Austentatious

I slumped down against the table, saw one of the frat boys turn in our direction, and jerked myself erect, now totally self-conscious, thanks to my pimp of a mentee.

“Can’t we discuss any mentee-related topics?”

“Like minty-fresh breath? An absolute must for those romantic indulgences!”

“You’re teasing me? I just told you the biggest, weirdest secret I’ve ever told anyone, and now you’re teasing me?”

“Maybe a little. Does that bother you? Because I can not do that.” Her mouth quirked up at the side and her eyes twinkled.

“Can you? I wonder.” I dredged up a smile and took a deep steadying breath. “Okay, well, I’m done chatting about Jane Austen and J.R.R. Tolkien, so unless you have another topic in mind ...”

She shook her head in the negative. “Nothing that could come close to this.”

I checked my watch—just past eleven. “There’s a sandwich shop down on SoCo—”

“Jo’s? Definitely, let’s meet there—perfect vibe.”

“O-kay.” I couldn’t help but wonder what constituted a perfect vibe for Lord of the Rings–style strategizing over a magical journal. I guess I’d find out. “Jo’s it is. I’ll bring the journal.” I crumpled up my wax paper sleeve, ready to pack it in.

She nodded, clearly delighted with the arrangement, and we walked toward the exit, tossing our trash in the bin by the door.

The trees in the parking lot were underlit by spotlights and seemed vaguely otherworldly. With a shiver, I turned back to Beck.

“Thanks for calling. It feels weird to have said any of that out loud, but I’m glad I talked to you, even if your idea of ‘perfect sense’ is a bit loco. At least you didn’t freak.”

She laughed. “That makes one of us. Just consider the possibility. . . And by all means carry on with the data collection. I’ll expect full deets tomorrow: What you said, what she said...” Her head was tipping back and forth, and the sparkly pink star in her nose was winking at me. She shooed me away. “Go home! And write juicy,” she called back over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes in the dark, deciding I wasn’t a big fan of surreal. I’d had a mind-numbingly normal day until words had disappeared from my journal and my intern / mentee had announced that they’d been stolen away by a fairy godmother channeling the spirit of Jane Austen. And there was no end in sight, because as self-appointed sidekick, the mind-blowing Mulder to my strait-laced Scully, Beck was very likely going to crazy up my day tomorrow too. At this point, it was unclear—at least to me—which of us was the protege in this fledgling relationship. I worried what that meant for the future.

4 In which “enchanted” collides with “not so enchanted”

Alone in my kitchen, I dropped into a chair, positioned the journal in front of me, and considered Beck’s parting words, trying hard not to think about her other, “fairy” words. Juicy. She thought I should write juicy. She should know by now that my life was about as juicy as a prune. I was, however, exasperated to the hilt and not above responding to the journal’s latest little gem of wisdom with a certain amount of snark.

Rummaging through the assortment of quirky writing implements stuffed into an oversized mug on the kitchen counter, I pulled out my black fine-line permanent pen. Wouldn’t want to make things too easy for little Fairy Jane.

Cleavage is as cleavage does, huh?

Normally I’d feel ridiculous speaking this whole thing aloud, but in this situation, I couldn’t seem to help myself.

Just for the fun of it, just for a moment, let’s pretend that I have cleavage. In that case, I might possibly make a tiny effort to decipher this mysterious bit of wonky “wisdom.” But since, in reality, it’s a nonissue, I’m not gonna worry about it.

And just for your clarification and future reference, I’m not a lesbian, not even experimental, nor do I have plans for men in my near future, which is why I’m going to the wedding alone. That way I get cake but not complications. I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot here—I’m not cleavage obsessed—I’m not. It’s just a fact of life that in dealings with my boobs, right is right, and left is left, and never the twain shall meet.

I figured I should be totally honest—this was my journal, after all, like it or not.

But if I were looking for “a little romance” ... I do have some standards, one of which is that if a guy is focused in at chest level, I’m through with him from the get-go (and he’s probably through with me too). Just sayin’ ...

P.S. Who are you?

That last part just slipped off the tip of my permanent pen, so there was no getting rid of it now. No doubt it would disappear by morning.

Then again, maybe I’d get an answer.

Don’t get me wrong, I was still sensibly opposed to chalking this craziness up to a fairy godmother, but it didn’t escape me that viable, logical explanations weren’t exactly lining up. And Jane Austen? Gimme a break!

Beck expected me to buy into the idea that Jane Austen herself was dishing out kooky romantic advice in my living room, nearly two hundred years outside her realm of expertise? That this magical Austenesque journal had somehow slipped through the fingers of collectors, historians, literary buffs, and Mr. Darcy devotees to find its way into a little antiques shop in Austin, Texas?

That last bit gave me pause. Weirder things had very probably happened in this town, I just didn’t know about them. And honestly, that made a world of difference.

I shook my head, trying, I suppose, to make sure the crazy didn’t take hold. Tipping the journal closed, I let my fingers and eyes rove over the worn cover, the scuffed and barely stained pages, and the tarnished hardware. Suddenly remembering the inscription, I flipped open the cover and reread the careful script lettering.

“... I dedicate to You the following Miscellanious Morsels, convinced that if you seriously attend to them, You will derive from them very important Instructions, with regard to your Conduct in Life.”

Okay, maybe they had a little bit of a Jane Austen vibe. But even if I caved and allowed for the possibility that just maybe some sort of Jane Austen–inspired fairy godmother had taken my journal hostage, it didn’t change anything.

Okay, maybe that was delusional. Rephrase: I didn’t plan on taking any advice or falling under anyone’s spell. No matter how many times I’d lost myself in The Collected Works, or lusted after Darcy and Knightley on page and screen, that didn’t give Fairy Jane a right to interfere in my life. The fact that I owned a copy of Dating with Jane Austen as Your Wing Woman and had tried shoehorning more than one date into an Austen character type was immaterial. I hadn’t signed up for this. I wasn’t wired for this. And it was starting to show.

And yet, even imagining the possibility that the voice in the journal belonged to Jane Austen had gone a long way toward vanquishing my B-movie fears. I felt like I could treat the situation more like a weird mystery—or a funky BBC adaptation. The ominous feeling had dissipated slightly, to be replaced by a sense of doubtful wonder.