Wish You Were Eyre

  At the airport, Mrs. Winchester helps me check in and find my gate. It’s the first time I’ve flown alone, and I’m a little nervous. But it’s a smooth flight, and three hours later I land in Chicago, where Gram is waiting for me by the baggage claim.

  She gives me a big hug. “I’m so excited that you’re here!”

  “Me too!” I reply, which isn’t entirely truthful. No way am I going to spoil this week by being a brat, though. I’m too old for that, and I am not Zoe Winchester. Besides, now that I’m here, I may as well try and have fun, right?

  We catch a taxi to Union Station and are soon aboard the Amtrak train that will take us to Minneapolis. Gram was bound and determined to kick off our week together with a Betsy-Tacy style train trip.

  “I love traveling by rail,” she says, settling into a seat by the picture window with a contented sigh.

  I plop down in the seat across from her. I think I’m going to like traveling this way, too. My grandmother sprang for a sleeper compartment for the two of us “just for fun,” and in case either of us want to take naps, which we might, since it’s an eight-hour trip to the Twin Cities.

  The room is small, but efficient, with a pull-down table between us, a closet for our coats, a sink and counter area, and even a tiny bathroom. Plus, two of the seats fold down to turn into a bed, and another berth folds down from above. It’s totally cool. I take a bunch of pictures to show Megan and Ashley and the rest of my friends.

  “Look!” Gram says happily, pointing to a map. “We’ll be passing through Milwaukee in a couple of hours.” As we pull out of the station, she starts to sing: “‘There’s a place named Milwaukee, Milwaukee, Milwaukee . . .’” She smiles at me. “Remember?”

  I nod ruefully. How could I forget? Gram and my mother have been quoting to me from Maud Hart Lovelace’s books ever since I was a little kid. Betsy and her friend Tacy make up this stupid poem about Milwaukee when they’re, like, five—and then later, when Betsy’s in high school, she takes the train there. Which I guess is what we’re doing now, even though we’re continuing on to Minneapolis and St. Paul.

  Gram looks out the window and hums to herself. It’s kind of adorable, actually, how giddy she is. I sit back and relax in my seat, then check my watch; it’s not quite three.

  R U AT THE AIRPORT YET? I text Megan. She and Gigi are booked on an evening flight. They’ll arrive in Paris in time for breakfast, even though it will be, like, three in the morning Concord time.

  LEAVING SOON, she texts back. STILL PACKING MADLY!

  I smile, imagining the chaos in her bedroom. ON TRAIN, I tell her. COOL SLEEPER COMPARTMENT.

  R U SPENDING THE NIGHT ON THE WAY?

  NO, I reply. ARRIVING 10:30 PM BUT GRAM WANTED TO BE ABLE TO NAP.

  HAVE FUN! GOTTA RUN. CIAO 4 NIAO! XOXO

  I shove my phone back in my pocket, then pull out my early birthday present from my parents—an e-reader. My mother loaded Jane Eyre onto it for me, and I’m going to try and finish it this vacation. I turn it on and dive back into Charlotte Brontë’s world.

  There’s a mystery afoot at Thornfield—something strange is going on in the attic. Nobody will tell Jane what it is, but she keeps hearing footsteps and weird laughter up there at night, and once, she thinks that someone has crept into her bedroom. Meanwhile, the household is preparing for a party. Somebody named Blanche Ingram is coming to visit, and the housekeeper is sure she and Mr. Rochester are going to get engaged. Adele Varens, the little French girl that Jane has been hired to watch over as governess—the girl Emma calls “annoying plot device”—is all atwitter over the preparations.

  Reading about Adele makes me think of Paris again, and I stare out the window wondering if Megan’s plane has taken off yet. Is she dreaming of her rendezvous with Simon, her Mr. Rochester?

  What about me? I wonder. Will I ever meet my Mr. Rochester?

  It feels like everybody has a Mr. Rochester but me. Emma has my brother Stewart—well, mostly. The bits of him that aren’t Velcroed to Sophie Fairfax. Jess has Darcy, Megan has Simon, and Cassidy has Zach and probably Tristan Berkely, too. The only guy remotely interested in me these days is Third, who’s nice and everything, and even, technically, cute I suppose—if you like moose-types with a goofy sense of humor. But still, he’s Third.

  Since when did I become the loser?

  The rocking of the train is soothing, and before long my eyes are drooping and Gram is yawning, too. I’m really grateful she got us a sleeper, because we both end up taking naps in the fold-out beds. By the time we wake up, it’s dinnertime.

  The dining car is cool—it has real linen tablecloths and waiters and everything. I watch the staff, grateful that Pies & Prejudice isn’t on wheels. It looks a little tricky, carrying trays of food and drinks around on a swaying railroad car without dropping anything.

  “We won’t be getting to the hotel until late tonight, so let’s sleep in a bit tomorrow,” says Gram after we’ve ordered. “I want to be sure we’re rested up. I thought we’d spend the day sightseeing, maybe visit some landmarks and do a few educational things. That’ll make your mother happy.”

  “Sounds good,” I reply, without enthusiasm. Will Megan have to do educational things in Paris?

  My grandmother busies herself unfolding her napkin and placing it in her lap, then gives me a sly smile. “But on our way to Mankato, I figured we’d swing by the Mall of America.”

  I don’t have to pretend to be enthusiastic now. This is more like it!

  She laughs. “I can tell by the look on your face that you’re in favor of that idea. We’re going to have so much fun, Becca!”

  The next morning we pick up our rental car and drive all over Minneapolis. We visit the Betsy-Tacy sites first, of course, including the Bow Street apartment building where Betsy and Joe (actually the author and her husband Delos) first lived; and the University of Minnesota, which Betsy Ray and her friends all called “the U.”

  My grandmother was a student here, too, and as she leads me around campus looking at the buildings, I can’t help but think about Charlotte Brontë, who never got to go to college since it wasn’t an option for women back then. The second I catch myself thinking about this I tell myself sternly to cut it out. I’m starting to act like Emma Hawthorne.

  We tour a university art museum to make my mother happy, grab lunch in the food court at the student union, then hop back in the car to do some more sightseeing. My grandmother wants to show me some of the lakes. It’s too cold to go out on any of them today, but we drive by several.

  “It would be pretty cool to live in a city with a bunch of lakes right downtown,” I tell Gram, looking out at the sparkling water which is still frozen in some spots.

  She smiles at me. “I loved it when I was a student here! Your grandfather and I and all our friends used to go canoeing and sailing and swimming in the summer, and skating in the winter.”

  “Good thing you weren’t in Concord last week for the mother-daughter hockey game,” I reply. “The mothers would have won for sure.”

  She laughs.

  Next, we drive over the Mississippi River to St. Paul, the other half of the Twin Cities.

  “This seems different from Minneapolis,” I note, looking around with interest. “It reminds me a lot of Boston. Well, Cambridge, maybe. The buildings, I mean.”

  “Good eye, Becca! In the nineteenth century, St. Paul was known as ‘the last city of the East,’ while Minneapolis was ‘the first city of the West.’” Gram glances over at me. “Have you ever thought about studying architecture?”

  I look at her like she has two heads. Me? Architecture? “Uh, no.”

  “Interesting field,” she replies. “You should think about it. The U has a wonderful program.”

  I haven’t thought much about what I might like to do someday. I guess I’ve always figured I’d decide once I got to college. For a while I thought maybe an acting or singing career would be fun, but the plain truth is that I’m not that good, and I’d
hate all the rejection that everybody says comes along with those jobs.

  I gaze out the window, thinking about my grandmother’s remark. Architecture, huh? I suppose designing houses and buildings could be kind of interesting.

  We grab an early dinner at this cool cafeteria-style restaurant called Café Latte, then head back to our hotel. As I look out the car window at the clumps of snow still scattered on the sidewalks and curbs I can’t help wondering what the weather is like in Paris. I know I should stop torturing myself, and I really am having a much better time than I expected with Gram, but still, it’s hard.

  Next morning I’m awakened by a knock on our door.

  “I wonder who that could be?” says my grandmother, who’s already up and dressed. Winking at me, she trots over to open the door. “Well, look at this—room service! Happy birthday, sweetheart!”

  A waiter rolls in a table set with an elaborate breakfast, including a cupcake with a candle in it for me.

  “Thanks, Gram!” I say, giving her a kiss.

  She lights the candle and I blow it out. There’s only one thing I wish for; the same thing I’ve been wishing for all year: Mr. Rochester, where are you?

  “I figure we’ll shop for your birthday present at the mall today,” Gram tells me. “That way you can have the fun of picking it out. I probably should have brought something for you to open this morning, though.”

  “That’s okay—Megan gave me something.” I go over to my suitcase and root around for my present. I have a feeling I know what it is, and sure enough, there’s a dress inside. “Oh, wow!” I say when I see it.

  “Put it on, put it on!” Gram urges me.

  It fits me perfectly. The silky gray fabric gathers at one shoulder, falling in ripples as it drapes to the knee-length hem. I look in the mirror, amazed at my reflection. I look so—grown up. Sophisticated. Elegant.

  I make a face at myself. I’m turning into Emma Hawthorne again here, spouting synonyms.

  “What a labor of love!” exclaims my grandmother. “That’s real friendship. And it’s a Wong original—you hang on to that dress, Becca. I have no doubt Megan is going to be a famous designer someday.”

  After breakfast we drive to the Mall of America. My eyes nearly bug out of my head as we walk inside. This isn’t like any other mall I’ve ever visited before. It’s huge, like a giant theme park, only indoors, and with about five hundred shops surrounding the central courtyard.

  “There’s an aquarium we can visit,” says Gram, plucking a map from a nearby kiosk. “It has the largest number of sharks in captivity. Oh, and Mrs. Wong would love this—the mall is heated with passive solar energy, and contains thirty thousand live plants and trees. Amazing, huh?”

  I nod, looking around in stunned silence. Megan would go nuts over this place.

  I’ll bet she’s going nuts over Paris, my evil inner voice whispers. She’s probably shopping in some trendy little boutique right now.

  “It’s hard to know where to begin, isn’t it?” says Gram, still frowning at her map. We find a bench so we can sit down and plot a course, then set off. Now that my father has a job again, I feel okay about liberating a little of my waitressing money. I buy presents for my family—a new wallet for my father to celebrate his new job; a gardening book for my mother that she’s checked out of the library a zillion times and has been drooling over but hasn’t wanted to spring for. I’m tempted to get Stewart a stuffed animal in the shape of a rat, but decide that would be too mean, so I end up picking out a really nice docking station for his iPod that doubles as speakers. I figure he can use it in his dorm next year. He should be getting his college acceptance letters any day now.

  Gram talks me into waiting until we get to Mankato to pick out something for my book club friends—she says I should get them something Betsy-Tacy–related since we’re here, and she’s probably right. Still, I can’t resist splurging on a really pretty amethyst ring for Megan, and for Ashley, I find a pair of hammered silver hoop earrings.

  I manage to talk my grandmother into taking a ride on the roller coaster, which is a mistake because we’re both too queasy afterward to eat lunch. We opt for manicures instead, and then we shop for a present for me.

  “What do you think about this one?” asks Gram, holding up a necklace with a singe pearl drop. “It would look lovely with your new dress. Or maybe this? It’s very Jane Eyre, don’t you think?”

  She passes me a silver locket that opens up to put a picture inside. Of who? I think wistfully. There’s no Mr. Rochester on my horizon. But it is really pretty, with a fancy R engraved on it, and I’ve always wanted a locket so that’s the present I choose.

  “We’d better hit the road,” says Gram, checking her watch as we’re standing at the cash register. “Frannie’s expecting us for dinner.”

  Once we’re out of the city, she pulls over and lets me drive. My spirits droop as we plunge further into the countryside. What are we going to DO out here all week? I keep thinking about Megan, who’s in Paris right this minute, where there’s a whole heck of a lot more to look at than miles of prairie and a road running through it as flat as a stick of gum.

  Finally, we see signs for Mankato. As we get off the highway and enter town, Gram shrieks, which startles me so that I nearly drive off the road.

  “Pull over, pull over!” she says, and I do, stopping the car in front of a stone building covered with ivy. There’s an arched window over the door, and two round windows flanking it. “That’s the Carnegie library from Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown!” she tells me, her face alight with excitement. “We’ll come back tomorrow with Frannie, so she can take a picture of the two of us in front of it for you to show to your book club friends.”

  My spirits droop even further. Emma should be on this trip; not me. She’s the only person I can think of, besides my grandmother—okay, and our moms—who would actually get excited about seeing a library.

  I know one thing for sure: Megan’s not visiting some stupid library right now. She’s probably driving down the Champs-Élysées, while I’m stuck here driving down some podunk street in a podunk town. Life is so unfair!

  Get a grip, Chadwick! I tell myself firmly You’re acting like Zoe Winchester. I slap a smile on my face as my grandmother directs me past a bunch of Betsy-Tacy landmarks—Lincoln Park; the site of the Opera House and the shoe store where Betsy’s father worked—and then we drive down a series of tree-shaded streets lined with tidy homes. Some of the houses are really old and big, like Cassidy’s, others are smaller and more modest, like the Hawthornes’. None look exactly like ours, but there’s still something familiar about this place. I can’t tell if it’s because it looks so much like what I pictured Deep Valley to be when I read the books, or because it reminds me of home.

  “It kind of reminds me a little of Concord,” I tell Gram.

  “I think so too,” she replies. “Well-loved houses in a well-loved town; Concord and Deep Valley have a lot in common.”

  We pull up in front of a cozy-looking white house, and as we’re getting our suitcases out of the trunk, the front door flies open and a silver-haired woman comes charging down the path. She and Gram start squealing and jumping up and down with excitement as they hug each other. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you expect to see your grandmother do, but then I guess best friends are best friends, no matter how old they are.

  Frannie hugs me too. “I’m so glad to finally meet you, Rebecca!” she says. “We’re going to have so much fun this week.”

  Why does everybody keep telling me that? I think, feeling annoyed. I start to pick up my suitcase and Frannie shoos me away.

  “No, no. Leave your bags. I’ll get Theo to help with them.” She whips her cell phone out of her pocket and punches in a number. “They’re here!” she says to whoever’s on the other end. “Can you come on over for a minute? We need your muscles.”

  A few seconds later the front door of the big chocolate-colored house across the street opens and a boy eme
rges. As he lopes down the front path toward us, my heart does a little somersault. What’s Zach Norton doing here? Then the boy crosses the street and I see that it’s not Zach Norton. He’s not quite as tall as Zach, for one thing, and his hair is a darker shade of blonde. His eyes, though, his eyes! They’re even bluer than Zach’s, and unless I’m completely mistaken, they’re looking at me with interest. Frannie was right about the muscles, too—he has plenty of them.

  “Rebecca Chadwick, this is my grandson, Theodore Rochester.”

  “Call me Theo,” he says, extending his hand and smiling broadly.

  I almost burst out laughing. Why on earth would I call you Theo, when I can call you Mr. Rochester?

  “What’s so funny?” he asks as we shake hands.

  “Nothing,” I reply.

  Paris? Who needs Paris! Right now Mankato, Minnesota, is the only place on earth I want to be.

  Megan

  “I never saw a more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed . . .”

  —Jane Eyre

  “ Mesdames et messieurs, retournez à vos places et attachez vos ceintures, s’il vous plaît. Nous atterrirons à Paris dans quelques minutes. Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts, as we will be landing in Paris in a few minutes.”

  The flight attendant’s soft, melodious voice comes over the loudspeaker, interrupting my daydream. I’ve been awake for a while now, staring out the window as sunrise paints the clouds pink.

  I was so excited when we boarded yesterday in Boston that I thought for sure I wouldn’t sleep a wink. For one thing, I’ve never flown first class before. My father takes it all the time when he travels for work, but my mother makes him put the brakes on when we fly anywhere as a family. She says it’s a waste of money that could be put to better use (like offsetting our carbon footprint, which she always pays to do whenever we travel anywhere), so we usually just go coach. The only exception was the last time we flew to Hong Kong to see Gigi and my cousins, back when I was in elementary school. My father persuaded my mother that business class would be more humane for such a long flight, and she relented.