Stopped at a light on Fifth Street, I realized I should probably head straight home, make myself some hot chocolate, and hunker down with my magical journal and its logic-defying key. I should be curious and eager to do some sleuthing—and I was. But right now, I didn’t want to read about Fairy Jane’s interference in other people’s lives—I wanted to deal with her meddling into mine. I needed some girl talk, and not the kind I was used to getting from next door.
Glancing at the clock on the dash—quarter after ten—I was pretty confident Beck was still up, either studying or defying the engineering stereotype in some way or another. I reached for the phone. She answered on the first ring.
“Beck! Hey, it’s Nicola.”
“Thank God! I left you a message hours ago, after I got your spazzed-out message, and I can only assume you have a very good reason for blowing me off?” The implication was obvious. “I’m ready to forgive. So anytime you’re ready ...”
I grinned, then bit the inside of my mouth. “Oh, I’m just calling to check in, see how your classes are going,” I lied.
There was a beat of silence on her end of the line, and I could hear funky music from unidentifiable instruments. My imagination ran wild, and I pictured an apartment with lots of jewel-toned floor pillows and dark wood, the air swirling with smoky incense. My nose wrinkled up a little.
“O-kay,” she said. “Things are good. I aced two exams this week—Control Systems and Lasers. Is that enough foreplay? Ready to get to the good stuff?”
“What?” It came out half-shocked, half-amused.
“I’m guessing you called with something more interesting than the day-to-day dramas in the College of Engineering, so as your very devoted mentee, let me just give you permission to gloss over my less-than-exciting life.”
My smile widened as I took a moment to revel in my life’s recent juiciness.
“Okay then. Way to go on the exams,” I said, trying to legitimatize our mentor / mentee relationship just slightly.
“Thank you. Now spill it. Or do you want a face-to-face? Because I’m totally up for it if you are. I’m actually a little burned out on studying, particularly while Talitha is trying her—well, belly, I suppose—at belly dancing. With all those little coins clinking and fabrics shimmying, it’s unbelievably distracting.”
“I’ll bet. Well, if you’re positive it wouldn’t be interrupting something more important, then in-person would be great.”
“Awesome. It’s Glow Bowl night at the Texas Union.”
My eyebrows came together in uncertainty. “Glow Bowl night?”
“Come on! It’s the perfect place to gossip—no one will overhear a thing.”
Somehow I found myself agreeing to that, and ten minutes later, I was descending underground, into the din. Between the music (that rock / rap combo stuff), the crack of pool balls, the smack of bowling pins, and the animated conversation, I felt confident my secrets would stay with me. Beck would be lucky to pick up the general gist.
It was just now occurring to me that I wasn’t exactly dressed for bowling. I didn’t even have a pair of socks. Eyeing the line of worn bowling shoes getting sprayed with aerosol deodorant on the counter, I suppressed a shudder.
When I noticed Beck waving from a lane to my far right, I tried not to react. While it had recently become somewhat socially acceptable, I would never be caught out in pajamas—particularly the sock monkey variety—paired with a thermal tee and a ski vest. Although I had to admit, with her hair cocked out in twin ponytails, the pink streaking through, she looked cute and enviably comfortable. Like she belonged down here. Me? Not so much. News flash from the UT Student Union ...
Beck hopped up to greet me with a giddy look in her eyes and a mischievous smile curling her high-gloss lips, and I relaxed a little. Giving me a quickie shoulder massage, she turned me toward the lanes and gestured up at the video screen suspended above. Apparently we’d be playing incognito as “Mentor” and “Mentee.” I couldn’t wait to see which of us was which.
“Go get your shoes,” she yelled in my ear, “and come right back here. I’ll find us some balls.” She wiggled her eyebrows and turned with ponytails flying.
I figured it was going to be virtually impossible for me to tell her about my date in this obnoxious environment. While one of us was on deck, swinging a nine-pound ball in a dangerous arc, the other really should stay out of the way. And I wasn’t about to shout the whole thing at twenty paces. It should definitely be interesting.
As I was sliding my stockinged feet into a pair of slightly moist leather bowling shoes, Beck walked up cradling a neon orange ball, its three holes turned toward me. “This work for you?”
Fitting my fingers into the holes, I nodded, and she half rolled/half dumped it into my hands.
“You’re just a tad overdressed for bowling.” She shook her head dismissively. “Don’t worry—nobody cares.” Stepping closer and widening her eyes with a very gratifying urgency, she prompted, “Take it from Sunday brunch.”
“Now?” I glanced around uncertainly, concerned that someone might be waiting for the lane, ready to step up and complain if we were caught squandering precious Glow Bowl minutes.
“He’s up,” she said, indicating the six-footer in loose-fitting madras in the lane to our left.
I tried to shake off the Punk’d vibe and just go with it. This was less of a girl talk and more of a drive-by. But what did I know? Maybe this was how it was done now. I took a deep breath, ready for launch, just as Beck held up her hand. ‘Hold that thought. Your turn.”
Evidently I was bowling as “Mentor” this evening.
I turned to face the clutch of ten pins at the far end of our lane. Stepping up, trying to resist the thoughts of Sean that persisted in tickling my concentration, I strode forward with measured steps, swung the ball back, and let fly.
Gutter ball.
I glanced at Beck to see her frantically waving me over.
“Go—you’ve got a minute before your ball comes back. And we can let that guy cut in if we need to,” she said in cavalier fashion.
“Okay ... since brunch ...” My normally ordered mind was stumbling over all the unexpected happenings of the last day and a half. Probably best to go chronologically. “Let’s see: I got passed over for a promotion—again, decided to switch jobs, found the key to the journal—you have no idea!, had a surprise visit from Sean at work—he brought flowers, we went to dinner, I got serenaded. We kissed, and I agreed to another date. The complete nutshell.” I glanced back toward the ball return to see my ball waiting patiently. “I’m up.”
Feeling slightly more relaxed now that it was out in the open, I stepped up, swung the ball, and watched it glide smoothly down the lane. This time it hit just right of dead center, and with a satisfying crack of pins, I picked up the spare.
“You, my friend, are unstoppable!” The smile Beck flashed had my lips curling up cautiously in response. “Tell me about the journal—is it even better with the key?” Her eyes were impossibly wide and her attitude unflinchingly giddy.
I met her gaze, wondering if Beck was above I-told-you-sos. “Turns out you’re pretty in tune with the wackiness in the world. The journal was a gift from Jane Austen—the Jane Austen—to her niece.”
Beck’s eyebrows dropped into a wrinkle of disbelief. “You have proof?”
That knocked me on my ass. “Proof? Seriously? You need proof, Mulder?”
“I don’t need proof; I just assumed you had proof. Besides,” she said with a smirk, “it’s not long before I’m a full-fledged, degree-toting engineer. I gotta walk the walk on occasion.”
“Okay, fine. My proof is that I saw the signed inscription she wrote, and it looks legit.”
She interrupted before I could continue with my seemingly impossible explanation.
“So why didn’t you see it before?” she quizzed, hefting her ball from the ball return.
“I needed the key. The key brings back everything that’s been written in the book since the very beginning—we’re talking a veritable tomb of diary secrets. My entries, the ones that disappeared and were replaced with snarky little instructions? They’re back. The book is huge with the key in and a skinny mini with it removed.”
“Whoa.” After a pause, she said, “I should probably bowl. Be right back.”
Despite glancing curiously back at me several times while she waited her turn in the bowling queue, Beck evidently managed to shake off the shock and come back raring to gossip.
“And there’s more weird where that came from,” I told her. “And honestly, I need some advice.”
“Shoot,” she said, sipping from a jumbo Diet Coke.
Taking a deep breath, I confided, “I think Fairy Jane may have left the journal. So to speak.”
Beck squinted. “She’s gone? What makes you think so?”
“No, not gone per se, just foolin’ around.”
“You’re saying Jane Austen is fooling around in Austin, Texas?” Her gaze was unwavering.
“Well, I don’t know how else to describe it! She’s messing with the calendar in my kitchen, and she’s finagling things I don’t want finagled!”
“Come again?”
I closed my eyes, digging deep for a calm, rational-sounding response. “Today I not only agreed to transfer departments at Micro, thereby backseating my bid for management, but I agreed to go out with Sean after I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved. That doesn’t sound like me, does it?”
“You’re switching out of Product Engineering? Into what department? Will I stay where I am, or can I come along as your intern, sort of a two-for-one package?”
Hell, I’d forgotten all about Beck. I shook my head. I’d deal with that later.
“Try to stay focused. What I’m saying is, I don’t think I did either of those things on my own—I think someone interfered, worked some magic, messed with my head. Does that seem possible to you?” I couldn’t believe I was asking this. “Is that common for ... magical things?”
A grin stole over Beck’s face. “This is painful for you, isn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes. “A little, so could we just get to it?”
“Go bowl. Let me think on it for a minute.”
I couldn’t concentrate knowing that no matter what it was, I wasn’t going to like Beck’s answer. I’m lucky I managed to bowl down the right lane. I think I downed a total of two pins in the entire frame. When I got back, her mouth was set in a grim line. “Come up with anything?”
“Well, I should probably preface this by saying that I have no real-world experience with anything magical, other than your journal.”
“Lucky you,” I muttered.
“And,” Beck continued, “any magical advice I’m able to give you is drawn from books, movies, mythology, etcetera.”
“Talitha’s not into magic?”
“Sadly, no.”
“Fine, fine,” I assured her. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
She held up a finger. “Probably best if I played this frame.”
I waited for what seemed an eternity for her to come back.
“Okay,” Beck said, “so now that you’ve actively engaged the journal, i.e., the magical item, it’s invested in you. The spirit that’s enchanting it—we believe, Jane Austen—clearly has an agenda, which you, in both words and actions, are resisting. So it would appear that she’s stepping beyond the bounds of the journal to convince you.” She nodded sagely. “Sorta scary shit,” she said, grinning hugely.
“So she’s not going to let up?”
“I don’t know ... maybe?”
“Maybe? This is my life! How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?”
“Well, how bad would it really be to go along with it? She’s not asking you to do anything dangerous or illegal.”
I stared at her, taking in her pink hair, sock monkey pajamas, and the bowling alley around her. Honestly, I couldn’t believe any of this was happening. She slung her arm around my shoulders.
“Okay, executive decision: Let’s put a kibosh on the magic stuff. I’m willing to take a lot on faith, but for obvious reasons, I’d like to see this stuff for myself. Right now, why don’t you relax and tell me about Sean. We’ll get to the Micro situation later—it can wait.”
In no time, Beck and I had developed a rhythm, seamlessly alternating bowling frames and concentrated bouts of gossip as I temporarily tried to overlook the invasion of magic into my well-ordered life.
“What kind of flowers?”
“Red gerbera daisies.”
“Definite points for originality.”
“As a bribe, they worked wonders.”
Beck raised her eyebrow, but I could tell she was impressed. I hurried up to bowl with a blithe smile on my face and remained undeterred by my paltry two-pin showing.
“He drives a motorcycle,” I told her in a break between frames. “So we drove separately.”
“What? Why? Have you ever been on a motorcycle? It’s awesome, particularly in this roller coaster of a city.”
New frame, new subject.
“He kissed me in the lobby.” I skimmed my fingers over the spot just above my left eyebrow, remembering.
“And?” Beck’s grin was as bright as the neon orange bowling ball she balanced in her palm.
“I have very little memory of the afternoon after that. Except,” I specified, finger in the air, “that I finally set a lunch date with Brett.”
Beck wrinkled her nose, unimpressed with my second bit of news, and rerouted the conversation back to Sean. ”How’d he track you down at Micro?”
“I guess he did some sleuthing.”
“The man definitely gets style points!”
“He’s a master of seduction,” I concurred, sipping the diet drink we were now sharing. Feeling the kick of caffeine, I realized I wouldn’t be going to sleep anytime soon. But there was a very good chance I would have had trouble sleeping without the extra pick-me-up. Such was my life this week.
“How exactly did he work in a serenade?”
“He made a request—specified only instrumentals. And then he just started singing. I bought his CD after brunch on Sunday and listened all day. But this was different.” I paused to breathe and, positively smitten with the thrill of girl talk, leaned in and gripped Beck’s wrist, willing a vicarious reaction. “He made it clear that he was singing to me—the words were for me—he was asking for a kiss and for a chance.”
“And what did you offer?” Her smile was coy and curious.
“Cliff-hanger,” I teased, before running off to bowl. After downing five pins, I fell into the chair beside her with the much-anticipated answer. “Believe it or not, I offered both.”
Beck’s eyes widened in surprise but then narrowed in concentration. “First things first: the kiss? How was it?”
“Very, very sexy, and I should tell you, at this point in the evening, it’s all still close-mouthed.”
“Really?” Beck smirked, probably amused by my G-rated romance.
Which reminded me ...
“How are things going with you and Gabe?”
She blinked rapidly, switching gears. “Good. Very good.” Her smile slid into place.
“Good how?”
“We went out Sunday night.” I couldn’t tell if she was blushing or if light was bouncing off her hair onto her cheeks. “And really, it’s amazing how much we have in common, but you’re getting off topic.”
My girl-talk buzz faded a little, imagining the comparable simplicity of a compatible relationship versus my thorny association with Sean. Being with him hypnotized me into believing that anything was possible, but when we were apart, my optimism quickly faded, and practicality swooped in like a slap in the face.
Beck jerked her thumb toward the pins. “I’m up.”
With a couple seconds to regroup, I was ready to steer the conversation the minute she returned. “Okay, I definitely want to hear about you and Gabe, but I’d like to get a little advice first.” I looked her in the eyes. “One logical mind to another.”
Beck smoothed her expression into seriousness and sat beside me, bowling forgotten. “First magical, now logical. I’m a busy girl tonight.”
I ignored that. “You know how I said I offered both the kiss and the chance? Well, basically I just agreed to another date, which, to most people, is no big deal,” I admitted, fisting my hands in the fabric of my skirt, creating wrinkles and smoothing them out again. “But Sean’s different, as I think you’ve probably gathered. A little part of me is in love with the idea of him. But the rest of me—the sensible, rational majority—totally gets that it can’t work in the long term. So you could say I’m sort of at a personal impasse.” And just like that, my sparkly, shimmery evening lost some of its luster.
“Why does one more date signify an impasse?”
With a deep, nervy sigh, I prepped myself to say it out loud. “Because I’m pretty sure that one more date will tip me over the edge. Even being in love with the idea of him will wreak all sorts of havoc on my uncomplicated life.”
“Uh-huh.”
But I didn’t get the impression that she really got it. I was evidently going to have to paint my impasse as more clearly impassable.
“And I haven’t even mentioned the Brett development.”
“Do tell,” Beck encouraged snarkily.
“He seems interested. We’re going to lunch tomorrow.”
“And this affects your decision regarding the charming and unbelievably appealing stranger in what way?” Okay, now she was just being snippy. But before I could respond, she was plowing right over me. “Okay. Let’s back up.” She swirled her hands counterclockwise, possibly with the thought of hypnotizing me. “You stumble over a magical journal—a journal channeling Jane Austen, mind you—that offers you romantic advice that starts coming true, i.e., you meet a guy—potentially the guy—you fall for him, or at least the idea of him; he, in turn, is big-time crushing on you, and suddenly you’re at an impasse. Because of lunch with Brett.”
“No, not just because of lunch with Brett. Right now Brett’s more like a warning beacon: a symbol of logical, sensible thinking that doesn’t involve impetuous decisions and magical advice.”
“Okay, Nic.” She put her hands out, as if to say, “this is it.” “I understand the appeal of logical and sensible, I really do, but in this case, in your particularly fantastical situation, I don’t think it’s the way to go. No,” she said, forestalling the “but” on the tip of my tongue, “let me just call it as I see it.” Deep breath, exhale. “Like it or not, girl, you have a fairy godmother, and that just can’t be swept under the rug. There’s no avoiding the fact that this whole thing is a crazy-unbelievable fairy-tale miracle, so why not at least try for the happily-ever-after? Your odds are good—the two usually come as a matched set.”
I pulled back a little and took in my surroundings. If I were any kind of mentor, we’d be discussing circuit fabrication at the library in lieu of happily-ever-afters at Glow Bowl. We’d be discussing her problems instead of mine. And I would appear to have it all together. I was Bizarro Mentor.
“And what about Brett?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Listen, sweetie,” Beck said, giving my arm a squeeze, “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that if Brett knew about the journal, the fairy godmother, the serenade, and the kissing, he’d tell you to go for it too. Given the whole Jane Austen element, and your little tango with ‘Mr. Darcy,’ I’m having trouble not thinking of Brett as the evil Wickham.”
I blinked at her, not particularly caring to admit that that very thought had crossed my mind.
“That’s your advice, then? Just scrap my life plan, along with all rational thinking, and risk it?” I was pretty sure that was Fairy Jane’s advice as well. I leaned in and dropped my voice a bit. “I don’t even really believe in magical journals and fairy godmothers—I’ve been coasting for the past three days on sheer standoffishness.”
“What’s not to believe?” This came out at a near-shrieking pitch. Beck’s pie-in-the-sky, flaky optimism had crumbled, and from the looks of it, she’d had it with me. “I’m taking your word for nearly every damn bit of this, and I believe!”
“Shhh,” I hissed, suddenly self-conscious to be discussing all this out loud, despite the din.
“Like it or not, it’s happening to you—despite your comprehensive life plan and very good intentions. Plans change, rules are meant to be broken, and sexy guys with accents are stellar motivation for both! For a girl lucky enough to stumble across a magical journal offering a chance at a happily-ever-after, this romance is rational. So why not give the man a damn bullet in the spreadsheet of your life?” She leaned back in her chair, and the drama faded a bit.
The woman had a point. Quite unexpectedly, a casual night of bowling had turned into an intervention.
My name is Nic James, and I have a magical journal and an interfering fairy godmother, a.k.a. Fairy Jane, and I damn well better get used to it. Or she’ll find ways of reminding me.
“Fine. I’ll keep an open mind—for now. I’ll give things with Sean a fair, fighting chance. But I’m keeping my lunch with Brett, and we’ll just see how things go.”
“Seems a fair compromise. Maybe get his take on all this,” she teased.
We finished out the game, consciously not speaking about any of it. Personally, I couldn’t help but wonder what Fairy Jane would have to say about the evening’s developments.
At home, tucked in bed with my covers pulled up to my waist, I wondered if I should dig out the Ouija board I’d had since junior high and hold a little séance. But it was late, and the very idea was fraught with disturbing possibilities, so instead I slid my journal, the little Pandora’s book, onto my lap, ready to get into it.
I’d given in and checked the calendar before turning off the lights. The quote of the day had changed yet again. Now it read, “ ‘Better be without sense than misapply it as you do.’ Emma.” Nice.
The whole situation was mind-boggling. I’d spilled a chai latte onto something that had once belonged, however fleetingly, to Jane Austen and somehow summoned her ghost, or spirit, or lingering chi, and inspired her to become, at least for a time, my own personal fairy godmother, a.k.a. Fairy Jane. Her letter to her niece, now visible in its entirety with the turn of a key, clearly laid out her intentions. And yet, as interesting as this discovery was, it didn’t even begin to resolve the plethora of questions that fairly hovered around the journal. Beyond the lingering nuisance of how the hell she was getting words to disappear, there were now all sorts of new questions on the table.
Like, how were the words coming back with a simple turn of the key? And how was she giving relevant advice from the beyond? Specific, detailed, kinda creepy advice. Was it possible that her spirit had lingered on after her death and then flourished with the widespread popularity of her books? Okay, maybe I could coax my brain around that possibility—maybe—but for God’s sake, how on earth was she reaching beyond the journal to wreak havoc in my actual life, switching the daily quotes on a tacky little calendar, insinuating herself into my work life, and blackmailing me in my romantic life?
It seemed that, like it or not, I needed to start facing these problems head-on, starting with the journal.
I may as well tell you everything, even though I suspect that in some way or another, you’re already “magically” informed. Today I had an unexpected visit from you know who, complete with flowers and an impromptu invitation to dinner. As you can probably guess, I accepted both. I also had a pop-in from Brett—remember him? the epitome of sensible romance???—which resulted in an invitation to lunch, which I also accepted. May the best man win, right?
Dinner was lovely—Sean serenaded me! Cheesy as it is, it pretty much solidified my crush on the man. It was just going to be the one dance, then the one date, but now, suddenly it’s mushroomed into more than that. (Don’t you just love the pun?) I’d ask you to make it stop, but you wouldn’t, and honestly, I wouldn’t want you to.
I let my pen tip back from the page and indulged in a deep, bittersweet sigh, remembering the oh-so-sensible “Before.” And envisioning the sure-to-be-crazy “After” life.
Beck is beyond thrilled and a proponent of my scrapping The Plan in favor of Sean. But what about Brett? I’ve barely gotten a chance to know him, and already he’s getting the magical, not to mention the mentee, brush-off. I think, ultimately, I need to make the final decision, and I want to give them both an equal showing. What can I say, I like to play fair.
With a deep and fairly optimistic sigh, I signed off.
P.S. Now that I’ve come around on the romance, I expect you to keep up your end of the bargain!
I felt compelled to add this last bit, a not-so-subtle reminder of our deal: She keeps out of my work life if I let her call a few shots on the romance front.
Satisfied, I tipped the book closed, catching quick little glimpses of all the advice to date, all of it focused on a relationship with Sean. From the very beginning, Miss Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance, it had all been leading up to this—this moment. And now I’d caved; I was officially indulging, and “sensible” was not exactly the word that came to mind.
Ignoring the fact that it was far past my bedtime, I slipped the newfound key off my nightstand and sat for a moment, the journal in one hand, the key in the other, imagining a subtle tingling in my fingers. I wanted another peek. I hoped it would take the edge off my uncertainty knowing that I wasn’t alone—that I wasn’t the only one who’d had her life turned inside out by deciding to blindly follow a seemingly arbitrary collection of fortune cookie–style instructions. You could say I was a little desperate.
Bracing myself against the impossibility of it all, I slid the key home and turned it with a scraping twist, watching as sheaves of old pages appeared to grow out of the book’s binding, waiting until my heartbeat slowed to a dull thump. Then, ever a fan of the systematic approach, I started at the beginning, with the Dear Jane letter, and then avidly read on from there.
There is to be a dance, and in as much as that is delightful all on its own merit, I have a better reason to be fidgety, for afterwards, I shall be out! I confess to being both nervous and excited at once. I am to have a new gown and am truly hoping for something lovely. Simply the thought of it will help me to happily endure the days—and moments—in between. Mother will surely endeavor to make use of these golden opportunities to warn me against future folly while at the same time urging me to embrace all that is good and true. But I will endure with high spirits, for I intend to remain, for as long as possible, pleased with the World in general and everyone in it, Mother included.
As the first entry following the dedication, I assumed it was written by Jane Anna Elizabeth Austen herself, and I couldn’t help but wonder what little snippet of advice Aunt Jane had culled from this optimistic piece. And how the girl had reacted to a little magical interference. There were a few clues in the next entry.
I find myself in quite a conundrum. Despite having written to you, Aunt Jane, and discovered that, by some strange magic, you are able to advise me through the pages of this very journal, I cannot claim even a vague understanding of how you are able to do so. And while you must know the esteem in which I hold your good advice and opinions, I admit that I can no longer consider this a private journal in the traditional sense, knowing that every careful word is on display. I can, however, delight in using it just as you intended, to record the little dilemmas that life presents, expecting, in response, your prompt and sound advice. I expect I will need it more than you know, because I have decided to follow in your footsteps, Aunt Jane, and dedicate myself to my writing, and I fear that Mother will take very vocal exception to this, a very much unintended path. With lifelong admiration and newfound awe, I remain your loving niece, Anna.
I avidly read through the years of Anna’s journal correspondence with Aunt Jane, attempting to deduce the pertinent “miscellanious morsels” based on the clues provided in each subsequent entry. Beyond the inherent puzzle, I was fascinated ... and oblivious as the clock ticked away the hours of my good night’s sleep.
Hours later, my eyes bleary and my thoughts tangled with stories, I tipped the volume closed, twisted out the key, and watched transfixed as it shrank down again to its deceptively slim self. Hoping for an out-of-sight, out-of-mind miracle, I slid book and key under my pillow and laid my head down, still completely frazzled. As I switched off the light, it occurred to me that from Sean’s perspective, everything was going precisely as planned.
The morning started with a near fatality. Refusing to give up after at least fifteen whacks to the snooze bar, my alarm clock became the enemy. I barely resisted flinging it against the wall in a groggy haze of aggravation. But as I blinked my eyes open, desperate to get hold of the little beast, they shifted from fuzzy to focused, and registered that it was already seven o’ clock.
Well, technically it was six forty-five—fifteen minutes fast translated to two guiltless snoozes—but still, I was way late. If I wanted to squeeze in a drive down to New Braunfels between a lunch with Brett and a date with Sean, then I really needed to get moving. This was what I got for staying up late (and out late) on a work night. Bleary-eyed and fuzzy-mouthed, I stumbled out of bed and scrambled to get ready. I was an efficient whirlwind, and twenty minutes later I was mixing up some cocoa in my travel mug when last night came avalanching back: the date, the decision, the journal.
My eyes strayed to the calendar on the counter, and I read the day’s quote with a feeling of dread. “ ‘What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken!’ Persuasion.” That didn’t bode well at all. Evidently at least one part of my day wasn’t going to go at all as expected.
Sipping the warm chocolate, I walked cautiously back down the hall to my room, my heart pounding out a drumbeat as I considered the fraught-with-crazy potential of an overnight, personalized reply from my very own life coach.
I suspect you know it’s mushroomed beyond magical
Et tu, Fairy Jane? It was simply too much to process this early in the morning.
I slid the snarky little book back onto the shelf, to the left of Sense and Sensibility, on what I imagined to be the “Sense” side. I was keeping it far, far away from Persuasion—it certainly didn’t need any help in that quarter; it was becoming quite adept at influencing me all on its own. So basically I’d turned into a superstitious kook, although still sufficiently detached to manage an eye roll for my own crazy antics. That was something, I supposed. Naturally I slipped the key into the cupcake tin in the cupboard beside the stove and pretended everything was normal.
On my way out the door, my eye caught on yesterday’s valentine-red daisies now livening up the kitchen table, and a smile curved my lips. On impulse, I snatched a single bloom from the grouping and snipped a few inches off the stem before tucking it jauntily in the top buttonhole of my cropped navy blazer. Who said I couldn’t be spontaneous?