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:
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.
