Last（ing） Impressions
At the end of Northanger Abbey, Austen observed that whenever it became clear the pages of a book were dwindling, readers should know that the characters were about to get their happy ending and all the loose ends would be tied up—hastening together to perfect felicity, she called it. Or something like that.
Obviously, I can’t check the quote. But you get the idea.
Anyway, as January turns to February, I pack up and move my things, including Bing Bong—at least temporarily—because Dr. Cassie Lewis has prospects now: so many job interviews and campus visits, she’s almost never home.
The cat, who loves Fisher’s big old house almost as much as I do, doesn’t seem to mind.
Coincidentally, it’s Valentine’s Day when I start leading class discussion on Pride and Prejudice—though the holiday is not really celebrated on this timeline, let alone with chocolate and flowers.
Professor Pedersen announces to the class that this is the “first” time the novel has been taught.
Even though my new position doesn’t involve classroom instruction, I know it won’t be the last.
In March, I submit my completed dissertation to Professor Pedersen.
While enjoying the first hints of spring in Grantham, I pop into Mrs. Merriweather’s shop for old times’ sake and notice an empty section along one wall—“I had to move everything around after that pipe burst in December,” she explains, “and I haven’t decided what to put there. ”
“How about books?” I suggest. New ones, old ones. Doesn’t matter. Grantham’s only bookstore is the one on campus, for textbooks, and people need more access to stories. Especially feel-good stories.
She likes the idea.
Cassie lands her dream job: not an academic position, but working in programming for a new streaming service headquartered in Chicago that bills itself as “Netflix for the Heartland.” It’s not the highest-paid offer she receives, and it means she has to move in with her parents for a while (which changes Bing Bong’s Elm Street status to permanent resident).
But the company likes her idea to make movies in the vein of all these happy, romantic stories that have begun to spring up online.
She texts me about having to do battle with the gorgeous executive producer who’s focused on the bottom line and doesn’t believe in love.
I text back: sounds like a great premise for your first script.
And yesterday, April twenty-second, I both successfully defended my dissertation on happiness in Pride and Prejudice and signed the contract for my new job with Grantham College.
As a congratulatory gift, Professor Pedersen presented me with a new plaque for the database workroom, reflecting my new title.
Which brings us to today. I decide to hang the sign myself, rather than wait for facilities services to do it—I’m too excited and, like I said before, I have my own screwdriver.
I’m standing in the basement of Kirwin, admiring my handiwork, when I hear footsteps along the corridor. They stop behind me.
“R.E.N.E.W.W.?” the person reads from the top of the sign, sounding out each letter.
It’s Fisher’s voice.
In the last three months, we’ve spent almost every weekend together. But today is Wednesday, so naturally my first question is, “What are you doing here in the middle of the week?”
“Celebrating you,” he says, nodding at the sign, which also reads Dr. E. Bradshaw, Director. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Late? But I never expected you to be here. How were you able to get away?”
“I hope you can get used to it,” he says, a sly grin curving his lips.
My pulse starts to pound so loudly in my ears, I shout, “Does that mean—?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Gaby’s finally settled into her new office.
I attended my last meeting this morning, accepted the thanks of the executive board, and hopped on the next plane home.
” From all appearances, he’s not exaggerating—he’s still wearing a suit and tie, and, um …
wow. Maybe a break from the t-shirts once in a while isn’t so bad.
I fumble behind me for the door handle, wait impatiently for the buzz-thunk of the electronic lock as it recognizes me, then drag us both inside. As soon as the door closes behind us, Fisher pins me to it for a scorching kiss.
“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs when he lifts his head from mine and reaches back to deposit a canvas tote onto the worktable; I’ve been too distracted to notice he was holding anything.
As he turns away, I stay propped against the door, certain I’ll slither into a puddle if I move. I hear some rustling, followed by a soft pop and when he faces me again, he’s holding two flutes of champagne and extends one to me. “Here’s to you, Dr. Bradshaw.”
“What happened to no food or drink in the workroom?” I ask, nodding toward one of his signs even as I accept the glass.
He shrugs, and a mischievous twinkle glitters in his eyes as he toasts me with his own glass. “I don’t work here anymore.”
“I do,” I remind him, lifting one brow in a mocking scold.
“Ah, but you’re the boss, now. You can break the rules. In fact, you make the rules.”
I like the sound of that.
Two glasses of champagne later (each), and I’m spinning in the desk chair, giggling as he rummages in the tote again like it’s Mary Poppins’ handbag. “I almost forgot this.”
I put out a foot to stop the chair and reach for the envelope he’s holding.
As I fumble to open it and unfold the letter, another slip of paper flutters to the floor.
When I lean forward to retrieve it, I see it’s not just any paper.
It’s a check. A very large check. Made out to me and the Grantham College Digital Humanities Program.
“Read the letter,” he urges. It’s from his father.
Dear Elle,
Please accept this small token of my appreciation for all you’ve done in helping the Davises weather a difficult time, but most of all, in looking out for my son’s happiness. Even with a thousand miles between us, I feel closer to him now than I have for years.
With love and gratitude—
FDJr
“I don’t—” I glance up at Fisher, bewildered. “What does this mean?”
“Just what it says. He asked me what I thought would make you happy.”
“And your first thought was … money?” I swipe my thumb over the amount, which hardly seems real.
“No.” He slides off his perch on the edge of the worktable and lowers himself to the floor, so we’re eye to eye.
Then he reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out the bookmark I gave him when I left New York, now looking a little tattered.
“When you gave me this, it got me thinking about how much time you have to spend generating subscribers for the database. So when my dad said he was looking for a way to say thanks, I may have mentioned that your program could benefit from some financial support.”
“This is—wow,” I breathe. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“You never mentioned the rebrand. What’s the new acronym stand for?”
“Recovering English Novels by Exceptional Women Writers,” I say.
“Renew.” He smiles. “I like it. And in that spirit, I hope this”—he flicks the check—“goes at least some of the way toward making the database open access, so that anyone and everyone can read these amazing pieces you’re unearthing … starting with Pride and Prejudice.”
I swallow what’s left in my glass to wet my lips and manage to croak out “Definitely.” It was one thing to choose to keep my little story on a public website. But free global access to the database was a dream I’d never even dared to voice.
Now Fisher has taken it from dream to reality.
He reaches for the bottle to refill my glass, but I wave him off, even though I can’t entirely blame the champagne for my giddy, lightheaded state. “Did you …?” I frown, trying to chase down a thought that’s already gone skittering away. “Does that mean you actually read Pride and Prejudice?”
“Um, yeah, actually. I did.”
I snap a little more upright in my seat. “Really? Did you love it?”
His answering smile is indulgent. “I love that you love it. I liked Elizabeth a lot—she reminded me of you. Not sure how she kept from strangling her mother. Really not sure what she saw in Darcy, to be perfectly honest—he seemed like a bit of a stuffed shirt.”
“He ‘improved on acquaintance,’” I quote.
“Well, as long as she’s happy—”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “That’s the central, most radical, message of the text: happiness matters.
At the time, people were expected to make choices about whom to marry based on what was rational, to be guided by their heads and not their hearts—to say nothing of any other organs.
” Now I’m gathering steam, and I can’t seem to help myself.
I mean, this is the whole argument of my dissertation, after all.
“But Elizabeth holds out for happiness—it’s a bold choice, but she’s rewarded for it in the end.
She gets it all: someone who’s handsome and rich and generous and wild about her and just an all-around great guy. ”
Fisher looks slightly surprised by my vehemence, but mostly amused. “I hadn’t really considered it that way before,” he admits. “Literary analysis really isn’t my forte. But I am pretty confident the author was right about one thing.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
He drains his glass and reaches up to set it on the table. “The part at the beginning. About how a single man with a good fortune wants a wife.”
“Oh, that.” I recall Samantha’s long-ago comment about satire. “I’m pretty sure the author was … Fisher?”
He’s rearranged his long limbs until he’s on one knee at my feet. And a ring appears in his hand as if from nowhere. Elegant. Not too big or showy. Perfect.
Oh my God.
“That’s beautiful,” I manage to whisper, dragging my eyes from the ring to his face.
“Gaby helped me pick out the center stone,” he explains.
I might have known—she has impeccable taste.
“But I designed the setting.” He twists the ring between his fingers so the band catches the light, and I realize the solitaire is held in place on either side by smaller stones arranged in sideways figure eights: the mathematical symbol for infinity.
It’s a little bit corny, a little bit sexy, and a whole lot amazing.
“Now, I know we haven’t been together that long,” he says, “and I’m not usually one to rush into things.
But I don’t have a shadow of a doubt about this.
Where other people see Fisher Davis’s son or Trey or that nerdy guy from IT, you see me, the bad and—thankfully—the good.
And you aren’t afraid to let me see all of you.
You’re brilliant and beautiful and I’m a better person for knowing you.
You’re the one I want to be with—for infinity,” he adds, holding up the ring so that the stones wink. “Will you marry me, Elle?”
That’s a way, way better proposal than Elizabeth Bennet ever received, from anyone.
I catch my mind wandering toward a line from another Austen novel.
What did she say?—Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does.
The best I can manage, however, is a teary-eyed, trembling-lipped, “Mm-hm.”
And then he’s smiling and standing and pulling me to my feet and slipping the ring onto my finger, all at once. I flip off the light switch and we kiss, bathed in the mainframe’s steady blue glow.