Chapter 5
FIVE
“ The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”
~Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
S leep was more of a journey rather than a destination for Elle. Most nights she tossed and turned between intrusive thoughts and vivid nightmares of the past. Last night was no exception. As she lay watching daylight tiptoe into the room, she willed sleep to come.
“I give up,” she huffed, kicking off her blankets.
A good sweaty workout would purge the previous day and reboot her to tackle today. Almost twenty-four hours in Perry left her battered from a tornado of emotions. Bubbles of happy reunions vied with the sharp pang from seeing her mom in front of the Owens Family Clinic.
Changed into black yoga pants and a purple tank top, she sucked in the dewy morning air. Elle strolled to the dock for some pondside yoga. Flip flops kicked off, she spread her mat on the dock’s wooden planks.
Even before nights of challenged sleep, Elle was an early riser. It started with Grandma Coates, who’d wake her before the first crack of dawn. They’d sit in the living room, a bowl of sugary cereal in Elle’s lap, watching the news before school.
That childhood morning ritual dissolved away after grandma got sick. The cancer consumed the once vibrant woman. At eleven, Elle got herself up and sat, cereal bowl in her lap, alone watching the news before school.
Not alone. Elle had herself. That self-reliance bolstered her to not just care for herself, but for the broken doll that was her mom after Elle’s dad had left.
Eyes closed tight, she moved into the workout and away from the haunting pull of the past. Around her the world hummed with the morning playlist of chirping birds and a distant happy bark.
Lowering into corpse pose, she ended her yoga routine. The glow of ache and energy radiated within her. Controlling her breaths in time with the gentle breeze, she closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them to golden rays streaked between fluffy clouds. The sunshine the same color as her mom’s blonde curls. Her throat choked with sudden emotion.
Those phantoms were dimmed in Long Beach. In Perry, they burned bright.
I see you ghosts. Now fuck off. She closed her eyes tight.
“Oof,” Elle gasped as the weight of something round, furry, and squirmy hit her chest. Her eyes shot open and met the dark eyes of a rogue pug, its wrinkled black and tan face drawn into a curious pout. “Well, who are you?”
The pug wiggled its roly-poly body. Raising to a seated position, she placed him on her lap. Before she could read the bone-shaped name tag dangling from his collar, he attacked with wet kisses.
“I see you’ve met Fitz.” A tall shadow and that familiar citrus scent fell over Elle.
“Sure have. Morning, Clayton.” A fluttery sensation formed in her belly with each syllable of his name. It was like fresh brewed peppermint tea, soothing and warm.
“Good morning, Elle.”
She craned her neck to study his features, which were shaded by that same Yankees cap. Elle was tall for a woman, but Clayton towered above her by seven or eight inches. A light blue shirt molded over his muscular frame, discolored with drying sweat spots along his armpits and collar.
Any self-consciousness about the pieces of her sweat soaked hair dissolved. Both wore the signs of recent exercise. Except, only one of them carried that fresh citrus smell after working out. No doubt her aroma was not as appealing.
“He’s a bit of a flirt.” Clayton pointed at Fitz, who’d flipped on his back to be cradled like a baby in Elle’s arms.
“Is he yours?”
“I think I’m his.”
“I like that. How long have you been with him?”
“About two years. I volunteer at the county shelter. He came in. He was so little. Not little like tiny and cute, but skinny and sunken into himself…and so scared. They couldn’t get him to come out of the crate. He’s stubborn, but I lured him out.” Clayton lowered to his haunches near Elle.
“He’s not skinny anymore,” Elle teased, rubbing Fitz’s squishy belly.
“Don’t fat shame my dog.”Clayton teasingly tutted, leaning over to pet Fitz. The heat of his body caressed her flushed cheeks.
“Did he come with the name Fitz, or did you name him?”
“I named him.”
“Why Fitz?” She turned her gaze from the sleepy pug to his human. That flutter in her stomach kicked up as her hazel eyes met his gray ones.
“His full name is Fitzwilliam, but Fitz for short.”
“Fitzwilliam? Like Colonel Fitzwilliam?”Her eyes widened. “Mr. Darcy’s cousin?”
“It’s also Mr. Darcy’s first name,” he added with a boastful tug of his lips.
“I would never take you for a Jane Austen fan.”
“Why, because I’m a man?” There was an air of playfulness as he bumped his knee against hers.
“No. I once dated a man that read Austen, so I know men can read Austen,” she playfully scoffed.
“A boyfriend?”
“Hardly.” She swatted away the idea like a mosquito. “So, you read Austen.”
“Among other authors. I’m a big reader, always have been.”
“Really?” Searching her memories of Clayton, a fuzzy image of him sitting quietly in study hall, nose in a book, appeared. She’d assumed the book was an assignment, but perhaps not. “Naming your dog after Mr. Darcy is not a casual Austen reader move. That’s some serious fanboy stuff. What made you start reading Austen? Was it a girl?”She wiggled her eyebrows.
He averted his gaze.
“Why Clayton James, did you try to woo a young lady with Jane Austen?” She tapped her bare foot against him, drawing his eyes back to her. “Lucky lady. I think the most romantic thing a man has done for me is pick me up at LAX during rush hour and that was my gay best friend, so it doesn’t count.”
“So, no Mr. Darcy waiting for you?” he asked, wincing immediately, as if stepping in mud.
“No Darcys, Knightleys, or Colonel Brandons. Certainly, no Wickhams or Willoughbys either.”
His lips curled into a grin. “No Miss Bennets, Watsons, or Dashwoods for me. Certainly, no Caroline Bingleys.”
A charge zinged in the air between them. The listing of characters from Austen’s novels offered the masquerade of letting each other know they were available without the words being said.
Am I available? There wasn’t anyone waiting for her, but that didn’t mean she was open. For the first time she wanted to be, but wasn’t sure why.
“My first Austen was Pride and Prejudice ,” he said.
“It’s the Austen gateway drug.”
His lips quirked. “I got it from the school library. I was hooked. I loved the relationship between Lizzie and Jane. I saw myself in Darcy. As I read more Austen, I saw myself in more characters. I re-read them every couple of years, they’re like old friends. I discover more things I like about them each time.”His smile was wistful.“I didn’t understand why you were always reading her books until I read Lizzie and Darcy’s story. Then I got it.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Wait. Me?”
He rubbed at his nape. “At football practice in high school, you’d be sitting on the bleachers, waiting for Coach. You were always reading. Sometimes books from English and a lot of Jane Austen. Your face would tell the story of what was happening on the page. Like I knew if something was good, bad, sad, or silly was happening just by looking at you. You’re very expressive when you read.”
“I didn’t know you were watching.”
A strange sensation bloomed within her at the idea of this man being so enamored with her teenaged facial expressions that he’d read Austen, the romantic primer for so many young women. Goosebumps skipped across her skin. Who knew a conversation about Jane Austen would elicit the heat cascading through her?
“Not in a creepy way,” he was quick to clarify, a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “Just curious. When I read my first, I got it. So, thank you. My mom also thanks you, because I am the one person in our family that will watch a Jane Austen movie with her.”
“To think we could have let you join our little Jane Austen Sisterhood in high school. Although, you would have grunted just like you did in Spanish class,” she joked.
“Probably. I wasn’t a big talker then.”
“Like Fitzwilliam Darcy. Is Pride and Prejudice your favorite?”
“That’s a tough question. I think it changes depending on, well, life. What remains constant is I relate the most to Darcy. I know, I’m a cliché. I have a literary crush on Elinor Dashwood. I would love to have a beer with Mr. Knightley. But the story that gets me every time is Persuasion .”
“Is that why it’s on the bed-stand in the Little Red Barn? Is your Airbnb a brilliant ploy to get guests to read your favorite book?” She smirked.
“I wish I was that devious. I left it for you. From one Austen fan to another.”
Their gazes twined together in the quiet beat that stretched between them. Elle’s heartbeat sped with the intensity of his stare.
“What’s your favorite?”
Elle let the simple but loaded question simmer. A favorite book revealed so much about a person. Clayton’s favorite hinted of a desire for second chances at happiness. Her eyes waltzed from the little blue farmhouse to the Little Red Barn and down to the snoring love nugget in her arms. Was this his second chance or was it still out there? Was he Captain Wentworth returning, transformed into something more, ready to claim his happy ending?
Maybe she was reading too much into this. What she wanted to say was she related the most to Elinor Dashwood, had a literary crush on Mr. Darcy, and wanted to sip mimosas with Mary Crawford. Who wouldn’t? The lady knew how to party and was, perhaps, a very misunderstood character. Instead, what she said was, “ Sense and Sensibility is my favorite.”
“That’s my mom’s favorite too.”
It grew quiet again. Not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Both lost in their own musings or in each other’s answers.
“So, you do yoga.” He motioned to her mat.
“I run most days, but yoga is my daily centering.”
“I have some favorite trails. If you want to join—” He paused for a second. “—or if not, I can show you where they are so you can run on your own. The trails are safer than running on the roads.” He tugged at his hat’s brim.
Sweetness dripped from the nervous way he asked her to go running and the concern for her safety. It all blended in an adorable package. Even if that package was wrapped up with all those muscles.
“That would be nice.”
“Which?”he asked, hope sparking in his eyes.
For a moment, she also wanted to know which… To run with him or on her own? Her normal response would be to run alone, but those rambunctious butterflies said otherwise.
“Will I get Fitz-time after?” She batted her lashes.
“That could be arranged.”
“Have his people call me.” A throaty quality underscored her response. It was like the ghost of Marilyn Monroe possessed her. Elle imagined what her teenaged self would think about CJ Owens asking for her number, and how aghast she’d be about thirty-six-year-old Elle giving it to Clayton, hoping he’d use it.