Austensibly Ordinary (2 page)

“Got it,” I said, stepping into the dim kitchen. The desk light in the corner was on, pooling a warm glow, and preferring to keep my little secret from the pair outside, I decided to make do without additional lighting. It seemed irrational, but I couldn't help it; I wanted this one little secret for myself. My life wasn't just an open book with these two, it was an interactive free-for-all. Mom had been running interference in my life long before Dad and Gemma had left two years ago, within three weeks of each other, leaving us only to breathe an anticlimactic sigh of relief.

Gemma was sixteen months older than me and had long, wavy auburn hair—twins we were not, but we'd had a whole
Parent Trap
dynamic going since early childhood. Photos scattered around the house told the story and hinted at the inevitable ending. Gemma always posed beside my father, in his lap, or on his shoulders. I, on the other hand, was my mom's shadow. Gemma and Dad were outgoing, outdoorsy, take-a-chance, make-it-happen types, while Mom and I were crafty, bookish rule followers, taking it on faith that magic would happen precisely when it was meant to, a personality type crafted initially by fairy tales and honed by Jane Austen.

Starting her third year of grad school in North Carolina, Gemma came home as school holidays allowed. Dad was happily entrenched in his new life as owner of a Texas Hill Country zip-line outfit, and despite being only a quick day-trip away, we rarely saw him. As for Ethan, the pair of us had hit it off around the same two-year mark, glommed onto each other, and hung like sticker burrs . . . impossible to shake. And I didn't want to shake him . . . him or my mom. I just wanted something of my own. I wanted a secret. A little desperately.

I quickly gathered up the napkins and pulled a favored wineglass down from the kitchen's open shelving. Then, with my back to the door, I made a slow effort of pouring the wine and cleaning up an imaginary spill—just in case anyone was watching. With my free hand, I texted my RSVP and credit card number and felt the thrill of derring-do ricochet through my veins.

I returned to the table, barely able to suppress a scary sort of smile—the sort where it's obvious you're hiding something particularly juicy. This subtle sneaking around felt good—liberating—but I couldn't very well flaunt it unless I wanted to risk Ethan anteing up his two cents. I was uber-conscious of their mildly curious gazes, but I stayed focused on my pizza and beer until a text came in, instantly disrupting my carefully arranged calm. I hurried to pull the phone from my pocket, my blood pounding crazily through my veins, as I urgently wondered if I'd been too late.

I hadn't. Syd was simply as psyched as I was.

 

 

I smiled down at the screen, my pulse slowly returning to normal, and casually sipped my beer.

Judging by the banked look in Ethan's eyes, he could tell something was up. He no doubt assumed that it was my mother's presence that kept me from blurting my secrets.

“Do you two have any plans for the evening?” my mom quizzed, staring intently at Ethan.

Mom had been gunning for Ethan ever since I'd brought him home for our first Scrabble game a year and a half ago. She assumed that eventually one of us would realize that this thing between us could be so much more than a little word game with beer. As a romance reader, she couldn't help it—he was perfect hero material. Charismatic, clever . . . debatably sexy—it had, in fact,
been
debated, with Mom talking up his finer points and me la-la-la'ing my way through.

Ethan and I caught each other's eye, simultaneously shook our heads in one quick negative, and let our gazes swivel away again.

“I've actually got a few errands to run before tomorrow. Not to mention a little work to catch up on.” He stood, eyed the pizza box splayed open on the table, and looked to me with a question in his eyes.

“I got it,” I told him. “Seeing as I didn't buy the pizza, I'll pay the forfeit in cleanup. Sorry to rob you of another Scrabble trouncing.”

“It had its benefits,” he said, winking.

I glanced at my mom, hoping she wasn't picking up on any of this.

“Thank you for dinner, Ms. Kendall. See you at school, Cate.” And then he disappeared into the shadows at the edge of the house. Minutes later, all car sounds had faded and Mom and I were alone in the dark.

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“No, and neither do I.”

Mom's laser stare bored into me. I may as well have been splayed out on the table like James Bond.

“Kidding, Mom. But Ethan is just a friend.”

“He could be a friend with benefits. . . .”

I turned the laser back on her, wondering for a moment if she'd been eavesdropping earlier and merely glossed over it by paying the pizza guy.

“Where did you say you were today, Mom?” I countered.

She clammed up immediately, which, while slightly suspicious, was just fine with me at this point.

“Do you have time this week to come in after school and help me decorate the store? I'd like to get the Halloween stuff up by Thursday at the latest.”

Mom owned a vintage clothing and jewelry store down on South Congress called Mirror, Mirror. It irked her that fall retail tended to be one big blur of holidays, so she determinedly decorated for just a few days surrounding every holiday. I was always conscripted to help with window displays and ladder-top duties. Halloween, as I was now well aware thanks to my invitation to a Hitchcock soiree, was only one week away.

And I needed something to wear.

I mentally rummaged through my closet, trying to think if I had anything at all with a Hitchcock blonde vibe, and I couldn't come up with any hits. I'd have to cross my fingers that there was something in the shop I could borrow—something that wouldn't raise questions I didn't particularly want to answer. I hadn't decided quite how to play this. Spies and superheroes didn't go around outing themselves, confiding their secret identities and handing out invitations to their secret lairs. Except maybe to a sidekick.

I hadn't really considered a sidekick. Ideally there'd be one trusty soul who had my back and could save me from the laser table. But seeing as this was just a little role-playing experiment, I really didn't need a sidekick. At least not yet.

“I can do that,” I agreed, flashing back to reality. “I'll come by after school, but it might not be until Thursday—this week's busy.” I stood and started gathering up the bottles for recycling. “I'll get this, Mom, and then I'm going to bed.”

My cell phone chirped. I glanced at the display and then took my time answering once Mom and her wineglass had moved out of earshot.

“Hey, Syd,” I said, closing the pizza box filled with crusts and wadded napkins.

“Hot damn! You're coming to my Hitchcock party!”

Here, finally, was someone who could share my secret. A smile quirked my lips as I finished clearing up. “You can bet I'll be renting
North by Northwest
this week—for research purposes.”

“Wait, are you coming as a character?” Judging by the thrill in her voice, this was more than she could get her head around.

I flipped the switch for the lanterns, now bobbing gently in the breeze, and crossed the yard to the garage and the steps up to my apartment. “I'm shooting for seductive spy girl Eve Kendall from
North by Northwest,”
I said, having decided just moments ago myself. “And I'm coming alone, so you can bet I'll be looking for a Cary Grant sort to finish out the picture.”

“Um, sweetie, if we get any men of the Cary Grant persuasion, your competition will be fierce. But good for you—way to ratchet up the sexy! Will, Oli, and I are going dressed as cat burglars à la
To Catch a Thief.
Sorta . . . ninja-sexy.”

“I need something that will stamp out the ‘schoolteacher by day' vibe coming off me in waves. I'm planning to visit the shop this week, so hopefully I'll find something perfect in my size.” Letting myself into my little apartment, I leaned backward against the door, dropped the Scrabble box on the hall table, and scanned the room's potential as a superhero/spy lair—the sunflower yellow bowl of Dum-Dum lollipops on the coffee table was way too Doris Day. Although, come to think of it, she'd been a Hitchcock blonde. . . .

“You just need to get your blond on, and you're gonna rock this party.”

My understanding of the logistics involved in that suggestion was a little vague, but as a little fizz of encouragement, it was awesome. Trouble was, with a week to second-guess myself, I couldn't vouch for my confidence next Sunday night.

“It'll definitely be an adventure,” I agreed.

It was about damn time.

M
irror, Mirror was in SoCo, on the edge of downtown. Mom had scored a trim little space that saw a lot of walking traffic and pulled in a mix of loyal customers and curiosity seekers. Parking was a bit of a bitch, though.

As I drove past the Trailer Park & Eatery just before the bridge over Lady Bird Lake on Thursday afternoon, I longed to detour straight to the order window of Torchy's Tacos. My stomach was already rumbling, and I was in the mood for a little spicy heat, not to mention a beer. Later. I'd told Ethan I'd meet him there at six.

After circling the block three times in search of a parking space, I was doubly in the mood for a beer. And judging from my walk up the sidewalk, it was clear that Mom had been content to wait for me before getting started. The shop window displays still held the familiar Fall Frolic montage I'd helped create a couple of weeks ago. Mannequins with sweet painted faces were layered with fun pieces in rich autumn shades of mustard, plum, olive, ruby, and slate blue. Bare tree branches were suspended from above with piano wire, hosting the curvy little birds we'd found at the craft store. In a couple of hours, the scene would be updated with Halloween colors and simple iconic shapes.

I loved Halloween. In Texas, where the heat hung on until mid to late October, Halloween was the official kick-off of fall, a mini-season bookended by festivities, with Thanksgiving on the tail end. Costumes and masquerades were Austin's bread and butter—everyone wanted to be something they weren't.

I know I did. What I clearly
didn't
know was how to deal with the obsession. Other than keeping secrets and second-guessing myself.

I gazed at my reflection in the shop windows, remembering the moments just before the bell rang for my last class of the day.

“Why do you suppose Emma Woodhouse, the belle of Highbury, decided to befriend the common little nobody, Harriet Smith?” I'd posed the question in a rather distracted state.

I stood at the front of the classroom, propped on the edge of my desk, gazing at them from behind black lacquer frames—my “teaching glasses.” Suddenly self-conscious in front of all those staring senior eyes, I crossed my arms over my chest, marking my place in my own personal copy of
Emma.
I tipped my head down, seemingly absorbed in the world of Jane Austen, but actually assessing my outfit. Taupe menswear trousers, sea green ruffly blouse, and teal suede flats. Cary Grant wouldn't even give me a second look.

I looked back up at the class, startled to see a few hands had gone up during my “lost moments.”

“Yes, Jordan?”

“She was trying to be charitable?”

“Perhaps,” I allowed. “But I'm not sure I believe that.”

“Alex?”

“She was bored.” He sounded as if he could relate. I commiserated, but only slightly.
Emma
may be, at its heart, a romance, but it is so much more than that. I'd even convinced Ethan to read it and then grudgingly admit that he'd enjoyed it—at least parts of it.

“Excellent. Why do you suppose that was?” I fiddled with the ruby glass crystal that hung from a gold chain around my neck, imagining pencil skirts and push-up bras. And heels—definitely heels. Killer heels.

Alex assumed he still had the floor and answered quickly, almost defiantly. “She was stuck with her father at Hartfield after Miss Taylor left, and teatime and archery just weren't doing it for her.”

I blinked at him, then narrowed my eyes slightly. I was relatively certain that Austen hadn't mentioned archery in the text, but it had definitely featured in the Gwyneth Paltrow movie adaption of the book.

“Very insightful,” I congratulated with a wry twist of my lips. “She needed a hobby . . . and decided to choose vicarious romance since
movies
weren't an option.” I stared hard at Alex, but couldn't detect even the slightest admission of guilt. “She didn't need to marry—she was already rich. And other
options . . .”
I tipped my head to the side, willing them to follow the words I wasn't saying, “weren't available in the early nineteenth century.” They weren't exactly lining up for me in Weird City either.

The bell rang and I quickly outlined the homework. We'd continue our discussion of
Emma
tomorrow, and I'd find a way to out Alex for choosing the movie over the book.

I was in a hurry to get to Mirror, Mirror and start scrounging for a dress to vamp me up a bit, but I needed to find Ethan before I left.

I found him in The Cave, the tiny room allotted for the school's IT guru. Ethan taught French for three periods, German for two, and he filled one as our IT guy, fixer of all things PC.

“Hey, Chavez!” I called, hefting my leather tote, crammed with term papers, up higher on my shoulder. “You winning?”

He lifted his gaze a couple of inches and met mine. When he'd taken the job of IT guru, he'd rearranged the entire room to allow him to face the door, with a table of computers and network paraphernalia in between. His explanation? He doesn't like people sneaking up on him. Mine? He's a gamer with a lithe, feminine avatar, and the new desk orientation gives him time to destroy the evidence should anyone swing by for a visit. It's mostly facetious—I' ve never caught him in the act, and Ethan doesn't strike me as a gamer. But he definitely has secrets—this could very well be one of them.

“Kendall?”

I tilted my head to the right, wanting to see more of him than a disembodied head sitting atop a computer monitor. From the waist up he was wearing a collared shirt under a deep red cranberry sweater. He looked cute . . . sexy, even. I shifted back, suddenly preferring the disembodied head. Evidently I had a very impressionable mind—one completely irrational suggestion, and I couldn't help but imagine the what-ifs.

“Could you run some diagnostics or a virus scan—anything really—on my computer and see if you can find out why I'm not getting my e-mails? I had two voice mails today from parents asking if I'd gotten their e-mails, really hinting that I should have replied by now.” I hoisted my bag farther up on my shoulder.

“You leaving?” He glanced at his watch.

“I promised Mom I'd help her with the Halloween decorations at the shop.” And I needed to find a dress that would make me into a femme fatale. My thoughts buzzed with the reminder.

“Sure. I can do it after I finish up in here.”

“What are you doing in here?” I asked coyly, tipping myself away from the door frame and slowly sauntering around the blockade.

I saw Ethan's finger flicker over the mouse and knew I didn't have a prayer, but I looked anyway. A puzzle with a picture of three gray kittens. Upon further inspection, it became evident that it was the AARP daily puzzle and there were only a few more pieces left to place. I turned away from the screen to stare at him.

“This is your cover? Granny puzzles? What's your screen saver? Teddy bears?”

He fought it, but eventually Ethan's grin was so wide that his dimple popped out. “I'll get your e-mail working, chica. Just as soon as the kitty gets her whiskers.”

Thoroughly provoked, I swung back around the desk and headed out the door. “Don't mess with my desktop, Chavez. Physical or computer.”

“You're killing me, Kendall.” I glanced back, and his face looked pained.

I chuckled to myself, picturing the shirtless hardbody who now posed on my computer wallpaper. I'd switched it out on my free period, just for his benefit. Then there was the action-figure brawl playing out on my desk, with Jane Austen ninja-kicking Charles Dickens, and Shakespeare waiting his turn. Ethan was going to love that.

“Fine. Show me what you were just working on—kitties don't count—and you can have your organizational way with my desktops—both of them.”

A beat of silence passed between us, and then Ethan had the grace to grin. “Your mess is safe with me, fräulein.”

I nodded, content, but with the vaguely itchy feeling that he'd won. In other words, very Tina Fey.

The reflection of a car pulling out of the street parking space right behind me caught my attention. Well, damn! Three minutes' more banter with Ethan and that spot would have been mine.

In the middle of my frustrated growl, I had a vision for the November display. Paper-wrapped books! We could sit the mannequins on stacks of them, and even buy a bunch of cheapies from a garage sale and cut out or curl the pages into decorative designs. Maybe go for a sexy librarian look.

I smiled to myself. Hmm . . . sexy librarian . . . or high school teacher by day, foxy rogue by night.

I was grinning when I pulled open the shop door.

“Mom,” I called. “I already have an idea for November's windows,” I said.

“If it involves turkeys or pumpkins, I don't want to know,” she grumped from behind the counter. Her laptop was open in front of her on the antique hotel desk she'd snapped up at the Round Top flea market.

“It doesn't,” I said, stuffing my purse under the counter and looking at her askance. “Should I assume Halloween will be pumpkin-less too?”

“I'm skipping the orange this year, decorating in black and emerald green,” she said defiantly, evidently expecting me to object.

“Look at you, Mom! Boycotting the official color of Halloween in a college town that fawns over its burnt orange!” I smiled, admiring her spunk. I glanced around. “Do I have carte blanche, or are you giving me directions?”

“Go crazy,” she offered. “Everything is on the storeroom table.”

“Everything” included a sparkly layer of glitter and a shimmering scatter of sequins and rhinestones. Mom had apparently gotten very crafty, cutting out frogs and witches' hats and bedazzling them with a vengeance. Too bad we weren't decorating for Valentine's Day. A little pucker and some glitzy crowns and these little guys could be frog princes. I smiled ruefully. Until Ethan squished them under his car tire. But heck, frogs got their holiday start at Halloween . . . I could make this work. I could cut some skinny ribbon curls and make them into extended frog tongues. Add a few Mardi Gras beads for shimmer and some black and green tissue paper for flair, and I'd be off the hook till the next holiday window display. There were even a couple of black masquerade masks—I could slip these on the mannequins to add a touch of flirtiness.

But first, I'd need to browse the shop for a little Halloween inspiration. There were two mannequins in the front window—I'd outfit them first and keep an eye out for something worthy of a Hitchcock blonde while I was at it.

I tucked a couple of stray curls behind my ear, wishing I'd bought the dainty jeweled headband I'd recently hearted on Etsy. Although maybe I should be looking at vintage cat's-eye glasses instead and practicing twisting my hair into a tasteful chignon that could tumble down with the tug of a single bobby pin. . . . I shook my head to refocus and had to deal with those curls all over again. Having my hair in my eyes for the duration of this project was going to be irritating. On my way out of the storeroom, my hip accidentally bumped the pile of decorations hanging off the edge of the table and sent a flurry of frogs spiraling away behind me. As I turned, bending down to collect the escapees, my gaze caught on a shimmer of midnight blue flirting from beneath a plastic dry-cleaning bag.

I inched forward on my knees, too excited to worry over the risks to my trousers, and, using both hands, slowly raised the bag to expose more of that gorgeous, lustrous skirt.

“What on earth are you doing?”

A zip of shock tore up my spine, and I whipped my head around, caught in the incriminating—not to mention embarrassing—position of having my hands snaked up inside the plastic wrap, very nearly hugging this seemingly irresistible dress, my fingers skimming over the sexy sheen of brocade. And I wasn't letting go.

“Nothing.” I attempted nonchalance, but my mother was no fool. “Just getting a quick preview of the new stock.”

Her expression shifted. Suspicion fell away, replaced by unreserved delight. “Those just came in yesterday. I thought maybe—”

“Can I have this one??” I blurted, nearly as surprised with myself as she was. The bodice of the dress was still sight unseen. I was making a fool of myself over a pretty skirt and a feeling. I don't know how I knew it, but I did. This was the dress I needed to stoke my inner femme fatale and launch my alter ego.

A curl escaped its confinement behind my ear and fell over my left eye. Desperate to hang on to the dress, I huffed out a retaliatory breath, willing it to back off. It didn't.

My mom looked at me quizzically. “Have you even seen the whole dress?”