57. George
George
Iwas nearly home, feeling rather pleased with myself after toasting the success of Jacob’s column at Vinnie’s.
I paused on my front step to admire the lake glowing purple in the twilight.
The breeze was heavenly. Too nice to waste indoors.
That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I wandered around the corner of the house to the path beneath Sarah’s window.
I should ask her. Cross that item off my list.
“Psst.” I cupped a hand to my mouth. “Goldie.”
Sarah leaned out her window. “What, no Shakespeare?”
“The lady doth protest too much.”
Sarah’s soft chuckle floated down. “What are you up to?”
“Come down and see.”
“You’re crazy. It’s dark.”
“Only seems dark because you’re in the light. Come on. Just for a minute. I feel like chatting without having to holler all the way across.”
She disappeared from the window. Minutes later, she slipped out, wrapped in a robe. “Over here,” I called softly from the bench beside the laurel and she crept over. We were like two kids sneaking out at night, breaking the rules.
Sarah sat on the other end of the bench and turned toward me. “Did you hear? Big news today. Tessa and Henry are officially engaged.”
“Fantastic.” I reached over to shake her hand. “Congratulations, partner.” I released her hand after a brief squeeze but stayed turned toward her, one arm slung along the back of the bench.
Sarah’s smile glowed in the dark. “Maybe we should work on Viola and Jacob next. They are perfect for each other.”
“I’m in.”
Just ask her.
“You like his column?” I asked.
“I didn’t realize you were in charge of that part of the paper.”
“Told you I’m a professional.”
“Yes, of course, I knew you went to work, but, well… I always thought—don’t take this the wrong way. I thought you were more of a figurehead. Like the prince of the paper.”
“You should’ve seen me during my first week. Started out mopping the floors.”
She teased, “More of a Cinderella than Prince Charming…”
“Never claimed to?—”
She snorted a tiny laugh and said, “Jacob’s column is great. But I always read the Musings column before anything else on your page.”
“No joke. You like that one?”
I tilted my head back, spotted the night’s first stars, and let my seven lucky pennies slip through my fingers inside my pocket. Stop stalling and ask her.
I said, “Viola will be off to Minnesota for two weeks. With my father.”
Sarah nodded. “She’s going to tell Jacob about her farm. It’s a surprise.”
I couldn’t see her expression in the dark, but I heard the smile in her voice.
She said, “He has no idea she is moving in next door.”
“Hope he likes surprises.”
“Exactly.”
“With Viola out of town,” I said, “I thought maybe you would have some free time, if you wouldn’t mind…”
“Mind what, George?”
“I need help with a project for work.”
“Oh. I don’t know anything about newspapers,” Sarah said. Her voice sounded different—softer, harder to read. She tilted her head back to look at the sky. “What kind of project?”
“You know the holiday banquet? At the Palmer House.”
“Mm. Hmm.”
“Father put me in charge this year. Big responsibility. They say I should have a woman’s input on some things. And you know… you fit the bill.”
She kept her head tilted back and said nothing.
“I thought you might, well, I trust your opinion.”
Sarah’s arm thrust out to point skyward. “Did you see it? A shooting star?”
I’d missed it, had been watching her. “Probably the Perseids. Likely will be some more if you keep watching.”
She scanned the sky for another minute, and I wondered if she had even heard my jumbled question. Why was I nervous? It was only Sarah.
“Well, what do you think?”
“Can’t tell you my wish.”
“What?”
“The shooting star.”
“I wish you’d help me.”
She laughed. “Of course, I’ll help you. Did you think I’d say no?”
“Well, I—there…”
“Look.”
We pointed in the same direction. Another shooting star had streaked across the sky.
“Ha. Guess it works in reverse for me—you granted my wish and set off a shooting star.”
“You can be a bit backward.”
“Probably the glass slippers. No traction. Get spun around.”
“Pemberley. Watching for shooting stars is a pain in the neck.” She curled one arm behind her head for support.
I shifted closer and propped my shoulder on the bench behind her head. “Here. Use my shoulder.”
“Thanks.” She leaned on me, and her hair tickled my chin.
I caught a whiff of almond-scented soap.
She was inside my bubble, occupying my space.
Usually, this triggered a creepy-crawling sensation between my shoulder blades.
I was prone to use kissing to drown out the unpleasant feeling.
But with Sarah, nothing happened except a tingling, buzzing awareness—more pleasant than painful.
Unexpected.
I said, “I’ve been trying to remember, but I’m not sure I ever knew.”
“Remember what?”
“Why you swear in Jane Austen.”
She sighed. “It started as a cheeky comeback to my mother, who told me blast and blazing and goodness forbid damnation were not lady-like and that I should speak like the characters in my precious Jane Austen.
“Pemberley is my favorite. There’s something about how the beginning of the word feels like spitting, which is especially satisfying when I’m mad. But it amuses me to mix it up with other locations.”
I tried it out. “Pemberley. Pemberley. That is a strong word.”
She pointed. “Look, another one,” and relaxed back onto my arm.
“I suppose…” She blew out a long breath.
“The meaning has evolved, so Pemberley is more of a cynical reminder to myself. The world of Jane Austen isn’t real.
All I have to do is look around me. My family is the opposite of Jane Austen. My parents hardly speak to each other.”
Something in me softened. I listened, not the way I listened to Buddy or Ron and the boys at work, but with every part of me.
“Sure, my mother speaks a lot,” she said, “but it’s not a conversation. Not a partnership. Not love. It’s the type of marriage waiting for me if I stop resisting, assuming my mother finds some other oaf desperate enough to want me for a wife.”
The sadness in her voice jabbed at my chest. “Higs is one of a kind…” I said. “But don’t?—”
“The curses remind me not to be such a hopeless romantic,” she continued. The weight of her head pressed more firmly into my shoulder. “I’m cursing my own silly heart.”
Oh, Sarah. Romantic under all that wit…
And sad.
“So jaded,” I said. “You’re too young and beautiful for that.
Hey, did you see that one?” If I had been with a different girl, I would have draped my arm around her shoulders instead of keeping it along the back of the bench.
I would have nuzzled my lips into her hair, pulled her close. Leaned in for a kiss.
But tonight, I wanted to talk to my friend. Kissing was an enjoyable distraction, but it caused problems, made it impossible to remain friends with the woman. It was why I only kissed women who were not my friends.
I said, “Maybe I’m jaded, too. But the real world would be better if it were more like Austen. If there were grand romances and happy endings.”
“Truly.” She nodded.
We sat in comfortable silence. Within minutes, three more stars streaked across the sky.
“That’s seven stars for me,” she said. “I’d better get back inside.”
I said, “Lucky seven.”
“Night, George.”
“Night, Sarah.”
She tiptoed to the door and went in.
The faint scent of almonds lingered on my shoulder.
Idisliked Mr. Elton. After telling Sarah the world should be more like Jane Austen, it occurred to me that I had only ever read Pride and Prejudice.
Research was required. So on Saturday morning I sat with coffee and Sarah’s favorite, Emma.
With Father and Viola off to Minnesota, there was no one to tease me about my choice in literature, but the empty house pushed me outside.
I settled onto a padded chaise in the shade near the wisteria arbor and became caught up in the story. I read on, concerned Emma was leading Harriet astray, when I became aware of someone watching me.
Gravel crunched nearby, and Sarah peeked over the shrubbery. “Thought I saw you out here.”
I flipped Emma face down on my lap, and the motion drew Sarah’s gaze.
“What are you reading?” She worked her way through a gap in the hedge and soon stood facing me with her head tilted, squinting at the title.
I shoved it down beside me in the chair. “Research. For work. Very manly.” Sarah did not look convinced. I said, “I plan to call at your house later. Have some stuff to go over with you for the banquet. That is, if you’re free?”
“Later, yes. But now I’m going walking.”
I’d been sitting for ages, even eating a light lunch while reading on the chaise. “Can I join you?”
“On one condition.”
“Anything.”
She strode forward with her hand out. “Book.”
I pushed it behind my back. “What book?”
“George.” She folded her arms.
I held the book behind me while shuffling backward toward the house. “I need to get my hat.”
Sarah strode after me.
“For our walk.”
She lunged.
I squeaked. Bet that bloke Knightley never squeaked at anyone…
She closed the gap with her blazing long legs.
I was absolutely going to lose this chase. I panicked, turned, and sprinted into the house, clutching the book to my chest. “Meet you out front.” Minutes later, I skipped down the front steps and offered my arm to Sarah, who shook her head at me.
“Where’s your hat?”
“Decided against it. Didn’t want to muss up my style.” I shook my shaggy hair and flopped it back and forth across my forehead. “Learned that move from Higs.”
“Very subtle.” Her whole face grinned.
And all I wanted was to make her grin like that again. No sadness at the edges today. We spent at least an hour strolling through the park. I even told her about my secret syndication plan. I hadn’t meant to tell her so much, but it just… spilled out.
At her door, I said, “Sorry I bored you all afternoon with newspaper talk.” I leaned against the door, blocking her path inside. The hour had vanished, yet I wasn’t ready for goodbye.
“Don’t apologize. I’m fascinated.” She hesitated. “No one ever talks to me about anything important.” I didn’t have to see her eyes to know there would be a swirl of sadness mixed in with the hazel. It pricked at me, like a sliver I wanted to yank out.
“I’m full of important stuff, Goldie. Bursting with it. And nothing would please me more than talking about all of it with you.” Too much. I knew it the second it left my mouth.
Her eyes flicked to mine. What was that look? Surprise? Hope? Disbelief? I did claim to be full of important stuff…
“Right, moving on. Think you can put up with me for a while longer?” I swallowed. “I could go grab a few things and pop back over?” Sarah agreed, and before long, we were set up at a table in her parlor.
Her mother sat with her little dog at the other end of the room.
Sarah flipped through my stack of papers and in mere minutes, had a list organizing all of the necessary tasks into chronological order.
I said, “You’re a marvel.”
She shrugged.
“Not trying to flatter you. Just facts.”
“It’s refreshing to have a goal.” She darted a look at her mother and dropped her voice. “But I’m not allowed any purpose outside of finding a husband.”
“Maybe we should make a list for that,” I teased.
Mrs. Everson patted the white ball of fluff on her lap and, as far as I could tell, carried on a nonstop conversation with the pup. “…Did you hear, Mipsy? The Palmer House. I have not been there in ages. Always so elegant…”
I dropped my voice. “Yes. A list for attracting a husband.”
Her pen hovered frozen over a blank page.
I pressed on. “No one can match your singing. You’re witty. Smart.” I was just complimenting her, why was she so tense? “Logical and organized.” I leaned close. “Beautiful. Higs was not right for you. But why is there not a line of men at your door?”
Her lips pressed to a thin line. I should be protecting her romantic heart, not poking at it with a stick.
Sarah shuffled the papers before her. “First item. Invitations. I like the gold-embossed, stylized star with emerald-green lettering. Good for the holidays and a nod to the paper.”
“Excellent choices,” I said, as gently as I could.
“Mr. VanMartin?” The words carried from the end of the room. I turned toward Sarah’s mother. “I believe your father and sister are out of town. Would you join us for dinner tonight? No sense in you eating all alone.”
“Thank you.” I glanced at Sarah, who gave the slightest of nods but still didn’t meet my gaze. “It would be my pleasure.”
There was no lack of conversation during dinner, even if most of it was between Mrs. Everson and herself.
It gave me plenty of opportunities to share secret hand signals with Sarah.
My heart lifted each time I managed to make her smile, even though she was clearly still miffed at me over the whole why-aren’t-you-married disaster.
After thanking Mrs. Everson for the excellent hospitality, I returned home, grabbed Emma from the hall table, and prepared for bed. With remarkable self-control, I forced myself to read for an hour before I gave in and leaned out my open window to call across.
Sarah took a seat by her window but said nothing. Even the crickets were quiet tonight.
“Thank you for an enjoyable day.”
She nodded.
“Sorry if I upset you.”
Still, she said nothing. Why was she still shutting me out? I said I was sorry. I said, “The question about marriage occurred to me as I sat there making a list of your good qualities, and I asked it before I stopped to think.”
Sarah shook her head.
“I was just curious, Goldie.”
Nothing.
“Pemberley,” I said.
She huffed a small chuckle into the dark.
Finally.
“George.”
I leaned forward at the softness of my name on her lips.
“You could easily make a longer list of my bad qualities, all of which very effectively keep suitors from lining up at my door.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Just facts, George.”
She rested her chin on her hand and called across the dark, “You know what they say. The course of true love never did run smooth.”
“Shakespeare,” I said. “Excellent, wise chap.”
“I could ask you the same thing, George.” She leaned forward on her windowsill. “But I’d have to reword the question… You do have a line of women waiting at your metaphorical door. Why do you not have a wife?”
A brave cricket chirped into the silence. Her question hit low and hard. “Oof. Is this how you felt when I asked you? I need to make a bigger apology.”
Her smile glinted in the dark. “I am curious about your answer.”
I smiled back. “They can line up all they want. I’m never getting married.”
“There is a long conversation behind that statement.”
“What about your list of negatives?”
“Conversation for another day.”
“Sure,” I said, gripping the smooth wood of the sill. “But to be clear, you don’t hate me?”
“Don’t hate you, George. Good night.”
“Night, Goldie.”
She stepped back inside.
But I stayed at the window, staring into the dark.