My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

pulling. Stepping out of my car, ankles teetering on my optimistic stilettos, keys jangling in my trembling hand, I tucked my hair behind my ears and smoothed my stalker-black sheath as if I had a purpose in interrupting their walk. Martin adopted the expression one saves for door-to-door magazine salesmen, but the woman smiled warmly, as if unaware of our adversarial position as well as her advantage.

'Hi, I'm Ginny,' she said; her hand twitched as if she had considered extending it, and I could tell she knew everything. I tried not to study her dark blond Afro, her T-shirt advertising a hunger walk four years ago, and her lack of any of the Car and Driver curves Martin found interesting. My replacement was so contrary to my expectations I began to think I'd completely misread Martin.

'Hi,' I said, looking at Martin. The dog sniffed my legs, pulling the leash Ginny held. Martin had never walked the dog with me.

'Scout,' Ginny whispered, coaxing the dog to her side.

Martin glanced down the street as if help might be coming. 'What's up?' he said.

Tucking the hair behind my ears again, unfortunately using the hand holding my keys that tangled and pulled out several long brown strands, I prayed for inspiration. She was down-to-earth, ordinary, and apparently sweet, not a single quality I could claim for myself. Is that what he wanted? I'd been struggling with cosmetics, lingerie that guaranteed cleavage, and sheaths selected to accentuate all things slim, when, all along, he had preferred Mother Earth. I could have done earth for him.

'Scout, please,' Ginny said, 'remember what we talked about?'

We waited for Scout to answer.

'Ginny works in a vet's office,' Martin said.

I found my perky face and smiled, then changed the subject. 'I just wanted to let you know'—I cleared my throat—'that I'm going to England for the summer.' This was news to me, too.

'England?' Martin directed his face at me, but closed his eyes. He'd been expecting a hormonal rage or paternity test results.

Ginny stood apart, reminding the dog about not jumping on people.

'Yes,' I said, trying to remember the words below the English manor house on Vera's postcard: 'Featuring Mansfield Park, June through August.' Vera's invitation was thoughtful, but did she understand my utter dependence on salary and benefits? 'I'm going to a lit fest,' I said.

'What's a lit fest?' Ginny asked, smiling, way too familiar.

I shook my hair and stared meaningfully at Martin: my Countess Olenska to his Newland Archer, urging him to indulge his true passion or be sorry. 'Literary festival,' I said slowly. The postcard said, 'Literary escapes in rural England: A novel approach to the study of literature.' 'They feature a Jane Austen novel every summer.'

'Oh, I love Jane Austen,' she said, handing the leash to Martin like a wife passing a baby off to the husband.

'Really,' I said, disconcerted by the friendly hand rubbing Martin's back and the way Martin took the rubbing for granted.

'And what will you do there?' Ginny asked.

'I don't know yet.' Leaning on my car, I crossed my arms over my chest, unable to bear the idea of sharing Jane Austen, as well as Martin, with her. Jane Austen was my new best friend. Even with the age difference—me twenty-six, Jane eternally forty-one—we understood each other and agreed on everything. Ours was a possessive relationship. I crossed my legs at the ankles and gave Martin the look that always brought him closer. 'I'm still working out the details.' Like whether to toss the postcard in the trash.

'What about work?' Martin asked. 'They giving you more vacation?' He took two steps backward, aware I had exhausted my vacation time watching him ski.

'Work is not a problem.'

Martin nodded, taking two more steps away from me.

'I quit my job.' I pursed my lips and gazed upward.

'Really.' He stopped walking away.

Ginny raised her hand. 'Nice to meet you,' she said. 'I'm going to get Scout a drink of water.' Then I witnessed an exchange between them, a look so packed with understanding and implying such a depth of intimacy I had to glance away. Ginny walked to the house, leaving Martin to me.

'So,' he said, blinking rapidly.

'Now you know,' I said, remembering how my boss caught me reading Northanger Abbey in my cubicle, my lunch hour so far in the past that even the fumes from my tuna sandwich were history. Phones, copiers, and printers resumed business while I danced in Bath. I made a show of tidying my lunch bag while my boss counted the five other novels stacked in my corner. 'You've been busy,' he said. Then, using his chain saw voice, he informed me that I'd cost the company over ninety-two thousand dollars misrouting payroll tax deposits. As my boss explained termination benefits, it occurred to me that books should come with a warning from the surgeon general: Literature can be dangerous to your mental health and should be indulged in moderation. Read in excess, fiction may blur the line between fantasy and reality, causing dysfunction in personal and professional relationships. Readers should refrain while operating heavy machinery or driving automobiles. Or working in offices.

'So what are you going to do?' Martin asked.

'Move home, of course,' I said. 'As you know, my duplex is two doors from annihilation.' I'd complained to Martin for a year about the McMansions invading my street, moaning about moving, but he'd left me to the wrecking ball rather than propose marriage. 'And my dad needs me.'

'How is your dad?' Martin asked. His concern might have been touching had he not ditched me in the wake of my mother's death, exercising his option while I grieved, optimistic that one more hit could hardly matter.

'Not good,' I said. 'He has a girlfriend. Twenty years younger.'

Martin's eyes bulged. 'Really.'

'I'm not happy about it.'

'Doubt your mom would approve.'

The last time I saw her, my mother had been dead ninety minutes and the look on her face conferred anything but approval. Rather than the peaceful repose I'd been promised in books and movies, her jaundiced features were frozen in tension, her cheekbones raised, and her mouth slightly open as if she'd died in pain. Eyes were closed but her head tilted up, giving the impression she had been trying to raise herself as she died. I bent and kissed her forehead as she had kissed mine all those nights I pretended to be asleep clutching the still-hot reading light under my covers. Her forehead felt chilly under my lips and she no longer labored over the ragged breathing that sustained us halfway through Mansfield Park. In spite of these powerful indications of death, I wanted to believe she was pretending, as I had once pretended with her.

'Well,' Martin said, raising a hand in farewell, taking steps away from me. 'Have a great time in England.'

'Martin,' I said, perhaps too loud.

At the sound of my voice, Ginny and the dog closed the front door behind them. Martin halted in his tracks and slowly returned, his head bent. 'Let's not have tears,' he said. His eyes scurried up and down the street, waiting for someone to turn our page. His porch light came on. 'You need to go home.'

A car passed behind us.

'Martin, look at me.'

He reluctantly focused on my face.

'Is it really over?' I asked. 'Is this what you want?'

Martin shook his head. 'Ginny's not needy.' He raised his hands in supplication. 'If you can't stay away, you need to get help.' He enunciated as if I were dense. 'We've seen you drive by. Even Ted's seen your car.' He gestured at Ted's window, especially damning since Ted's eyes never left his video screen.

'I can't believe we're saying these things. Martin, how did we get to this point?' He took a breath and closed his eyes and I knew he was considering whether to reveal a painful truth. I braced myself for the hit.

'I let it go on way too long,' he said, stepping away.

'Wait.' I reached out.

'Are you listening?' he whispered. 'You're a lost dog.' He shook his head. 'Go home.'