Jane Bites Back

thing, which did nothing to allay her fears.

There was a lull from March until the middle of April, when the first reviews began to appear. That was when people other than Lucy and Walter began to realize that there was an author in their midst. Soon Jane was something of a minor celebrity in town and could walk no more than a few blocks without someone stopping her to congratulate her on her first book. She quickly adopted a standard response (“That’s so kind of you”) and perfected the art of appearing thankful yet busy (“I’d love to chat, but I must get to the bank before it closes. Yes, we’ll probably have a party when it comes out”).

“If I’d known how exhausting this would be, I never would have sent the manuscript in,” Jane complained to Walter one evening after dinner at her house. “Having to be relentlessly cheerful is making my face cramp.” She massaged her cheeks and sighed.

“It’s the price you have to pay for literary stardom,” Walter joked.

Jane began to say something about how things had been easier when her books were published anonymously, but caught herself in time. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember what she could and could not say, and to whom. She had begun to cherish the freedom she felt when she was talking to Lucy. Having to watch herself around Walter always put her on edge.

“Kelly sent me an early review,” she told Walter. “From a newspaper in Chicago, I think. It’s quite nice.” She handed Walter the clipping, which he read silently.

“Nice?” he said when he was finished. “Jane, they compared you to Inez Gossford. That’s not just nice, it’s fantastic.”

“I suppose it is,” Jane admitted. “She’s rather popular, isn’t she?”

Walter wagged a finger at her. “Don’t you start that,” he said.

Jane looked at him. “Start what?” she said.

“The whole popular-versus-literary thing,” Walter said. “I hate it when people try to say one is better than the other. Like books people enjoy reading are somehow beneath books that literary snobs approve of.”

“Where is this coming from?” Jane asked. “I’ve never seen you so annoyed.”

“Oh, it’s just a particular peeve of mine. Whenever I mention that I like certain novels, someone has to say something snide about how although they may be popular, they aren’t real novels. It’s stupid. Then they get all put out when I remind them that some of the books we consider classics today were considered popular fiction in their time. Dickens, for instance. Even Austen.”

Jane felt herself tense up, but Walter didn’t seem to notice. He continued talking. “Where are all the ‘literary’ novels from that period?” he asked, using his fingers to emphasize the quotes. “And what about Trollope? His Barchester books are basically soap operas, yet today they’re considered great English novels. And do you know what the critics of his time said about him? They said that his work couldn’t be taken seriously because he wrote too much and admitted that he wrote for money. Like authors are supposed to languish in drafty garrets waiting for inspiration to strike.”

Jane didn’t know what to say. Of course she did know what the critics had said about Trollope. She had been outraged when the man’s delightful books had been so cruelly treated. She herself had weathered some terrible notices. But nobody remembered those now save for some academics who insisted on recording every tiny thing about a person’s life. What people remembered was that her books were read and that they were enjoyable.

“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she told Walter. “I do like Gossford’s books. I suppose I’m just afraid I won’t be taken seriously.”

“I take you seriously,” said Walter. “Your friends take you seriously. Do you honestly care what some critic who doesn’t even know you thinks?”

Jane thought for a moment. “Well, yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I do. Oh, I know it’s shallow of me, but I can’t help it. I do care, Walter. This is my first novel. I want people to love it as much as I do.”

“Well, so far no one has said a bad thing about it,” Walter reminded her. “I’m sure someone will—”

“Thank you,” Jane interrupted. “That makes me feel immensely better.”

“But they’ll be wrong,” Walter concluded. “You just have to remember that.”

She knew what he said was true. It was, however, difficult to keep herself from looking to see what was being said about her book. In addition to the reviews Kelly sent her, she had taken to looking herself up on the Internet. As the book was only available as a review copy, there was not a lot she hadn’t seen, but she had found a handful of blogs and such in which she was mentioned. As with the reviews, most of the things written about her were positive, although a couple had been less than flattering.

One in particular continued to bother her. It was a blog called the Constant Reader. The writer was Violet Grey, the Brontë scholar, and she apparently fancied herself an expert on what she referred to as “novels of the heart.” She had recently posted an item about Constance—which she admitted to not yet having read—in which she made snide comments about Jane’s author photo and expressed doubt that “a woman with such a bland face could pen something filled with passion.” In a fit of pique Jane had left an indignant comment (anonymously, of course) on the post, suggesting that Miss Grey confine her remarks to the work at hand. She had not received a reply.

“What do you want to do on the big day?” Walter asked, drawing her back to the moment.

“Big day?” said Jane, trying to remember if she’d forgotten an imminent birthday or holiday.

“The day your book comes out,” Walter explained. “We should do something to celebrate.”

“I haven’t thought about it,” said Jane. “I suppose we could make a display in the window.”

“I don’t mean at the store,” Walter said. “I mean what do you want to do?”

“Let me think about it,” Jane told him. “I may be all booked out by that point.”

“You’d better not be,” said Walter. “This is just the beginning.”

“You sound like Kelly,” Jane said. “He said almost the same thing to me this morning.”

“He’s right. You’re going to be a star. I just know it.”

Something in his voice troubled Jane. “You sound as if that might be a bad thing,” she said.

Walter smiled briefly. “It’s not bad,” he said. “Not for you, anyway. Maybe for me.”

“Why would it be bad for you?” asked Jane.

Walter sighed. “You’ll be a big success,” he said. “I’ll be the small-town contractor who can’t offer you anything.”

Jane waited for him to laugh or tell her he was kidding. When he didn’t, she said, “You really are worried about that, aren’t you?”

“A little,” Walter admitted. “As it is, you don’t want to marry me. Why would you change your mind once you have the attention of people in the literary world? Then you’ll want someone like … like … Kelly or … Brian George,” he concluded.

Jane looked into his eyes. She could see he was serious. Tell him the truth, a voice in her head commanded. Tell him now.

“That’s not it at all,” she said, realizing immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. “What I mean is … marriage … you … me …”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Walter told her. “I know how things are. And I’m happy we’ve had this long together. I’ve always known it wouldn’t be forever.”

Jane reached for his hand. “No,” she said. “You really don’t understand. I do care for you. Very much.”

“But?” said Walter.

Jane knew that if she was going to tell Walter the truth, it would be now. She closed her eyes. “But I’m …,” she began. She could sense Walter’s nervousness as he waited for her to continue. Just say it! the voice in her head cried. Just tell him already!

“I’m celibate,” she blurted out.

She opened her eyes a little and looked at Walter’s face. Celibate? she thought. That’s what you thought of first?

“Celibate,” said Walter.

Jane nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “Celibate.”

“I see,” said Walter. He cleared his throat. “That certainly explains some things. May I ask, is this a religious thing?”

“No,” Jane said. “It’s more of a … spiritual thing. I made the decision about twelve years ago. It just seemed