My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

and the computer screen came to life.

'A light in the darkness,' he said, then turned and opened his arms to me. 'I'd like to hug you,' he said, 'if you'll promise to keep your shirt on.'

I was grateful he made light of it; thankful he'd found a different way for us to be.

'One more button and I'm afraid I would have been overcome,' he said.

I went to him gladly, my arms about his waist, my head on his arm, saving up the sensation so I could recall it in the morning. Close enough to see the computer screen, I absently read the words over his arm, expecting a sermon or a page from his thesis on moral theology. But the words didn't fit my expectations, forcing me to shift mental gears. It took a bit of reading to comprehend what I saw.

'Willis,' I said, stepping away from him.

He looked from me to the screen and I recognized the 'stopping' look my father flashed at me when I found Sue in his kitchen.

I touched his arm. 'There's a vampire story on your computer.' The page heading said, 'Vampire Priest.'

He looked startled, as if the vampire text surprised him, too.

'You're writing a vampire story. Can I read it?' I asked.

Willis hesitated. He swallowed while I stood completely still, waiting, sensing a crack in his mighty reserve.

'Yes,' he said.

Twelve

I read from Willis's laptop screen, deep into the night until I finished what he had written thus far, the story of a vampire priest who preaches the Gospel after dark and falls in love with a symphony cellist. Luna meets him at the stage exit each night, her white neck a terrible temptation in the moonlight.

Had we just enacted the neck in the moonlight scene?

In the morning, I got out of bed and looked in the mirror, imagining Luna emerging from the back door of the performance hall, unbuttoning the front of her dress, finally and forever offering him her neck. Father Kitt stares for a moment and then buttons her back up to her chin saying, 'Luna, we barely know each other.'

'Bite me,' I said aloud to the mirror.

'What is wrong with you?' Bets moaned from her pillow, back from wherever she'd been for the last two days, mascara smudged below her eyes more than usual. 'It's impossible to sleep in this place.'

'Where is my necklace?' I asked. I always checked her neck, just in case my necklace reappeared; now I would check for bites.

'Stop it,' Bets growled, dragging herself out of bed to the window, slamming it shut.

'Get my necklace and I'll leave you alone forever,' I said.

She went down the hall to use the restroom and I opened the window again, readmitting fresh air and noise from the outside world. No need for air-conditioning in our building; the thick walls performed as a refrigerator. I could see Gary in the distance, walking toward the dorm, coming to fetch Bets as he did every day. Bets hadn't gone missing on his watch, which made me think they were up to something. Bets wouldn't cooperate without an angle.

Bets returned from the bathroom, dropped her towel in a heap on the floor, and walked naked to the dresser, squinting, hopping on one leg and then the other as she adjusted a thong. Bets didn't do Regency undergarments.

'Where is my necklace?' I asked.

'What necklace?' she asked, slipping the ivory gown with blue trim over her head, the same one she always wore. 'Oh, the necklace that reminds you of your mother.'

I waited.

'I told you,' she said, walking to the door. 'I don't know.' Bets opened the door and ran smack into Gary. 'Oh my God, you scared me.'

*   *   *

I climbed the attic stairs several times that day, first to return the laptop, then to tell him how much I liked the story. He was never there. On every visit, I sat looking out the window and breathed deeply to calm myself, reminding myself to hold back, we barely knew each other. But we'd known each other forever, hadn't we met in a secret garden in a previous life? An elderly tourist was pushing a walker over uneven ground three stories below my window, when I finally heard feet on the stairs. 'Willis?' I called, each footfall coming closer. I'd be lost without him now.

Willis placed several books on the table, slightly breathless. He came around to sit next to me on the window seat. 'What did you think?'

I smiled at him, willing him to touch me. On the leg or the arm, just something. 'I absolutely love your novel.'

He leaned back. 'Oh, I'm relieved. I've been worried you'd find it too simple.'

'I love it,' I said.

'I'm so glad. It's not Jane Austen, of course.' Willis shrugged. 'But.'

'I know you so much better now,' I said, 'having read your book.'

Willis's expression turned serious on me. Just like the time I'd brought him the book or when I asked him to join me in public. He looked straight into my eyes and spoke slowly. 'You don't know me.'

My Jane Austen's billowing skirt appeared behind me. Reassured by her presence, I ventured a question more probing than usual. 'What do I not know?' I asked softly. I imagined a witness protection program, weird political secrets, or a mafia connection forcing him to hide in the attic.

Willis shifted, leaning against the window's frame. 'I have a lot on my mind.' He paused, perhaps deciding how deep to go. He held one ankle over his knee. 'I came here to think, and make decisions.'

'Here?' I asked. 'As in this attic?'

He nodded.

'Is that why you were brooding in the dark church?' Perhaps he was conflicted over the final ordination, trying to decide whether to break the vows he'd made as a deacon. There must be so much pressure to complete the process once begun.

'You're quite a distraction,' he whispered, but he didn't look happy about it.

My stomach flipped; I was not a mere sheep of his flock. Yet I couldn't stand to see him so conflicted. 'Should I stop coming to the attic?' I asked. During the long pause, I imagined how I would feel if he said yes.

He shook his head. 'I like you.'

I broke eye contact and touched his knee. That was enough for me. I would find the patience to wait; I was good at waiting.

'I like you, too,' I said.

*   *   *

On the tea-theatre's opening day, I felt uplifted by the joyful news that Willis liked me. Not Cosmo me or earth me—but the real me: the original me that had been too weird to introduce to any other boyfriends. The me I wouldn't have been able to invent. The me that now walked the halls as if I were Elizabeth Bennet, mistress of the tea-theatre. No more wrong turns into closets, I solved the hot water problem by borrowing an electric hotplate and reconfiguring the orange cords. I trained Gary to play the part of Count Cassel, recruited a volunteer's husband to play the baron, and talked John Owen into playing the rhyming butler. I was the person in charge; the volunteers all wanted face time with me. When asked to do something, they responded with brisk action. Tickets sold out and our waiting list grew. I began to believe that I was no longer needy, having outgrown that character flaw before it had a chance to scare Willis away.

When our time came, as the last scene of Mansfield Park ended and the room cleared, I gave the go-ahead for volunteers to roll out tables and set them quickly with their wedding china. Tables