“Someone likes my book!” she called out. “Did you hear that, Tom? Someone likes my book. No, someone loves my book,” she corrected. “Kelly Littlejohn loves my book.”
She couldn’t remember sending the manuscript to anyone called Kelly Littlejohn, but that didn’t surprise her. She’d sent it to so many editors that their names cluttered her mind like scraps of paper. But she had sent it, and Kelly—bless her heart—loved it. She wanted to publish it.
Jane considered playing it cool and not responding to the email. And for a full minute she succeeded. Then, fearful that the editor might take her silence for rejection, she typed a quick note.
Dear Kelly:
Thank you for your message. Yes, the book is still available, and yes, I would be interested in speaking with you when you return.
Sincerely,
Jane Fairfax
She hit send before she could change her mind. She wanted her response to be positive but not fawning, interested but not desperate. “It’s a fine line,” she reminded herself.
She read Kelly’s email again. After so many rejections she felt as if she were reading a message about someone else’s book. For a moment she even feared that the editor had mistaken her book for another and contacted the wrong author. She was tempted to write again and confirm that it was in fact her novel Kelly wanted, but she refrained.
Money didn’t enter her mind. Neither did the possibility of fame. She was going to be published. For the first time in centuries she would be able to hold in her hands a new book she’d written.
She read Kelly’s email one more time, feeling for the first time in two centuries like a little girl on Christmas morning.
Chapter 5
She told herself that she detested parties. In particular she was weary of the exchange of frivolous gossip that masqueraded as sophisticated conversation. What did she care about Emilia Rothman’s new dress, and what of interest could be found in the whispered debates regarding the handsomeness of Arthur Potts’s recently acquired moustache?
“So you’ll be okay looking after the store for a few days?”
“Of course I will,” Lucy told Jane. “It’s a bookstore, not a day care.”
“All right, then,” said Jane. “I don’t imagine you can do too much damage in that amount of time.”
“You might be surprised,” Lucy teased.
It had been a week since Jane had received Kelly Littlejohn’s email. She still hadn’t spoken to her new editor, but they had corresponded by email several times. Twice now the editor had called the novel “Austenesque,” which always made Jane giggle when she read it.
Kelly had emailed Jane the previous evening to say that she was returning from Europe earlier than expected and to suggest that Jane take the train down to New York on the second of January so that they could meet in person. The publisher would put her up in a hotel. Jane had agreed before asking Lucy if she would mind the store, knowing full well that her assistant would jump at the chance to have free rein.
“I’d better not come back to find you’ve replaced all the self-help books with graphic novels,” Jane warned.
Lucy grinned. “I was thinking more of putting them where the religion books are,” she said. “And installing a cappuccino machine.”
Jane groaned. “Why do I think I’m going to regret this?”
Lucy rubbed Jane’s shoulders. “Oh, relax,” she said. “It’s New Year’s week. Nobody buys anything anyway—they just return the stuff they got for Christmas.”
“That makes me feel much better,” said Jane. “Thank you.”
She hadn’t told Lucy the reason for her trip, at least not the real reason. Lucy thought she was going to New York to meet a friend and see a show. Although Jane badly wanted to share her news, she felt it would be a mistake to talk about it until everything was in order.
“Some time away from here will be good for you,” Lucy informed her. “You’ve been so … tense lately.”
Jane shot her a look. “Meaning what?” she demanded.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Meaning that,” she said. “You’ve just been a little snippy.”
“I have not been snippy,” Jane objected.
“Okay, okay,” said Lucy, holding her hands up in defeat. “You haven’t been snippy. My bad.”
“Go shelve something,” Jane said, trying not to laugh. She could never get mad at Lucy.
Lucy walked away grinning. “I get to be in cha-aa-aa-rge,” she said in a singsong voice.
The phone rang and Jane answered it. “Flyleaf Books.”
“Yes, could you please tell Miss Jane Fairfax that there’s a gentleman caller on the line for her?”
“Hello, Walter,” Jane said. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m just calling to confirm your presence at tonight’s New Year’s Eve gathering,” he answered.
Jane groaned silently. She’d forgotten all about Walter’s party. She’d said she would go, but now that it was upon her she dreaded it. She considered telling Walter that she couldn’t make it, but she was suddenly unable to think of a believable excuse. “Of course I’ll be there,” she replied. “What shall I bring?”
“Nothing but your fine sense of humor and your smiling face,” Walter told her. “That will be more than enough.”
“You’re satisfied with so little,” Jane joked. “What time do the festivities begin?”
“Nine,” said Walter.
Nine, Jane thought. That means at least three hours with those people. She shuddered. “I’ll see you then.”
“Got a date?” asked Lucy when Jane had hung up.
“It’s very rude to listen to other people’s conversations,” Jane told her. “And no, it is not a date. It’s that party.”
“Don’t you just love New Year’s Eve?” Lucy asked. “I do,” she added, not waiting for Jane’s answer. “It’s like you’re getting another chance to get it right.”
“Get what right?” said Jane.
“Everything,” Lucy answered. “Your life. It’s a new start. You can be anything you want, do anything you want.”
“You don’t need a new year for that,” said Jane.
“Of course not,” Lucy agreed. “But it’s symbolic. A new year, a new you. What are your resolutions?”
“I learned long ago not to make any,” said Jane. “They only set you up for failure.”
This was true. As girls she and Cassie had always made New Year’s resolutions. They wrote them on pieces of paper that were then folded and sealed with the wax from their father’s study, and gave them to each other for safekeeping. They did not open them until the next New Year’s Eve, when they looked at what they had written and debated whether or not they had achieved their goals. Too often Jane had failed, although admittedly this was generally because her resolutions were along the lines of “stop gossiping about the neighbors” and “try to pay more attention in church.” Cassie, who was much more likely to have accomplished her goals, never made Jane feel small. Regardless, her lack of success chafed, and she had eventually stopped altogether.
“Well, I have some,” Lucy continued, undeterred. “I’m going to go to yoga three times a week, learn French, run a marathon, and get at least two poems published—and not online, in real magazines. Oh, and I’m going to volunteer helping underprivileged kids learn to read.”
“Very admirable,” Jane told her. “I applaud your determination.”
“Or maybe I should just lose five pounds, finally paint my bedroom, and stop smoking,” said Lucy.
“You don’t smoke,” Jane said.
“I could start,” Lucy replied. “Then it would be easy to stop and I would feel better about myself.”
Jane laughed, then left Lucy to her work and went into the back storeroom to check the stock. As she counted books she considered the notion of resolutions. If she were going to make any, what would they be? Losing weight was out—she was dead, after all—as was smoking (although she admired Lucy’s novel approach to giving up vices).