Wish You Were Eyre

  “And don’t forget me,” says another voice, and I turn to see Rupert’s Great-Aunt Olivia sitting in the living room with my mother. “I’m here, too.”

  My jaw unhinges again.

  Miss Loomis smiles. “I see that we’ve surprised you. I told Rupert we should have written or called first, but he was most insistent upon the fact that Americans love casual visits.”

  What would Rupert know about casual anything? I wonder, looking him over. Boarding school has clearly done him a world of good; he’s not nearly as awkward as he used to be. And the hug, clumsy as it was, is a good sign. He was always so formal before, like a butler or something.

  In fact, Rupert actually looks almost normal. Well, except for his enormous ears. When we lived in England, my mother used to say that he just hadn’t grown into them yet. I’m thinking maybe he’ll be ninety before he does.

  His hairstyle is better, though—someone must have sat him down and told him that a middle part and thick black bangs went out of style in about 1910. To be fair, Rupert was raised by his great-aunt, who probably thought 1910 was a swell year.

  “Rupert!” Drawn by our voices, my brother comes clattering downstairs. “Good to see you, man!”

  The two of them shake hands, and we all go into the living room to join my mother and Miss Loomis. There’s a wicked gleam in Darcy’s eye, and as Rupert turns to say something to his great-aunt, my brother looks over at me and mouths the word MOO! My mother gives us the evil witch mother eye of death and shakes her head in warning, but I nearly crack up; that was our private nickname for Rupert back in England. Mostly because of the way Rupert always said his name, like he was a radio announcer or something: “Rooopert Looomis.”

  “My great-aunt and I have brought you something, Emma,” Rupert tells me. His voice is as deep as ever, but that mournful quality it used to have, which earned him another nickname from Darcy—Eeyore—isn’t as noticeable. I’m guessing life is a lot more fun for Rupert now that he’s at boarding school and not rattling around Loomis Hall with only a senior citizen for company.

  The senior citizen in question leans forward and passes me a parcel. All of a sudden the air whooshes out of my lungs. I know what this is! Taking it from her eagerly, I rip off the wrapping paper.

  “Oh, Emma!” says my mother. “Your book!”

  My book!

  I’m a published author!

  I gaze at the cover, grinning from ear to ear as my father reads the title aloud.

  “Stinkerbelle, the Bad Fairy, by Emma Jane Hawthorne, with illustrations by Lucy Woodhouse. Now that,” he says, paraphrasing one of his favorite poets, “is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.”

  It really is. The publisher did a gorgeous job with the layout and design, and my friend Lucy’s artwork just glows on the gilt-edged pages.

  “It’s a sample copy,” says Miss Loomis. “I’ve brought along the contract as well, and if the terms are agreeable to you and your parents, you may sign it, and the book will go into full production.”

  Rupert’s great-aunt used to own a publishing company in England. My story was printed in the literary magazine of the school I attended when we lived over there, and Rupert gave it to her to read. She loved it—mostly because it cleverly skewers Annabelle Fairfax, whom she likes about as much as I do.

  Anyway, she sent the story to a former colleague, and although I knew it was a possibility that it might get published, I figured it was a long shot. Since I hadn’t heard anything about it for such a long time, I just assumed they didn’t want it.

  “Thank you so much, Miss Loomis!” I tell her, leaning over and kissing her wrinkled cheek. “This is the best surprise ever!”

  “You’re very welcome, my dear,” she replies, looking pleased. “One of my greatest pleasures in life has always been helping put talented authors into print.”

  She just called me a talented author, I think, feeling giddy. I can’t wait to tell Stewart and Jess!

  “Now that you’re here, what are your plans?” asks my mother. “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Oh yes,” says Miss Loomis. “We’ve taken rooms at the Colonial Inn.”

  “We’re going to explore greater Boston and its rich history,” Rupert booms, sounding like his old pompous self. My father kicks me under the coffee table.

  “I hope you’ll let us be your tour guides,” my mother tells them. “We’d love to show you Concord, for starters. We can begin later this afternoon, in fact. Darcy is graduating from Alcott High in a few hours. Perhaps you’d care to join us and see what happens at an American high school graduation? We happen to have two extra tickets, as my parents had to cancel their trip at the last minute.”

  “We’d love to,” says Miss Loomis warmly. “As long as you’re sure we’re not intruding.”

  “Not at all,” says my mother. “I’m going to go call Calliope Chadwick and let her know that you’ll be at the graduation party afterward. It’s just dinner in their garden, very informal, and I know she’ll be delighted to show off her roses. She was so impressed with yours last summer at Loomis Hall. Oh, and I’ll call the Wongs, too. You remember them from Chawton?”

  Rupert and his great-aunt both nod.

  “Lily’s mother is getting married this weekend, and I feel certain they’ll want to invite you to the wedding. The entire mother-daughter book club will be attending, of course, as well as some old friends of yours—the Berkeleys are visiting Concord, too.”

  “So is Stinkerbelle,” I whisper, and everyone laughs.

  My father whisks my book behind his back. “Better keep this out of sight,” he warns. “We’ve just managed to put one fire out, no point starting another.” Seeing the puzzled look on our guest’s faces, he adds, “It’s a long story.”

  My mother volunteers Darcy to drive Rupert and his great-aunt back to the hotel to freshen up, arranging to pick them up later this afternoon on our way to the high school. After they leave, I grab my book and rush upstairs to call Stewart.

  I call Jess first, though.

  “BFBB alert!” I tell her.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’re talking to a published author!”

  She gasps. “What? No way—what happened?”

  I fill her in on the details.

  “Text me a picture right this instant,” she demands, and I do. She sighs. “Oh Emma, I’m so proud of you! It’s beautiful! This is just so cool. You have to bring it with you to graduation, okay? Promise me? I can’t wait to see it in person!”

  I promise her that I will, and then I call Stewart.

  “Awesome!” he says when I tell him what happened. “Congratulations!”

  “Can you come over for a few minutes?”

  “I wish I could,” he replies, “but I think my mother would kill me. She’s having a cow over this stupid dinner party. My dad and Becca and I have been slaving away all day helping her get ready for it.”

  I laugh. “It’s okay; I understand. You’ll see it later anyway—I promised Jess I’d bring it to graduation.”

  “Excellent. I can’t wait. See you there!”

  I’m too excited to finish my letter to Bailey. Instead, I read my book through half a dozen times, examining every little detail. It really is gorgeous.

  I’m a published author!

  I finally pry myself away in time to shower and dress for graduation, and to wrap the presents I got for my brother and Stewart. Lady Jane Grey, our still-fairly-new cat, wanders in as I’m tying the ribbon and hops up on my bed to bat at the curly ends.

  “Not for kitties,” I tell her firmly, picking her up and putting her back down on the floor. She blinks at me reproachfully. “Oh all right then, fine,” I say, relenting. “Knock yourself out.”

  I curl a piece of ribbon just for her and dangle it in the air. She leaps and swats at it, finally managing to snag it from me. I laugh as she scampers out of the room with her new trophy.

  I sign the card for my brother, then hesitate
as I start to sign Stewart’s. Love, Emma? Fondly, Emma? Your friend, Emma?

  We really need to talk.

  I end up signing it XOXO Emma, which could go either way.

  I got Stewart and Darcy the same thing: leather notepad portfolios with their initials stamped in gold on the cover. I hope it isn’t weird that I got them identical gifts, but I think they’ll both really like them, and they seemed like a good choice for taking to college.

  Before I know it, it’s time to leave for graduation, and we head out to pick up Rupert and his great-aunt. It’s a bit of a squeeze with six of us in the car, but the high school isn’t far and we manage.

  I spot Stewart in the crowd of soon-to-be graduates and wave. He waves back, smiling broadly. He looks handsome in his cap and gown. We take our seats; I end up sitting between Rupert and Jess. I can see heads turning in the audience as friends from school look at us, wondering who the heck he is.

  “Moo,” whispers Jess, and I giggle.

  The Wongs are here, too, right down front, and the end of our row is filled with Chadwicks. Becca is sitting with her grandparents, and she looks over and waggles her fingers at us as the music starts. The audience quiets down at the opening notes of “Pomp and Circumstance.” As the seniors start filing in, I see my father take my mother’s hand. Mrs. Chadwick, who is already weeping openly, grabs a tissue out of her purse. I’m surprised to find myself suddenly teary, too; the music is stirring, and it seems to tap into a lot of the emotions that have been welling up in me lately. I’m feeling unsettled about Stewart, and Darcy will be leaving soon, and nothing’s ever going to be the same.

  Jess looks over at me and smiles. Her eyes are brimming, too; she must be having some of the same feelings.

  “Why, there’s Lily Wong!” whispers Miss Loomis, as Megan’s mother takes the stage. “Doesn’t she look lovely in that red suit.”

  “She just got elected mayor,” I explain.

  Mrs. Wong gives the commencement address, and she totally nails it, sticking to what my dad calls “The Three B’s of Speechifying: Be bold. Be brief. Be seated.” Stewart and I made that our marching orders for the campaign.

  Darcy is next, because he’s the valedictorian. I helped edit his speech, just like I helped with Mrs. Wong’s. His closing lines take on a deeper significance here today than they did when he practiced in our kitchen at home, however.

  “Looking ahead to the future is never easy,” he says, his voice echoing through the auditorium. “None of us has a crystal ball; none of us knows exactly what lies ahead. But we can still go forward with confidence, thanks to all of our hard work over the past four years, and most of all thanks to the love and support of our families and friends.”

  He looks right at Jess when he says this, and I feel that all-too-familiar little pang of envy again. I glance over to where Stewart is sitting with his classsmates, preparing to walk across the stage and claim his diploma. Will he be walking out of my life next September?

  We really need to talk.

  And, finally, we do.

  “I need to stretch my legs,” he tells me a few hours later, after the diplomas have been handed out, the hats tossed in the air, the photographs taken.

  We’re sitting in his backyard beneath a tent; there are half a dozen other tables scattered around us, each holding a circle of our friends and neighbors and relatives. Across from us, my brother and Jess are deep in conversation with Becca and Rupert.

  “Sounds good,” I tell him, and we stand up and stroll across the yard, Yo-Yo prancing along at our heels.

  “Thanks for the portfolio, by the way,” Stewart says. “I love it.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “And I think your book is amazing.”

  Stinkerbelle, the Bad Fairy has been a hit this evening, making the rounds of all the tables. Fortunately, Annabelle Fairfax went into Boston with the Berkeleys and Sophie and her grandfather to pick up Sophie’s parents at Logan Airport. They’ve flown in from France for the wedding this weekend.

  “Thanks,” I reply. I’m feeling shy all of a sudden, which is stupid. It’s now or never, I tell myself. “Um, Stewart,” I begin, glancing over my shoulder to make sure we’re out of earshot of the rest of the party, “there are some things I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Sophie, for instance.”

  He frowns. “I thought we got all that straightened out.”

  “Mostly,” I agree. “It’s just that, well, you really hurt my feelings these last few months, spending so much time with her.”

  “Emma, I already explained. We’re just friends.”

  I nod, trying to speak calmly. “I know that, and that’s not what I’m talking about. What I mean is, because you spent so much time with her, I stopped feeling special. I felt like I was just another friend, too, not your girlfriend.”

  Stewart leans down and picks up a ball from the grass. “I guess I can see your point,” he says grudgingly.

  “The thing is, I don’t know where I stand anymore.”

  “What do you mean? You’re my girlfriend.”

  “Then why don’t I feel that way?”

  Stewart tosses the ball for Yo-Yo, who rockets off into the shadows to retrieve it. “I don’t know, because . . . maybe . . . I’ve been really busy lately? The election, finals, graduation, thinking about college—”

  “Can we talk about college?”

  He nods.

  I pause for a moment, staring off into the darkness. I can just make out the silhouette of the apple tree. Yo-Yo is crashing around in the bushes somewhere just beyond it. “Here’s the thing,” I say. “I wish I had a crystal ball and could see into the future.”

  Stewart is quiet, listening.

  “I guess I just want to know what’s going to happen to us—whether there will even still be an us, you know?”

  “It’s not like I haven’t thought about that, too,” he tells me.

  Now we’re both quiet.

  He reaches over and takes my hand. “Do we have to know?” he asks softly. “We’re together now, aren’t we?”

  I nod.

  “And we’ve got all summer ahead of us—my mother hired me to work for her, so I’m not going anywhere. You’ll be here too, right?”

  I nod again.

  “So let’s just relax and enjoy each other’s company, and try not to worry so much about the future. Maybe it’s okay not to look in the crystal ball.”

  “Maybe.” I think I know what Stewart’s saying, and it sounds okay to take things a day at a time. I glance down at Yo-Yo and start to laugh. “Oh you poor thing! You heard Stewart say the word ‘ball,’ didn’t you?”

  Yo-Yo cocks his head, expecting me to produce one.

  “Where’s yours, boy? Did you lose it?”

  Stewart pulls me over and puts his arms around me. “I seem to remember we were standing right about here the first time I kissed you,” he says, and I smile.

  “Well, if you don’t count the forehead kiss at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.”

  He groans. “You would have to bring that up. Not one of my better moments.”

  “You chickened out, didn’t you?”

  “Big time.”

  I lean into him and rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in his clean, familiar Stewart smell. I’m feeling a whole lot better, even though we haven’t really settled anything.

  He clears his throat. “Uh, what you were saying about not feeling like my girlfriend lately—would it help if tried a reboot of that first kiss?”

  “I think it would,” I tell him.

  And it does.

  Megan

  “Reader, I married him.”

  —Jane Eyre

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier day in Concord,” says my father, sipping his coffee. “Look at that sky! Not a cloud in it.”

  “Of course it’s a pretty day,” my mother replies. “I ordered one especially for the wedding.??
? She smiles at Gigi. “I’m the mayor now, remember? I can do that.”

  I tilt my head back and close my eyes, letting the warmth from the sun wash over my face. My father is right—the sky is gorgeous. June Blue, I think, automatically reaching for my sketchbook. I sit up and open my eyes, jotting the words beneath the picture of my grandmother’s wedding dress. The bright, robin’s-egg shade of its fabric is the exact color of the sky overhead.

  My parents and Gigi and I are lingering at the breakfast table out on the deck. I can tell that nobody wants to be the first to move. All of us know this is the last time it will be like this, just the four of us alone together.

  After today we’ll be six, with Monsieur de Roches—I’ve got to get used to calling him Edouard—and Sophie rounding out our family circle.

  “You know what they say,” my mother told me when we talked about it a few days ago. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  All my life I’ve wanted a bigger family, and now I have one. Maybe not the one I expected—I bugged my parents to have another baby for years. Sophie’s hardly a baby, and neither is her grandfather. I’m totally on board with the whole grandfather idea, of course, and am slowly getting used to the fact that he’s part of a package deal. Sophie comes with him, and while she won’t exactly be a sister—technically we’ll be step-granddaughters, I guess—she’ll be spending a lot of time here during her school holidays, in the room right across the hall from mine. I’m going to help her decorate it this summer.

  The two of us are getting along a whole lot better now. Especially since a few days after our big apology at the hotel, Sophie admitted that some of the fault was hers, too.

  “I can be too much of a flirt sometimes, I know,” she told Emma, promising to curb it in the Stewart department. Cassidy suggested she channel her energies toward Zach Norton, who it seems is available again.

  And Sophie told me that could see how I got mad at her for spending so much time with my mother and grandmother.

  “I guess I was a bit of a, how you say, ‘Gigi hog’?” she said, which made me laugh. “But she was so nice to me! And your mother, too.”