At the restaurant, when Shirley left to powder her proverbial nose, Jane did her best to pretend she was not the least bit uncomfortable. A minute of silence passed. She plowed her garden salad with a fork, weeding out the arugula.
“It’s been a warm autumn,” she offered.
“You’re wondering if I noticed what you hid, and especially if I guessed what that means.” Some voices get hard and tight with age, some rough like broken glass. Carolyn’s voice was sand beaten by waves till it’s as fine as powdered sugar.
“Hid what?” Jane asked half-heartedly.
“He is seductive, that Mr. Darcy. But you wouldn’t hide him in a houseplant if you didn’t feel some shame on the matter. You’re past thirty, not married, not dating—if your mother’s gossip and the photos in your apartment tell the truth. And it all comes down to that story. You’re obsessed.”
Jane laughed. “I am not obsessed.”
But really she was.
“You’re blushing. Tell me, what is it about that story that’s so intoxicating to you?”
Jane gulped some ice water and glanced over her shoulder toward the ladies’ room, making sure her mother wasn’t returning. “Besides being witty and funny and maybe the best novel ever written, it’s also the most perfect romance in all of literature and nothing in life can ever measure up, so I spend my life limping in its shadow.”
Carolyn stared, as if waiting for more. Jane thought she’d said enough already.
“It is a wonderful book,” said Carolyn, “but you weren’t concealing a paperback in your plant. I think I know what you’ve put your life on hold to wait for.”
“Listen, I don’t actually believe I can somehow end up married to Mr. Darcy. I just . . . nothing in real life feels as right as . . . Oh, never mind, I don’t want you believing your great-niece is living in a fantasyland.”
“Are you?”
Jane forced a smile. “Warm autumn, isn’t it?”
Carolyn pressed her lips together till they were as wrinkled as her cheeks. “How’s your love life?”
“I’m on the wagon.”
“So, you’re giving up at age thirty-two. Not everyone’s bliss can be found in marriage, of course, but I rather suspect that you . . .” Carolyn leaned forward. Her blue eyes were pale like denim washed too often, and their look pierced Jane. “Let’s see, you barely had a father to begin with. He was withdrawn and died when you were, what, seven? And your mother was not . . .”
Jane shook her head, not caring to dwell on her mother’s general disinterest in her only child. Carolyn nodded once, as if understanding. Though her voice softened even more, it was still clear, easing between the clattering plates and too-hardy businessmen’s laughter.
“When your mother married, it was for stability and independence, but you are made for companionship. You yearn for someone to love deeply. Someone who sees and knows you and wants you, all of you. A soulmate.”
Jane shook her head again, but her eyes pricked with warmth. She blinked rapidly. If Carolyn noticed, she didn’t stop.
“You have earnestly tried to find that someone, but eachtime the men in your life disappoint, you let Mr. Darcy in a little more. Now you’re so attached to the idea of that restrained-yet-deep-feeling gentleman, you won’t be satisfied with anything less.”
An olive stuck to the piece of lettuce on Jane’s fork, and when she tried to flick it off, it flew over the table and tapped a waiter on the rear. Jane ducked her head, hiding from both the waiter and Carolyn’s probing gaze. She wanted to argue back against everything her great-aunt was saying, but to be fair, Jane’s list of ex-boyfriends was impressively pathetic. And there was that dream she’d had a few weeks ago—she’d been dressed in a ragged wedding gown (à la Miss Havisham ofGreat Expectations), dancing alone in a dark house, waiting for Mr. Darcy to come for her. When she awoke with a sharp intake of breath, the dream had been still too raw and terrifying to laugh at. In fact, she still couldn’t.
“Maybe I’m just . . . broken,” Jane said helplessly.
“You’re too honest to let yourself get duped like this.”
Jane exhaled a laugh. “Aunt Carolyn, you don’t really know me.”
“But I remember little you from your grandmother’s funeral. Afterward you sat with me in that gazebo by the lake. You weren’t afraid to say how during the service you couldn’t help wondering what might be for lunch and was that wrong? Did that mean that you didn’t love your grandma enough? Your voice, your little-girl questions took some of the sting out of my grief over my sister’s death.”
Jane nodded. “You were wearing a lace collar. I thought it was so elegant.”
“My late husband bought me that dress. It was my favorite.” Carolyn refolded her napkin, smoothing the edge with slightlyshaky hands. “For most of our marriage, we were miserable. Harold didn’t talk much and was busy with work. I got bored and was rich enough to date delectable young men on the side. After a time, Harold fooled around, too, mostly to hurt me, I think. It wasn’t until I was too old to attract the playboys anymore that I turned to the man next to me and realized how much I loved his face. We had two blissful years together before his heart took him out. I was such a fool, Jane. I couldn’t see what was real until time had washed away everything else.” She was matter-of-fact, the pain behind the words worn out long ago.
“I’m sorry.”
“Hmph. It’d be better to be sorry for yourself. I’m old and rich, and people let me say whatever I want, so here it is—figure out what is real for you. No use leaning on someone else’s story all your life. You know, Austen’s own romances were limited to her fiction. She died a spinster.”
