Jane Bites Back

… right. For me. Not for everyone, of course. Then we’d just die out.” She clamped her lips shut, afraid she would say something even more stupid if she kept talking.

“Twelve years,” said Walter. “That’s a long time.”

Jane nodded but said nothing.

“And that’s why you don’t want to get too serious?”

Jane nodded again. “It just wouldn’t be fair to you,” she said.

“Excuse me for saying so,” said Walter, “but shouldn’t that decision be mine? Suppose it doesn’t matter to me anyway. Suppose there’s some reason why I can’t … you know,” he said, making a vague motion with his hand toward his crotch. “Maybe I have physical problems in that area, or just don’t like it, or have hangups about my body.”

“But you don’t, do you?” Jane asked.

Walter shook his head. “Well, no,” he said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that you’ve been keeping this from me because you thought it would upset me. You didn’t give me the chance to tell you whether it would or not.”

“Would it?” said Jane, forgetting that she had invented her celibacy precisely to prevent a similar discussion.

Walter leaned back in his chair. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I’ve gone without it this long. Maybe it doesn’t matter.”

Jane blushed. To her great relief, Walter had never attempted to do more than kiss her. She’d assumed he was too much of a gentleman to suggest more. The truth was she was afraid of what might happen if she coupled with a human. Should her hunger become too strong, Walter would be imperiled. As for herself, she wasn’t certain that a mortal male could fulfill her in the way a vampire could.

“I need to think about it,” he said. He gave a short laugh. “And all this time I thought I was the problem. Not that you have a problem,” he added hastily. “I’m not saying that.”

“I know what you’re saying,” Jane said. “It’s all right. I should have told you sooner. I guess I was just embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” Walter said. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Jane felt terrible. She’d lied in order to put off having to tell him the real reason for her reluctance to become serious. Instead he was reassuring her that there was nothing wrong with her. Now how will I ever tell him? she wondered.

“I should go,” Walter said. “It’s late, and I have to get up early to drive to Syracuse to pick up a sink.”

“You’re trying to be polite,” said Jane. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little … perplexed,” Walter replied. “But I’m not angry. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Jane patted his hand. “All right,” she said. “And thank you for being so understanding.”

She walked Walter to the door, where he gave her an awkward kiss. Afterward, he laughed. “I feel like a teenager,” he said. “I’m not sure what I can get away with.”

Jane kissed him again, this time for longer. “Good night,” she said.

She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “What have I done?” she said. “I’ve made things even worse. Now he thinks I’m frigid.”

She went into the kitchen and took a pint of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. Removing the lid, she began spooning it into her mouth. But after half a dozen bites she’d had enough. Instead of feeling better, she was feeling worse. And if chocolate can’t fix it, she thought as she put the container back, you know it’s bad.

She turned out the kitchen light and went upstairs, where she brushed her teeth, changed into a nightgown, and got into bed. She had to push Tom out of the way, as he was sleeping on her pillow. He meowed in protest and relocated to the other side of the bed.

“Don’t you start,” Jane told him.

She leaned back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling, vaguely noting that she ought really to vacuum the cobwebs out of the corners. She wanted to go to sleep, but she knew she would just keep thinking about how she was hurting Walter more every time she lied to him. She’d done so much to keep the truth from him that now she wasn’t even sure whom she was trying to protect—him or herself.

Maybe you just don’t want to be with him, she thought.

“I don’t know!” she said in frustration. “I don’t know what I want!” As always, she wished that Cassie were there to talk to. She had always given sound advice. Even when Jane had not been able to decide what choices her characters should make, Cassie had helped her work through the options. But Cassie wasn’t there now

“I wish I were dead,” Jane complained to Tom. “I mean undead. No. Un-undead. Oh, I don’t know what I mean.”

Gripping the sheets in her hands, she began to cry.

Chapter 20

She stole glances at the other girls’ dresses, comparing them to her own. They all looked so lovely, moving about the room like butterflies riding warm summer breezes. She, however, was a moth, drab and inconspicuous as she sat in the corner, wearing a hole in the velvet of the sofa as revenge for her invisibility.

—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

“What do you think?”

Jane looked at the book she was holding in her hands. Her book. She’d just opened the overnight package from Kelly, which had arrived only minutes before. Now she was on the phone, thanking him for sending it.

“It’s beautiful,” said Jane, running her fingers over the glossy cover. The title and her name were in raised lettering. Her fingers traced the letters. “I can’t believe it’s mine.”

“You should be getting a box of fifty copies later this week,” Kelly told her. “But I couldn’t wait for you to see it.”

Jane opened the cover and looked at the title page. She turned the pages slowly, watching the words go by. The smell of the ink and paper floated up like the scent of a rare flower. She closed her eyes and inhaled it.

“Thank you for sending it,” she said.

“It’s my pleasure,” said Kelly. “I also have some news for you.”

“I don’t think it can get any better,” Jane told him. “What is it?”

“Nick sent a copy of the book to Comfort and Joy.”

“Is that a bookstore?” Jane asked.

“Comfort and Joy,” said Kelly. “You don’t know who they are?”

Jane thought for a moment. “The television people?” she said.

“That would be them,” Kelly confirmed.

Jane inhaled sharply. Comfort and Joy were the queens of daytime television. Joy, a perky blonde with conservative views and insufferably cute triplets of whom she spoke incessantly, was the polar opposite of Comfort, a liberal African American woman from Louisiana who doled out homegrown advice in a no-nonsense manner. They had been the winners of one of the endless reality shows that had taken over television in recent years, and their resulting talk show had been meant to last only a season. But to everyone’s surprise, it had quickly become a hit, particularly with women, and it had now been running for five years. Several times a year they devoted an episode to a current book. They would interview the author and discuss the book with audience members. Almost invariably, the books they selected flew off the shelves. Lucy had made a prominent display of Comfort-and-Joy-recommended books, and browsers frequently came to the counter with at least one of the titles in hand.

“They want me?” said Jane.

“Nick is firming up the details,” Kelly said. “I should have let him tell you, but I couldn’t resist. He’s going to