What kind of writer did she want to be? She had never considered the question. Now that it had been asked, she found that what she wanted was to tell the stories of women. Not women whose primary interest in life was marriage, but women like herself who wanted more than just a husband.
Winter gave way to spring, and eventually Jane stopped looking for Byron everywhere she went. She still did not tell Walter about herself, and after nagging her for weeks about it Lucy stopped, but mostly because she had something else to torment Jane about. The announcement of the publication of Constance appeared in Publishers Weekly the first week of March, with a full-page ad trumpeting it as “the must-read book of summer.” The cover was featured prominently, along with a photograph of Jane, which against her objections Nick Trilling had insisted they use. There were several flattering blurbs, and a box at the bottom announced a fifty-thousand-copy first printing.
“When were you going to mention this?” Lucy asked Jane the day the magazine arrived. “When I opened the box of books?”
Since then life had been a whirlwind. First the galleys arrived and Jane spent two weeks going over them. Several times she’d called Kelly in tears because she was convinced the novel was dreadful and should never be published. Each time he’d talked her down, assuring her that it was a very good book. After that had been the unpleasantness of the author photo, which Walter had taken with his digital camera and which Jane thought made her look like a woman who spent all her time knitting scarves and doing acrostics. Nick had proclaimed it just the thing, which did nothing to allay her fears.
There was a lull from March until the middle of April, when the first reviews began to appear. That was when people other than Lucy and Walter began to realize that there was an author in their midst. Soon Jane was something of a minor celebrity in town and could walk no more than a few blocks without someone stopping her to congratulate her on her first book. She quickly adopted a standard response (“That’s so kind of you”) and perfected the art of appearing thankful yet busy (“I’d love to chat, but I must get to the bank before it closes. Yes, we’ll probably have a party when it comes out”).
“If I’d known how exhausting this would be, I never would have sent the manuscript in,” Jane complained to Walter one evening after dinner at her house. “Having to be relentlessly cheerful is making my face cramp.” She massaged her cheeks and sighed.
“It’s the price you have to pay for literary stardom,” Walter joked.
Jane began to say something about how things had been easier when her books were published anonymously, but caught herself in time. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember what she could and could not say, and to whom. She had begun to cherish the freedom she felt when she was talking to Lucy. Having to watch herself around Walter always put her on edge.
“Kelly sent me an early review,” she told Walter. “From a newspaper in Chicago, I think. It’s quite nice.” She handed Walter the clipping, which he read silently.
“Nice?” he said when he was finished. “Jane, they compared you to Inez Gossford. That’s not just nice, it’s fantastic.”
“I suppose it is,” Jane admitted. “She’s rather popular, isn’t she?”
Walter wagged a finger at her. “Don’t you start that,” he said.
Jane looked at him. “Start what?” she said.
“The whole popular-versus-literary thing,” Walter said. “I hate it when people try to say one is better than the other. Like books people enjoy reading are somehow beneath books that literary snobs approve of.”
“Where is this coming from?” Jane asked. “I’ve never seen you so annoyed.”
“Oh, it’s just a particular peeve of mine. Whenever I mention that I like certain novels, someone has to say something snide about how although they may be popular, they aren’t real novels. It’s stupid. Then they get all put out when I remind them that some of the books we consider classics today were considered popular fiction in their time. Dickens, for instance. Even Austen.”
Jane felt herself tense up, but Walter didn’t seem to notice. He continued talking. “Where are all the ‘literary’ novels from that period?” he asked, using his fingers to emphasize the quotes. “And what about Trollope? His Barchester books are basically soap operas, yet today they’re considered great English novels. And do you know what the critics of his time said about him? They said that his work couldn’t be taken seriously because he wrote too much and admitted that he wrote for money. Like authors are supposed to languish in drafty garrets waiting for inspiration to strike.”
Jane didn’t know what to say. Of course she did know what the critics had said about Trollope. She had been outraged when the man’s delightful books had been so cruelly treated. She herself had weathered some terrible notices. But nobody remembered those now save for some academics who insisted on recording every tiny thing about a person’s life. What people remembered was that her books were read and that they were enjoyable.
“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she told Walter. “I do like Gossford’s books. I suppose I’m just afraid I won’t be taken seriously.”
“I take you seriously,” said Walter. “Your friends take you seriously. Do you honestly care what some critic who doesn’t even know you thinks?”
Jane thought for a moment. “Well, yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I do. Oh, I know it’s shallow of me, but I can’t help it. I do care, Walter. This is my first novel. I want people to love it as much as I do.”
“Well, so far no one has said a bad thing about it,” Walter reminded her. “I’m sure someone will—”
“Thank you,” Jane interrupted. “That makes me feel immensely better.”
“But they’ll be wrong,” Walter concluded. “You just have to remember that.”
She knew what he said was true. It was, however, difficult to keep herself from looking to see what was being said about her book. In addition to the reviews Kelly sent her, she had taken to looking herself up on the Internet. As the book was only available as a review copy, there was not a lot she hadn’t seen, but she had found a handful of blogs and such in which she was mentioned. As with the reviews, most of the things written about her were positive, although a couple had been less than flattering.
One in particular continued to bother her. It was a blog called the Constant Reader. The writer was Violet Grey, the Brontë scholar, and she apparently fancied herself an expert on what she referred to as “novels of the heart.” She had recently posted an item about Constance—which she admitted to not yet having read—in which she made snide comments about Jane’s author photo and expressed doubt that “a woman with such a bland face could pen something filled with passion.” In a fit of pique Jane had left an indignant comment (anonymously, of course) on the post, suggesting that Miss Grey confine her remarks to the work at hand. She had not received a reply.
“What do you want to do on the big day?” Walter asked, drawing her back to the moment.
“Big day?” said Jane, trying to remember if she’d forgotten an imminent birthday or holiday.
“The day your book comes out,” Walter explained. “We should do something to celebrate.”
“I haven’t thought about it,” said Jane. “I suppose we could make a display in the window.”
“I don’t mean at the store,” Walter said. “I mean what do you want to do?”
“Let me think about it,” Jane told him. “I may be all booked out by that point.”
“You’d better not be,” said Walter. “This is just the beginning.”
“You sound like Kelly,” Jane said. “He said almost the same thing to me this morning.”
“He’s right. You’re going to be a star. I just know it.”
Something in his voice troubled Jane. “You sound as if that might be a bad thing,” she said.
Walter smiled briefly. “It’s not bad,” he said. “Not for you, anyway. Maybe for me.”
“Why would it be bad for you?” asked Jane.
Walter sighed. “You’ll be a big success,” he said. “I’ll be the small-town contractor who can’t offer you anything.”
Jane waited for him to laugh or tell her he was kidding. When he didn’t, she said, “You really are worried about that, aren’t you?”
“A little,” Walter admitted. “As it is, you don’t want to marry me. Why would you change your mind once you have the attention of people in the literary world? Then you’ll want someone like … like … Kelly or … Brian George,” he concluded.
Jane looked into his eyes. She could see he was serious. Tell him the truth, a voice in her head commanded. Tell him now.
“That’s not it at all,” she said, realizing immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. “What I mean is … marriage … you … me …”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Walter told her. “I know how things are. And I’m happy we’ve had this long together. I’ve always known it wouldn’t be forever.”
Jane reached for his hand. “No,” she said. “You really don’t understand. I do care for you. Very much.”
“But?” said Walter.
Jane knew that if she was going to tell Walter the truth, it would be now. She closed her eyes. “But I’m …,” she began. She could sense Walter’s nervousness as he waited for her to continue. Just say it! the voice in her head cried. Just tell him already!
“I’m celibate,” she blurted out.
She opened her eyes a little and looked at Walter’s face. Celibate? she thought. That’s what you thought of first?
“Celibate,” said Walter.
Jane nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “Celibate.”
“I see,” said Walter. He cleared his throat. “That certainly explains some things. May I ask, is this a religious thing?”
“No,” Jane said. “It’s more of a … spiritual thing. I made the decision about twelve years ago. It just seemed … right. For me. Not for everyone, of course. Then we’d just die out.” She clamped her lips shut, afraid she would say something even more stupid if she kept talking.
“Twelve years,” said Walter. “That’s a long time.”
Jane nodded but said nothing.
“And that’s why you don’t want to get too serious?”
Jane nodded again. “It just wouldn’t be fair to you,” she said.
“Excuse me for saying so,” said Walter, “but shouldn’t that decision be mine? Suppose it doesn’t matter to me anyway. Suppose there’s some reason why I can’t … you know,” he said, making a vague motion with his hand toward his crotch. “Maybe I have physical problems in that area, or just don’t like it, or have hangups about my body.”
“But you don’t, do you?” Jane asked.
Walter shook his head. “Well, no,” he said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that you’ve been keeping this from me because you thought it would upset me. You didn’t give me the chance to tell you whether it would or not.”
“Would it?” said Jane, forgetting that she had invented her celibacy precisely to prevent a similar discussion.
Walter leaned back in his chair. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I’ve gone without it this long. Maybe it doesn’t matter.”
Jane blushed. To her great relief, Walter had never attempted to do more than kiss her. She’d assumed he was too much of a gentleman to suggest more. The truth was she was afraid of what might happen if she coupled with a human. Should her hunger become too strong, Walter would be imperiled. As for herself, she wasn’t certain that a mortal male could fulfill her in the way a vampire could.
“I need to think about it,” he said. He gave a short laugh. “And all this time I thought I was the problem. Not that you have a problem,” he added hastily. “I’m not saying that.”
“I know what you’re saying,” Jane said. “It’s all right. I should have told you sooner. I guess I was just embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” Walter said. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Jane felt terrible. She’d lied in order to put off having to tell him the real reason for her reluctance to become serious. Instead he was reassuring her that there was nothing wrong with her. Now how will I ever tell him? she wondered.
“I should go,” Walter said. “It’s late, and I have to get up early to drive to Syracuse to pick up a sink.”
“You’re trying to be polite,” said Jane. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little … perplexed,” Walter replied. “But I’m not angry. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Jane patted his hand. “All right,” she said. “And thank you for being so understanding.”
She walked Walter to the door, where he gave her an awkward kiss. Afterward, he laughed. “I feel like a teenager,” he said. “I’m not sure what I can get away with.”
Jane kissed him again, this time for longer. “Good night,” she said.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “What have I done?” she said. “I’ve made things even worse. Now he thinks I’m frigid.”
She went into the kitchen and took a pint of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. Removing the lid, she began spooning it into her mouth. But after half a dozen bites she’d had enough. Instead of feeling better, she was feeling worse. And if chocolate can’t fix it, she thought as she put the container back, you know it’s bad.
She turned out the kitchen light and went upstairs, where she brushed her teeth, changed into a nightgown, and got into bed. She had to push Tom out of the way, as he was sleeping on her pillow. He meowed in protest and relocated to the other side of the bed.
“Don’t you start,” Jane told him.
She leaned back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling, vaguely noting that she ought really to vacuum the cobwebs out of the corners. She wanted to go to sleep, but she knew she would just keep thinking about how she was hurting Walter more every time she lied to him. She’d done so much to keep the truth from him that now she wasn’t even sure whom she was trying to protect—him or herself.
Maybe you just don’t want to be with him, she thought.
“I don’t know!” she said in frustration. “I don’t know what I want!” As always, she wished that Cassie were there to talk to. She had always given sound advice. Even when Jane had not been able to decide what choices her characters should make, Cassie had helped her work through the options. But Cassie wasn’t there now
“I wish I were dead,” Jane complained to Tom. “I mean undead. No. Un-undead. Oh, I don’t know what I mean.”
Gripping the sheets in her hands, she began to cry.