Austensibly Ordinary (8 page)

Okay, brainstorming . . . they all seemed to be hinting at something, leading me to draw a conclusion that so far had eluded me. The answer, a development, a perfect match. Perfect match didn't sound very national security . . . unless it was referring to counterfeit currency, a priceless artifact, or a faked retinal scan. Perfect match sounded more online dating or custom paint colors.

I heard a car door slam in the driveway and remembered the mess I'd encountered in the house. With my mind wandering the way it was, it occurred to me once again that Mom could use a date. There'd been no one since the divorce, and judging by Mom's awkward flirting with the Geek Freak, her embarrassing tendency to hint at the possibility of romance between Ethan and me, not to mention today's cake binge with double forks, it was definitely time for Mom to get back out there. I'd work on that.

As a matter of fact, there was a world history teacher at school—a handsome retired air force captain, Mr. Carr—who would probably welcome the opportunity to spend time with a pretty whirlwind like my mom. I could invite him for dinner, making sure to specify that I'd like him to meet my
mom.
No sense giving the man the wrong impression.

I glanced again at the little excerpts. Somewhat coincidentally, they all seemed to make sense within the general theme of a romance. . . an unanticipated romance begun in an unpredictable fashion in an unexpected place. Or perhaps not so coincidentally. I'd imagined secret missions, code names, and privileged information, but was I instead facing a grown-up game of M.A.S.H.? Was I meant to be the facilitator? Miss Match herself? And if so, when was I going to get the details, the dossiers? Who the hell was I supposed to be matching up?

I supposed I could use my mom as a guinea pig. Naturally without telling her. And maybe Ethan. That could get interesting. He'd be a tough sell. I could do this—I'd probably be really good at it given my Jane Austen obsession. I'd be clever, cagey, keeping my interference subtle, letting the couple imagine they'd found each other all on their own. Like Jane herself, crafting swoony romances for her heroes and heroines. I could imagine that there would be a certain satisfaction in that. And there was no reason that I couldn't keep my Cat Kennedy persona, wielding my charms on a romance of my own . . . assuming Mr. Tielman ever decided to call me back. And if he didn't, well then, I'd go on the prowl again and relish every minute.

Unwrapping a tangerine Dum-Dum, I slid the journal under the couch, grabbed the remaining bagels and feta, and skipped down the steps to quiz my mom.

 

She was standing at the kitchen sink, eating a bowl of cake crumbs and slivers when I walked in. The cake had been carved back into shape, and the couch cushions were once again in position.

“Hey, Mom. I borrowed a couple of things.” I held them up, eyeing her, wondering if an explanation for the strange happenings afoot would be forthcoming. From this angle she seemed to have smudges under her eyes.
Please, God, don't let her be crying.

“Hey, sweetie.” She sounded tired. “Piece of cake? It had a little accident, but I've mostly cleaned it up.” She turned briefly toward me, and in the light of the kitchen, her cheeks looked flushed. Or else she was blushing. Weird. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what had gone on here today. Maybe a particularly wild hot flash?

I stashed the food in the refrigerator, considered getting myself a piece of cake, remembered the state it had been in earlier, and decided against it. “Um, no thanks. How were things at the shop today?”

“A little slow . . . Mondays always are.”

“So you came home for lunch?”

Looking startled, she turned toward me.

“Dmitri was working today,” she said, sounding defensive. “And I had a . . . chocolate craving. Hence the state of the cake.”

Uh-huh. Maybe if she was a chocolate vampire.

“How's your computer working these days?” I asked, wondering if the Geek Freak had managed to work out the kinks, as it were.

She choked a little, put her hand up to her lips, and murmured, “Fine. Good.”

Clearly something was up, and she wasn't interested in letting me in on her little secret. Just as well; she wasn't getting in on mine either. I'd just hint around about Mr. Carr. . . .

“Mom, how'd you like to meet one of the teachers I work with? I could bring him home for dinner, Wednesday maybe . . . You could make your famous lasagna and have him eating out of your hand. . . .”

“Why in the hell would I want your date eating out of
my
hand? Lasagna is not finger food.”

Obviously my wording had been faulty. “No, Mom, he's not my date. I'd like to introduce the two of you because I think you'd hit it off.”

Mom put down the bowl of cake carnage and turned to look at me, the flush gone.

“Hit it off? In what sense?” she inquired sardonically. “Intellectually? Spiritually? Emotionally? Or sexually? I'd like to know going in.”

I goggled at her. Sexually? Who was this woman? In our house, “sex” had always meant male or female and not anything going on betwixt the two.

“Um . . . hard to say. Maybe you could play a little Yahtzee and see where it goes from there.”

She speared me with a warning glare. “I don't need to be set up, Cate. I'm doing just fine on my own.”

“Got it,” I said, not willing, at this moment, to argue the point. If she'd been hoping to hide the evidence of her “just fine” existence, she needed to do a lot better. “I'll set it up—we'll have fun.” I started casually backing out the door. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. I've got to go grade some papers. Sweet dreams.”

I pulled the door shut and leaned my head against it. Whether or not the journal was offering up matchmaking advice, I clearly needed to do
something.
Strolling along the little breezeway connecting Mom's house and mine, I asked myself,
What would Jane Austen do?

Mom needed a stable, dependable fellow with enough imagination to surprise her every now and then . . . perhaps a Mr. Weston. Rodney Carr would be perfect. If I could convince him to come
and
get Mom to nix the sex talk. I suddenly wished Ethan hadn't disappeared—he could have rounded out our little dinner party and helped smooth over all the awkward moments. He was particularly good at that. Hell, he was good at a lot of things.

I trudged up the steps to face the “irritations” involved in maintaining my English teacher “cover,” feeling slightly better about them in that context.

 

“She makes a mean lasagna,” I cajoled. I'd been very careful in phrasing my invitation to Mr. Carr, trying through subliminal mentions of my mom to ensure he knew what exactly was on the table, i.e., lasagna and Yahtzee. Mom's no-sex criterion had not been precisely spelled out—I figured she could cover that end of things. “And who can say no to Yahtzee?”

“Does your mother know you're asking me to dinner?” he asked cautiously. It was ten minutes till the staff meeting, and he was making short work of a Granny Smith apple while drafting essay questions with a pencil and yellow legal pad. Old-school.

“Of course,” I assured him, waving my hand dismissively. “She loves to meet new people. And you two have a lot in common.
You
teach European history,
she
wants to go to Europe; you were in the armed forces,
she
admires men in uniform.” I didn't know too much more about the man, other than he was a great teacher and a good role model. “You probably love a challenge . . . and she can provide it.” The last words were spoken through my teeth, and I felt compelled to end on a more convincing argument. “Along with homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and dessert.” I flashed a smile.

He smiled back, and new wrinkles creased his face. But they were just surface wrinkles; they didn't go deep. I could sense he was hesitant, and failure looked imminent. But then he said the magic words, “How can I resist?” and I breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the man did like a challenge.

“Excellent. We'll see you Wednesday at seven.”

Now all I needed was for Mom to bring it.

 

I'd definitely dressed like a ninja. In envisioning Operation Let's Get This Over With, an evening of ghost hunting with Courtney, I'd gone dark. In black ballet slippers (they did have little rhinestones on the tips—maybe ghosts liked sparkles), black trousers, a sleeveless blouse patterned mostly in black, and a black cardigan (with a bit more sparkle), I looked more like an apathetic cat burglar than an indifferent ghost hunter. This was called taking one for the team. I felt painfully nondescript waltzing through the imposing front doors of the Driskill amid the golden glow of ambiance.

Courtney had changed from her work clothes into cargo pants (lots of pockets), a black T-shirt, and a trim little olive jacket with still more pockets. She looked ready to be dropped behind enemy lines, and judging by the equipment spread out over her desk, perhaps she was.

My cell rang before I could get the rundown.

“Hey, chica,” Sydney said. “You don't know how hard I'm fighting the urge to make one of those claws-out cat sounds after your dramatic entrance Sunday night.”

“I appreciate your self-control.” Courtney's head whipped up and her forehead wrinkled in question, but with no explanation forthcoming, she lost interest and turned back to her hunter paraphernalia.

“What are your plans for tonight? Or are they need-to-know?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” I said, eyeing Courtney as she flicked on an ergonomically shaped black box that had obvious flashing and clicking capabilities. If nothing else, it would at least
seem
like we were doing something.

“Well, damn. I thought maybe I could convince Catwoman to come out and play.”

Sydney had a knack for bringing out my bad-girl impulse, a fact we'd discovered approximately fifteen minutes after getting paired up at the Central Market Cooking School . . . long before she'd become part of the culinary underground and I'd started spending every Sunday afternoon playing Scrabble. Between her pixie cut, tank tops, and shoulder tattoos and my towheaded tousle and Anthropologie obsession, we'd been an unusual pair. But something had definitely clicked between us, and we'd been asked to leave for instigating a food fight in the middle of class. It had been a simple miscommunication, involving some newly pitted olives and some skinny little breadsticks. We'd spent the next two hours giggling over coffee in the café beneath the cooking school.

“Sorry,” I said, secretly relieved I wouldn't be spending the evening getting dragged along Sixth Street in Syd's bouncy, mischievous wake. I eyed the goggles Courtney had laid out on the desk—two pair. It seemed likely that I'd shortly be second-guessing that assessment.

“How about you give me a hint of your plans for the evening as a consolation prize?”

“It involves goggles,” I said, hoping her imagination could run with that.

“Ooh, tough one,” she said. “Sounds intriguing—you're off the hook. Wish me luck . . . I'm on the prowl.” Then she did make the feral cat sound and was gone.

I pocketed my phone, staring at the results of Courtney's continued preparations. “Are you telling me that we are going to have to walk around a five-star hotel in downtown Austin wearing goggles?”

She held up a finger. “You're going to need to leave your cell here. We don't want anything interfering with the hunt—the ring, the vibrations, the frequency—who knows what spooks these ghosts.” I pulled the phone from my pocket, dropped it into my purse on the floor beside her desk, and held up my hands, palms-out and innocent.

“Don't sweat the goggles, Cate. I need to go whole enchilada.” She dropped into her desk chair, looking a little defeated. “You'd think the most haunted hotel in Texas would have a ghostly little welcome wagon. Nope. It's been
months,
and nothing. So I'm pulling out the big guns.”

Having a sudden vision of the Ghostbusters crossing the streams and making a gigantic, slimy mess, I asked, “What exactly are the big guns?”

She grinned widely, placed her hands on the arms of her chair, and stood, the better to wow me, I'm sure. She laid her hand softly, confidently on the black box. “This is Casper, the Friendly Ghost Finder.”

“Seriously?” I asked, wondering how I could have imagined I wasn't having any adventures with my life.

“I want to see dead people,” she deadpanned. “And this will help me do it. I saw Casper on an infomercial, and the testimonials were really encouraging.”

“What is it supposed to do, and how is it supposed to do it? And
why
do we need goggles?”

“It has the dual capability to sense temperature gradients and changes in an area's electromagnetic field, which doubles our ghost-sensing probability.” She flipped the switch and a bright green screen flickered on, the numbers on the screen settling to near zero with an occasional flicker. The temperature gauge winked on at the high end of a color spectrum, a sign that Court's office, at least, was not a hotbed of supernatural activity. “The goggles are just a precaution. Lost souls have been known to hold grudges and get ugly. I'd like to be prepared.”

I stared at her, wondering what had happened to the straight-shootin' Texas co-ed I'd met at the UT swim center. Evidently Austin had taken its toll, and she was determined to drag me along for the ride, awkwardness be damned. Just as long as I didn't see anyone I knew as I skulked through the opulent halls of the Driskill with Courtney and Casper . . . in goggles.