Austentatious

“Well, what’s your take on things?”

“My take is that magic is for prime-time specials and Las Vegas shows—none of it is actually real. There’s always an explanation, a trick, a sleight of hand. I’m missing something—I must be—and tomorrow I’m going back to that antiques store to grill the shop owner for any useful information.” I wasn’t about to tell her that my confidence in this plan of action was waning with each missing word.

Beck slapped her hands palms down on the table, making little flakes of coconut jump and our drinks slosh in their cups. Her eyes flared with excitement. “When? When are you going to do that?”

“Around lunchtime.”

“Can I come? Do you mind?”

Slightly baffled by her exuberance, but not opposed to having her tag along, I shook my head and offered, “Sure. You’ll have to meet me, though—I’ll be coming from work.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Hell, yeah it does.” I was beyond tired of going above and beyond.

“Okay,” she enthused, “how about I meet you around one? We can get lunch, come up with a strategy before we go in.”

“We need a strategy?” I was well on my way to being thoroughly gobsmacked.

“Well, this isn’t exactly Lord of the Rings, but I think a little pre-planning would be good. Has the student suddenly become the master?” she teased.

“Okay, just so you know, strategizing is tough when you’re in denial. In case you hadn’t noticed, ‘My Precious’ is sort of throwing me off my game.”

I couldn’t decide who was crazier—Beck for coming up with the analogy or me for running with it.

“So, we need a strategy,” she concluded. “Let me hear the rest of the story.”

“I’ll give you the condensed version.” I paused before revealing, “I wrote back.” Beck’s eyes widened considerably at this little tidbit. “Earlier tonight. Then I was gone for three hours, and I got another fortune.” I paused out of sheer embarrassment and then laid it on her. “ ‘Cleavage is as cleavage does.’ ”

Beck clapped a hand over her mouth, and with her eyes twinkling, it abruptly occurred to me that the little traitor was laughing! This was sooo not laughable. I propped my elbow on the table and covered my eyes with my hand. Oh, but it was. If this was happening to anyone else, it would be incontrovertibly hilarious. I made myself promise not to hold a grudge. But I did spear her with a glare.

“That is just so unbelievably cool. Not to mention ironic.”

Curious, I lifted an eyebrow.

“That out of all the weird souls in Austin, you’d be the one to end up with a fairy godmother.” She chuckled to herself.

That got my attention. “A fairy godmother? Get serious.” I made a point of rolling my eyes for Beck’s benefit.

She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Uh-huh. And what’s your serious explanation for all this?”

She had me there. I straightened my spine and scraped away imaginary crumbs, refusing to meet her eyes. “I haven’t hit on a legitimate explanation yet. Right now, I’m still gathering data.”

“You mean writing in your magical journal and waiting for your fairy godmother to answer?”

“I wouldn’t describe my procedure in precisely that way, but ...”

Now it was Beck’s turn at the eye-rolling. But before I could counter, she had leaned forward, widened her eyes, and begun speaking in an urgent undertone. “Don’t you get it? It makes perfect sense. Your journal is obviously magical—what other explanation is there—seriously? And who else but a fairy godmother would be giving you romantic advice? Think of her as a modern-day, matchmaking Jane Austen—Jane Austen in Austin—Fairy Jane? Given your obsession with her, this is like the mother ship calling you home.”

I was momentarily struck dumb, but I rallied. “That makes perfect sense? Really? No offense, but speaking as your mentor, not to mention your boss, I’m not exactly getting a warm fuzzy here.”

She inched back off the table and held her hands up, palms out. “Okay, fine. Let’s pretend I didn’t say anything. Let’s pretend that you don’t have a magical journal with a fairy godmother, and she’s certainly not Fairy Jane.” She tipped her eyes down casually and nonchalantly inquired, “Have you had a chance to try it out yet, see if it works?”

I stared at her with squinty eyes, giving no thought to the wrinkles surely sprouting on my forehead. “Try what out?”

“The advice!”

“Are you kidding me?” I lowered my voice, sparing a glance for the cafe’s other patrons, wondering if they’d already gotten an earful, feeling just crazy enough to take them all into my confidence and hammer out a strategy right here, right now.

“What?” she shot back.

“Taking the advice definitely isn’t part of my strategy.”

“Aha! So you have thought strategy!” Before I could respond to this, she was off again.

“Seriously, Nic, what’s to lose?”

“My identity as a sensible, rational human being?”

“It won’t be lost. Just sprinkled with a little fairy dust.”

God, I hoped she was teasing. But I felt the need to clarify. “Except that I don’t believe in fairy dust. Or fairy-tale endings. Or magic in general. This journal is throwing a major kink in the works.”

“Maybe it’s supposed to—maybe that’s exactly what you need, a little kink.” She winked and then looked around behind her toward a table shared by three grungy college guys cramming for something. She then peeked over her other shoulder at a man alone in a suit, poring over his PDA and sipping an espresso. When she turned back, she whispered, “Pull your sweater open a little at the neck.”

Certain I’d misunderstood, I leaned forward against the table, eyebrows raised, and murmured, “What?”

“Try to show a little more skin.” She dusted some bits of coconut off her fingertips and then proceeded to reach across the table to deal with my sweater herself.

I slapped her hand away, wondering how the conversation had spiraled so completely out of control.

I leaned in farther and whispered harshly, “I am not taking cleavage advice from a journal, a nonexistent fairy godmother, or you. Speaking of which—”

I glanced up to see the PDA guy moving past our table. He was looking down at me, and I met his friendly grin with a distracted one of my own before turning my attention back to Beck.

Her eyebrow was winged up, and her smile was definitely smug. She shifted her gaze from my face to my chest, and I let mine follow. Sitting there, boosted up and pushed together by my hunch over the table and partially exposed by my recently adjusted sweater, my bogus cleavage was on display. Perfect.

Tipping my no doubt ruby red face back up to glare at a grinning Beck, I felt an urgent need to get back on familiar ground. Yanking my sweater closed, I decided to play the mentor card.

I sat back and shifted my shoulders primly. “Have you decided what you want to do over the summer—work, school ... both?”

Beck’s eyes went from fantasy to reality in a single blink.

“I was thinking I’d stay at Micro.” Her voice sounded vaguely flat, but I hardly noticed. Not only was I excited that she wanted to stay on over the summer, but I was thoroughly relieved we were no longer talking about road- testing the journal’s advice or fairy godmothers. Definitely a plus.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” I grinned at her. “I’ll need to get final approval from David, but I can’t imagine them letting you go. Do you think you might want to transition to another project—try something new?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her voice had flattened further—like roadkill—and she was glaring at me, breaking Rule #1 on purpose.

I glared right back. And then, ever so slowly, her eyebrow creeped up, as if to say, what’s it gonna be?

Hell.