The next day, I waited nervously for Nigel, mentally rehearsing my disclosure of Claire's plot to undermine the organization with her grant proposals. As I waited, I carefully tracked Claire's covert activities, noting each mission to the copier, watching as she loaded her stapler, determined not to miss anything. My Jane Austen sat in the corner oblivious, reading Jane Eyre. The memory of Willis standing at the back of the reading room interrupted my reconnaissance efforts at ten-second intervals. Why had he left the reading?
By the time I returned from my chore of planting a water bottle at the podium for the speaker lecturing on "Edmund's Multiple Incumbencies," Nigel's office door was open and Vera was leaning over his desk, dropping multicolored capsules into a pillbox. The pillbox doors for the various days of the week were open like baby bird beaks and Vera dropped pills, shutting each door as she went.
"It's Lily." She smiled.
"And how is our favorite reader today?" Nigel asked, looking especially tired.
Me? "I'm fine," I said, remembering how my mother's medicine all disappeared when Sue arrived.
"You look worried," Vera said. "Is everything okay with your tea party?"
I closed Nigel's door, cutting Claire off; then folded my hands and took a breath as they both watched me, concerned. "I heard yesterday that Magda is seeking university affiliation for this festival," I whispered.
Vera picked up another prescription container and Nigel leaned back in his chair.
"We know," Vera said, and then pointed at Nigel. "You see?" She shook her head and dumped pills into her palm. "I've been telling him," she said to me, shrugging. "He won't listen to anything I say. I think we need to act—now."
"I refuse to bother a sick woman," Nigel said, rubbing his eyes.
"She's not sick, she's dying," Vera said, passing him the refilled pillbox.
"All the more reason." Nigel shut the pillbox in his desk drawer.
"All the more reason." Vera stood. "If you won't go with me, I'll take Lily." Vera looked at me. "Lily understands business. Did you know Lily has a real estate license?"
"I don't have a license," I said, rolling my eyes.
"I'm sorry, Nigel," Vera said, fluttering a hand, "but I'm not about to stand by and watch the ship go down with you in it. Lily, we'll need to prepare a new lease," Vera said. "Ask Claire for a fresh copy."
Right. I wasn't asking Claire for anything.
When everyone was gone for lunch I acted against my better judgment and began the impulsive walk that would end in the attic. I had second thoughts upon reaching the second floor. What was I doing? But as I stood outside the door to the attic stairwell, preparing to disappear myself, the click of a latch and the squeaky whine of door hinges resonated down the hall. I was nailed. Sixby called out to me from his room.
"Ah, 'tis the sun," he said. "Just the starlet I wanted to see. Come," he beckoned, reopening his door. "I have something for you."
I scurried down the hall. Fearing Willis would choose that moment to emerge from the attic stairwell, I entered Sixby's room more willingly than under normal circumstances. Costumes lounged on horizontal surfaces and his wardrobe stood open displaying a poster of the Royal Shakespeare Company's Romeo and Juliet.
"What happened to you?" he asked, gracing my hand with a theatrical kiss—didn't mean anything. "I haven't seen you around." My Jane Austen flipped through the little black date book on his table.
"I've been working in the office," I said. Claire was probably looking for me now, hands on her ample hips, wondering how her work would get done with me running around the festival like Fanny Price on Prozac. "And I'm organizing a tea-theatre." I described the plan, knowing I needed him to play a part, working up to the request, keeping my back to his unmade bed. "Since Magda won't allow me in her production, I'll just have to produce my own."
"Lily, let go of what happened on the stage," he said.
"Magda says she's not paid to teach me to act."
"The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo." Sixby looked down at me, dark roots visible along his hairline. "So I'll help you." Willis would never highlight his hair. "First thing is: the Book." He pointed.
Books had piled up in here just like in every other room in the great house. I lifted one from the stack on the floor. "Where did all the books come from? I've never seen so many outside of a library."
"Nigel's dead friends."
"That's nice."
"AIDS, you know."
I dropped the book back on the pile.
"Mostly English teachers and writers, some theatre people. Great collection of books but some of it's getting a bit dated. Ah, but not this one," he said, pulling the very small book from a pile on the shelf. "Acting." He handed it to me. "Thank me no thankings."
Ancient and frayed, the cellophane cover disintegrating, the book fell open and stayed flat in my hand, no resistance left in its binding. A previous reader had underlined the soft yellowed pages in pencil, and its smell reminded me of my lost childhood books. "Isn't it funny," I said, "how old books smell the same?"
Sixby took the book and sniffed. "A rose by any other name."
"It doesn't matter what library they come from," I said. "They all smell the same."
"Lily, you may be on to something." Sixby handed the book back. "But after you finish smelling it, give this book a proper read."
Gripping the book in both hands, I looked Sixby square in the eye. "Sixby," I said carefully, "will you play the lead in my production?" His expression lost all trace of theatrics; my request obviously triggered stress. At last, the real Sixby stood before me.
"I don't think that's a good idea," he said, squinting. "Magda and all."
"Yeah." I nodded, slipping the book under my arm. "I guess you're right."
"But I'll be there for your opening. When is it?"
"Next Wednesday at four. I hope," I said.
"Fantastic," he said, much brighter. "And don't forget we have an act to plan for the follies."
"The follies." I hugged the book.
"We need a good idea," he said. "So think of something: music, dancing, a little Shakespeare."
"Parting is such sweet sorrow," I said, deadpan. "That's all the Shakespeare I know."
"O, speak again, bright angel!" Sixby's rich voice captivated me, just as it had at the orientation meeting. He stepped toward me and took my arms as if his messy bedroom were a stage and I his leading lady. "For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven." The artful way he said thou and glorious lifted me out of myself. "Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes," he said as I felt myself airborne, soaring on the beauty of his modulation. "Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air." I closed my eyes and imagined exercising my diaphragm to respond in kind. The words spun in my head, reverberating, sound falling on me like dazzling snowflakes as I raised my arms and touched fingers with Sixby, the power of his delivery endowing me with the belief that if I opened my mouth, words would come out to match his in depth and timbre. I was Juliet. I felt the emotion; if I knew the lines I could speak. But then Sixby's lips touched mine. I opened my eyes; footsteps approached in the hall. Before I could move my mouth away from Sixby's, Omar stood at the door with an armload of paper.
"From Magda," he said, handing the stack to Sixby.
Sixby groaned.
"Do you have time for lunch?" Omar asked me.
"What's up with you and Sixby?" Omar asked, sitting across from me, waiting for our sandwiches, the pub especially noisy, thanks to a group of men drinking their lunch.
"He's helping me," I said, the acting book tucked in my JASNA bag.
"Helping himself." Omar laughed. "Must be smitten with your inexperience."
"Acting lessons," I said, wondering if Omar might be jealous. I'd caught him watching Sixby at odd moments.
"Acting Lesson Number One." Omar's index finger stabbed the air. "Teach Only Naive American Girls."
"That would be me," I said, over the din of laughter from the men at the next table.
"Acting Lesson Number Two," Omar said. "The Importance of Rehearsing Love Scenes."
"Not in Austen," I pointed out. "No danger there."
"Well," he said, "revisionism is rampant at Literature Live. Just be careful." Omar pulled a folder from his satchel. "Here's your script," he said.
"Thank you, Omar. That was quick." I opened the folder and scanned the first page. Lovers' Vows, Condensed for Lily's Tea-Theatre. Seven characters: two women and five men. "Where will I ever find five men to play these roles?" I looked up at Omar, who was watching the table of noisy men. "Omar."
"No."
"Please?"
"I cannot act."
"That doesn't matter. I'll teach you."
"No." Omar stood. "I'm going to get our sandwiches now."
"You can have the smallest part. Oh please. If you say no, I'll have to beg Sixby and who knows what will come of that."
Omar laughed. "You'll be good as Agatha."
"I'm Amelia or nothing. I'm in charge, remember? You can play Anhalt." I took his hand and pressed it to my cheek. "Please?"
Omar rolled his eyes. "Maintain your dignity." He took his hand back. "I'll do it—only if—you can't find anyone else."
"Oh, thank you! Thank you!"
As Omar brought our sandwiches from the bar, I brought up the subject of Magda's funding initiative. "It seems that Nigel's in denial."
"Yes, Nigel is in denial on many fronts."
"What do you mean?" I asked, speaking over the din.
Omar looked at his watch. "How much time do you have; I'm not sure where to start."
"Approach it alphabetically."
Omar ticked off on his fingers. "A," he said. "Austen's global, Actors are expensive, Attention spans are shorter."
"Okay, okay."
"Banks family bails out, Cash flow dries up, Death claims Nigel."
"Death?" I asked. The table behind Omar shouted a toast.
Omar put his hands down. "Surely you know he's sick."
"No." They clinked glasses and drank.
"HIV positive as long as I've known him. And he's going downhill this summer."
My hand flew to my mouth. How could I not know this?
"I'm surprised Vera didn't tell you."
"No, she didn't." But now I knew what she carefully sorted and lovingly dropped into his days of the week, hunched over the pillbox, the desk littered with prescription bottles. How sick was he and how much time did he have? One of the men at the next table slammed his empty mug.
At my request, John Owen, the conservationist in charge of maintenance, accompanied Mrs. Russell and me to the kitchen for the purpose of turning on the water. According to my calculations, we needed twenty gallons of tea, and none of our volunteers would haul that much water into the house dressed as Regency ladies. We had no servants, other than me, and I had pressing responsibilities elsewhere. "We need to fire up the stove as well," I said to John Owen, who crouched below the surface, grimacing as he applied his wrench.
"Blow us all up, won't you?" he said.
"Oh no." Mrs. Russell clutched her fringed shawl, she hadn't figured on explosions. She lowered tools to John Owen and his helper, a shirtless grad student by the name of Stephen Jervis, Caribbean judging by his caramel skin and Rastafarian plaits lining his scalp. Perhaps he had roots in Antigua. Stephen and Mrs. Russell, who carried the wrench, went outside; we could see and hear them through the big hole in the wall. Mrs. Russell giggled from a place deep in her chest right before Stephen gave the go ahead to turn the faucet. Globs of water spit and spurt into the sink before easing into a smooth rush.
"Hooray!" I said. "Can you try the stove now?"
While my helpers continued working, I ran back and forth between kitchen and office. Sorting through files, I found the expired agreement. A napkin-quality document, I marveled they'd kept it. While they tested the gas, I typed up a new version using the same casual language but adding the title "Lease Extension" and a line for Lord Weston's signature. No telling how much longer Nigel would be around to use his IBM Selectric. Desperate to beat both Magda's grant applications and Nigel's terminal illness, I rushed around, filling the copier, hunting paper clips, the thought of Willis in the attic beeping like a private snooze alarm.
Mrs. Russell was standing outside the kitchen looking tense when I returned. "Don't go in there," she said in an unfamiliar chest voice. "We have leaks. Stephen has gone for new pipe."
Stephen. I covered my nose.
"What's that smell?" I turned to find Magda bearing down on me. "We can't have this horrid smell. The next scene starts in thirty minutes."
"We have everything under control," I said calmly, glancing about to make sure all the windows were open. "Don't worry."
"Are you responsible for the water coming out of the second floor bathroom?" Magda asked me. "I don't want it raining in here."
"Not a problem," I said. When Magda was out of earshot I asked Mrs. Russell, "Do you know how to turn off the water?"
I didn't have enough information to complete the lease. Nor did I have enough ideas to start a business plan. What university would give me funding for the festival? And in spite of my compelling concern for Nigel and his festival, I kept one eye on the clock, my adrenal glands dumping on several false alarms when tall people in dark shirts walked by. By the time we got the water and gas turned off again, Mrs. Russell had recruited Stephen Jervis to join our theatre. I decided that a short attic break would send me back to my projects with renewed energy.
"What happened to you last night?" I asked. Willis sat at his desk. The laptop closed, he'd been reading Living Abroad in Belize.
"Nice to see you, too." He smiled.
I walked to the window and sat on the plank bench, feeling my bones on the hard surface. "You vanished."
Willis turned his chair to face me and I felt his eyes, studying me. "Life is too short for bad writing," he said.
He'd listened to the workshop story. While I was oblivious, thanks to him, he'd had the presence of mind to comprehend what she read. Now he focused that same level of inspection on me. I didn't want to come up lacking. I didn't want to end up ditched as bad writing or bad flirting or bad anything. Nervous, I launched into mindless chatter of the sort that would surely have me thrown out for bad conversation. My Jane Austen closed her eyes and slashed her throat as I chattered about the water and the gas leaks, Magda's takeover, and Nigel's illness, willing my pulse to settle as I described my urgency to get something signed by Lady Weston before the kitchen exploded. "Vera wants me to accompany her to the hospital and ask Lady Weston to help us get a lease extension signed," I said. "Soon."
His expression gradually changed from happy interest to mild censure as he stood to fetch a book from the stack behind his table. "I don't think that's a good idea."
I slumped against the window. "Neither does My Jane Austen." No sooner were the words out of my mouth than My Jane Austen stopped breathing and stared at me. I froze, touching my fingers to my lips. Did I feel the vibration of a kitchen explosion two floors below or was that my stricken heart? Had he heard what I said?
"What do you mean your Jane Austen?" Willis asked.
I inhaled. "Sit down," I said.
"I'm sitting." He smiled, joining me on the window seat.
"Everyone who reads The Six..." I went slowly to make sure he was with me.
"Six Jane Austen novels." He nodded.
"Yes. Believes they know Jane Austen personally. In our secret heart of hearts, each of us believes that she speaks to us personally in her writings. My Jane Austen just happens to follow me around most of the time," I said very slowly.
"I see." Willis bit his lip.
"She's here now."
"Where?" He glanced into the room.
"In the corner." I nodded toward the murky fringes of the room without looking directly. Willis looked directly. "She's like a floater you get in your eye. If you look at her she'll dart off to another periphery."
"Inconvenient," Willis said.
"She's not real." I reached for Willis's arm as if he might be the one with the mental problem.
"Okay." He looked at the hand touching his arm.
"This is all make-believe, Willis. You'll have to stretch the imagination here a bit."
"No, I'm with you. Go on."
In an expansive rush, I told Willis what I'd never told anyone—couldn't even imagine telling anyone. "She's not beautiful. In my mind, she looks like the sketch Cassandra made of her, perpetually irritated, a bit of a bully. She died young so she's eternally forty-one years old, and gray runs through her dark brown hair. Her face is pale with a hint of blue. Sometimes she reminds me of a vampire in a Romantic sense, sucking the experiences out of people to fill her pages."
Willis leaned toward me as I continued.
"But her strongest representation for me is Patron Saint of Thoughtful Women." I paused, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. "She believes that women whose inner lives dominate their personalities, reserved women who take a backseat to the witty, charming Mary Crawfords of the world, should marry for love." I glanced at him. "Secondary types, like me and Fanny Price, are the protagonists in her stories."
Willis looked at me in a way that made me stop talking.
"What?" I said.
He didn't answer, but took my chin in his hand, raised my face to his, and kissed me.
"Sorry," he said. "I was overcome by all that."