Jane Austen Girl (9 page)

Standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped around her, she considered the fact that from a father’s point of view, Jane Austen Girl wasn’t the highest of goals to aspire to. With the plethora of reality shows mapping TV channels today, even she could see how he might arrive at that conclusion.

And why was she doing it? For her own gain, of course. The publicity alone would put her business on the radar of women all over the country. She couldn’t deny wanting this.

Even so, she hardly qualified for black hat status. It wasn’t as if the girls she ended up picking would be immediately drained of their IQ like the fair-haired victims in those zombie movies they used to show in high school during lunch period.

In all fairness, she thought it could be safely said that Bobby Jack Randall had based his opinion on a number of cliché assumptions. Having arrived at that conclusion, she resolved to shelve any lingering feelings of dismay over his surprise late night visit to her room.

She was fine with what she’d come here to do. And she didn’t need to reassess anything based on the accusations of an overprotective father who obviously had some issues of his own to sort through. Especially when that father was a relative of Darryl Lee’s.

She blew her hair dry and then quickly got dressed. From the things she’d brought with her, she chose a slim black Max Mara suit she could only wear when she’d been sticking to her veggies and avoiding the Italian restaurant two blocks from her apartment where they served the best Risotto Milanese this side of Milan.

She finished up with lipstick and a spritz of Jo Malone and then leaned across to pick up Sebbie. He whined and looked at the pillow with longing. “You want to stay put?”

He whined again.

“Okay,” she said, setting him back onto the bed where he immediately curled up and closed his eyes. “Be good,” she said. “I’ll be back to check on you in a while.”

He licked her cheek in response, and she stood up, rubbing his soft coat. On the lower shelf of the nightstand, she spotted a yellow phone book. On impulse, she reached for it. She kept her hand on the cover for a moment, then quickly opened it to the residential pages and flipped to the B’s. She traced her finger down the right hand column, coming to a stop at McAllister, Maxine. 54 Knolltop Rd. Same number they’d had since she was seven, and they’d moved to the house a few miles outside of town.

She stared at the line of information, something inside her unraveling a little. She dialed quickly before logic could take over and change her mind. A beep sounded, followed by an operator’s voice that declared the number no longer in service.

She replaced the receiver with a bang that jangled her arm, then sat there rubbing it for a moment, before picking up the phone book and stuffing it back inside the nightstand. She didn’t have time for this.

Where was the sudden guilt coming from anyway? She didn’t owe her mother anything. And besides, what would they have to say to one another after nineteen years? Grier: Sorry I moved away and never called. Her mother: Oh, that’s all right. I assumed it was the lousy childhood and all.

And what exactly was she supposed to say other than: At least you were right about that.

We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to the Atlanta School of Design.
Your
impressive GPA along with the talent shown in your drawings make you an ideal candidate for our Fashion Design program. 

We are proud to continue our tradition of educating some of the country’s finest clothing designers. And we look forward to hearing from you regarding your decision to attend ASD.
 

From the acceptance letter Maxine McAllister received on the same day she discovered she was pregnant in the spring of her senior year in high school

CHAPTER TEN

Maxine had been awake since four. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept through the night.

It was funny how people took things for granted, never realizing their value until they were gone. For Maxine, sleep was just one on a long list.

She lay on the less than comfortable mattress and stared at the ceiling while light eventually crept into the room. In the bed by the window, April Bower moaned softly and then mumbled a few words in her sleep. Almost always, she called out one of her children's names, followed by something she’d probably said to them often when they were growing up. “Sammy, finish your breakfast. Manny, time for your bath.”

In the six months they’d been sharing this room, April’s sons had only visited her twice, both of them glancing at their watches most of the time they’d been here. It didn’t seem fair that April should have kids like that. Years ago, Maxine had actually known her as a nice woman who worked at the county library. A woman who’d lost her husband too young and worked hard to take care of her children. Only to end up in this place with two sons who begrudged what little time they gave her.

Unlike her own story.

Maxine had never once questioned Grier’s leaving Timbell Creek and not coming back. But there were times when she’d missed her so badly she thought it might actually kill her. And like a good night’s sleep, she hadn’t appreciated her daughter until she was gone.

The knife sharp pain that had woken her two hours ago renewed its rant, stabbing low in her abdomen. She gasped out loud and bit her lip. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried counting, focusing on getting to twenty since that was how long it usually took for it to begin to fade. Only this time, she hit thirty-five, and the pain hadn’t let up. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

She gave in then and pushed the nurse’s call button.

Five minutes later, Mrs. Marsh waddled into the room, stopping at the side of her bed. “Pain bad this mornin’, honey?”

“Pretty bad,” Maxine said, wiping the back of her hand across her face.

The nurse patted her leg and clucked with sympathy. “You hold on now. I’ll be right back with somethin’ for you.”

It seemed like an eternity before she returned, even though it was probably only minutes. The pain had become a fog through which Maxine could see nothing beyond the immediate.

“Here, hon,” Mrs. Marsh said, handing her the two pills and then holding a cup of water to her lips.

“Thank you,” Maxine managed, her voice raw.

“I’ll come check on you in a few minutes,” the nurse said.

Maxine bit her lip and nodded. It took fifteen minutes for the pain to begin to lessen, finally lowering its intensity to a dull throb. She opened her eyes and found Mrs. Marsh watching her from the doorway.

“Any better?” she asked.

“Yes,” Maxine said.

The heavyset woman walked over to her bed. “I could ask the doctor to increase your pain meds. I know you haven’t wanted that, but I think it’s time, sweetie.”

The woman’s compassion was almost more than Maxine could take. Hearing it, she could no longer fool herself about the progression of her disease. Which, she supposed, was exactly what she’d been doing. Pretending there was some possibility it could still go away. “I’d like to think about it,” she said.

“Okay, honey, you do that,” the nurse said, patting her on the leg again.

Maxine lay there a long time after she left, letting acceptance creep in degree by degree until there it sat in front of her. Undeniable. Time was running out.

Had she thought she might actually leave this place one day? Maybe that was the way the mind dealt with the unthinkable. Reshaped it into something that could be processed. Something that didn’t loom like an axe at the neck. But it was time to face the truth. And if she let herself finally admit as much, it would be a relief to concede to the stronger medications. The battle was beginning to wear her out.

She reached for the nurse’s button again, but stopped herself just short of pushing it. Later today. She would tell them later. But first, there was something she had to do.

I was hoping you’d come by last night. Give me a call. I’m missing you. Maggie.

Note left on the windshield of Bobby Jack Randall’s pickup.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bobby Jack drove the county road to his current job site with one hand on the steering wheel, the other beating a distracted rat-a-tat on his knee.

He glanced at the piece of paper he’d tossed on the seat beside him, guilt nagging low in his gut. He knew he ought to call her. Decency dictated as much. And yet something inside him balked at the thought. He was just so bad at this part. Casual dating, he could handle. But when it started heading toward something more, that was where he had trouble.

He didn’t want more. Didn’t need it. Had no space for it.

And that was hardly fair to a woman like Maggie Morgan who’d done nothing more wrong than send him a couple of signals at a church picnic a few Saturdays ago. Signals he should have ignored, but instead, had responded to in a weak moment.

Maggie was a nice woman, divorced, no children. And lonely as all get out.

It was this realization that had convinced him he shouldn’t see her again after the first date. But then she’d called him with an invitation to come over for dinner. Caught off guard, he hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse that sounded anywhere near convincing. And so he’d gone, immediately ashamed of himself for all the obvious effort she’d gone to. Fresh flowers throughout her house, the smell of homemade bread greeting him at the door and making his mouth water. She was a great cook, preparing a meal for him that he truly would not forget anytime soon.

They’d spent a couple of hours on her sofa with a glass of wine, Maggie asking him a hundred different questions about his business, his life. The conversation had been followed by some pretty intense kissing. But Bobby Jack had been the one to pull back, telling her he had to get home and check on Andy who’d had a bit of a sore throat when he’d left. A tiny white lie. The truth was, Maggie Morgan was a nice woman who needed a nice guy to appreciate her efforts enough to take it somewhere.

Bobby Jack wasn’t that guy. It just wasn’t a road he wanted to take. He’d been single a long time, and mostly, he liked it that way. Raising Andy while Priscilla played coach from the sidelines didn’t leave him with a burning desire to add another female personality to the mix. Even one as nice as Maggie.

Thirty minutes outside the town limits, he pulled into the driveway of a nearly completed spec house he’d built on Clearwater Lake. It was one of four he had under construction on the lake, fast becoming known around the country for its clean water and beautiful shoreline.

The real estate boom here had started out as a trickle a few years before, most recently reaching its current mind-boggling status with every builder in the area. People were moving in from places like New York and California and paying upwards of a million dollars for houses that would have gone for half that not so long ago.

Bobby Jack wasn’t complaining. He believed in making hay while the sun was shining. He knew from personal experience that the clouds always came, sooner or later.

He got out of the truck and spotted Darryl Lee at the front door of the house, talking to a painter. About a year ago, he’d brought his brother on board with him when the workload had started keeping him in the office until ten o’clock every night. Darryl Lee had no complaints. He’d spent the past dozen years working for his father-in-law, a situation that had grown less and less attractive with the demise of his marriage to Dreama. And the truth was when Darryl Lee turned his thoughts to something other than chasing skirts, he earned every penny Bobby Jack paid him.

“Mornin’,” Bobby Jack said, walking past his brother and Rod Morris, the painter whose business they were keeping busy full-time.

“Whoa, there,” Darryl Lee said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We were just going over those last color choices for the house on Bent Tree Road. The main color we’ve been using is on back order over at the building supply. Want to wait on it or pick something else?”

“How long before it’s in?” Bobby Jack asked.

“Week,” Rod said, pulling a round tin of tobacco from his back pocket and pinching out a small chunk before inserting it between his lower lip and gum.

“Let’s just wait then. That color seems to be the one that makes most people happy.”

“Got it,” Darryl Lee said.

Rod stepped off the porch, threw them a wave. “I gotta get going then. Catch up with ya later.”

“We about to tie things up here?” Bobby Jack said to Darryl Lee once Rod’s truck backed out of the driveway.

“Yep. You got a buyer for this one?”

“Not yet.”

“The way things have been going, it won’t take long.”

They talked business for several minutes, going over the things that had to be done that day, before Darryl Lee propped a hand behind his neck and said, “Hey, Bobby Jack, about yesterday.”

Bobby Jack looked at his brother, raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need to explain anything to me.”

“Man, I think you got the wrong idea.”

“Did I?”

“You know who that was?”

“Actually, yeah, I found out last night. She’s the woman doing interviews over at the Inn today for that reality TV show.”

Darryl Lee leaned back, his forehead knit together and said, “Say what?”

For a moment, Bobby Jack figured his brother must be lying. But then he looked as surprised by the news as he himself had been when Grier McAllister opened the door to her room last night, and he’d realized she was the same woman he’d seen with his brother that afternoon. “So how do you know her?”

“We dated a while in high school. Before she took off and left town.”

“When was that?”

“Senior year. Never did know the reason why.”

“So what? You two hook back up or something?”

Darryl Lee laughed. “I wish. Hot, isn’t she?”

Bobby Jack folded his arms and glanced out at the lake where a Sea-Doo cut across the wake of a ski boat and went airborne. He ignored his brother’s assessment and said, “So what’s the deal with you and Dreama, anyway?”