Jane Bites Back

Little Miss Perfect is going to lose a lot of readers.”

“The poor dear,” said Jane.

“Yes,” Lucy agreed. “I weep for her.”

The two exchanged a glance, and Jane detected a hint of satisfaction in Lucy’s eyes, but they said nothing more. Then Lucy went back to work. She was opening boxes of books that had arrived in the morning’s UPS delivery. This was one of her great pleasures, seeing the new titles come in. Her enthusiasm for them almost always made Jane feel better. She herself had become somewhat resentful of newly published books—much as childless women sometimes regarded new mothers and their infants with a mixture of jealousy and despair—and it was nice to see that someone was still excited by them.

“Oh, look,” Lucy exclaimed, reaching into the first box. “Jane Austen paper dolls. They’re adorable. This will be perfect for the Austen section.”

“Austen section?” Jane said, looking up from the bills she had picked up from the counter and was sorting through. “What Austen section?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I told you last week,” she said. “I’m going to put together an Austen section. You saw how popular that Gladstone book is. Just look at all the other Austen stuff we have. Besides her own novels we have novels about her. Then there’s The Jane Austen Cookbook and the bios and the collected letters. Oh, and I just read in Publishers Weekly that someone has written a Jane Austen self-help book.”

“A what?” Jane asked sharply.

“Yeah,” said Lucy. “It’s about figuring out which Jane Austen character you’re most like and then developing a life plan around that personality type. It’s called Will the Real Elizabeth Bennet Please Stand Up. Deepak Chopra wrote the introduction. Anyway, it’ll be huge.”

Jane gritted her teeth. She’d hoped the ridiculous cookbook would be the end of the Austen mania. But her popularity had only continued to grow. Just the other day she’d seen in a magazine that dresses based on the fashions of her time were going to be all the rage for proms and summer weddings.

Really, it was all too much, particularly as Jane herself was enjoying none of the benefits associated with being one of the most popular authors of all time. No royalty checks came her way. No one asked her permission to make the book group reading guides or gardening books or knitting patterns that sold by the cartload. The fact that she was for all intents and purposes dead did little to ease her annoyance.

She began the odious task of counting the drawer. She had made her way through the twenties and tens and fives and was starting on the always irritating singles (when one wanted them to make change there were never enough of them, yet when one hoped for a substantial day’s profit there were always too many) when the bell above the door tinkled.

Hoping for a customer, she was slightly disappointed to see Walter Fletcher walking toward her. Dressed in his customary uniform of tan chinos and checked flannel shirt beneath a brown twill jacket embroidered with his name and the name of his house restoration company, he was as cheerful as he always was. In five years Jane hadn’t once seen him frown.

Walter set a paper bag on the counter and slid it toward her. Jane opened it, and the air filled with the scent of cinnamon.

“You didn’t,” said Jane.

“I did,” Walter replied.

Jane reached into the bag and pulled out a cinnamon bun. Sticky with sugar, it was still warm. She bit into it and groaned. Of all the misconceptions about her kind, the one she’d been most relieved to find untrue was that they lost their ability to enjoy food. True, it nourished her not at all, but the upside was that it also did not increase her figure. She remained precisely the size she had been at her death.

“They came out of the oven not ten minutes ago,” Walter told her.

Jane had tasted many wonderful things during her two centuries, but few compared to the cinnamon buns made by the bakery located a few doors down from her shop. Jane was addicted to them. The fact that Walter had brought her one made her suspicious.

“What do you want?” she asked him.

Walter’s blue eyes sparkled merrily as he watched her lick the sugar glaze from her fingers. “Who says I want something?” he asked, feigning indignation. “Can’t I just bring a friend a cinnamon bun?”

“Come on,” said Jane, taking another bite. “Out with it.”

Walter smiled. “All right,” he said. “I confess. I do have a tiny favor to ask you.”

Jane waited for him to continue. Walter paused, clearly thinking about how to proceed. Before he could speak Jane said, “Walter, we’ve been through this before. I can’t go out with you. I mean—”

“I don’t want to go out with you,” Walter interrupted.

Jane looked at him, surprised.

“I mean, I do want to go out with you,” Walter said, blushing. “But I know you won’t—”

“Can’t,” Jane corrected him. “There’s a difference.”

“Can’t,” Walter agreed. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I’d like you to come to my New Year’s Eve party.”

Jane groaned. “I detest New Year’s Eve,” she said. “So much fuss and nonsense about another year, all of it cleverly designed to result in the deepest of disappointment.”

“It’s just a party,” Walter said. “There will be champagne.”

“How grand,” said Jane. “And I suppose there will be charades and the Minister’s Cat?”

Walter gave her a look that reminded her far too much of a wounded puppy. “Please?” he said.

Jane took another bite of cinnamon bun and chewed it before answering. “Possibly,” she replied. “But only because you bribed me.”

Walter smiled. “Excellent. We’ll be pleased to have you.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I’ve got to go,” said Walter, looking at his watch. “We’re tearing out Maggie Beecher’s kitchen this morning, and she throws a fit if we’re not there by ten sharp.”

He hurried out before Jane could make any further protests. When he was gone Lucy said, “I don’t know why you won’t go out with him. He’s been asking you for over a year.”

Jane sighed. “We’re just not a good match,” she said.

“Because he’s a carpenter?” asked Lucy.

“No,” Jane said sharply. “And he’s not just a carpenter. He restores old houses, and beautifully. But that has nothing to do with it. It’s just that he … that I … we don’t …” She couldn’t finish the sentence in any way that wouldn’t make her sound like a snob.

“I don’t get it,” said Lucy. “He’s smart. He’s funny. He likes books and art and all the same things you do. Plus he’s a hottie.”

“I suppose he’s attractive enough,” Jane agreed, thinking about the pleasing arrangement of Walter’s features. And he has such strong hands, she thought.

“Then remind me again why you can’t go out with him,” said Lucy.

Because I’m dead, Jane thought. Because he’ll age and I won’t. Because men generally don’t like women who need to drink blood to stay alive. What she said was, “I’m perfectly happy with my life.”

Lucy made a vague humming sound.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jane demanded.

Lucy stacked some books on a table. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just humming.”

“I know that hum,” said Jane curtly. “That’s your ‘whatever’ hum.”

“Sure it is,” Lucy said. “Okay.”

“It is!” said Jane. “And you know it!”

Lucy glanced over at her. “Whatever,” she said sweetly.

“Maybe I should date him.”

“You go right ahead,” Jane said, trying to sound as if she didn’t care in the least. “Just because he’s old enough to be your father, don’t let that stop you.”