explanation is there—
seriously?
And who else but a fairy godmother would be giving you romantic advice? Think of her as a modern-day, matchmaking Jane Austen—Jane Austen in
Austin
—
Fairy
Jane? Given your obsession with her, this is like the mother ship calling you home.”
I was momentarily struck dumb, but I rallied. “
That
makes perfect sense? Really? No offense, but speaking as your mentor, not to mention your boss, I’m not exactly getting a warm fuzzy here.”
She inched back off the table and held her hands up, palms out. “Okay, fine. Let’s pretend I didn’t say anything. Let’s pretend that you don’t have a magical journal with a fairy godmother, and she’s certainly not Fairy Jane.” She tipped her eyes down casually and nonchalantly inquired, “Have you had a chance to try it out yet, see if it works?”
I stared at her with squinty eyes, giving no thought to the wrinkles surely sprouting on my forehead. “Try what out?”
“The advice!”

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