She told herself that she detested parties. In particular she was weary of the exchange of frivolous gossip that masqueraded as sophisticated conversation. What did she care about Emilia Rothman’s new dress, and what of interest could be found in the whispered debates regarding the handsomeness of Arthur Potts’s recently acquired moustache?
“So you’ll be okay looking after the store for a few days?”
“Of course I will,” Lucy told Jane. “It’s a bookstore, not a day care.”
“All right, then,” said Jane. “I don’t imagine you can do too much damage in that amount of time.”
“You might be surprised,” Lucy teased.
It had been a week since Jane had received Kelly Littlejohn’s email. She still hadn’t spoken to her new editor, but they had corresponded by email several times. Twice now the editor had called the novel “Austenesque,” which always made Jane giggle when she read it.
Kelly had emailed Jane the previous evening to say that she was returning from Europe earlier than expected and to suggest that Jane take the train down to New York on the second of January so that they could meet in person. The publisher would put her up in a hotel. Jane had agreed before asking Lucy if she would mind the store, knowing full well that her assistant would jump at the chance to have free rein.
“I’d better not come back to find you’ve replaced all the self-help books with graphic novels,” Jane warned.
Lucy grinned. “I was thinking more of putting them where the religion books are,” she said. “And installing a cappuccino machine.”
Jane groaned. “Why do I think I’m going to regret this?”
Lucy rubbed Jane’s shoulders. “Oh, relax,” she said. “It’s New Year’s week. Nobody buys anything anyway—they just return the stuff they got for Christmas.”
“That makes me feel much better,” said Jane. “Thank you.”
She hadn’t told Lucy the reason for her trip, at least not the real reason. Lucy thought she was going to New York to meet a friend and see a show. Although Jane badly wanted to share her news, she felt it would be a mistake to talk about it until everything was in order.
“Some time away from here will be good for you,” Lucy informed her. “You’ve been so … tense lately.”
Jane shot her a look. “Meaning what?” she demanded.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Meaning that,” she said. “You’ve just been a little snippy.”
“I have not been snippy,” Jane objected.
“Okay, okay,” said Lucy, holding her hands up in defeat. “You haven’t been snippy. My bad.”
“Go shelve something,” Jane said, trying not to laugh. She could never get mad at Lucy.
Lucy walked away grinning. “I get to be in cha-aa-aa-rge,” she said in a singsong voice.
The phone rang and Jane answered it. “Flyleaf Books.”
“Yes, could you please tell Miss Jane Fairfax that there’s a gentleman caller on the line for her?”
“Hello, Walter,” Jane said. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m just calling to confirm your presence at tonight’s New Year’s Eve gathering,” he answered.
Jane groaned silently. She’d forgotten all about Walter’s party. She’d said she would go, but now that it was upon her she dreaded it. She considered telling Walter that she couldn’t make it, but she was suddenly unable to think of a believable excuse. “Of course I’ll be there,” she replied. “What shall I bring?”
“Nothing but your fine sense of humor and your smiling face,” Walter told her. “That will be more than enough.”
“You’re satisfied with so little,” Jane joked. “What time do the festivities begin?”
“Nine,” said Walter.
Nine, Jane thought. That means at least three hours with those people. She shuddered. “I’ll see you then.”
“Got a date?” asked Lucy when Jane had hung up.
“It’s very rude to listen to other people’s conversations,” Jane told her. “And no, it is not a date. It’s that party.”
“Don’t you just love New Year’s Eve?” Lucy asked. “I do,” she added, not waiting for Jane’s answer. “It’s like you’re getting another chance to get it right.”
“Get what right?” said Jane.
“Everything,” Lucy answered. “Your life. It’s a new start. You can be anything you want, do anything you want.”
“You don’t need a new year for that,” said Jane.
“Of course not,” Lucy agreed. “But it’s symbolic. A new year, a new you. What are your resolutions?”
“I learned long ago not to make any,” said Jane. “They only set you up for failure.”
This was true. As girls she and Cassie had always made New Year’s resolutions. They wrote them on pieces of paper that were then folded and sealed with the wax from their father’s study, and gave them to each other for safekeeping. They did not open them until the next New Year’s Eve, when they looked at what they had written and debated whether or not they had achieved their goals. Too often Jane had failed, although admittedly this was generally because her resolutions were along the lines of “stop gossiping about the neighbors” and “try to pay more attention in church.” Cassie, who was much more likely to have accomplished her goals, never made Jane feel small. Regardless, her lack of success chafed, and she had eventually stopped altogether.
“Well, I have some,” Lucy continued, undeterred. “I’m going to go to yoga three times a week, learn French, run a marathon, and get at least two poems published—and not online, in real magazines. Oh, and I’m going to volunteer helping underprivileged kids learn to read.”
“Very admirable,” Jane told her. “I applaud your determination.”
“Or maybe I should just lose five pounds, finally paint my bedroom, and stop smoking,” said Lucy.
“You don’t smoke,” Jane said.
“I could start,” Lucy replied. “Then it would be easy to stop and I would feel better about myself.”
Jane laughed, then left Lucy to her work and went into the back storeroom to check the stock. As she counted books she considered the notion of resolutions. If she were going to make any, what would they be? Losing weight was out—she was dead, after all—as was smoking (although she admired Lucy’s novel approach to giving up vices).
“I suppose I could stop eating so much,” she concluded, “or at least so many.” But without Cassie to determine the extent of her success or failure, there’d be no fun in it. Sighing, she pushed the entire matter from her mind and rearranged the cookbooks.
Several hours later, having sent Lucy home and locked up the store, she was faced with another decision—what to wear to Walter’s party. As she looked through her closet, what little enthusiasm she had for the evening disappeared completely. Everything seemed either too drab or completely unsuitable. “It’s not as if I go to a lot of parties,” Jane informed Tom, who sat on the bed watching her.
Dressing had been so much easier in her day. True, there had been a few more undergarments to contend with, but by and large the actual dresses themselves varied only a little. “One always knew exactly what one should wear to what,” said Jane.
She considered, and rejected, a number of different possibilities. She was surprised to realize that it wasn’t because she couldn’t decide what to wear, or even that she had to attend a party about which she was not terribly excited. “It’s because I care what Walter thinks,” she admitted to Tom, who was now asleep.
She suddenly felt very foolish. She was, for the first time in a very long time, worrying about how she appeared to a man. “It’s just Walter,” she told herself. “He doesn’t care how you look.”
But it wasn’t about him; it was about her. For reasons she chose not to dwell upon, she wanted to be attractive for him. It was a worrying prospect, but it was there nonetheless and she had to acknowledge it. Stupid girl, she thought as she renewed her search for something suitable. Even Catherine had more sense.
Eventually she decided on a sleeveless velvet dress in deep green. The occasion for its purchase was long forgotten, but it was the nicest thing in her closet, and so she put it on. It was decidedly modern, a far cry from the confections of her time. The hem fell just above the knees, and there were no unnecessary frivolities like bows or rosettes to get in the way. She vaguely recalled having purchased it somewhere in the late fifties (perhaps a party at the Kennedy summer home?), and for a moment worried that it was out of date. But retro is in, she reminded herself. For once you’ll be fashion forward, even if it’s purely a result of never throwing anything out. She added earrings and a necklace, then checked her reflection in the mirror.
Staring at herself, she wondered what Walter would think. Again she wished that Cassie were there to tell her she was presentable. Maybe I should just stay home, she thought. But she’d promised Walter she would come. And it was only for a few hours. “How bad could it be?” she asked herself.