again. Now it read, “ ‘Better be without sense than misapply it as you do.’ Emma.” Nice.
The whole situation was mind-boggling. I’d spilled a chai latte onto something that had once belonged, however fleetingly, to Jane Austen and somehow summoned her ghost, or spirit, or lingering chi, and inspired her to become, at least for a time, my own personal fairy godmother, a.k.a. Fairy Jane. Her letter to her niece, now visible in its entirety with the turn of a key, clearly laid out her intentions. And yet, as interesting as this discovery was, it didn’t even begin to resolve the plethora of questions that fairly hovered around the journal. Beyond the lingering nuisance of how the hell she was getting words to disappear, there were now all sorts of new questions on the table.
Like, how were the words coming back with a simple turn of the key? And how was she giving relevant advice from the beyond? Specific, detailed, kinda creepy advice. Was it possible that her spirit had lingered on after her death and then flourished with the widespread popularity of her books? Okay, maybe I could coax my brain around that possibility—maybe—but for God’s sake, how on earth was she reaching beyond the journal to wreak havoc in my actual life, switching the daily quotes on a tacky little calendar, insinuating herself into my work life, and blackmailing me in my romantic life?
It seemed that, like it or not, I needed to start facing these problems head-on, starting with the journal.
I may as well tell you everything, even though I suspect that in some way or another, you’re already “magically” informed. Today I had an unexpected visit from you know who, complete with flowers and an impromptu invitation to dinner. As you can probably guess, I accepted both. I also had a pop-in from Brett— remember him? the epitome of sensible romance???—which resulted in an invitation to lunch, which I also accepted. May the best man win, right?
Dinner was lovely—Sean serenaded me! Cheesy as it is, it pretty much solidified my crush on the man. It was just going to be the one dance, then the one date, but now, suddenly it’s mushroomed into more than that. (Don’t you just love the pun?) I’d ask you to make it stop, but you wouldn’t, and honestly, I wouldn’t want you to.
I let my pen tip back from the page and indulged in a deep, bittersweet sigh, remembering the oh-so-sensible “Before.” And envisioning the sure-to-be-crazy “After” life.
Beck is beyond thrilled and a proponent of my scrapping The Plan in favor of Sean. But what about Brett? I’ve barely gotten a chance to know him, and already he’s getting the magical, not to mention the mentee, brush-off. I think, ultimately, I need to make the final decision, and I want to give them both an equal showing. What can I say, I like to play fair.
With a deep and fairly optimistic sigh, I signed off.
P.S. Now that I’ve come around on the romance, I expect you to keep up your end of the bargain!
I felt compelled to add this last bit, a not-so-subtle reminder of our deal: She keeps out of my work life if I let her call a few shots on the romance front.
Satisfied, I tipped the book closed, catching quick little glimpses of all the advice to date, all of it focused on a relationship with Sean. From the very beginning, Miss Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance, it had all been leading up to this—this moment. And now I’d caved; I was officially indulging, and “sensible” was not exactly the word that came to mind.
Ignoring the fact that it was far past my bedtime, I slipped the newfound key off my nightstand and sat for a moment, the journal in one hand, the key in the other, imagining a subtle tingling in my fingers. I wanted another peek. I hoped it would take the edge off my uncertainty knowing that I wasn’t alone—that I wasn’t the only one who’d had her life turned inside out by deciding to blindly follow a seemingly arbitrary collection of fortune cookie– style instructions. You could say I was a little desperate.
Bracing myself against the impossibility of it all, I slid the key home and turned it with a scraping twist, watching as sheaves of old pages appeared to grow out of the book’s binding, waiting until my heartbeat slowed to a dull thump. Then, ever a fan of the systematic approach, I started at the beginning, with the Dear Jane letter, and then avidly read on from there.
There is to be a dance, and in as much as that is delightful all on its own merit, I have a better reason to be fidgety, for afterwards, I shall be out! I confess to being both nervous and excited at once. I am to have a new gown and am truly hoping for something lovely. Simply the thought of it will help me to happily endure the days—and moments—in between. Mother will surely endeavor to make use of these golden opportunities to warn me against future folly while at the same time urging me to embrace all that is good and true. But I will endure with high spirits, for I intend to remain, for as long as possible, pleased with the World in general and everyone in it, Mother included.
As the first entry following the dedication, I assumed it was written by Jane Anna Elizabeth Austen herself, and I couldn’t help but wonder what little snippet of advice Aunt Jane had culled from this optimistic piece. And how the girl had reacted to a little magical interference. There were a few clues in the next entry.
I find myself in quite a conundrum. Despite having written to you, Aunt Jane, and discovered that, by some strange magic, you are able to advise me through the pages of this very journal, I cannot claim even a vague understanding of how you are able to do so. And while you must know the esteem in which I hold your good advice and opinions, I admit that I can no longer consider this a private journal in the traditional sense, knowing that every careful word is on display. I can, however, delight in using it just as you intended, to record the little dilemmas that life presents, expecting, in response, your prompt and sound advice. I expect I will need it more than you know, because I have decided to follow in your footsteps, Aunt Jane, and dedicate myself to my writing, and I fear that Mother will take very vocal exception to this, a very much unintended path. With lifelong admiration and newfound awe, I remain your loving niece, Anna.
I avidly read through the years of Anna’s journal correspondence with Aunt Jane, attempting to deduce the pertinent “miscellanious morsels” based on the clues provided in each subsequent entry. Beyond the inherent puzzle, I was fascinated ... and oblivious as the clock ticked away the hours of my good night’s sleep.
Hours later, my eyes bleary and my thoughts tangled with stories, I tipped the volume closed, twisted out the key, and watched transfixed as it shrank down again to its deceptively slim self. Hoping for an out-of-sight, out-of- mind miracle, I slid book and key under my pillow and laid my head down, still completely frazzled. As I switched off the light, it occurred to me that from Sean’s perspective, everything was going precisely as planned.
* * * The morning started with a near fatality. Refusing to give up after at least fifteen whacks to the snooze bar, my alarm clock became the enemy. I barely resisted flinging it against the wall in a groggy haze of aggravation. But as I blinked my eyes open, desperate to get hold of the little beast, they shifted from fuzzy to focused, and registered that it was already seven o’ clock.
Well, technically it was six forty-five—fifteen minutes fast translated to two guiltless snoozes—but still, I was way late. If I wanted to squeeze in a drive down to New Braunfels between a lunch with Brett and a date with Sean, then I really needed to get moving. This was what I got for staying up late (and out late) on a work night. Bleary-eyed and fuzzy-mouthed, I stumbled out of bed and scrambled to get ready. I was an efficient whirlwind, and twenty minutes later I was mixing up some cocoa in my travel mug when last night came avalanching back: the date, the decision, the journal.
My eyes strayed to the calendar on the counter, and I read the day’s quote with a feeling of dread. “ ‘What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken!’ Persuasion.” That didn’t bode well at all. Evidently at least one part of my day wasn’t going to go at all as expected.
