Austentatious

GVogler: adh-sxsw

ADH? Alamo Drafthouse? Probably. I glanced up to make sure the liquid nitrogen hadn’t frozen up the handler before quickly typing in my reply. I hated that I was going to miss seeing Gabe’s reaction, but it couldn’t be helped. I was stuck down here indefinitely.

NJames: Me too. Paramount

GVogler: serious!? with Scottie?

NJames: Believe it or not. Any new matches?

Another probe to determine Beck’s status.

GVogler: haven’t checked. got a meeting. later.

Anyone casually passing my tester might very well have mistakenly assumed I was absolutely thrilled over the effortless testing of a tray of parts at freezing temperatures. And technically, it was good news—a relief, really. But not as good as discovering that Beck might be on her way to vanquishing the One-Date Wonders. Whoot!

Eventually, though, the red light on top of the parts handler started flashing, necessitating some actual work. Dipping my hand into a freezing chamber to unjam a couple of parts, the truth of my work situation hit me full in the face (along with a blast of liquid nitrogen–laced cold). I could either toe the line and wait for management to embrace me, or I could take the escape route I’d been offered and juice things up a little myself. As much as switching from one engineering job to another could juice things up.

I didn’t dare risk asking Fairy Jane for advice, and Beck, I’d discovered, was a bit of a wild card. Gabe, tired of my bitching, would most likely vote for a transfer. So I was pretty much on my own, with Friday only a few days away.

Sean called around four to confirm our plans for the evening. The premiere was at eight, so we’d meet at the Paramount at seven-thirty. Apparently it was to be a red-carpet event, some dramedy called Peas and Carrots, with a couple of up-and-coming celebrities and likely a mad crush to get in. I was promised very good seats. We agreed to get dinner afterwards, which pretty much guaranteed that it would be a very late night indeed (for a Tuesday), and I spent the remainder of the afternoon riding the thrill of being—just for now— Sean’s “luv.”

Well that, and trying to squeeze in a mini roadtrip and an awkward chat with an elderly gentleman about his sister’s once-upon-a-time love interest.

Misty Glen Assisted Living Community, which I’d Googled and then phoned from my cubicle, was a trio of ranch-style buildings relaxing under the lacy shade of towering old pecan trees. The porches, clustered with rocking chairs and barrel tables holding giant checker sets, were empty, either due to the brisk spring breeze or the fact that my visit coincided with naptime. I asked at the desk for Mr. Nelson, crossing my fingers that he had few minutes to spare before an early-bird dinner at 4:45. I was in luck.

I found him in the rec room, playing Mexican Train dominoes with a trio of other inhabitants. After introducing myself, I was gruffly told that I could cool my heels until the game was over. Fair enough. I plunked myself down on the cushy couch and examined my quarry. A horseshoe of white fuzz clung to his head and crinkly lines edged a pair of faded blue eyes that, by the looks of things, didn’t let much slip by unnoticed. I’d have to be on my toes when my turn came around.

I tipped my head back, shuttering my eyes closed. I’d been paged four times on the trip down here, but I wasn’t up to returning any of them. Truthfully, I wasn’t up for much of anything right now—I was way outside my comfort zone, with no clue as to how I’d ever get back.

Time passed, and I kept quiet inside my little cocoon. Until I was launched like a butterfly as someone collapsed onto the couch beside me, close enough that our thighs brushed on my way back down. My eyes flared open and whipped around to catch the delighted little smirk on Mr. Nelson’s face.

“I won again,” he told me, I assumed referring to his game of Mexican Train. “Ha! It’s almost too easy.”

“Congratulations,” I said, trying to bring my heart rate back under control.

“You find the key?” He glanced at me from under caterpillar-like brows. He was munching on what looked like a particularly lumpy homemade chocolate chip cookie.

“Sorry,” he said, catching me eyeing the cookie, “last one.” Then, to himself, “I love how she puts the Raisinettes in.” Popping the last of it into his mouth, he dusted his hands on his khakis.

Another cookie would have broken the ice nicely.

“I found the key,” I confirmed, then paused for just a second before adding, “and I read your sister’s story.”

“Hrmmph.” He produced a double-six domino, seemingly out of nowhere, and tumbled it, over and over, between his fingers. “So why the visit?”

“I ... ah ... needed an answer the journal wasn’t giving me.”

“Yeah? Which one?” He didn’t meet my eyes, and I knew this must be hard on him. I almost wished I hadn’t come.

But I had come—I’d driven all the way down here—and I was going to ask the question.

I looked down at my own fingers, linked in front of me, and wished I had a domino of my own. “Did she have any regrets? You said you thought she was happy, but after Tyler there was never mention of another man. Do you know if she fell in love again? If she got married? Did she ever wish she hadn’t taken the journal’s advice?”

“You know that’s more than one question, right?”

I smiled. “Noticed that, did ya?”

“Cat never married, and as to men, I couldn’t tell ya. Wouldn’t even want to know, if it came to that.” He cringed slightly. “What I can tell you is that she was happy. Every letter she sent told me that. She may have regretted leaving Tyler behind, but she would have regretted it a whole lot more if she’d stayed.” He paused on a heavy sigh. “Despite what I said before—blaming the journal for Cat’s skedaddling—that wasn’t exactly fair. I suspect Cat would have found her way to leaving with or without that diary.”

My gaze held his for several long seconds. It wasn’t the answer I’d been hoping for. Then again, I had no idea what I’d been hoping for—an easy solution to my complicated situation, I guess. Clearly, I wasn’t going to find it here.

“That’s good to know,” I finally said.

“I may not have agreed with her decisions, but I respected that they were hers to make.”

“You’re a smart man,” I told him, smiling.

I stood up and stretched a bit, dreading the hurried drive back to Austin.

He glanced up at me. “I wrote in there too, you know. Just once—couldn’t help myself.” He shuffled his feet and shot me a look out of the corner of his eye. I sank slowly back into my seat.

“I didn’t know,” I told him, my heartbeat thumping crazily in my chest.

“It was right after I’d gotten Cat’s things back from England—after she’d died. I opened the diary—never put the key in, mind you—and just started to write.”

He had been the journal’s previous owner. His entry would have come right between Cat’s and mine. Somehow, I must have missed it.

My eyes were so wide they were starting to dry out in the dehumidified rec-room air, causing me to blink excessively.

“So did you ... ?” I lifted my shoulders expectantly.

“Did I get any advice from the all-powerful journal? As a matter of fact, I did.” He smiled.

I thrummed with tension and curiosity, waiting for Mr. Nelson to let me in on his little secret.

He chuckled. “I’ll give you a hint. Those cookies came from Ms. Eleanor Stone in apartment 112. We have a ‘date’ tonight to watch Rear Window—she’s a big Grace Kelly fan.”

My mind whirled. Had Mr. Nelson been the recipient of a bit of personalized romantic advice? Interesting ... I was now anxious to get back to Austin for an entirely different reason.