“She told me she was Jane Austen,” Fred said, looking down at his hands.
“She is Jane Austen,” Sofia replied. She waited for him to react.
Fred snapped his head back up. He moved to cross his arms once more.
“Don’t cross your arms. The alarms will go off again,” Sofia said.
Fred rested his arms by his sides and shifted in the bed. “What do you know about it?”
“She appeared to me in a pile of curtains.” Sofia laughed ruefully. “It was a big to-do. You missed the whole thing.”
“You’re crazy” Fred said.
“Undeniably,” Sofia replied. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
“What curtains?” Fred said.
“Jane appeared out of thin air in the wings of the Bath community hall while I was rehearsing for Northanger Abbey. You were there. You danced with her afterward.”
Fred nodded and paused. “How much had you had to drink?”
“Nothing,” Sofia answered. “Aside from a few puffs of a brown paper bag, I was stone-cold sober. I did not dream it, nor did I hallucinate. I wish I had. I’d prefer not to have to help a time-travelling nineteenth-century author return home. I’ve got enough on my plate already, trying to get my estranged husband back and my brother seducing live electricity.”
“You realize the absurdity of what you’re saying?” Fred said.
“Utterly and completely. But here’s the thing. I believe you’ve thought a great deal more about this whole Jane caper than you’re letting on. And while you’re pretending I’m crazy, you already know she’s Jane Austen. It’s just taken some time to sink in.”
Fred nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Not really the type of thing you tell people, is it—‘Jane Austen appeared to me from a pile of curtains’—unless you want to be taken away in a straitjacket. I’m only telling you about it now because you’ve clearly gone gaga for her.” Fred opened his mouth to protest once more, then seemed to think better of it.
“Let me know when you have made your peace with everything discussed so far,” Sofia said. “For there is more to tell you.”
Fred turned back to her. “Okay?”
“Putting aside the whole Jane Austen thing for a moment. Do you have feelings for her?”
Fred shifted in the bed. “Oh, I . . .” He inhaled but said no more.
“I know something’s already happened between you two. But what I’m really asking is, how deep do those feelings go?”
“Um,” he said. He gazed out the window.
“I know this is a bit of a thing to lump on you, after you’ve been electrocuted and all, and I don’t want to burst the early romance bubble, but unfortunately, time is short.”
He scowled at her. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to answer right now. But whether you believe Jane is Jane Austen or not, she is going back. To the year 1803. She is going to fulfill her destiny as a writer, and she will go soon.”
“What? I don’t . . . okay, when?” he stammered.
“As soon as she instructs me. I discovered the way to get her home. I had help from a nice young man in a cardigan, but I led the mission. Anyway, bottom line, she will go home. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Fred said.
“Unless she is given a reason to stay.”
Fred sighed.
“I think you’ve been your charming self, daft boy, and made her grow feelings for you. I have the means to return her home, and if you don’t get your act together, she will go. She won’t wait forever. She can’t. While I loathe the idea of rushing a budding romance in its fragile early stages, I’m afraid in this case, a push may be required.”
“What kind of a push?” Fred asked her.
“You need to give her a reason to stay,” Sofia replied.
“But we hardly know each other,” Fred said.
“I understand. And in normal circumstances, I’d counsel against large, fast, declarative gestures of affection. They almost always end in disaster, embarrassment, and legal paperwork—I should know. But these aren’t normal circumstances. And she is not a normal woman. And so, if your feelings are moving in that direction, toward love, houses, babies, all the happily-ever-after stuff, may I suggest that, as soon as humanly possible, you tell her how you feel.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Sofia returned to set. She felt like she walked on a cloud. Fred had woken up; she had flowers from her director. It could not get any better than this. She’d thank Jack for the roses one day. Let him sweat a little first. She walked to the sound stage and waved hello to Derek. He looked surprised to see her.
“Back so soon? Why not spend the afternoon at the hospital?”
“All good—Fred is well and has a friend there. I felt like a third wheel, actually, so I headed back. Are you annoyed to see me?”
“Of course not,” Derek said. “Let’s go to the truck.” He tried to move her away from the sound stage. She caught him looking over her shoulder.
“What is it, Derek? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he replied. But he glanced past Sofia again as he said it, then quickly looked back to her. Sofia turned to see what he was looking at. Jack and Courtney stood by the coffee machine. Jack had his hand on Courtney’s bottom. Not mistakenly, or to move her out of the path of an oncoming vehicle; he patted her behind for no reason in particular, except his own comfort. Courtney whispered something in his ear, and he smiled. Then they kissed. On the lips. Sofia blinked and fiddled with an earring.
It wasn’t a first kiss between them. Courtney lifted her heels the perfect amount and Jack bowed his neck the requisite balance, so their lips met in an exact, casual point of intersection, practiced and known. They had done this before, but they were not tired of it, either. It was one of those kisses that come right in the middle of things. Sofia blinked three times,
