Austentatious

be

sensible

and indulge in a little romance.

It was either an extraordinary coincidence ... or not. And the “not” was what scared me.

I had to admit, I hadn’t taken particular notice of my choice of words when I’d penned the one and only entry almost a week ago, but now that they were gone, I wanted them back. It was the damn principle of the thing! Well, that and the creepiness.

I forced myself to slow down and think calmly. I peered more closely at the page, running my fingers over its unmarred smoothness. Tilting the little volume back and forth, I noticed nothing but pristine blank paper spanning the gaps the missing words had left behind. There was nothing—no marks. No smudges, smears, eraser marks, nothing. No sign that the rest of the words had ever been there. My words—some of them anyway—had completely disappeared. But how? And equally curious ... why?

I skimmed ahead a few pages, just checking—for what, I had no idea—and then suddenly, rabidly obsessed, whipped through every single page, searching for any sort of marking at all. Common sense didn’t bother to kick in until I’d finished. What was I thinking? That somehow my words were playing hide and seek, waiting for me to come searching?

8:13 ... Timing myself definitely wasn’t helping!

Focus. What did I know? I’d written a single entry, stashed the journal in the bookcase to be guarded between the Misses Bennet and Woodhouse, and it had been hijacked.

I think that about summed it up: Basically I knew absolutely nothing other than this was my journal, and somebody was messing with me—and doing so at their own peril. But who? No one knew about the journal, and no one of my acquaintance had the skill set necessary to pull something like this off. They’d need dodgy breaking-and- entering skills to get the journal (having somehow first discovered its existence), an impressive knack for wordplay, and access to Mission Impossible–style office products to obliterate all superfluous words into mind-blowing nonexistence. By now, I was leaning heavily toward adopting Vizzini’s “Inconceivable” mantra. (And it totally meant what I thought it meant.)

7:22 ... Think ... think! It occurred to me that Nancy Drew would have had this case solved by now, so what was I, a top-of-my-class engineering major and MBA grad, missing? I let my eyes roam around the room. This wasn’t the sort of place where unexpected, magical things happened. Everything that happened here was practical and preplanned. And until tonight, it all made complete sense! I needed a connection, an explanation ... basically a “Why Me?”

I dragged my eyes back to the page to scan it yet again, and this time, I made myself focus on the words themselves.

Ms. Nicola James will be sensible(!) and indulge in a little romance?

It would seem that the journal had been soaking up inspiration as it sat, unsupervised, alongside my much- loved collection of Austen novels all week long. Now I just needed a single man in possession of a good fortune, and I was good to go. To continue the metaphor likening the appearance of the journal to that of the Bingleys, this snarky bit of commentary could be viewed as the introduction of Mr. Darcy, spouting off unnecessarily.

Forgetting for a minute the stranger-than-fiction details of this whole situation, I was offended now on a whole other level. I was nothing if not sensible, but I wasn’t about to be prodded into “indulging” until I was good and ready. And yet, perversely, I was impressed. I didn’t remember using half of those words in my own entry, but obviously I had, because there they were, big as life, taunting me in my very own handwriting.

A glance at the clock had me thudding back into a near stupor of helplessness. The antiques store was a no- go until tomorrow afternoon. Surely there was something I could be doing about this predicament right now... . Then it hit me: I’d re-create my original entry and get it back, fully intact. How that might help, I couldn’t imagine—I was simply driven by a desperation to put things back the way I’d left them, the way they made sense.

Thrilled to have a specific task to perform, I scrambled to get a pen, then changed my mind and grabbed a pencil instead—one with a good chunky eraser.

My ringtone blithely sounded off from the kitchen counter, and I jerked nervously away from it. Glancing at the journal, my decision was instantaneous: I was sooo not telling anyone about this. Scrabbling for the phone, my greeting came out as something of a croak.

“Good, I caught you.” As usual, Gabe was oblivious. I could hear his fingers clicking over a keyboard and assumed he was still at work. My gaze shifted curiously to the timer yet again.

Gabe was my best friend, and maybe that should have entitled him to a juicy divulgence, but he was also an engineer, not to mention a coworker, and his mind worked, more or less, the same way mine did. Seeing as I’d already classified this whole situation as un-freakin’-believable, I really didn’t need, and couldn’t stomach, his second opinion. I decided to stay mum, perched against the counter, a watchful eye on the journal.

“I assume you’re aware that South by Southwest kicks off tonight,” Gabe continued when I hadn’t spoken.

“Aware, yes; indifferent, also yes.” I wasn’t the type to get excited about the city’s annual movie slash music fest, no matter how prestigious.

Gabe ignored me. “So the music part of the festival doesn’t start till next week, but some of the bands arrived early and scored some extra gigs.”

I’d tease him for using the word “gig,” but I needed to speed things up here.

“So ... ?” I heard myself asking, my feigned interest the closest I intended on coming to any plans he might have for me that evening.

“So I’m heading down to Fado with a couple of expats and a guy in from Glasgow, and I thought you might like to come. It’s a Scottish band.” With Austin nicknamed Silicon Hills and Glasgow dubbed Silicon Glen, many companies operated sister facilities, here and across the pond, creating somewhat of a foreign exchange program for the high-tech set.

“You are not trying to set me up.” Less of a question, more of a stern reminder.

“God no. I’m just offering you an evening of men with accents.”

And here I’d thought my best chance of going international tonight was a lawn full of lesbians salsaing to a karaoke rendition of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

“I think I’ll pass, but you get points for a good, solid effort.”

“Ah, come on, Nic—don’t pass. You can’t expect to earn a Weird shirt by missing eight consecutive years of South by Southwest.”

“Why not? In this particular instance, I’m the epitome of weird.” My eyes skimmed over the journal and quickly darted away. “Who else would choose questionable backyard karaoke over a legitimate Scottish band?”

“You’re going next door?” Cue massive sigh.

“Of course. I’ve got cupcakes baking as we speak.”

“Never mind that you need an intervention more than you need another cupcake.” I started to react, but it quickly became clear that this was just his starter jab. “You’re. Not. A. Lesbian. Nic. And you wouldn’t karaoke for a hundred bucks.” That was true. Sad, but true. “So what in the hell are you doing over there every Friday night?” And then he lapsed into absurdity: “Are they brainwashing you? Luring you into some sort of sexual cult? Should I come over?”

I rolled my eyes and responded accordingly. “Don’t worry—it’s nothing I can’t handle. Just a little girl-on-girl action.”

After a couple beats of uncharacteristic silence, Gabe eventually surfaced. “Okay, I’m getting a sarcastic vibe here, and it’s throwing me off.”

“Wishful thinking doesn’t make it so, Gabe. Remember that.”

“Damn. I thought not. So how exactly do the weekly lesbian potlucks fit in with the Nic James Life Plan?”

By now immune to Gabe’s (and everyone else’s) disdain for my carefully considered, down-to-the-detail life plan, I answered matter-of-factly. “It’s actually a rather elegant solution. As you’ve just pointed out, I’m not a