“You already gave me a cupcake.” I shook out an oval-shaped stone. It was cloudy and unpolished, but cool and ground smooth. “Amber.”
“I’ve had it for a while. It’s the same as your necklace. I saw it in a shop in Clarksville and thought you might like it. The owner said it’s a rubbing stone, a stress reliever.”
“Thank you.” I touched my ever-present necklace with one finger, his stone within my palm. It was a little larger than a robin’s egg.
Movement around us caught my attention. People were listening. They always were. I dropped the stone back into its small bag.
Something passed through Nathan’s eyes. He scrubbed at his chin and nodded. There was an odd finality to the gesture.
“Thank you.” I repeated the words.
“You’re welcome.” Nathan leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Have a great trip and please keep in touch. Let me know when you’re back.”
Before I could draw a breath, he was gone.
Chapter 6
Friday night passed in another flurry of texts, a phone call, and an unexpected visit.
Isabel arrived around eleven o’clock. She was dressed in slim jeans, boots, and a black silk top. Her eyes trailed from my head to my bare toes. “You stayed in tonight?”
I waved her into my apartment, fluttering my hand toward the mess. “It was a long week and I needed to pack.”
She stopped and rested her handbag and another bag on my high kitchen counter. “We’ve got trouble. I completely forgot you’ve never traveled. You need a passport.”
“Like this one.” I pulled it off the small pile I’d created on the same counter. “All you need is a form, two pictures, $349, and two business days.”
“Of course you took care of it.” She gave me a small bow. Dad always said if there was a job to do, I’d get it done and Isabel would make it look good.
I followed her gaze around my apartment. It did not look good. Usually neat and spare, it looked like a tornado had struck. Gadgets and junk covered the coffee table; clothes were scattered across my bedroom, which we could see through the open door; and tonight’s takeout containers still rested on the counters.
Despite Isabel’s copious instructions and the fact that the estate was supplying my wardrobe, I had no idea what to pack or how much. She was right; I’d never been anywhere. The farthest I’d gone was from Round Top to Austin when I left for college—a ninety-minute drive—and I’d taken everything I owned.
“It’s going well, I see.” She walked toward my bedroom. Her boots made a firm rap against the wood floor. “Good call.” She pointed to the discarded swimsuit and flip-flops that lay on the floor by my dresser.
She then noticed my unwieldy Austen book and reached for it. Her wrist gave from the weight and she grabbed for it with her other hand. “This thing is huge.”
“I got to thinking about Mom. She loved real books, the smell, the weight. So last week I found the biggest copy I could. But for the trip, I also downloaded them all to my Kindle.”
“She did love herself some Austen.” Isabel turned the book over in her hands. “Remember how she’d prop books on her knees? She said they kept her warm.”
“I expect they did.” I pointed to the book and scrunched my nose to get the words right. “It is a ‘truth universally acknowledged’ that reading that whole thing in less than a week proves I am the best friend in the universe.”
“Bravo.” Isabel flattened her palm on the book’s green cover. “And?”
“And . . .”
She sat, waiting for my answer.
“They surprised me. And to be truthful, I’m not quite finished with Persuasion.”
“You’ll like that one. But you can’t expect to understand them fully with one quick reading.” Isabel pushed off my bed and returned to the small hallway area between my front door and kitchen. She carried the huge book with her and placed it on the counter next to her bag. Reaching in, she pulled out six books and stacked them one on top of the other. “You’ll need to spend more time with them.” She leaned against the counter. “We’ll trade.”
My mom’s six leather-bound copies of Jane Austen’s novels rested behind her.
I backed away. “She gave those to you.”
“Only because you showed no interest. Please, Mary. I’m trying to make things right.” She put my copy into her bag. “Which did you like best?”
“Northanger Abbey was the most interesting. I saw a little of you in Isabella Thorpe.” I said the name tentatively, in question. I had so many questions after reading that book, but none would come out well. Isabella Thorpe was not a likable character.
“The antihero?”
“That might be too strong. She was also beautiful and charming and—”
“We can talk about her later . . . I’ve got to go.” Isabel headed the few steps to the door. “I haven’t even started packing.”
“Hey.” I followed her. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I only wondered when you read Northanger Abbey and if you liked Isabella’s confidence. She’s a fascinating character.”
Isabel shrugged and looked thirteen again—a flash of vulnerability I hadn’t seen in years. She pointed back to the six books on the counter. “Cherish those . . . The car will pick you up first, then swing by my place. I’ll probably need the extra minutes. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
She asked the last as if it were a genuine question. Isabel had often given me this feeling of heightened expectancy in the past few weeks. Statements had turned into questions and she’d taken on an indecisive stutter-start-stop that was at odds with her usual decisive nature.
It had started long before tonight and my clumsy Isabella Thorpe comparison. I glanced around my apartment as if the cause was material and I could find it.
“It isn’t a question, Isabel. You know you’ll see me. Is there something—”
She gave a quick head shake—decisive, even brusque. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be ready at noon.”
And she was gone.
Chapter 7
Isabel slept most of the plane ride to London. I savored every moment—I watched a couple movies, read my book, ate all the warm nuts and chocolates, and discovered that the seats in first class really did recline into flat narrow beds. At one point I wandered the aisles and found that the entire flight did not have it so good, so I returned posthaste to my fuzzy slippers and Bose noise-canceling headset. Isabel’s dad had clearly not skimped on any detail.
Now we sat in the back of a car heading to Bath and Braithwaite House. We had not mentioned the books again. We had not mentioned Isabella Thorpe again. We had not talked much at all. If pressed, I wouldn’t know what to say—I was still surprised we were sharing Austen and a trip to Bath.