Austensibly Ordinary (4 page)

I unhooked the next in line and realized my luck couldn't run forever. I could see enough through the transparent wrapping to tell that this one was a bit dowdy. Taupe and cream, it was a slim skirt and crossover blouse. It screamed society matron, but I felt compelled to take a quick peek. I was rather impressed to discover the blouse was both sleeveless and backless! Add a chunky choker and a cuff bracelet, and it was deliciously Grace Kelly gone vixen. I glimpsed a firecracker red something in the back when Mom breezed through the door, humming to herself.

We both started in surprise.

“Mrs. Robinson,” I said, with a nod and a smirk.

She ignored that, eyeing my handful. “What are you doing back here? I thought you were thrilled with the blue dress.”

“I am,” I admitted, hooking the red mystery back on the rack, “but this new shipment is making me greedy. I've got the gimmes for all of them. It doesn't even matter that I haven't looked at some of them, never mind tried them on. I
crave
them.”

“Lord.” She rolled her eyes to spell out her opinion on my lunatic behavior, but then caved. “Take them home, try them on, get it out of your system. Sometimes a girl just needs to play dress-up.”

“And sometimes a girl just needs to flirt with a Geek Freak,” I teased, giving her a hug. It was clear Mom needed a date. If I gave it a few minutes' thought, I could probably come up with someone suitable—someone to keep Mrs. Robinson in check. I wasn't talking about sex—
good
God,
no—
I didn't want to walk in on anything on my way to borrow the guacamole, just a companion—someone to play Scrabble with, minus the benefits.

When Dad had left his orderly life of ones and zeros in the semiconductor sector for a chance to give canopy tours in the Hill Country, Mom had filled his absence with Mirror, Mirror,
Burn Notice,
and Zumba dancing at the local YMCA. She was an active woman with a great figure, a business in the heart of Austin Weird, and a lot to offer. The right man could be great for her. Maybe I'd ask Gemma to weigh in. . . .Then again, Ethan was closer, geographically speaking, and he probably already had an opinion on the matter. I shook my head, desperate to clear it. Right now, I was too distracted with my own issues; Mom's romance was going to have to wait. In fact, I needed to get busy and finish up the decorations. Candy corn could tide me over for only so long. Besides, I wanted to see if Courtney and Ethan could play nice together.

“H
ow do you feel about Eliot Ness?”

I'd snuck up behind Ethan as he stood perusing the Torchy's menu to pose the question.

He didn't even turn around.

“Relatively unaffected. Is this your way of announcing another ill-advised crush? Seeing as he lived in twentieth-century America and not fictional eighteenth-century Britain, I'd say definite improvement. You'll get there.”

I elbowed him in the side. “I do not have a crush on Eliot Ness. But I kinda told Courtney that you might be her date for a 1920s-themed Halloween party at the Driskill.”

Now he turned around. I cringed ever so slightly under his blistering stare.

“Is this about you not having a full-access pass to my life? Finding a back door? Setting me up with a friend of yours with intent to snoop?” With his arms crossed over his chest, he definitely looked mad—and a little intimidating.

“Get over yourself, Chavez. If you want to keep secrets, keep 'em!” I kicked at the gravel and heard a rock ping against the metal trailer. “Courtney needed a date for her event, and you haven't mentioned any Halloween plans, so I merely suggested you might be an option. Nobody's locked in. You have time to make up an excuse before she gets here, let her down easy.”

“What do you mean, ‘before she gets here'?” His eyebrow winged up in disbelief.

Justifiably on the defensive, I fired back, “I invited her. She was at the shop, and I graciously included her in our plan to eat chips and salsa at picnic tables in a parking lot. If, however,” I continued, “that's too much of an imposition, we'll be happy to sit at a separate table. You could use the space for your ego.”

Ethan snorted, looked out over the darkening city skyline, his lips twitching alternately in frustration and amusement, and then turned back to gaze at my stubborn expression.

“No, I insist that the two of you sit at my picnic table. Drinks on me.”

I smiled, relieved. I didn't like to fight with Ethan—it rocked my world—nothing seemed right when he and I were at odds. Luckily, it didn't happen often.

“You're one of the good guys, Chavez,” I said, nudging into him, haphazardly scanning the menu.

“And you, Kendall, are transparently fickle.” He elbowed me back. “In the interest of staving off all other setups, you should know that I have plans for Halloween. Eliot Ness will have to find another reincarnation.”

My little bubble of contentment popped audibly, and I yanked my gaze away from the taco trailer to home in on Ethan all over again. “You have plans? Why didn't you tell me you had plans? What are they?”

“He's coppin' out on Eliot Ness, isn't he?” said a chipper voice from behind us.

We both swiveled and stared at a grinning Courtney. “No big deal,” she assured us. “If I don't find a date, I'll go alone and on the prowl.” She winked and shifted her attention to the taco menu, not seeming the least put out.

At this point I think the guy behind the counter was fed up with all of us, so we ordered quickly. Ever the gentleman, Ethan bought the drinks and the tacos, and the three of us crunched over the gravel, slipping under the fairy-lit canopy of oaks to park ourselves at picnic tables and eat.

“Why don't
you
spend Halloween at the Driskill, Cate? Storm the place with a fake Tommy gun as the female half of Bonnie and Clyde,” Ethan suggested before biting into a green chile taco.

I'd been just about to take a bite of my own barbacoa taco—Torchy's Democrat—when the question was posed, so I lowered my arms, carefully holding the overflowing taco together. “I could totally pull that off, but I too have plans,” I told him sweetly.

“Are they for public consumption?” He tipped back his beer and then waited for my answer.

“Why not? I don't have any secrets.”
Poker face, don't fail me now.
Normally I couldn't really claim any secrets, but recent developments had me daydreaming of secret identities, obsessing over alter egos, even lapsing into awkward thoughts of Ethan. . . . I prayed Courtney wouldn't give me away.

“Well,
that
needs to be remedied, my friend,” Courtney teased, sipping the dregs of her lime-doused Corona. “Every girl should have at least one really good secret.” Her cheekbones rounded in teasing amusement.

“How many do you have?” I said, remembering our little chat in Mirror, Mirror.

“Not enough,” she assured me. “And it's not for lack of trying.” Her grin widened into a Texas-sized smile. “Just means I need to try harder. Or in different places,” she said, letting her eyes slide over and hook mine.

“What about you, Ethan?” she said, inviting him into our little girls' club. “Got any secrets?” I looked up from my taco, wondering and curious.

For one unhurried moment, he seemed to consider while Courtney and I waited him out. Then again, he could have just been stalling, messing with the pair of us.

“None that would interest the two of you,” he finally answered.

I stared at him, considering, concocting potential Ethan-worthy secrets. Piggybacking on his neighbor's cable signal? Occasional Internet porn? Bootlegging the
Glee
soundtrack?

The corners of my lips edged up, and I bit back a smile. Let the poor guy keep his secrets. Mine would probably shock the pants off him.

“Cagey . . . I like that,” Courtney said, flirting effortlessly. She was a natural-born charmer.

My eyes shifted back to Ethan to gauge his reaction to her. He seemed immune. It occurred to me that they probably knew each other too well, by virtue of being friends with me. I talked to one about the other, and gradually, curiosities were quenched and mysteries disappeared. They were probably beyond any possibility of future romance, and I had to admit to being just a little relieved. Also weird.

“Now that that's taken care of, tell us about Halloween,” Ethan insisted, fiddling with his empty beer bottle.

“I'm going to one of Syd's events—a Hitchcock-themed party—I couldn't pass it up.”

“I notice you didn't ask me to go with you,” Ethan accused, smirking good-naturedly. “Got a date?”

“I would never intrude on your private life, Chavez. I'm going alone.”

Ethan laughed out loud at that blatant untruth, and Courtney narrowly avoided spraying her final swallow of beer.

“By my count, that's two chicks going solo. What about you, Chavez . . . you got a date?”

Courtney's timely arrival thirty minutes ago had distracted me from that very question. I popped the rest of my taco into my mouth and waited to hear the answer.

He glanced over at me. “Afraid not,” he admitted. “No secrets, and no date.” This was hardly surprising.

Courtney offered up a “poor baby” smile. “Well, if your plans fall through . . . or you feel a little Eliot Ness coming on . . . swing by the Driskill,” she offered, climbing off the picnic bench. Taco basket in hand, she said her good-byes.

“I need to go check that a
quinceañera
is positively perfect in every way.” She batted her eyelashes and smiled angelically. “Thanks, guys—Gate, for your help with a dress, and Ethan, for dinner. Catch you later.” She waved and was gone.

Ethan and I focused on finishing our tacos and studiously avoided any further mention of Halloween plans. I was desperate to know his, but didn't want him probing further into mine.

Our awkward silence was broken by three guys in polos and jeans, still sporting their company name badges, wanting to share our table amid the after-work crowd. Ethan and I shifted down a couple of feet. My knee bumped the table's leg bracket and nudged something loose.

I leaned down to peek under the table and noticed a dark shape lying in the shadows. I reached for it, careful not to bump my head on the edge of the table and curious to examine it in the fading light.

It was old, or made to look old—vintage was king these days. And it was charming, from its worn leather cover to its pretty brass hardware. It looked like a secret door.

“What's that?” Ethan asked, eyeing my find.

My eyes, I'm sure, lit up with excitement, but almost instantly my shoulders slumped and the twinkle died. With my luck, this would be someone's Weight Watchers journal.

“Looks like some sort of journal,” I said, nudging it onto the table in front of me, preferring the mystery to the reality, at least for the moment. I figured my curiosity would hold out maybe until I finished my tacos.

Some excited murmurings filled the trailer park, and glancing up, I caught a glimpse of a few renegade bats, likely having just emerged, right on cue, from beneath the Congress Avenue Bridge and winged back in our direction. Twilight lit the sky with sherbet colors and gave the little mammals a lovely backdrop for their nightly appearance. Luckily, we were well out of range of the rest of the little buggers and the great guano drop. Ethan had taken advantage of the distraction to bogart the first look at the journal. Evidently, his own curiosity was a bit of a lightweight.

“What happened to ladies first, Chavez? I hope you at least used a napkin.”

He lifted both hands, displaying them palms out, then flipping them to expose the backs.

“Anything up your sleeves?” I inquired sourly. He ignored me, running curious fingers over the little key placket and knob, flipping the book onto its back for further perusal before cracking it open. I concentrated on my taco.

I glanced up when I heard the familiar “Huh.” That one noncommittal syllable expressed Ethan's grudging curiosity.

I swirled a tortilla chip through my little cup of queso. “What?”

“Strange. There's a flowery dedication in here that can't have been written recently, but the rest of the book is blank.” He riffled through the pages all over again and then raised his eyebrows at me. “What's it doing under a trailer park picnic table?” he asked, nearly swiping the leather volume through a salsa spill on the table as he moved to hand it back to me. I snatched it away from him.

“Maybe someone had just bought it, needed a taco fix, and stashed it under the table to keep it away from a sticky-fingered companion.” I speared him with a look, curling my lip ever so slightly.

Carefully wiping my hands on my napkin, I gently touched the tarnished hardware and brushed my fingers over the worn leather. It felt significant . . . substantial. As if secrets revealed inside would be held dear. I turned back the cover and read the flowery script with my bottom lip caught between my teeth.

“It looks like someone intended this as an instructional manual, but then never followed through with it.” I glanced up at Ethan, who was back to concentrating on his own taco. He shrugged in response.

But I could. I could write in this diary from the perspective of my impending alter ego, recording thrilling adventures and dispensing exciting life advice to inspire the English teacher side of me. It sounded like the perfect outlet—judging by Courtney's reaction, my friends weren't ready to hear about my fantasy of “going rogue.” It could be my little secret, kept safe in this little book.

“Do you think anyone's coming back for it?”

I scrunched my nose a little and ever so slightly shook my head, going for subliminal.

Ethan's lips twitched in amusement. “No way to tell. Why?” I frowned at him as he took a sip of beer.

“Can't you, for once, just be my partner in crime, Chavez?” I asked, thoroughly exasperated.

The amusement disappeared, and I couldn't interpret his long, steady gaze. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. “Possession is nine-tenths,” he reminded me. “You're in possession.”

I looked down at the book, wondering if I'd glossed too quickly over the possibility that anyone would come looking for it, feeling vaguely guilty that I didn't plan on leaving it for them to find, and a little bit thrilled with my decision. I'm sure I was grinning like an idiot when I looked up again.

“So . . . do you want me to smuggle it out in my pants, or ask the taco guy for some foil so you can wrap it up to go? Because I'm all in, baby.”

My laugh sounded suspiciously like a guffaw. It was the “baby” that did it . . . and the gangster voice. I stared across the table at Ethan, his face now mostly in shadow under the string of lightbulbs hung up over the lot. Imagining myself with a secret life was one thing; imagining Ethan as anything other than a clean-cut, hardworking geek was completely laughable.