My Own Mr. Darcy (7 page)

LIGHTS FROM INSIDE
The
Pink Salamander left bright patches on the dark ground. Two restaurants on the
street were lit up but the other businesses were dark.

“This must have been an
amazing house,” Janessa said.

“I know. It’s really beautiful.”

“When did they turn it
into a bookstore?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I
remember noticing how pink it was my second year of college, so it’s probably been
about three years.”

The bell jingled as we walked
in and the exquisite girl from behind the counter stood just inside the door.

“We’re closed unless
you’re here for the Nanette Eggleston event,” she said. Her long, slim skirt
and delicate white blouse looked incredible and I felt underdressed, even in my
favorite outfit—a knee-length printed skirt, a lace tee and cardigan, with
mustard-colored tights and brown boots. Janessa said I looked elegantly quirky,
but next to Miss Exquisite, I felt much more quirky than elegant. I just hoped
Mr. Dawson would notice me.

“We’re here for the Eggleston
event.” I felt pretentious just saying it.

“Go straight down the hall
to the parlor on the right.”

Just inside the parlor
door was a table with stacks of Ms. Eggleston’s books. A couple that looked promising.
I’d never owned a signed book before. Maybe tonight I’d own two.

A small platform with a
stool and microphone sat in the corner. Chairs faced the platform in tight semi-circled
rows. A few people were already sitting in the chairs, flipping through the
pages of books. A small fire burned in the fireplace next to the platform.

“Let’s sit by the fire,”
Janessa said. We took two seats on the second row.

A few minutes later, Mr.
Dawson and Ms. Eggleston, a woman in her thirties, walked in. They stood at the
edge of the platform, just a few feet from us.

“Wow, I see what you
mean,” Janessa said. “Grow out his sideburns and put him in a waistcoat and
it’d be hard to tell the difference.”

“See, I told you. And
watch him. He carries himself the same way, too.”

We discreetly watched him
for a minute. “I thought you had to be exaggerating but you weren’t.”

I was glad Janessa had
come with me. It was much easier than coming by myself and I felt a little
thrill to hear her confirm what I already thought. Now she’d understand why I
wanted to make him notice me.

No. Why I
had
to
make him notice me.

“However did you come up
with the name The Pink Salamander?” Ms. Eggleston asked Mr. Dawson.

“I let my younger sister
name it. It was her idea to paint the exterior pink, as well. I suppose that’s
what you get when you let a teenager make important decisions.”

“Well, I think it’s perfectly
charming.”

I wasn’t eavesdropping on
purpose. They were just standing close enough to hear and I couldn’t help it.

“It gets people’s
attention. We’re happy you included us on your book tour. I must confess I
haven’t read
The Dawn of All Tomorrows
, but my employee, Meg, said she
loved it. Romance isn’t really my thing.” Janessa jabbed me with her elbow.

“You really should read
it. I assure you it isn’t just a romance. It’s much more socially relevant than
that. There’s a whole set of readers who only read romance. I like to trick those
silly women into thinking they’re buying a romance and then throw in some of my
pet social issues.”

Mr. Dawson was nodding.
Ms. Eggleston leaned in closer and continued. “I find most romance readers to
be quite shallow. My goal is to raise their social consciousness without them even
realizing what’s happening.”

“Bravo. Like putting a
little sugar with their medicine. Cloak something of meaning in a love story
and you may teach some of these women something after all.”

Janessa leaned in close.
“He’s certainly got the arrogant thing down.”

“So did Mr. Darcy,” I
whispered.

Mr. Dawson surveyed the
half-filled room. At first, his eyes passed over me but a moment later they came
back to where I sat. His gaze bored into me and although my instinct was to
look away, I didn’t. A few moments later, he gave me a curt nod and then looked
at his watch.

Mr. Dawson stepped up to
the microphone. “Welcome to The Pink Salamander. You’re in for an enlightening
evening with one of Oregon’s brightest authors, Nanette Eggleston.” The
scattered crowd clapped politely. Ms. Eggleston reached for Mr. Dawson’s hand
and he helped her up the step onto the platform.

Really! One small step and
she needed help? “I present to you, Nanette Eggleston.”

It was hard for me to take
Ms. Eggleston seriously since I now knew she thought all the women in the room
were intellectually inferior. Mr. Dawson took a seat at the far end of the
front row. The row of chairs curved so I could see him. And he could see me.

The first time our eyes
met, I smiled. He didn’t smile back. After that I tried not to look his
direction, but just as they were when Matthew Macfadyen was on the screen, my
eyes were dragged to him against my will. I saved a crumb of dignity by
refusing to smile at him each time our eyes met.

Ms. Eggleston droned on
and on. First she read a passage about the leading lady who was fighting an
internal battle about whether she should sacrifice for the man she loved or put
her own desires first. The passage ended before the decision was made, but
after hearing her earlier speech to Mr. Dawson, I imagined she chose the
selfish route.

When the reading was over,
she asked for questions.

“What inspired this
novel?” a woman toward the back asked and Ms. Eggleston graced us with a
ten-minute discourse about a friend who had gone through a divorce because
she’d spent her life putting her husband and children first only to discover
that if she didn’t put herself first, no one else would. She left her family
and went on a pilgrimage to find her best true self.

“Where is your favorite
place to write?” an older woman asked.

“I find I do my best work
at Starbucks,” Ms. Eggleston said. Several people snickered.

Ms. Eggleston bristled and
her voice became defensive. “You may laugh but I’m quite serious. There’s a
creative energy in a coffee shop. It’s palpable. Smart, intellectual people
mingling together and sharing ideas. I like to sit in a corner and soak
everything in over a Skinny Caramel Macchiato. And then I start writing. It’s
actually quite exhilarating.”

Ms. Eggleston pointed at
an eager, plain young woman with thick glasses, who asked, “What advice would
you give to someone who wants to be an author?”

“You want to be an
author?” Ms. Eggleston asked and the young woman blushed as she nodded. Ms.
Eggleston looked the girl over before she continued. “My best advice to you
would be to forget about it. Get a job in a restaurant or a bank. Writing is
only half the battle. Even if you manage to write a good book, you have to
learn how to turn yourself into a brand. It isn’t for the faint-hearted, I
assure you, and although you may be very bright, thriving in the literary world
is very difficult.” The young woman looked deflated and I was afraid she might
cry.

At first Ms. Eggleston’s
haughtiness had been a little amusing but now I was beginning to feel anger. Who
was she to stomp on someone else’s dream? I didn’t like her. “Any other
questions?” she asked.

I slowly raised my hand
and she nodded at me. “I see you’ve written seven novels?”

“Eight, actually, but the
last one hasn’t been released yet.” Her voice and her smug expression told me
she was quite proud of herself.

 “Have any of these books
become best-sellers?”

A flash of surprise
crossed Ms. Eggleston’s face and quickly turned to a several-second glare. I
wondered if she was counting to ten in her head. Finally she took a deep breath
and responded, her words slow and precise as if she were responding to a
difficult little child. “No, I have not had a best-seller, but let me explain a
few things to you. It’s very difficult to become a best-selling author. Very
few are able to do that. It bears no reflection on your talent as a writer. It
has more to do with the marketing dollars your publisher is willing to spend.”

“That makes sense,” I said.
“I guess your publisher hasn’t been willing to spend enough of those dollars on
you. Hopefully you can convince enough shallow, silly women who read romances
to buy your books. Those Starbucks lattes aren’t cheap.”

Janessa’s shocked expression
quickly changed to a look of pride. I glanced over at Mr. Dawson. It might have
been my imagination, but it looked like he was suppressing a smile. After an
uncomfortable moment, he stepped up to the platform and thanked Ms. Eggleston
for coming.

“Ms. Eggleston will be
signing copies of her books at the table by the door. Thank you all for coming
out tonight.”

I took Janessa’s arm,
pulling her out with me. I paused just long enough to drop Ms. Eggleston’s books
on the table.

I left The Pink Salamander
feeling quite proud of myself. I wasn’t usually shy about speaking my mind, but
I’d surprised myself with my candor in front of a room of people, especially a
room that included Mr. Dawson.

“I’m so proud of you for
sticking up for that girl,” Janessa said. The adrenalin coursing through me left
me short of breath and a little giddy.

“That woman was a bully
and someone needed to say something,” I said.

“The question is will Mr.
Dawson like you more or less because of it?”

That tempered my
enthusiasm. In the moment I’d raised my hand, indignation had compelled me to speak
up, but maybe I should have been the one counting to ten.

By the time I fell into
bed, I worried my outburst might have embarrassed Mr. Dawson. If my actions had
somehow reflected badly on The Pink Salamander, he’d likely be angry with me.
What if speaking my mind had cost me the chance to fulfill my dream?

I didn’t sleep well and I woke
the next morning with a headache. When I thought of seeing Mr. Dawson at the
bank, I considered calling in sick.  That seemed like a wimpy thing to do and
most likely I’d have to see him eventually so I showered and got ready for
work.

Just before ten, Mr.
Dawson stepped through the door. I felt his gaze before I saw him. His eyes
didn’t waver as he looked at me. Just before I pulled my attention back to my
work, he nodded. I knew nothing about what his expressions meant, but I felt a
little relief that he didn’t seem to be frothing at the mouth. I relaxed a
little for the first time all morning.

Courtney’s window became
available before mine but instead of stepping up to her window, Mr. Dawson turned
to the woman behind him and indicated she should go next. He was choosing my
window on purpose. My heart did a clumsy somersault.

I finished with my
customer and Mr. Dawson stepped forward. I unfolded the slip of paper with the
pink lizard at the top and began filling his request.

“Your name is Elizabeth?”
he said.

“It is.”

“Is that what people call
you?”

“Some do. Some people call
me Lizzie.”

“What would you prefer I
call you?”

I lost track of the bills
I was counting. This was a significant question and I wanted to answer it
right.

What did Mr. Darcy call
Elizabeth? I needed time to think. Even though I’d watched Pride and Prejudice
a million times my mind was malfunctioning and I couldn’t remember if he used
the more formal Elizabeth or the more casual and intimate Lizzie? I certainly
couldn’t suggest he call me his pearl. We didn’t even know each other.

Since I couldn’t remember
and Mr. Dawson was standing there waiting for an answer, I blurted out my best
guess.

“You can call me
Elizabeth.”

Great. Now he’d think I
was trying to keep things more formal? I had to stop analyzing every little
thing and count the money.

“Elizabeth, how long do
you have for lunch?” I stopped counting again and looked at him. “Lunch,
Elizabeth. I assume you take a lunch?”