Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [9]
Jane sighed. “We’re just not a good match,” she said.
“Because he’s a carpenter?” asked Lucy.
“No,” Jane said sharply. “And he’s not just a carpenter. He restores old houses, and beautifully. But that has nothing to do with it. It’s just that he … that I … we don’t …” She couldn’t finish the sentence in any way that wouldn’t make her sound like a snob.
“I don’t get it,” said Lucy. “He’s smart. He’s funny. He likes books and art and all the same things you do. Plus he’s a hottie.”
“I suppose he’s attractive enough,” Jane agreed, thinking about the pleasing arrangement of Walter’s features. And he has such strong hands, she thought.
“Then remind me again why you can’t go out with him,” said Lucy.
Because I’m dead, Jane thought. Because he’ll age and I won’t. Because men generally don’t like women who need to drink blood to stay alive. What she said was, “I’m perfectly happy with my life.”
Lucy made a vague humming sound.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jane demanded.
Lucy stacked some books on a table. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just humming.”
“I know that hum,” said Jane curtly. “That’s your ‘whatever’ hum.”
“Sure it is,” Lucy said. “Okay.”
“It is!” said Jane. “And you know it!”
Lucy glanced over at her. “Whatever,” she said sweetly.
“Maybe I should date him.”
“You go right ahead,” Jane said, trying to sound as if she didn’t care in the least. “Just because he’s old enough to be your father, don’t let that stop you.”
“Ah-ha!” Lucy crowed. “You do like him.”
“I do not!” said Jane. “I’m just pointing out a fact.”
“You like Walter,” Lucy said in a singsong voice.
Jane dismissed Lucy with a shake of her head. “Whatever,” she said.
Chapter 4
She looked at the box, not daring to hope that inside of it were the pens and paper she had requested as her Christmas gift. Constance knew her parents thought her request fanciful, and she feared that her mother and father—not out of cruelty or disapproval, but simply because they could not conceive of their daughter wanting to commit herself to the life of an artist—might have instead purchased for her hair ribbons, paper dolls, or yet another china kitten.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE A BLUR. TRAFFIC AT THE BOOKSTORE was brisk as shoppers rushed to cross off all the names on their Christmas lists. Lucy’s prediction that all things Austen would be strong sellers proved correct, and Jane watched as stacks of her books and their assorted spin-offs disappeared out the door. This was both gratifying and depressing, as the thought of all the uncollectible royalties gave her a headache.
“I knew we should have ordered the Jane Austen action figure,” Lucy remarked during a rare lull in the hustle and bustle. “I’ve had six customers ask for it today alone.”
“No dolls,” Jane said shortly. “It’s bad enough I let you talk me into those Austen ornaments.”
“Just like Jane hung on her tree!” Lucy said brightly, quoting from the box that the ornaments came in.
“Indeed,” said Jane. Never mind that virtually no one in England had a Christmas tree until almost thirty years after I was dead. However, they’d sold all three dozen boxes at $29.95 a pop, so she couldn’t complain.
Finally the evening of the twenty-fourth arrived. Jane let Lucy go at two, and at six o’clock she rang up the last customer, a harried man who had rushed in fifteen minutes earlier and raced through the store grabbing books from the shelves seemingly at random. As Jane rang up his purchases he ran his finger down a piece of paper in his hand.
“Emily, Frank, Sandra, Will, Jack, Maggie, Lloyd, Peter, Sally, Deirdre, and the other Jack,” he read aloud. “I don’t suppose you have any books a dog would like?” he asked hopefully.
“What kind of dog?” said Jane as she scanned the bar code on the back of the latest Anne Rice novel.
“French bulldog,” the man replied. “Name of Gregory.”
“Perhaps he’d enjoy some Victor Hugo,” Jane suggested. “Or,” she continued, reaching under the counter and bringing out a large rawhide bone