“Help,” Jane squeaked.
Molly nodded. “Do you think it’s healthy to subject yourself to—Good job, Jack! Did you stack those blocks all by yourself? . . .It might make things worse. You just might fade away into a Mr. Darcy Brigadoon for good.”
Jane sat up. “So you know how bad I am? The whole Darcy thingie?”
Molly put a hand on her leg. “Honey, I don’t blame you. You’ve had rotten luck with that whole romance sh—uh, crap,” she said, amending her diction as she glanced at the kids. Hannah had managed to stick both her fingers into her nostrils and tottered to Molly to show off her new trick. “Did you find your nose holes? What a smart girl!. . . Janie, are you going to get sad if I say this? Should I say this?”
Jane’s middle quivered fearfully, but she nearly shouted, “Say it.”
“Okay.” A deep breath. “This obsession . . .”
Jane groaned at the word and completely buried her face in the throw pillow.
“. . . has been brewing since we were in high school. I used to fantasize about consequential men in breeches, too, but you’ve turned it into a career. Yes, you came by it honestly, propelled by a train wreck of bad relationships, but the last couple of years . . .”
“I know, I know,” Jane mumbled into the pillow. “I’ve been freaking out, I sabotaged myself, and I couldn’t see it at the time, but I can now, so maybe I’m okay.”
Molly paused. “Are you okay?”
Jane shook her head and the pillow with it. “No! I’m so afraid I’m damaged and cast-off-able and unlovable and I’m noteven sure what I’m doing wrong. Have I really put my whole life on hold while I wait for . . . What? A fantasy? What should I do, Molly?”
“Oh, honey . . .”
“Uh-oh.”
Molly cleared her throat and adopted her most gentle tone. “Have you noticed that you refer to any guy you’ve ever been on a date with as aboyfriend?”
Jane had noticed it. In fact, she’d numbered all her “boyfriends” from one to fifteen and referred to them in her mind by their numbers. She was relieved now that she’d never mentioned that part to Molly.
“It’s not really normal to do that,” Molly said. “It’s kind of extreme, slaps expectation on a relationship before it’s begun.”
“Uh-huh,” was all Jane could muster in response. This was a raw, pin-poking subject. A few years ago, she’d spent several months in therapy, eventually quitting because the expense had become unaffordable. But also, the pain of it had become unbearable. She had come out of it understanding at least one thing about herself: Hardwired for loving but without a positive example in her own family, she had learned how to love from Austen. According to her immature understanding at the time, in Austen’s world there was no such thing as a fling. Every romance was intended to lead to marriage, every flirtation just a means to find that companion to cling to forever. So for Jane, when each romance ended with hope still attached, it felt as brutal as divorce. Intense much, Jane? Oh yes. But as her therapist said,We’re all doing the best we can.
“Jane.” Molly rubbed her arm. “My best friend, my kids’ godmother, my personal book shopper, my fashion icon. You are empathetic, generous, funny, passionate, and—not to makethis about me—but it’s been physically painful watching you shrink yourself smaller over the years. I know it’s obnoxious for your married-with-children friend to say this, but you’re so much more than your current relationship status. In college you declared you were going to become the next Georgia O’Keeffe. I know making a living in this city is a beast, but I can’t help feeling you sell yourself short. Hey, why don’t you start painting again?”
Jane laughed a sad laugh. The idea of herself as an artist felt as far away and unreachable as the Regency Era itself. None of her little-girl fairy-tale dreams were realistic.
“Let’s be honest—I was never going to be Esteemed Gallery Artist Jane Hayes. Please don’t worry about me anymore. I’m fine. Well, mostly. I mean, you know.”
“You don’t need this Pembrook Park,” said Molly, “and you definitely don’t need Mr. Darcy.”
“Sure. I mean, he’s not even real. He’s not, he’s not, I know he’s not, but maybe . . .”
“There’s no maybe. He’s not real.”
Jane groaned. “I just don’t want to have to settle.”
“Of course you don’t, but every single guy you ever dated was a settle.”
She sat up. “None of them loved me, did they? Ever. Some of them liked me or I was convenient but . . . Am I actually . . .” In her thoughts, she stumbled past the wordsunlovable,worthless,trash, finally landing on “. . . pathetic?”
Molly smoothed her hair. “No, of course not.”
“Argh,” Jane arghed. “I can’t trust myself enough to make a choice about . . . basicallyanything. How did you know for sure that Phillip was the right guy?”
Molly shrugged. It was the same shrug that had twitchedin Molly’s shoulders at summer camp eighteen years ago when Jane had asked, “Did you eat all my marshmallows?” It was the same shrug Molly had given when Jane had bleached her hair in seventh grade and asked, “How do I look?” Eventually Molly had forsworn her shifty tendencies and declared she’d be a forthright friend—but here was that bad-penny shrug turning up again.
Jane glared. “Don’t you do it, Ms. Molly Evans-Carrero.
