Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [8]
Really, it was all too much, particularly as Jane herself was enjoying none of the benefits associated with being one of the most popular authors of all time. No royalty checks came her way. No one asked her permission to make the book group reading guides or gardening books or knitting patterns that sold by the cartload. The fact that she was for all intents and purposes dead did little to ease her annoyance.
She began the odious task of counting the drawer. She had made her way through the twenties and tens and fives and was starting on the always irritating singles (when one wanted them to make change there were never enough of them, yet when one hoped for a substantial day’s profit there were always too many) when the bell above the door tinkled.
Hoping for a customer, she was slightly disappointed to see Walter Fletcher walking toward her. Dressed in his customary uniform of tan chinos and checked flannel shirt beneath a brown twill jacket embroidered with his name and the name of his house restoration company, he was as cheerful as he always was. In five years Jane hadn’t once seen him frown.
Walter set a paper bag on the counter and slid it toward her. Jane opened it, and the air filled with the scent of cinnamon.
“You didn’t,” said Jane.
“I did,” Walter replied.
Jane reached into the bag and pulled out a cinnamon bun. Sticky with sugar, it was still warm. She bit into it and groaned. Of all the misconceptions about her kind, the one she’d been most relieved to find untrue was that they lost their ability to enjoy food. True, it nourished her not at all, but the upside was that it also did not increase her figure. She remained precisely the size she had been at her death.
“They came out of the oven not ten minutes ago,” Walter told her.
Jane had tasted many wonderful things during her two centuries, but few compared to the cinnamon buns made by the bakery located a few doors down from her shop. Jane was addicted to them. The fact that Walter had brought her one made her suspicious.
“What do you want?” she asked him.
Walter’s blue eyes sparkled merrily as he watched her lick the sugar glaze from her fingers. “Who says I want something?” he asked, feigning indignation. “Can’t I just bring a friend a cinnamon bun?”
“Come on,” said Jane, taking another bite. “Out with it.”
Walter smiled. “All right,” he said. “I confess. I do have a tiny favor to ask you.”
Jane waited for him to continue. Walter paused, clearly thinking about how to proceed. Before he could speak Jane said, “Walter, we’ve been through this before. I can’t go out with you. I mean—”
“I don’t want to go out with you,” Walter interrupted.
Jane looked at him, surprised.
“I mean, I do want to go out with you,” Walter said, blushing. “But I know you won’t—”
“Can’t,” Jane corrected him. “There’s a difference.”
“Can’t,” Walter agreed. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I’d like you to come to my New Year’s Eve party.”
Jane groaned. “I detest New Year’s Eve,” she said. “So much fuss and nonsense about another year, all of it cleverly designed to result in the deepest of disappointment.”
“It’s just a party,” Walter said. “There will be champagne.”
“How grand,” said Jane. “And I suppose there will be charades and the Minister’s Cat?”
Walter gave her a look that reminded her far too much of a wounded puppy. “Please?” he said.
Jane took another bite of cinnamon bun and chewed it before answering. “Possibly,” she replied. “But only because you bribed me.”
Walter smiled. “Excellent. We’ll be pleased to have you.”
“I didn’t say—”
“I’ve got to go,” said Walter, looking at his watch. “We’re tearing out Maggie Beecher’s kitchen this morning, and she throws a fit if we’re not there by ten sharp.”
He hurried out before Jane could make any further protests. When he was gone Lucy said, “I don’t know why you won’t go