My Own Mr. Darcy (4 page)

“Sure. That sounds fun.”

“I was hoping you’d say
that.” His cute smile made me happy I’d agreed.

We had to park more than a
block from the club and I was glad I’d brought a sweater. The cool outside air made
the hot, stuffy air of the club feel like a muzzle. Chad led me to a tiny table
and we sat down, our knees bumping under the Frisbee-sized table.

“What can I get for you?”
The waitress, Myra, sounded bored and looked dissatisfied with the world. Her
hair was cut in a severe boy’s style. Her eyes were heavily lined and her right
eyebrow held three tiny hoops. Her left arm sported a snake tattoo that
slithered its way from the knuckle of her middle finger, around and around her
arm until it disappeared into her tank top. It reappeared at her neck, where
its mouth was open wide, fangs extended, ready to eat her ear. She looked angry
and fearsome, like a dystopian warrior. I pictured her battling an evil future
government with rusted tin cans and broken bottles, not taking orders for
drinks and potato skins.

“We either need bigger
tables or smaller plates,” Myra said when she put down our food and drinks.
“These crappy tables are the worst part of my job.”

“I’ll bet they are,” Chad
said. “We’ll do our best not to create a mess for you.” He bestowed his warm,
crooked smile on her. To my surprise, Myra’s glacial expression thawed and she
smiled back at him. She had an unexpectedly pretty smile.

“I appreciate that. But if
something spills, it won’t be your fault. It’s the tables.”

The potato skins were
loaded with bacon and cheese and a small bowl of sour cream for dipping finished
them off perfectly. Before we were through eating, The Slocum’s took the stage
and began playing. Soon I was carried away by the music. It felt so real and
heartfelt. The brothers moved from instrument to instrument throughout the
performance. They played guitar, drums, banjo, mandolin, and piano. Before each
song, a brother would share the story that had inspired it. Some were funny and
a couple, like the one about the birth of the bearded Slocum’s baby nearly made
me cry.

Myra refilled our drinks
and brought us another plate of potato skins partway through the concert. Chad
sang along on a few songs. I was surprised to realize I was having a great
time.

When The Slocums finished,
we clapped and cheered but they didn’t come back to the stage. Chad left a
generous tip for Myra and we moved through the crowded room to the door. Chad kept
his hand on my waist until we were outside.

“That was fantastic,” I
said.

“I’m glad you liked it. I
love live music.”

“I love
good
live
music,” I said. “I’ve been to a couple of live shows that were awful. But I
loved this. I’m glad you suggested it.”

Chad smiled. He had a
really good smile—easy, slightly crooked, and totally genuine. It seemed to
come from inside him and wasn’t just a happy thing attached to his face.

“Thanks for calling me,”
Chad said. “I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but my sensors must have
been malfunctioning the day we went to lunch.”

If I were a better person
I’d have put his mind at ease and let him know his sensors were right on the
money. But I decided that rather than confess the circumstances that led to
this date, I’d let him puzzle over my mixed messages.

I didn’t want to admit it
to Janessa, but I’d had a good time and a little part of me hoped Chad would
call again. I tried to ignore that little part, however, because if I enjoyed
myself too much, I’d have to admit that Janessa was right. And she wasn’t
right. Mr. Darcy was worth holding out for. He was the man I’d been dreaming of
for years. The one I was waiting for. The one who would walk into the bank on
Monday morning.

MORNINGS AT THE
bank were
busy. Courtney and I worked the inside teller windows and Pete ran the
drive-thru. Our branch of Oregon National Bank was located close to the
university and several streets of small businesses. Mornings were spent
preparing all those little stores for the day’s business with cash for their
drawers and petty cash boxes. Evenings, we had a flurry of deposits.

It was a busy Monday
morning. I was looking out at the line of waiting customers when
he
walked in. He was taller than anyone in the room. Of course. His hair was dark
and a little disheveled. It was hard to see from where I was, but his eyes
looked like they were blue. And best of all, he didn’t smile. He looked gorgeously
unpleasant and impatient. He looked around the room and his eyes met mine.
Still he didn’t smile. My heart was racing. He looked perfect.

I gasped, shut my thumb in
my cash drawer, and then tried not to cry while Mr. Sandoval from a hearing aid
store asked me if I was okay.

When I finished Mr.
Sandoval’s transaction, I looked at him again.

I did my best to time it
so I’d be his teller. I went a little too fast with one customer and
accidentally shorted her a twenty dollar bill. I tried to concentrate as I
corrected the transaction. I slowed way down on the next customer, but just
when I thought I was finished and would be able to help him next, my customer
asked me to break a ten into change. He walked up to Courtney’s window while I
counted out nickels and dimes. Furious, I stomped my foot. Not too loudly but
enough to release a little of my frustration.

I listened closely as
Courtney helped him to see if I could learn anything, but he hardly spoke. He
gave a terse nod when Courtney thanked him for coming in and turned on his heel
and left. He had excellent posture and a nice, confident stride.

I finished with my
customer, and then before anyone else could step forward, I picked up the phone
and dialed Courtney’s extension. She glanced at her phone’s display and looked over
at me curiously.

“Who was that?” I
whispered when she picked up the receiver.

Courtney shielded her
mouth while she spoke. “Elizabeth, look how many customers there are.”

“I know. Just tell me who
that was.” I watched as Courtney picked up her last transaction slip.

“His name is Matt Dawson.”

“Is he married?”

“I have no idea,” Courtney
said, glancing toward Delia’s desk.

“Was he wearing a ring?”

“I didn’t look. What’s
going on, Lizzie?”

“I just need to know about
him.”

“Well, I don’t know
anything about him and Delia’s watching us. I’ve gotta go.”

Matt Dawson. Matt.
Matthew. Like Matthew Macfadyen. Dawson. It was pretty close to Darcy. The only
way it could be better is if his name was Fitzwilliam but I’d never met a Fitzwilliam
in my life.

Matt Dawson.

This had to be a sign.  

Two days later, he was there
again. His clothes were modern but it was easy to picture him dressed as an
English gentleman. I could hardly tear my eyes away from him.

This time my timing was
impeccable and I put on my best smile when Mr. Dawson stepped up to my window.

“How can I help you
today?” I asked.

“I’ve listed the
denominations I need on the note.” He didn’t smile. In fact, he barely looked
at me.

“Of course. I’ll get right
on that.” I dragged my gaze away from his beautiful face and his sapphire blue
eyes and began putting together the money he needed. “Nice day out there today,
isn’t it?” I said as I tapped a stack of ones on the counter and wrapped them
with an elastic band.

“Mmm.” His voice wasn’t exactly
right, but it was close enough.

The logo on his note said,
“Pink Salamander Books.”

“You work at the
bookstore? I’ve been meaning to come in there. I’ve heard it’s one of the best
bookstores in town. Not as big as Powell’s but definitely more personal.”

“I don’t
work
at The
Pink Salamander. I
own
The Pink Salamander.”

Ooh. A little egotistical.
Nice.

“Oh. How exciting. That
must be so interesting.”

“Mmm.”

I counted out the money
and then put it in his bank bag. “Have a nice day, Mr. Dawson.”

“Indeed.”

My hand flew to my heart.

Indeed? Had he really just
said indeed? Oh, that sounded so refined and aristocratic. It carried the
perfect amount breeding and class.

And yes, his eyes were
blue. Lake water on a clear day blue. Summer sky blue. Pools of gorgeousness
blue.

And he wasn’t wearing a
wedding ring. His long, elegant fingers held no jewelry at all.

Somehow I had to make him
notice me. Somehow I had to become the object of his affection. I wanted him to
adore me, no, more than that. I wanted him to love me most ardently. After all
these years, could my dream finally be within reach?

“Hey, Elizabeth. I
finished
The Help
. Did you still want to borrow it?” Courtney asked.
We’d just finished work and were walking to our cars.

“Did you like it?” I asked.

“It was really good.
You’ll like it. I have it here in the car, if you want to borrow it.”

Suddenly an idea leaped
into my head. “You know, I think I might just buy it.”

“I don’t care if you
borrow it,” Courtney said. “No need to spend the money.”

“That’s okay. I think I’ll
just walk over to The Pink Salamander and pick up my own copy.”

Courtney grinned and
gently punched my arm. “Ah, I get it. You’re just hoping you see that guy that
works over there. What was his name? Matt?”

“He doesn’t just work there.
He owns it.” I tried to sound as haughty as Mr. Dawson had sounded.

“Nice. I’ve noticed how
you make sure you get to help him.” Mr. Dawson had been in three more times and
I’d finagled my way into being his teller all three times.

“Is it that obvious? Do
you think he’s noticed?”

“Don’t worry. Your
secret’s safe with me. In fact, today I took a minute extra on Mrs. O’Brien’s
transaction so he’d have to come to your window.”

“I knew I loved working
with you.”

“I’m not sure why you’re so
interested in him. He seems like a snob to me.” Courtney unlocked her vintage
green Volkswagen. “Go ahead. Go get your book.”

I put on some fresh lip
gloss and walked the two blocks to The Pink Salamander, a charming old
Victorian house painted pale pink with darker pink rails and shutters. The wide
porch floor was charcoal gray as was the front door. A bell jingled when I
opened it.

“Welcome to The Pink
Salamander.” A woman a few years older than me stood behind the counter. I’d
seen her at the bank before. She was exquisite. Her chin-length raven hair was
sleek and stylish and her clothes looked more expensive than my car. “Can I
help you find something?”

“I’m looking for
The
Help
.”

“It’s in the Women’s
Fiction room at the top of the stairs on the right.”

A plush Persian rug ran
all the way up the stairs, kept in place at the back of each step by an
ornamental brass rod. The balustrade was intricately carved. As I climbed the
stairs, I paused to look at the framed portraits of well-known authors. In a
prominent position near the top of the stairs was a portrait of Jane Austen in
an ornate silver frame. Was this another sign?