Those arriving at the orientation meeting were forced to squint as morning sun cast white rectangles of light on the wall above the massive stone fireplace. As they squinted, I took a good look at their name tags, bracing myself for the possible arrival of Miss Banks. Urns of coffee exhaled a cozy morning smell and green plastic yard chairs crowded around small tables facing the stage where, in a few days, actors would perform for the public. A staff person tested a microphone while someone placed water bottles at each place on the table behind her. So far, no Banks.
I'd been awake since 3:10 A.M., impatient to begin my new life. I couldn't wait for costumes and scripts so I could start protagonizing in a British accent. My Texas life seemed so far away, and I wondered if the man from the church would be at the meeting. Vera waved to me from her table across the room where she sat with a group of seniors. A man with billowing gray hair and hiking boots, his collar turned up rakishly as if he might be famous in literary or academic circles, sat next to a woman in a flowery skirt, a dog at her sandaled feet. Perhaps these were the founding board members Vera had mentioned. They drank coffee and gazed fondly at the arriving participants. Surely each board member held a position on Fanny Price.
The noise grew as more people arrived consulting their orientation packets, fetching coffee, and settling at tables where one person talked and the others nodded or expressed amazement. A ponytailed guy with a clipboard approached and asked, "Are you Anne?" A flustered woman dropped a heavy book bag on the floor at the table next to me and told her companion, "I looked everywhere." Accumulated sound traveled up to the top of the high ceiling, and then down again. I wished people would settle so we could get started. Everyone had an orientation folder except me. Was it obvious I wasn't a real actress?
I scrunched a plastic chair into the circle around a table, having recognized Pork Chop from last night's improv at the pub. Her name tag said Nikki. My chair arms touched chairs on both sides of me as I listened to the conversation concerning the lease renewal, and how someone believed Philippa Lockwood, Lady Weston's granddaughter, held all the cards regarding the festival's future at Newton Priors. Nikki consulted her watch. "Wasn't this meeting set for half eight?" she asked the group.
"My schedule said eight-thirty," I said.
They all looked at me; no one blinked or smiled.
"Oh," I said, "right."
A group of excited children sat together, three girls and two boys, and none of their name tags said Banks. Proud mothers hovered over the child actors who surely played the young cousins in early scenes. Gary the Middle Eastern driver brought more plastic chairs and Omar appeared in the doorway. I wished I could sit with him.
The people on the stage greeted each other and stalled. Sixby sat next to the tango dancer he'd kissed in the pub. Hard to believe he asked me to perform in the follies with him. Magda wore not just a scarf, but an entire full-length caftan and black robe. She and the staff person huddled over an enormous key ring like characters from Tolkien's Middle Earth.
"Why is Magda dressed like that?" I asked Nikki, who maneuvered her chair to face the stage. I could understand wearing it if you had to, but she'd been dressed in jeans last night.
Nikki frowned as if this was something I should have known. "She wears the abaya to be in solidarity with women who are forced to wear such attire in the Middle East and North Africa—and to raise our consciousness of that fact."
I nodded.
"Actually, her university is considering her proposal for a seminar on Islamic feminism." Nikki unscrewed her water bottle. "You've met Gary? Her brother," she said. "Real name's Gamal and he's seeking a visa extension"—Nikki smiled—"in case you didn't know."
The sound of metal against glass caught our attention and the buzz of conversation faded. My stomach jumped; the moment had arrived at last. This was it. I wanted to listen. I wanted to know everything all at once.
"Good morning, and welcome to the thirty-first season of Literature Live. For those of you I've not met, my name is Nigel Saintsbury, and I am the founder and executive director of Literature Live." So this was Vera's husband, a white-haired man in patched tweeds who looked as though he might don wellies and walk the moors with hunting dogs. He winked at Vera—The Look. They were fond of each other. Why didn't they live together? "You are very welcome here," he told us. "We know your work: actors, writers, and teachers."
They must have some kind of atypical marriage. Vera visits Nigel in the summer.
"You are the cream of the crop. We had to turn away people we'd like to work with."
Nigel's gaze traveled to the back of the room and we all turned to see a balding but confident man walking in, making his way through the tables. The guy I'd seen in the dark church walked in with him. The one from the church hit his head like a comedian and the other smiled, but I had a feeling the dynamics between them were usually reversed. "Today, I have the pleasure of introducing our patron," Nigel said. "Although we deeply regret Lady Weston's illness, we are delighted that Randolph Lockwood, the Eleventh Baron of Weston, is present to bestow her annual welcome."
The Randolph Department. But which man was Randolph? The guy from the church or the one with the deeply receding hairline? Everyone applauded and I experienced great relief that it was the hairline guy. Casually dressed in jeans and blazer, his white T-shirt peeking over the V-neck of his sweater, he smiled, walking to the podium as if he did this sort of thing a lot and his premature lack of hair was our problem, not his. I'd met his type before. The fact that he was not handsome in the accepted sense didn't bother him in the least. His profound powers of attraction stemmed from enormous confidence and intelligence: his type rarely played the straight man and never found himself at a loss for words.
Randolph cleared his throat, summoning gravitas. "On behalf of my grandmother, whose health prevents her from being with you today"—he was the prince now—"I welcome you to Newton Priors, my family's ancestral home, for another season of Literature Live." I imagined him mocking us in a bar later. "Her Ladyship is a person of many and varied interests," he said, "but none so capture Lady Weston's enthusiasm as the enactment of Jane Austen's novels. It has been her greatest pleasure to know you are here and to visit you each year at Newton Priors." I'd never seen an aristocrat. He was perhaps on the young side of thirty-five and spoke with a lovely accent. Probably a great dancer.
I glanced back at the guy from the church, curious to see his expression. His brow indeed furrowed attractively in concentration, a knowing smile on his lips betrayed familiarity with Randolph's remarks. I felt My Jane Austen in the background, taking notes, writing on her little squares of ivory fastened like a fan, the eighteenth-century word processor.
"Her Ladyship wishes to acknowledge deep appreciation for the financial support of the Banks Family Grant, as well as the dedication of time and talent on the part of so many staff members and volunteers who enable the festival's continued operation." I noticed he didn't thank the expensive actors. "And of course, the festival would not exist without the leadership and vision of Nigel Saintsbury, for whom we are most grateful." Everyone applauded, but it seemed Nigel had been added as an afterthought.
"To change course a bit"—he paused a moment while we adjusted our headings—"Vera will be taking a look at operations this summer, generating ideas to upgrade and maximize the utility of Newton Priors."
I sat up straight.
"And I invite all of you—Vera has mentioned that some of you have interesting ideas—to share your thoughts."
Had Vera told Lord Weston my ideas—about firing the expensive actors and selling lecture subscriptions?
"We mustn't rest on our laurels," he continued. "Even Jane Austen can stand a fresh approach every thirty years or so." This got a laugh. "Please know that we have the utmost respect for your talent and dedication," Randolph said. "And will carefully consider the ideas you bring to the table concerning the festival's future."
I sensed a threat of endangerment.
"And now," he said, raising his hands in princely benediction, "with all best wishes from Lady Weston; my sister, Philippa; and myself, let the season begin." Randolph shook hands with Nigel and a few others, darting looks to the left and right, aware that paparazzi lurk everywhere. The church guy waited in the back of the room, arms folded across his chest, and once Randolph reached him they departed the way they had come, taking some of the energy from the room when they left.
Nigel introduced Sixby, the lead actor and assistant creative director for Literature Live—my Hamlet from the pub and follies partner—who stood to open the meeting with a reading. In Texas, we'd be getting a prayer.
Sixby read from near the end of Mansfield Park. "'Timid, doubting, anxious as she was, it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success.'"
I hung on the turn of Sixby's head, the way he said hope. He took my breath away; I wanted to get inside the words with him. Austen's prose never sounded so beautiful in my head. Where did he get the ideas for the inflection? Goose bumps prickled my arms and legs, and I wished he would go on, but he stopped, and everyone clapped thunderously. I made a mental note to get the book and read that part again—in his accent.
"Close as he could get to a love scene in Mansfield Park," Nikki snarked.
Nigel looked at the floor, showing us the thinning hair on his crown as we took a breath with him. When he looked up, he said solemnly, "We gather every summer—in this place—brought together by the work of the great artist Jane Austen." He paused after each phrase to allow his words to float down and settle on us like snowflakes. I felt certain My Jane Austen enjoyed this as much as I did. "When I explain to others what we do, I like to borrow the words of John Burroughs: 'Literature is an investment of genius which pays dividends to all subsequent times.'" He paused. "Jane Austen gave us her genius. We are simply the clerks whose job it is to pay out dividends to our time.
"We return to the text again and again," Nigel continued, "in order to penetrate the meanings with which Austen charged her books." I stopped breathing in order to concentrate on his point; did his returning to the text idea include Magda and her radical interpretation of the subtext? "The words are the medium through which Austen expresses her particular vision of what it means to be a human being in the world we share. Two. Hundred. Years. Later. We continue to return to her text."
I felt my heart swell, my mind raced on the adrenaline of Nigel's comments. I was with him. Someone chose that glorious moment to walk into the room and noisily pull back a chair. Heads turned to see the young woman sit next to Omar. How could anyone be late? How could anyone disrupt our communion with Jane Austen? And I feared it was her.
Nigel introduced several other staff members, including Suzanne Forbes, the wardrobe director, who instructed all cast members to schedule fitting appointments after the meeting or suffer bleedings.
The latecomer sat too far away for me to read her name tag.
Archie Porter, the hip, middle-aged managing director in torn jeans and a gray ponytail, took the stage, his forearms resting on the podium.
The latecomer didn't look like she belonged here.
His words struggled to keep up with his rapid neural connections. He spoke to the floor and then looked up at us. "You know"—he pointed—"it doesn't matter if you like your Austen straight or with a twist of politics, whether Mansfield Park is about society's limits on individual spirit or about slavery, incest, and lesbianism, it all comes down to..."
I sat on the edge of my seat wondering what it all came down to, thrilled that he might reveal a delicious new insight.
The latecomer wasn't paying attention.
But Magda rose from her seat and interrupted Archie, silently handing him a clipboard. Archie's next words sprang not from his brain but from Magda's clipboard. We looked at the sticker on the back: a cigarette in a red circle with a line through it. His other hand raked his hair, and when he resumed speaking, he stuck to the mundane details of our orientation, never sharing what it all came down to. Perhaps Magda didn't want us to know.
Archie said, "No one is ever to enter the gates in civilian clothing. Cast members must be in costume and staff must be dressed in black at all times." I wanted to schedule my fittings. "Rehearsal for all actors will begin immediately," he said, and "the schedule for the season is in your packet." I wanted to rehearse. Archie warned us, "Treat maids kindly; they are paid, but not much." I wanted the latecomer to go away.
Then Archie made a goofy face, alerting us to an inside joke as he reminded us, in a falsetto voice, to prepare ourselves for the annual Founder's Night Follies, an evening of homemade entertainment commemorating Jane Austen's half birthday, sort of. "And you will be there," he threatened, "or you will miss Magda's impersonation of Aunt Norris." Magda gave him a look and he shrugged.
Maybe the latecomer was one of Omar's writing students.
The staff woman, Claire, jumped up and reminded everyone "how thankful we must all be that the Banks Family Grant has agreed to finance this summer's budget shortfall." Banks family? Then Claire made it final by looking directly at the latecomer. My worst nightmare had arrived and taken a seat among us. Miss Banks ignored Claire, pulling the cellophane off a pack of cigarettes. Miss Banks, present and accounted for.
"And for those of you who may not know, Literature Live is an independent operation. I can't really think"—Claire, the staff woman, looked at the ceiling—"of any other festival or conference that operates without university or corporate affiliation." She pointed to herself. "I'm the accounting department. You're looking at the accounting department."
Laughter, solid like one dense sound, rose and receded.
She listed on her fingers, "The tuition from the writing program covers staff, our endowment from wills and bequests covers part of the actors' salaries, but we will not be here next year unless a new dedicated funding source is found."
Was this true? I looked at Vera, her jaw clenched, gaze fixed straight ahead. Had she seen Miss Banks? Claire, the staff person, might have had more to say, but Nigel thanked her and she returned to her seat.
A low murmur rumbled through the room and Nigel raised his arms to quiet us. "You may have heard rumors," he said, "concerning our lease renewal. Please don't gossip about it." His hands went into his pockets. "Vera and I have known Lady Weston for over thirty-five years. That relationship, along with Her Ladyship's commitment to sharing Jane Austen's voice with the world, will ensure our lease is renewed and Literature Live thrives well into the future."
Again, the low murmur from the room.
"Your job is Mansfield Park." Nigel put one finger in the air and spoke over the noise. "Your job is to exercise your gifts of writing and academic inquiry in this safe place." He raised another finger in a peace sign. "Your job is to dazzle with your performances." Nigel pleaded with his arms, "Bring Jane Austen's words to life."
Yes, I said silently.
"Leave the renewal of the lease to me and Vera."
Vera closed her eyes and nodded.
I could wait no longer. People were going through the papers in their envelopes, consulting each other and raising hands to ask questions. I had to know. My pulse raced as I approached Vera.
"Is that Miss Banks sitting over there?" I asked. "The Miss Banks that wasn't supposed to show up?"
"Oh dear," she said, looking over her shoulder. She appeared older in this light, and I wondered if she and her table-mates were seventy, some pushing eighty. "This makes no sense," she said. "Come with me."
Conversations buzzed and spun around my head. People with questions approached the stage and Nigel yelled over the din for anyone with payroll issues to consult Claire. Nigel touched Vera's arm fondly and leaned in to listen to her question. What was it like being married to him? Then he straightened, looked at me, and shook my hand.
"The great American reader; I've heard of you." Nigel winked; he looked much older up close. But I loved him and feared for his approval already. Surely he could fix the Miss Banks problem.
"Nigel." Vera grabbed Nigel's arm and pulled him close, a look of restrained hilarity on her face. "Don't look now," she said, "but Mrs. Russell is at eleven o'clock, headed this way." Heedless, I looked up and saw the Janeite from yesterday's check-in table. Still dressed as if she'd just stepped from the pages of Pride and Prejudice, ribbons from the military hat still straining her throat, she made her way over.
"Oh damn," Nigel said. "Give them a ball and they'll be back in two ticks demanding a seance."
"Run." Vera pushed Nigel. He managed to escape, but Mrs. Russell was no lightweight. She snagged me instead.
"Oh, Miss Berry," she said in her singsong voice, standing on tiptoe. "Have you set a date for the tea?"
"Every day at four." I waved a napkin as Vera pulled me in the opposite direction.
"Let's check with Archie," Vera said.
"She showed up," Archie said, shrugging.
This was my life he was shrugging about.
"We made a decision." Vera insisted, her nostrils flaring. "We gave Lily the part. Would it be so hard to just find another part for the Banks girl?"
Archie shook his head and, at that moment, I had a perfect image of him lying to his wife, throwing another stick on the fire threatening his marriage. Then he pulled Vera into an embrace and spoke so close to her ear I heard only the word Magda. I felt my forehead. My hand was cool, my forehead burning. Watching them, I felt the possibility of Literature Live slipping from my grasp, the presence of the immortal Jane Austen closing down again. Had I been mistaken to believe I could find my niche in this place? Feeling faint under the burden of my accumulated failures, I pulled out a chair and reproached myself: Literature Live was an exclusive club I could not join; Newton Priors somebody else's house, and Mansfield Park a novel I'd never live in. Leaving Texas had been so final, and Literature Live my happily-ever-after. This couldn't be over already; the universe was running out of places for me to fit in.
"Are you okay?" Omar asked.
"It seems there's no part for me." I looked up at Omar.
"No kidding," Omar said. "You're not a professional actress, am I right?"
He nailed me.
Nikki chatted behind us with an acquaintance from previous summers, laughing, touching the place over her heart, finally letting the other person talk.
"I'm a human resources level five specialist," I told him. "Or I was before they fired me." I began to think writers were the new psychologists. I'd been wary of psychologists from a young age, afraid they had a power like X-ray vision, capable of infiltrating the defenses guarding my deepest private meanings. Karen thought a therapist or minister could penetrate my grief, I'm just glad she never thought of putting a writer on the job; Omar would have nailed me in the first session.
Omar sniffed. "Vera's done this before, for your information. Her M.O. is to adopt an innocent young reader like you and expose her to this world, her own little Pygmalion operation. We all know she does it but you're the first she's tried to pass off as an actress."
My mouth hung open. "What happened to those women?"
"Not much, a little admin work, a minor flirtation with our resident aristocrat, and back home. Nigel fixed the problem by hiring a staff person."
"You mean Claire?"
"Yes. Vera knows the drill here. They hire professional actors."
"What about Elizabeth Banks?" I asked. "She's not a professional actress."
"Oh." Omar smiled. "Right. They will hire amateurs that belong to families of board members that come with big donations. And she's related to the Westons. Elizabeth Banks and Randolph are cousins." Omar nodded to the door by which Randolph had left.
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"I read the newspaper." Omar smiled.
"It's hopeless." I slouched in my chair. "Do they counsel rejected cast members in the church?" I asked, thinking of the guy meditating in the dark.
Sixby, my Hamlet, walking by at that precise moment, interrupted. "He looks busy," Sixby said of Omar. "I'll counsel you. Just come to my office. In the pub. Second booth on the right. Plenty of ale for what ails you." And then he was gone. And then someone grabbed Omar. Everyone was so busy.
Vera approached, scowling and pulling on her black shawl. I stood to meet her, hoping she'd made progress on my case. "I'm so aggravated," she said, coming very close and whispering, "Did you argue with Magda?"
"What?" I asked. "I've never spoken to Magda." And then I remembered. "I said that I love Fanny Price in her presence. Would she hold that against me?"
Vera's hands flew up. "Who knows? Elizabeth Banks decided to show up. You're in Magda's bad book. Archie caved."
I couldn't let it be over before it even started. "I want a part," I said firmly.
"I'm working on it," Vera said, irritated.
I crossed my arms, staring at Vera, wondering what to believe. Was Vera a good witch or a bad witch? And then I remembered Randolph's comment. "Vera," I said, "did you talk to Randolph Lockwood about firing the actors and letting tourists enact the novel?"
"Yes." Vera brightened. "I gave you all the credit, if that's what you're curious about."
"What did he say?"
"He's interested," Vera said. Her eyes raced back and forth. "Randolph wants everything in writing." She touched my arm. "Can you write a business plan?"
"What?" I dimly recalled a business plan for a made-up company I'd written as a requirement for a class in college. How did I do that? Something about strategy and goals.
"That's what you'll do here. Help me," Vera said.
I would not live in a novel but instead be swept into the current of history, another casualty of Vera's Pygmalion operation, business plan version. Magda swooped in, her black robe billowing as in Miss Clavel, Something is not right, her arm locked with a disinterested Miss Banks. "Here's the Lily," Magda cooed. The Lily. Magda said to Vera, "Your friend charmed everyone at the pub." She placed her long, muscular hand on my arm and I knew she would never lift a finger for me, evident from the way she mocked my name. I studied Magda up close, her perfectly shaped eyebrows above her fine nose, her hair hidden beneath the sea of black fabric, her voice oddly sandy—like a smoker. "This is Elizabeth Banks," Magda said, gesturing to the implausible goth groupie on her arm. "You two are roommates. For now."
I extended my hand and in the instant of introduction saw that the necklace Elizabeth Banks wore was mine—the cross from my mother. I started to speak but I felt someone pull on my arm and turned as Nikki the actress said, "See you at rehearsal." When I turned back my roommate was gone.
My Jane Austen had seen everything.
In my room, I was surprised to find Gary seated at my table and my roommate—who bore no resemblance whatsoever to a Jane Austen character, secondary or otherwise—lying on a batik spread, a cell phone attached to her ear. I looked, but did not see my necklace on her neck. Her shaggy black hair, too blue-black for nature, covered her eyes and contrasted her light bulb-white skin. She raised a hand that looked like a greeting until I realized she was begging off to finish her phone conversation. I tried to look busy while monitoring her speech for signs of professional training, waiting for her to get off the phone so I could ask about my necklace. How could she care about Jane Austen? Gary stared at her, but did he understand what she said?
Suitcases waited, piled on the floor, enough for a Princess of Monaco, some still loitering in the hall. On the table, a pack of Gauloises sat unopened. Oh God, a smoker. The books I'd left on the table had vanished, replaced by her stuff: a small television and a boom box. She dug her fingers under the thick pile of black bangs, her eyes focused in a cell phone stare beyond me. A matching batik bedspread lay folded on my bed, her large flat box hid under my bed, a crate of toiletries dominated my shelf, and an abundance of black clothing hung in my closet. A recent memory of my father's girlfriend surfaced, the one where she discarded all my mom's old refrigerator magnets: the pizza ad, the library hours, even the broken angel magnet that protected us from pigging out since I was nine. When I complained to my father, my heart pounding and my breath too ragged to power my voice, saying his girlfriend had no business throwing our magnets away, he'd said, simply, "Your grief is upsetting Sue."
"Cellmate darling," my roommate put her phone down and crooned in a husky voice, the accent completely American. Just then, I discovered my books sitting in the windowsill; displaced, not destroyed.
"I'm Lily Berry." I extended my hand, feeling the roly-poly syllables of my name, almost certain my mother named me after the tragic Lily Bart. My sister says nonsense. Perhaps now would be a good time to switch to Lillian.
"I'm Bets," she said, adding, "Short for Betsy, which is short for Elizabeth."
"Can I see your necklace?" I asked.
She looked surprised, and then perhaps embarrassed. She pulled my cross out of her shirt.
"That's mine, right?" I asked, recognizing the custom design as well as the chain.
"I got it out of that drawer." Bets pointed and shared an endearing smile, perhaps the key to her life's progress thus far. "Don't be mad at me," she said.
"I'm not mad," I said, "but that necklace is very important to me and I need it back."
She didn't move.
"Now," I said, my voice calm. "I need it now."
"I'm so glad you're here, my fellow American," she said, reaching behind her neck to unfasten the clasp. "My mother's a Brit but my father's from New Jersey. Where are you from? Oops." She looked on the floor and then at me. "It just slipped off."
I fell to my knees and searched. She reached under her bed, exposing a spiked leather band around her wrist, the rest of her attire too short, mismatched, and torn. She must be really rich. Her shoes, electric blue stiletto pumps, bared white toe cleavage. "I found it."
"Oh good." I sighed. She handed me the cross and then the chain.
"Do you know Gary?" she asked, gesturing to the silent driver watching from his seat at the table. The familiar white bakery bag lay on Bets's bed next to an open package of potato crisps.
"Yes," I said, standing, working to put the necklace together. "The link is gone," I said, tripping over one of her bags.
"Oh, I'm so sorry for being such a hog with my things." She waved a lazy hand in the air and offered the charming smile again. "Do you want me to move my stuff?" Her eyes glanced at the box stored under my bed.
"It's okay," I said, automatically retreating, vowing to accept her second offer, although the second offer never came. I would draw the line at smoking, though. "I really need to find the link." I returned to my knees and resumed searching.
"I'm so sorry," Bets said, standing over me. "Please let me get it fixed for you. I know a really good repair shop in London."
"That's not necessary," I said. "I can fix it if I can find the link." Bets seemed truly sorry and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. "Congratulations on your part, you must be very excited about the summer," I said, sweeping the floor with my hand.
"Oh, terribly," she said, lifting one of her suitcases.
I waited. I still needed help finding the link and she'd moved on to something else.
"It's just that my life is my band," she said, throwing the suitcase on her bed and pulling out a pair of black pants. Bets reached for the zipper on her skirt, about to strip. Quickly, Gary stood, shielding his eyes with his hands, and walked toward the door. "Bye, Gary," Bets called. "Thanks for the cookies."
While I sifted through dust bunnies seeking a tiny gold circle of metal, Bets explained how she did odd jobs for a soon-to-be-appreciated band. They specialized in emotionally intense pop rock with a Teutonic edge, thanks to a talented guitarist from Frankfurt.
"So you're leaving the band to do this?" I asked, exploring a small pile of grit.
"That's the problem." She zipped the pants. "The Wallet made a deal that if I came here for the summer, he'd finance the band for another year."
"The Wallet?"
"My father. He's on the board of this place and he thinks three months away from the band will cure me."
"Wow," I said. "I bet the band appreciates the Wallet." I sat up; unable to find the missing link.
"Let me get that fixed for you," Bets said.
"No." I waved her off. "Thanks, but I'll take care of it." I slipped the broken chain and the cross back into the jewelry pouch and closed my drawer. "I can pick up a new link in town." I would not let her take it for repair, regardless of her sad expression. What part could she possibly play in a Jane Austen production? I asked her. "What role are you assigned?"
"I am"—she put her fist in front of her mouth, and cleared her throat—"not sure." She pointed to a brown envelope on the bureau. "It's all in there, but I haven't looked."
"Which Austen book is your favorite?" I asked.
She was caught in the headlights. Silence. "Um. The one about the guy who marries the nanny?"
"Yeah," I said, nodding. I hoped My Jane Austen was getting all of this.
Her phone rang and she hissed into it, "Just tell him to call me," and snapped it off. Then she moaned, "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."
"What sort of thing?"
She lifted her hands in helpless supplication and moaned dramatically, "Take my cell phone away and lock it up somewhere; it's so distracting." She smiled again.
"Okay," I said, reaching to take it. But it rang, and she spoke.
"Tommy." Her voice thick, I pretended not to hear. But before I could find anything to pretend to do, she pulled the phone away from her ear, looked at me, and squinted. "Would you mind?"
"Excuse me?" Certain I'd misunderstood; the fog in my brain had clogged something.
"I'm sorry but I need to have this conversation," she said, pointing at the phone. "Could I have some privacy?"
A little put out, I walked into the hall. Through the open transom, I heard one side of the whole argument and gathered the deal with the Wallet accounted for only part of the reason Bets had shown up at Literature Live. It sounded like Tommy wanted Bets out of the way so he could concentrate on writing music; Bets was a distraction. The angst of the argument drained my remaining energy and I slumped against the wall. After a while, I left the dorm and walked toward the town, where I discovered the quaint pastel doors merely fronted for the usual suspects: The Gap and Victoria's Secret. My Jane Austen stayed behind in the room to listen, of course.
A note waited on my pillow when I returned, "Gone to London." I turned the paper over and wrote my response, "Please move your things out of my spaces ASAP." I put the note on her pillow and stood alone in the room. Bets and her cell phone gone. Just me and her brown envelope alone in the room. Unable to restrain myself, I grabbed the envelope, unfastened the clasp, and removed the stack of papers welcoming Elizabeth Banks to Literature Live. I flipped through a schedule, calendars, directories, and a welcome letter signed simply, "Weston." Was that a legal name? Could he sign that name on credit card receipts? A note from Magda Habibi offered Bets the part of Mary Crawford. Wow! Having a father on the board didn't hurt her in the casting department.
I flipped open the script, and read:
Mary Crawford:Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure.
I straightened the papers and pushed them back into the envelope, refastening the clasp and placing it exactly where I had found it. What if Bets didn't come back from London? She seemed like the type who did whatever it occurred to her to do. Not a team player. I imagined myself in the role of Mary Crawford.
Before retiring for the night, I opened the drawer where I kept the jewelry pouch, feeling the need for a reassuring look at my cross. But the pouch lay open and my necklace—the last gift from my mother—was missing again.
From: Karen Adams [email protected]
Sent: June 10, 6:22 A.M.
To: Lillian Berry [email protected]
Subject: Helloooooo!
Hi Lily,How's it going? Same old here. The kids have vacation Bible school this week so I am taking time to sort through Mom's Christmas ornaments. Sue vacated Dad's house long enough for me to go through some things last weekend. It was heartbreaking and only the tip of the iceberg. What I really need is a kid-free week and a truck. Wish you were here to help since I'm afraid Sue will take it upon herself to dispose of our inheritance. I'm dividing the ornaments equally, giving you all the ones you made in preschool, of course. I'll store them here for you.
Met Mr. Darcy yet?
Don't forget, I love you.
Karen
From: Lillian Berry [email protected]
Sent: June 10, 7:58 P.M.
To: Karen Adams [email protected]
Subject: Re: Helloooooo!
Karen,
I may be coming home. I can't believe I came all the way over here to find out they only take professional actors...or large donations. You were right about quick moves. I am so disappointed. I'm also rooming with a punked-out kleptomaniac who took my necklace. I'll explain later. I may need a place to live until I can find a job, etc. Kiss your babies for me. Funny, when I was in preschool laminating my face into angel ornaments, I thought I was making them for both of my parents.
Love,
Lily