Beginning, Next Section
Part One
Posted on Monday, 11 June 2007
All about me
Name:
Elise Vangeline Eustacia Spencer
called Elise, Ellie, El, Ellie, Angie, V, and Eusless by friends. Would answer to, “Hey you,” as I have too many nicknames to remember them all.
Age:
29
Desired age:
21, because it was a fun year
Career:
N/A at the moment
Occupation:
Librarian
Desired career:
Famous author, who spends lots of time in lovely locations, defying the depleted ozone and sunbathing in the yellow rays of some beach named after a delicious dessert. Coco Beach comes to mind, but as I have never been there, I’d settle for anything along those lines.
Annual salary:
$25,000 but after taxes and such, it’s somewhere between 15 and 5, I think.
Reason for this list:
I read an Internet article that mentioned one of best cures for writer’s block for wannabe writers is to write personal profiles of yourself and everyone you’re acquainted with. It’s supposed to inspire and help one come to grips with self or something.
Enjoyments:
Currently? None. I see this as a waste of time. But realistically:
Peach Belinis anything involving peaches and champagne must be high on my list
Being asked if I have lost weight (big boost to my thin-seeking ego)
Reading mushy romance novels
Writing
Non-enjoyments:
Anything with Tequila as it is my enemy
Pointless phone conversations
Being asked if I’ve lost weight as this causes wonderings if I had looked super-fat before
Pets:
1. Rescued cat from side of road. Beloved companion, named Stephania, but called Steve after I found out he was a neutered male.
2. After learning more about cats, I have recently purchased $500 Sphynx kitten, which is a very bald cat that’s an authentic Egyptian kitty. I’m a bit scared of this cat though, as she has a very strange temperament and watches me constantly. I wonder if this is the type of cat that steals breath as you sleep. **shudder** But otherwise, a very intelligent and sweet kitty, called Peaches, after her orangish downy fur not really bald, obviously.
3. The ants under my living room couch. I have no idea how I came across these pesky pets, as I live on the third floor of my apartment building, and I vacuum very frequently. Well, not that frequently, but I tell my mother that I do.
Likes:
Dad
Best friend Claire because she knows me so well
Good hair days (absence of frizz)
Anything green. My favorite color used to be purple, but I saw a movie and heard that geniuses like green, so tada! my favorite color is now green.
Dislikes:
Mother
Best friend Claire because she knows me too well
Bad hair days (beaucoup frizz)
Anything orange, as I am reminded of Caroline.
Passions:
Iced mochaccinos
Wedding mints (flat kind with beady candies on bottom)
White cake
White flowers Please try to ignore the obvious wedding trend.
Obsessions:
Anything and everything Jane Austen
Authors: Jane Austen and George Elliot
Internet: reading JA fan fiction, playing computer games (puzzle sorts)
Watching television and relating every situation to JA novel. Ex: frog beer commercial- I laugh not because it’s funny, but because I’m reminded of toad-like Mr. Collins.
Giving my friends and acquaintances secret JA character descriptions.
Entry One:
I think that’s all there is about me. Let me tell you about today. Today was a very interesting day for me. It began in the bathroom, of course, with my hair in steam curlers, singing off-key to the singing portion of a catchy rap song. So there I was, singing the sampled “Killing Me Softy” as loud as I could, dressed in nothing but undergarments, base makeup, and rollers. I was not looking my best, which usually doesn’t bother me, but I’ve had this nagging feeling lately that I should always look presentable, as if Mr. Perfect (aka real life Mr. Darcy) were going to pop in any minute.
I suppose I would have to meet Mr. Perfect first, but I have hope and full confidence, that only slightly diminishes with each passing year, that one day Mr. Perfect and I will be wed in a magnificent ceremony, and he will carry me off into the sunset to live a super cool, perfect life, filled with two dark-haired, gorgeous children, no financial worries (as future husband must be “Darcy rich” to qualify for perfection, or at least with our combined salaries, we can be comfortable and at times “pretend” to be rich). Oh, and,of course, one must have two cats, one dog, and a tank full of fish (tropical).
Even if I didn’t look perfect, I had a good feeling that, in every other way, this was going to be a perfect day. At least my outfit was perfect. I was wearing navy khakis yes, khakis can be navy, a perfectly pressed poly-cotton white shirt as perfect creases only remain in a cotton blend, and brown shoes, which perfectly matched the brown shade of my belt, purse, and wallet. So I was commonly dressed, but perfectly pressed, with perfectly manicured nails. I was looking good. My hair frizzed only a little that morning, and my skin was clear and fresh looking, almost dewy-fresh, without a flake or zit in sight. I sprayed on a gardenia scent and was out of my apartment in record time.
As today was a Monday, my destination was work - Colin County Public Library, to be exact. I work there full time, which leaves my nights free for writing. Anyway, I beat my usual late time by ten minutes and actually arrived at the door five minutes early. It was Providential, for just as I stepped up to unlock the front glass doors, a man approached me.
The man…
Now I should point out that I noticed this man as I pulled into the parking lot. He was standing casually, leaning against the door of his car, an open book in one hand, in the other, he held a briefcase, and on his face, perched on the tip of his nose, were perfectly round tiny reading glasses. He was dressed identically to me - only I’m sure his clothes were designer brands because I saw the little horsey figure. So he was sporting navy trousers, crisp white shirt with matching navy horse logo, and looking devastatingly gorgeous. Have I not mentioned his looks? Why that’s very important and will need its own paragraph to describe in better detail. So on to the new paragraph:
He had dark hair, longish on top, with a bit of a curl. He had an ever so slightly receding hairline that gave his tanned forehead perfect definition as a low hairline can tend to be too low in dark-haired individuals and become rather gorilla-like, so slightly receding hair lines are a plus in my book. He wore a gold and silver Cartier watch, a pinky ring with a jade stone, and perfectly polished shoes and belt, identical in shade to mine.
Have you noticed yet? We matched.
Apparently, he had been sitting there waiting for the library to open, and as soon as I stepped out of my car, he gathered his things together and followed me to the door. I would normally become quite skittish when approached by a man that I’d never met before, and typically thoughts of robbery and such would flash through my mind, but since he was so suavely dressed and handsome, he just couldn’t be taken for a burglar-type individual, so the thought never crossed my mind. That is until now, obviously, but this is in retrospect, so it doesn’t count.
He approached me, and I was surrounded by the most appealing scent I have ever had the privilege to smell. His cologne matched perfectly with his body chemistry, and if I had to give it a name it would be called, “I’ll Faint Dead Away Because You Smell so Sexy.” Too long of a name, I know, but I never claimed to be good with coming up with names, did I? So sexy smelling, perfect man approached me and asked if I was going to open the door.
“Of course,” I said, and wondered if I had paused for too long smelling him. I didn’t wish to seem foolish, but it was very hard being near a man like him.
I unlocked the door and allowed him inside as I turned on the light switches to the building. He stayed beside me for a few moments until I told him that the library was officially open.
He nodded to me and gave me his perfect smile, and immediately it hit me. I knew him! Well, not in the normal sense of knowing someone - like you meet, speak, interact, that sort of thing, but I knew him, as in I knew I had seen him before! It was the strangest thing to come face to face with the man I had envisioned as the romantic hero in every novel. He was the man I thought about every night as I closed my eyes to go to sleep.
“Sure!” you might say to me sarcastically. I am telling you it was him! He even had that little scattering of faintly noticeable freckles on his nose! His hair had that odd cowlick that I had played with so often in my dreams. And his voice… Let’s just say it was him. Please don’t question this. I am completely sure!
When did all of this start? When did I officially make-believe meet this man? Well it was when I was fourteen years old and had just begun to read about a snobby man entering an assembly at a country dance in the novel Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Yes, he was my Mr. Darcy, and has forever been the hero of every novel I have read since. I don’t care if the hero was described as having blonde hair in the novel, or red, or even green…they looked like my Mr. Darcy!
So my Darcy had finally found me. He found me at my little low-paying library job. He came, and my dreams have all begun to come true, right? Well, not exactly. The dream came true as far as seeing my Mr. Darcy, but meeting him? No, I never even found out his name! He stayed in the fiction department, seated himself with a book (DH Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers), and left a couple of hours later, speaking just as briefly to me as politely possible.
I had kept him in my line of sight as much as possible that morning. I had very little to do, only had to replace a few dozens of books, and straighten a couple shelves (in the fiction department, of course, muahahaha). So when I saw him gathering up his things, I immediately went to the front to straighten something at the checkout desk. I managed to empty the little pencil cup just as he came up.
“Have a nice day,” he told me with a smile.
I nodded to him and returned his greeting with a, “You, too,” and he was gone.
I watched him through the glass door until he reached his car, and when he spun around to open the driver’s side door, I immediately ducked out of sight.
So that is my perfect day. A few other people came in during my shift. It’s always a rather boring and slow shift to open up the library, but I managed.
Entry Two
My perfect day was just too wonderful to simply stop there. I had another almost perfect, albeit somewhat embarrassing, following day. I won’t go into much detail about my outfit, aren’t you grateful? as it’s not vital information, but I will say that I wore a blue-ish top, so pale blue that it was almost white.
I arrived at work with a funny feeling in my stomach. I was feeling incredibly nervous in hopeful anticipation of seeing my Mr. Darcy, but sadly, I found the parking lot completely empty. I don’t know why I expected him to come again. Not many people make it a habit to visit a library weekly, let alone daily, and I had never seen him in before.
I parked in my usual west facing parking space and made my way up to the glass doors to unlock them. I breathed in, remembering the wonderful scent that enraptured me yesterday at this same very spot.
Magically, I was almost able to smell it again. My heart pounded, and I spun around to see if he was there again. No, it was just me, my big heavy purse, and large set of jingling keys.
I opened the door and made my way inside. The lights went on, and I began my day just as I normally did, with only a tiny bit of quite appropriate pouting after realizing that I would probably never see my Mr. Darcy again.
I found myself, within the first half-hour of work, in the fiction department. Luckily, I work alone on the morning shifts because it’s a very small library, so I gave myself a little reading break.
What book did I read? Sons and Lovers! Did you guess?
I read it in the same chair that my Mr. Darcy had used the morning before. Yes, I was being very creepy and acting very strange, but it made me feel very good, especially when I found a tiny book mark in it. Could my Mr. Darcy have left it there? Was it possible? I didn’t know, but I took it out and began reading where he had left off.
Almost at once, I had the feeling that I was being watched. Horrified, I looked up to see my Mr. Darcy standing before me, smiling at me. I downplayed my little “reading what he had read” thing and placed the book aside, while muttering how I often peruse classic books throughout the day, and just happened across this one, as Tuesday was my DH Lawrence day. He seemed to buy my charade and graciously stepped aside to let me pass and find my way back up to the front office, where I tried to look like I was a very busy person, who had very important things to do.
I was very grateful when he selected books - Sons and Lovers and another that I didn’t recognize from the jacket. He sat in his usual chair, the one that I had occupied before he arrived, read, wrote a bit in a little notebook, and drew some pencil sketches. I fancied that he was an aspiring artist, who used classic literature as inspiration. He’s so romantic.
All too soon, he came to the front. This occurrence, of course, was not a sad thing to me. Any opportunity to converse with him would be very welcome, and perhaps I would even find out his name this time. Sadly, this was not to be as the phone rang just as he came up to the desk, this time checking out the red covered book. I didn’t read the title, just scanned it and stamped it for him. He smiled at me in a way that made me think he was laughing at me. He could probably see right through me, and knew that I had a deep crush on him.
So he left, with me being too silly and flustered to read his name on his library card. Fool that I am, I just scanned everything hurriedly and nervously and did my job as I do it for any other library patron.
There is one thing that I found out from his visit today, which makes this day compare to the first glimpse I saw of him, and that is that I now know that he’s a resident of Colin County. This is a very important thing to know because, with him living so nearby, we were sure to bump into each other and we wouldn’t have to move when we got married! I like this city well enough, so it’s nice to not have that future worry. I’m silly, I know, and my dreams will probably not come true, but it’s fun to play with the idea. It makes me happy, and that’s what’s important, right?
He was gone, leaving me with another precious memory of his gorgeous, teasing smile, and I was alone, yet again, in this rarely-visited library. Normally, I would use this opportunity of solitude to write or catch up on the numerous novels that I read simultaneously, but today I just did my work, good little worker that I am. I organized the magazine rack and even set up the story room for the children’s reading hour that was scheduled for after lunch.
When my coworker, Tracie (aka: Charlotte Collins/Harriet Smith mix) arrived later that day, she was quite impressed with my diligent work.
“I’ve never seen the National Geographic shelf look so organized!” she said, when she passed by it to get a Coke from the break room. “What’s gotten into you, V?”
“Oh, a little bit of nothing,” I told her with a smile. She returned my smile, and soon I was forced to relay my whole tale of meeting Mr. Perfect, yet again. She was quite impressed with his description. Who wouldn’t be, though, right?
I made it through the day. The highlight after again seeing my Mr. Darcy was the children’s reading hour, where I read The Saggy Baggy Elephant, When You Give a Moose a Muffin, and The Princess and the Pea. The children enjoyed the stories as much as I did. It was really amazing to hear how quiet children become when you read them an interesting and entertaining story! They were such sweet kids. I really enjoyed that part of my job a lot!
So my day at work ended, and I, having nothing better to do, stayed at home, made it movie night and watched all of my favorite Lizzy/Darcy scenes in P&P2. I spent the time taking notes on Lizzy’s wit, just in case I got the opportunity to speak to my own Mr. Darcy again. Hopefully. Rather eventful if you look at it that way, huh?
Entry Three
I woke up in the middle of the night to add this – my Mr. Darcy and I had dressed alike again. Not identical as we did the first day, but in complimentary shades of blue! This dressing alike proves that we are destined for each other!!!!
Entry Four
I dressed rather quickly, not putting much thought into my attire for the day. Wednesdays tend to be very hectic. Lots of special events happen on Wednesdays so there was a big staff there of three (including myself), so I was in no hurry to arrive on time. Strange, isn’t it, how when you know you don’t have to be at work on time, you aren’t? It’s like your inner clock says, “No, sleep, it’s okay. So-and-so will manage.” Very odd.
I was thirty minutes late to work—a bit later than I had intended or even expected. My hair was doing a thing of its own and my bangs on the sides decided to look more like horns than fringe. It was very frustrating having days like that. Not good. Not good. No perfect man today. Just as well, with my hair acting up. It was not meant to be for any dreams to come true today. Very, very sad.
Entry Five
The week had progressed rather slowly. Friday came painfully slow, and still no Mr. Darcy. I eventually found my niche back into my work routine without too many thoughts of “what if he came today,” and my life began to drift back to normal.
I tried, at least, not to think of him quite so often. We were strangers after all, and his looks were only ideal to me. Not a big deal, right? His smile was only heart- melting. I don’t know. He just pierces my soul... Silly, silly me, making something out of nothing.
Not surprisingly, after thinking on these things and making absolutely no sense to myself in the reasoning, and deciding that I should let the whole idea of him slip away, I found myself in the fiction department. I actually spend a lot of time throughout the library, returning books here and there, straightening things - those sorts of activities, but this time I found myself looking at the chair—the soft, cushiony chair that had served him two times. The chair where he read Sons and Lovers.
I just had to see where he had left off. I am not a huge DH Lawrence fan, and found Sons and Lovers rather too dull and melancholy for my taste (I far more prefer the action in Lady Chatterley), but my Mr. Darcy was reading it, so I felt a need to reread it, too.
It was on the shelf, a good place to be, and luckily, it was the same copy that he had been reading - the one with the scratched cover and torn second page. I grabbed it and plopped into the soft chair. Just as I sat down, a folded piece of paper fell out. Was that his bookmark? I just had to inspect it…so I did, of course. What do you think was on the paper? A love letter to me? No, too good to be true!
It wasn’t a letter of any sort, but a drawing of dozens of pairs of eyes—a really interesting thing to look at, although kind of odd. Immediately I wondered if it was what he had sketched on Tuesday, and I concluded that it must have been. What a wonderful discovery! I was quite thrilled and still am, I should add. How wonderful for me that I found such a treasure!
I left the folded paper there, back in its place holding spot, which was rather far into the book, so he must be a fast reader, and left for home, workweek over.
Entry Six
I suppose that I should write about something that happened over the weekend.
I wrote two chapters of a new story that I’ve been writing. I wrote a very depressing poem. I attended church with my parents. I ate Sunday brunch with the family, and saw my two sisters, Deirdre and Cassadee. My brother Ricky was out of town.
I thought that I should include a sketch of one of them for this little project, so I’ll start with my elder sister, Deirdre.
Name:
Deirdre Renee Spencer, eldest Spencer daughter.
Career:
Professional chef at an exclusive hotel restaurant in the city. She lives up there, and prefers the fast lane city life over that of the suburban life that we had as kids growing up. I think she might change this idea when she marries. I could easily see her being a mommy, making meals for her family and hosting marvelous family get-togethers.
Outstanding trait:
Honesty. Almost brutally honest, but she has a very dear and genuine heart. She would stand up for anybody, through thick and thin, if she believed the person to be in the right. You don’t want to cross her, though, because she is a very determined adversary, as I found out once when we were kids, and I blamed her for something I had done. Not only did I get in trouble, because she explained everything so perfectly, but she opened up a few other “no-no” topics that I had also done behind my parent’s backs. It was nothing too major, merely letting them know about a stash of Twinkie wrappers under my bed. Deirdre uses the truth against you, has an infallible memory, and can reason the warts off a frog, as my grandma says. I can best describe her as a Fanny Price mix—honest, loyal, and good.
Appearance:
Model height of 5’10”, perfectly symmetrical, pale features. Jane Bennet in appearance, if you can best imagine that. In fact every time I read a JB passage, I think of Deirdre.
I could quite possibly add a number of things to better illustrate her character, but I think I will leave it for now. She’s a wonderful big sister, makes me feel supported and loved, takes me out on the town often, and loves to bring me around her high society friends and “show me off,” she says. Even though I know she’s just being sweet saying something like that about me, I love her for it, because I truly believe that she is proud of me—librarian and hopeful writer, that I am.
Oh, but I should perhaps add one thing about Deirdre. She has a new boyfriend, Zachary Robillard. He’s a big time guy in the hotel industry, and my mother, being the secret Mrs. Bennet that she is, is hopeful that with Deirdre dating Zachary, Cass and I will be “thrown into the path of other rich men”. I am not quite sure how that might be brought about, but it’s funny to see your mother in a Mrs. Bennet light. Funny weird, not funny ha-ha.
Entry Seven
Have I been the biggest idiot on the face of the planet, or what? Why can’t I carry on a decent conversation? I can speak normally, and I even have a larger than average vocabulary, but when it comes to certain stressful situations, I become a blithering idiot. I have a big problem!
You’re probably wondering to what I am referring, and I will get to it as soon as I find the appropriate words. Yes, it has much to do with my Mr. Darcy.
I arrived just on time for work Monday morning - one minute late if you want it exactly as it happened. So one minute after ten I arrived at the library doors and began to unlock them, when I noticed a very familiar car drive up in the parking lot. Silver Beemer - and the driver? Why you guessed it, my Mr. Darcy, of course! He quickly emerged from his car, bearing that amused smile and followed me silently into the library. He looked as if he was thinking of a joke and was quite amused with himself.
Or was he amused with me? I wasn’t sure, but it vexed me immensely. He found his usual book, sat in his usual spot and got out a new notepad from his brief case. He spent most of the time sketching. What he drew, I know not because, although I tried to see, I wasn’t able to catch even a glimpse of his paper.
I thought that this might be the perfect opportunity to make some small talk with him. Since I didn’t want to make it too obvious that I wished to speak with him, I needed a subterfuge, and fast.
Immediately, I saw a small stack of fiction books that needed to be sorted and put away on a shelf near him. That would be a perfect ruse, but what about conversation? I would simply have to make it up it as it came to me, so I went for it. I grabbed the stack of books, set them on a cart to make me look extremely busy, and I walked slowly towards him. I stopped at a few shelves before I was in plain sight. He saw me coming and stopped sketching and reopened his book, pouring himself into it, just as I passed by.
“A fan of DH Lawrence, I presume?” I asked him.
He looked up from his book. “Yes, although I’m enjoying this far less than I have his other book that I read.”
“Is that right? Which book was that?”
“Lady Something-or-other’s Lover.”
“Ah yes, Lady Something-or-other,” I said smiling at him. It was impossible to not mirror his teasing smile.
I sat down beside him. “What’s the matter with Sons and Lovers? Not enough sex?” I asked him directly. I regretted asking the question immediately.
He shifted in his seat, though he didn’t look uncomfortable, only amused. “I feel that it lacks something, yes. I wouldn’t necessarily say it needs sex to make it a more enjoyable read.”
“Really?” I responded incredulously. “I must say I’m surprised to hear such a comment from a man. All men are supposed to think of is sex, and it just stands to reason that if something isn’t grabbing your attention, a good dose of sex would help.”
What was the matter with me? Must I always stick my foot in my mouth and sound so, so, so …I can’t think of a word that would match how I behaved…well, OK, I can…but it’s not a word fit for youthful innocent eyes…
He dismissed my comment with another smile and asked, “Are you terribly busy?”
“Oh yes, very,” I lied, “but did you need something in particular?”
He looked as though he might laugh out loud at me, and I began to think that he was making fun of me, but instead of laughing he asked if he could ask me something.
“Sure,” I said, laying the book I had picked up back on the cart.
“Have you read this book before?”
“Yes,” I said sitting down again. I waited for him to continue with the question, but he just began to read silently to himself. “And?” I prodded him on.
“Oh that was all. I was just wondering.”
“Did you want to discuss it? I could discuss it in a broad way if you wanted to throw out your own ideas or something.” I offered him my very liberal and open-minded librarian services.
“Thanks, but that’s okay. You’re busy. I mustn’t keep you from your work. I’d like to finish the book, if you don’t mind,” he said and placed the book higher towards his face, blocking me out of his sight.
“Yes, thank you, I am very busy,” I told him with hauteur, then added with a smirk, “Your book’s upside down, you know.”
He immediately turned it around and resumed his now obvious pretense of reading.
I had won this round, I told myself. What I had won, I couldn’t be sure. It just felt good to have the upper hand on someone. That someone being my Mr. Darcy was just an added bonus.
I emptied my cart, and he resumed his occasional sketching and reading. I was beginning to think that he read only when he felt I was watching him and sketched when he thought he was being ignored.
Strange, isn’t it, to come to a library and draw? I assume it must be the inspiration of the written word that helps people with an artistic flair. That must be it, you know! I am sure of it!
Entry Eight
It was a very typical Tuesday, in that I prepared and delivered the reading for the children’s reading hour. It was also typical in that it had a steady flow of visitors, and that I had come to expect and saw my Mr. Darcy again.
A few more patrons came than had in his previous visits. This was a good thing, though, as it made me really busy this time and not just pretending to be busy.
I spent most of the morning helping a young person find several books for a report he were doing for extra credit at the local community college. He needed a book of essays by Sartre, which was not allowed to be checked out, and he needed several other books of a particular related topic.
I left this young man to peruse his books at a convenient table and offered to photocopy the pages he needed from the Sartre book.
I think that my Mr. Darcy was not very pleased by me actually being busy, and he sketched very little, from what I could tell. I was busy helping the young man, so Mr. Darcy very well could have sketched the whole of the morning, for all I knew, but something told me that he didn’t. Perhaps it was his pouting expression that gave me that impression.
Did I dare to hope that he was jealous of my attentions to this young man? Did he expect me to drop everything for him and just busy myself in his little fiction corner every time he chose to make a visit to the library? I have a job, you know!
For whatever reason, he was out of sorts, and he eventually approached me.
I was standing at the copy machine, trying to un-jam a paper jam. If you have ever worked with a copier, you’re sure to be very much aware of what a task un-jamming can be, so I’m sure that you must feel for me. I was frustrated. The copier had its jammed light on, yet there wasn’t any paper in it. I emptied out the paper and tried to erase my copy order. I tried a number of things, but nothing worked.
Then my Mr. Darcy came to me—while I was in this agitated state.
“You look as frustrated as I feel,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied shortly. I wasn’t in the mood to tease him at this particular time. I had work to do, and I was ticked.
Mr. Darcy reached around the copier and unplugged it. “Count to twenty and turn it back on.”
He stepped away before I could give him any response. I did as he had said, counted, and then turned it back on. Of course, it worked. I didn’t know how or why, but it did, and I was relieved!
Perfect Mr. Darcy had come to my rescue, just like JA’s Darcy! My very own image of him had knight in shining armor attributes, too!
I finished my copying for the grateful college student and gave him the papers without offering any further help. No need to work myself into the ground or anything, and I was in desperate need of a break after the copier fiasco.
Tracie had arrived shortly before my troubles began, so I decided it was time to take that much-needed break.
In what section of the library did I choose to relax? Oh, just the fiction department, opposite Mr. Darcy, of course.
I picked up one of his discarded books and read over the title. It was a Fanny Burney book. Actually one of my favorites - The Wanderer.
Mr. Darcy placed a written note in my book.
It read, “Did it work?”
He had perfect penmanship, by the way, with very bold and precise letters. I also noticed that he wrote deep into the paper, and his letters were very dark. I have subsequently looked into graphology and found it most intriguing. My Mr. Darcy’s bold penmanship means depth. The great pressure he puts onto the paper implies passion. Bold Passion? I was very excited by this newfound knowledge.
I neatly scribbled a quick answer and handed it to him. “Yes, I am very fortunate that you had the appropriate expertise to handle my little problem.”
I heard him laugh quietly to himself when he read my response. He quickly wrote some more to me and passed it over. “When in doubt strike it out~Mark Twain.”
I quickly came up with a quotation of my own and tossed the note onto his lap, “I thought it was, ‘When in doubt, make a western~John Ford’.”
His response was, “And how would that have helped you just now?”
“It wouldn’t have,” I wrote him back, “But since we’re throwing out quotations, I thought I might share one, too.” I smiled as I handed it to him. Something about the way he looked me in the eyes, made my heart flutter. I don’t know what it was, perhaps our proximity, for there was just a slip of paper between us in that instant. Whatever it was, it felt magical, if only for that instant.
He blinked and wrote something and placed it in my hand again. He rose as he gave it to me.
“I have to go,” he said aloud, before I had the chance to read his note.
“Until we meet again,” I answered to him, standing, for I had already taken a much longer than necessary break.
He gave me a large smile as a response. That was all I needed.
Entry Nine
You might have wondered what his last note said. I must say that it completely slipped my mind until I reached home, where I found it folded neatly in my pant’s pocket.
“What is your name?” he had asked.
My heart fluttered again, as I remembered the way our eyes met just before he had written that to me. I’m almost positive that he felt the sparks, too. I just can’t be absolutely sure. I’m not a mind reader you know!
Because the next day was Wednesday, and I had come to only expect him on Mondays and Tuesdays, I knew that he wouldn’t have my answer until the following week. I had most of the week ahead of me to decide on just how I should go about the next part of our correspondence.
I finally decided, after discussing it with Deirdre, that I should be as direct and simple as he had been.
“Elise Vangeline Eustacia Spencer,” I wrote under his last question. I had practiced writing out my signature, just in case he had studied graphology as well, and I made every practiced attempt to keep all of my lying hooks and shallow v’s at bay. My signature was not what I used on my checks or credit slips; it was more informal than that. Much more legible, actually. I wanted him to be able to read it clearly. I did however press more firmly than I normally write, in order to give the impression that I, too, possessed a deep well of passion!
It was a good, and appropriate response and would be delivered the following Monday when, hopefully, I would see him again.
Entry Ten
Monday eventually came, seemingly slowly, perhaps because it was so highly anticipated. I don’t know why—perhaps it was Murphy’s Law? I’m not really sure.
I arrived early, even earlier than I normally consider early - twenty minutes early. I’m amazed at what wonders anticipating my Mr. Darcy can bring about. This extra time gave me the perfect opportunity to place my note in the appropriate place.
It was rather cold in the empty building, and I had to turn down the air conditioner. Noticing the climate change was probably due to wearing a skirt. I typically stay away from wearing skirts at work, especially knee length, but Cass had suggested on Sunday, when she had overheard part of my conversation with Deirdre, that I should show him a little leg and get his attention. I’m not the type to resort to this type of “throwing yourself at a man” behavior, but I thought about it before I went to bed and ironed a pair of khakis as well as a secondary skirt, just in case. The skirt obviously won out in the try-it-on phase of my morning ritual, so I was forced to be a bit more chilled than usual at work.
I set up everything, and found just the book I was looking for. I put our little written conversation in Sons and Lovers and waited for him to show up.
Ten o’clock came and went. When thirty-past chimed on the clock, I was about to start biting my well-manicured nails. Luckily I didn’t, because he strode in rather too casual and slow, if you ask me.
He came in and smiled at me in passing. I thought perhaps that we were beyond this ignoring and staring stage, after our previous conversation, but I followed his lead. If he didn’t want to talk, then I didn’t, either. After all, a librarian’s job is never done! There is always something important to do, and this was the perfect opportunity to prove it.
All of this angry thinking made it extremely difficult to come up with something to do, so I decided to sharpen all of the pencils on the inner desks of the reading area. This spot was a far enough away from Mr. Thinks-He’s-So-Perfect Darcy to make it seem that I was absolutely unaffected by his presence.
I had gotten carried away and actually ignored him unintentionally. I wasn’t even aware that he received my note until he had risen to leave. He approached and asked if he might check a book out.
“Of course,” I said, rather business-like. He smiled. I suppose I am amusing to observe when I’m angry!
Silly man, if he could only hear the curses I spewed at him in my head! Boy, would he wipe that perfect little smirk off his face.
He followed me to the checkout counter and met me at the computer. I scanned in his card, too angry to notice his name again, I’m afraid, and checked out the book for him. I placed the complimentary library bookmark in it and handed it to him.
He just stood there smiling at me.
“Will there be something else, sir?” I said through a very difficult to manage smile. I must have come across rather sweet, though, because his smile grew, and he answered me.
“It’s quite a mouthful,” he said, and he left the library.
Entry Eleven
Quite a mouthful? Was he serious? Is that the only response I was to receive from him? Was my name not pretty enough, or easy enough for him to pronounce?
I was rather livid with him for the rest of the day. When I lay in bed that night, trying desperately to rid him from my mind, I began to wonder at myself and how silly I was to be so preoccupied with a stranger. Who does this sort of thing - mooning and dreaming about a stranger?
Only desperate people, I told myself, and I am far from desperate!
So with only a ponytail loop for my hair, my usual clothes, and a very decided lack of makeup, I drove up to the library the next day. I was on time, probably due to the lack of beauty preparation.
I was quite surprised to find a silver Beemer parked beside my usual parking space. Instead of parking beside him, I chose to park directly in front of the building.
I’m not very sure what message I was trying to give him, but it wasn’t a desperate one, of that I am sure!
“You are cool, calm, and reserved,” I told myself as I gained the courage to see him again.
I gathered up my things - a very heavy bag of children’s books from home, purse and large set of jingly keys and made my way out of the car. It was difficult. My bookbag was overloaded with classics from my parent’s library at home. These were titles I wished to share with the kids that day and were books that our small budgeted library couldn’t afford to purchase yet.
Anyway, I was overloaded. I knew it, and apparently my Mr. Darcy knew it as well. He arrived at my side as soon as the books began to tumble out of my bag and caught them before they hit the pavement, which goes to prove that my Mr. Darcy has great coordination, as well as good looks and a pleasant (when not smirking) smile.
“Thank you,” I said as I opened the lock of the library door.
“Are you going to talk to me today?” he asked directly.
“Sure,” I said, and walked on ahead, placing my big purse on the counter and turning on the light switches.
“Good,” he said placing my bookbag on the counter. He then walked to his usual corner and got out a sketching pad along with several long brown pencils.
I put my things away, straightened the front desk to my liking, and got the computers out of sleep mode. I had a lot to do on Tuesday mornings and was actually busy this time. I had no need to pretend.
Eventually, I saw that it was time to put away the fiction books, so I set up the cart and made my way over to his corner of the library.
I had put away a few books before I observed, “Not hiding your drawing today, I see?”
“I no longer see the need for pretence.”
“Why is that?”
“You know that I draw occasionally while I’m here. I think it might actually benefit me if you were deliberately aware that I’m sketching today.”
“Why today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I feel more open to you now that we’ve exchanged a few words, and I know your name.”
“Yes, about that…”
“Yes, about your name,” he interrupted me. “While being beautifully unique, you must admit, it is quite a mouthful.” I smiled, and he continued explaining further. “Do you wish for me to call you Elise Vangeline Eustacia Spencer? Elise Vangeline? Miss Spencer? Ms. Spencer? Elise?”
“Anything you wish,” I said, at a loss for words at the compliment of “beautifully unique.” “Everyone chooses their own name for me. Elise Vangeline Eustacia is, as you say, a mouthful.”
“Do you mean that you’re so easily going to agree with me?” he asked, raising his brows in surprise.
I nodded.
My Mr. Darcy is a bit less of a conversationalist than I remember JA’s Mr. Darcy to be. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, though not everyone could stand the behavior of the authentic Mr. Darcy.
“Thank you. I’ll need to think about it, then. I have to get it just right,” he told me.
I was curious why it mattered so much to him. One name would be just as good as any of the others.
I stayed with him as he deliberated on what he would call me. As the time wore on, I realized that he didn’t mean to come up with it right away.
“I guess you can just let me know,” I said casually. I didn’t want to give him the impression that I was waiting with baited breath.
He nodded as he picked up his sketchpad, and I caught my first glimpse of his drawing. It was a full sketch of a woman.
Entry Twelve
For the rest of my workweek I kicked myself for time after time, failing to find out his name! I needed that information. I wondered why he never went so far as to formally introduce himself, even after he found out my name. It really made no sense to me. Was I not worth the simple effort of saying, “Hello, I’m such and such?”
I deliberated over this one-sided introduction that we had. Over a dinner date with my sister and her new boyfriend, it finally hit me, or I should say, Zachary gave the idea to me.
Apparently, a younger sister’s dating life, or lack thereof, is an interesting topic for a new couple starting out. Pretty sad if you ask me, but I benefited from their simple and boring ways.
We were eating at Zachary’s house in the suburbs.
I should stress here that my sister was supposedly a city girl; however, I think that Zachary could change that. He has a great house - comfortably large, lake front property, built in a colonial style, with the grand pillars and several live-in servants who kept it running while he weekday-ed it in the city. His property is about an hour’s drive from my side of the metropolis. Of course, while I live in a moderately nice side of town, he lives in a very exclusive neighborhood, that had security guards and gates - that sort of thing.
Deirdre and I pulled up to the gate.
She has a nice car, by the way, a two-year-old C class, so she fits rather well with his posh crowd.
The security guards had already been informed of our arrival by Zachary, and we were waved on through the gates.
We drove for quite some time, past numerous other estates that lined the lake. Only twice did we actually see the lake and so realized that we were driving to the far side of it, where Zachary lived. It was a first for me, but Deirdre had visited there before—even over-nighted it a bit.
Eventually we arrived at his property gates, and Deirdre entered the code for them to open.
I was quite surprised to find that there were actually a set of houses nestled together. It reminded me of the Kennedy compound. This was definitely the Robillard family’s retreat property.
Deirdre pointed to the main house, where Zachary lived when he was suburb-ing it. She pointed out a similar style home a few homesteads down where his sister, Becky, resided when she was “roughing” it.
Side note: Apparently only Zachary can call his sister Becky. To everyone else, she’s Rebecca. Deirdre said her name with dramatic flair. I immediately got the impression that Rebecca was of the Caroline Bingley Club - a charter member, from what I could surmise from Deirdre’s sarcasm.
We drove up to the front of the house, under the covered drive, and Zachary was there waiting for us on the porch. Coffee was laid out for us there, cookies, tea cakes - the works. We even had little cucumber sandwiches to tide us over until dinner later that evening. I was quite impressed.
When Deirdre described Zachary’s home to me a few weeks ago, I was under the impression that it was a rather comfortable abode. She failed to mention its enormity and formal grandeur.
“What exactly do you do, Zachary?” I asked, as I took my seat across from them.
“He owns the chain of Avery four-star hotels around the world,” Deirdre answered for him. “I’ve mentioned it before, surely.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I told her. “I would have remembered something so prestigious.” I winked at him. Zachary was a good sport.
He immediately gave me some idea of what he does, why he lives where he does (apparently the corporate office has always been in the Dallas vicinity), and a vague idea of his income. The income was defined by the sort of vacations he took, the private jet he had at his beck and call - that sort of thing.
We’re talking more than six figures, people, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in the seven or eight figure income bracket, for that matter. Very wealthy, old family wealth, but not the Bingley sort of nouveau riche, as you might be picturing, though you’re right on the similarity of Zachary and Mr. Bingley’s temperament. To me they were two peas in a pod. Though Zachary is a bit more handsome—he has dark hair.
The small talk ended and soon my strange library fellow was the subject of the conversation. I hadn’t informed them of his “dream come true” quality. I kept that as my little secret. To them, he was just a man who had begun to frequent the library and in whom I had taken an interest. Deirdre and Zachary were positive that he had taken an interest in me as well, by the flirting banter that I had relayed to them.
The library love affair subject was finished, and we took a stroll beside the lake. It was beautiful. I loved it there and told Deirdre that if she didn’t tie Zachary down and marry him right then and there, I would ask him to take me instead. Zachary patted my head in a kid sister sort of way and winked at me.
It was clear that he was a lost man. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had already popped the question to my sister. The only question I couldn’t decide the answer to, was whether or not Deirdre would accept him. She was very set in her ways. She loved city life and Zachary gave me the impression that although he was a city boy for work, he was a country boy at heart. She loved shopping, traffic, and multi-storied apartment life. She liked public transportation, even though she rarely used it. So her take on their relationship wasn’t so clear to me. Whatever was the state of her heart, Deirdre was obviously infatuated with Zachary, country boy and all. I was hoping that he’d be the one to tie her down.
We spent the afternoon playing in Zachary’s roped-off bumper boat area of the lake. It was a blast. Zachary is a kid at heart, and the smile Deirdre wore throughout the day was priceless. By then, I was pretty sure that she would marry him. There was definitely love there.
The afternoon wore on, and we soon found ourselves with tummies a-growling. Deirdre said we should freshen up before dinner, so she showed me upstairs and plopped my bag into one of the guest rooms. I supposed she was expecting me to change into that dress she made me bring along, so I slipped out of my clothes, had a quick shower and changed into the silly dress.
I had just slipped on my sandals when Deirdre came to get me to go down to dinner. She walked me down the great staircase and showed me through to the library where Zachary was waiting for us. When we entered the room, he stood and greeted us formally. He gave me a hug, told me I looked lovely, but when he came to Deirdre, I became very much aware that Zachary Robillard is the sort of person who saves the best for last.
You know the type? The kind of person who loves mashed potatoes so much , that he hurries and scarves down every other morsel of food off his plate so he can savor the flavor of the creamy, gravy laden, smooth, delicious, melt-in-your-mouth buttery potatoes. Well, Deirdre was Zachary’s mashed potatoes.
He didn’t hug her, or even embrace her. He stood a short distance from her and just smiled. I am a great reader of smiles and that smile said, “You belong here, baby.”
Deirdre was oblivious to his smile’s meaning, or at least she was playing like she was and asked him if he didn’t think she was lovely, too.
“Of course, darling,” he answered, kissing her on the lips.
Boy, were they a mushy couple!
He took us into the dining hall. I say hall because it was the sort of room that could easily serve dozens of guests. We sat on one end of the table on either side of Zachary, and the great interrogation began.
“Why don’t you just ask this guy who he is, Ellie, dear?” Deirdre said, obviously deciding to re-open the mystery man topic.
“Yes, Ellie, why not simply come out and ask him his intentions?” Zachary had chimed in.
I was not amused. “I just don’t think about it when I’m in his presence. It always slips my mind.”
“So he’s never offered to tell you his name, what he does for a living, or anything?” Zachary furthered.
“No,” I answered simply, then added, “he just comes in and reads, sketches a bit, and occasionally talks to me. And then there was that note passing conversation.”
“Has he ever checked out a book?” Deirdre asked. “Or does he just read in the library?”
“He’s checked out two books that I know of,” I told her, in between tasting the lobster bisque. “This is marvelous,” I complimented Zachary, trying to get them off the subject.
He smiled at me, told me that it was one of his personal favorites, and then he was right back to my library man topic. “So he’s checked out a book. I assume in doing so, he gave you a card with his name on it, which you failed, of course, to read.”
“Of course,” Deirdre smiled at me.
I frowned.
“It’s all very simple, then!” Zachary said, practically applauding himself for figuring whatever it was out.
“What’s very simple, darling?” Deirdre asked him.
“Why he hasn’t formally introduced himself, of course!” Zachary beamed at the two of us, as if we would gain his new-found knowledge through osmosis.
After a dramatic pause, he said, “He thinks you already know his name!”
“Oh,” Deirdre said.
I remained silent.
A moment of sarcasm is desperately needed here… He was absolutely right! Mr. Darcy, whoever he was, was under the impression that I have known who he is for quite some time and has probably even wondered why I had waited so long to introduce my name into the conversation! Of course! I had no right to be angered, or even mildly flustered with him for his lack of tact, as it was only my disorderly brain which was to blame. I felt much better (not!) knowing that everything was probably all my own fault!
“So how should I mention that I still don’t know his name?” I asked them.
“I don’t think you should,” said Zachary. “Just keep the conversations where they are currently. It doesn’t sound like his name is vital to anything you’re currently engaging in, so in time, he should check out another book, and that will be the end of the mystery.”
Well, the subject was dropped, and they began describing Zachary’s newest hotel’s lobby. Apparently the floors were being laid out in pink marble.
I really wasn’t listening too carefully. My mind was elsewhere.
Entry Thirteen
Monday morning came soon enough. I arrived to work on time. It’s amazing how one can be on time after a lifetime of tardiness, when one has the proper motivation.
“There was my motivation,” I said to myself, as I pulled into the parking lot.
My Mr. Darcy was there, leaning against his car reading, just as he was the first day I saw him. The positive impression he gave me then had not diminished in the least. When he saw my car pull up, he quickly tucked his book and glasses inside his briefcase and walked over to my car.
“And how are you this morning?” he asked casually. It was as if we were close friends. Perhaps that was just my perception, though.
“Have you decided on a name for me yet?” I asked him as we walked to the front doors together.
“Actually, I have a name in mind, but I think I’d like a little more time to decide upon it,” he said rather thoughtfully. “There are so many possibilities in such a lengthy name, you know. I don’t want to pick one and be forced to call you that forever out of force of habit.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I agreed, not really understanding.
We parted at the front desk, and I got settled in and went to see what the weekend librarians had left for me to do.
There was a large stack of books that needed to be re-shelved, several sheets of bookmarks that had been printed off and just needed cutting, and I had to decide on a theme to decorate the library’s lobby for the upcoming seasonal change. I hadn’t thought much about how I would decorate it. My turn for the design of the building usually came around the winter season, so I typically would choose snowflakes and winter world type things. This being a warmer time of year, meant that I would have to neglect my usual trend and decide on something I had never done before. Of course, I could make it easy and choose something that had already been done before, but I’m not so easy on myself. There must be a certain level of stress attained before I feel that I have achieved good work. This was proving to be true for me, yet again.
Because it was a slow Monday, I decided to look through some books for inspiration. I found some art books and settled myself in the chair beside my Mr. Darcy. If this search proved to be tedious and difficult, I would surely need a distraction; and I hoped that my Mr. Darcy would distract me just enough to make my day a little brighter.
He smiled when I sat beside him, and I opened the first book on my lap. It was a book on black and white photography. I really enjoyed looking at the book, so much in fact, that I didn’t notice my Mr. Darcy pull out his sketch pad.
The sound of an eraser was what clued me that he was drawing again. I looked down at the book in my lap and allowed my head to drop just enough to hide my eyes from viewing him behind the shade of my bangs.
Through my cover, I observed that he would stare at me, then make a few marks on his pad. If I didn’t know better, I would say that he was drawing me, but that was just ridiculous! I quickly dismissed the thought from my mind and resumed perusing the photos.
“Enjoying your book?” he asked eventually.
I just smiled and heard him scribble on his paper.
“May I see it?”
I looked up from the page to find him smiling at me. Yes, there it was again, that inner joke that I wasn’t in on!
He rubbed his temple and stared at me. When he looked at me like that, I don’t know how to properly explain it, but it just seemed very personal, like he was looking into my soul through my eyes. I know that’s cliché, but that’s how it felt when he looked at me like that.
I handed the book to him.
“This is very nice,” he said in reference to a picture of two children sitting on a park bench.
“I like it.”
“That’s all that matters about art - that the viewer and creator enjoy it,” he told me.
I smiled and resumed looking at the pictures.
We exchanged a few more bits of conversation, but remained mostly quiet. It was just nice to be comfortably near him.
All too soon, a couple entered the library, and I needed to get back to my desk. I took the photography book with me, to look over it throughout the day. As soon as I settled myself at the front of the library, my Mr. Darcy came up to me.
“You’re leaving?”
He nodded to me and looked at the floor. It looked as if he had something he wished to say.
“Yes?” I asked as pleasantly and unaffectedly as possible.
“Oh, well, um…” he cleared his throat.
“Do you have any books on transcendental meditation?” a very large man asked me from beside my Mr. Darcy.
“Oh!” I looked from Mr. Darcy to the man. Mr. Darcy was looking at his watch, and the man seemed to be in a hurry. My Mr. Darcy made a hand gesture for me to go ahead and help the man. I felt so torn as I showed him where our religious section was and found him a few books on the subject. He was very grateful for my help and wished to check them all out.
He followed me to the front desk, and I noticed that my Mr. Darcy had gone. I felt a wave of sadness overcome me, and twisted my lips into a frown as I went about checking out the books for my patron.
“What a unique bookmark!” the man said as I scanned in his library card.
“Yes, we have a new theme each month,” I replied blandly. “Take as many as you like.” I scanned in the rest of his books.
“Thank you,” the man said and pulled his books into his arms and headed out the door.
Entry Fourteen
Well, Tuesday has come and passed and I have nothing to write about since my Mr. Darcy didn’t come to the library. Everything else seems so boring and lacking in interest. I have no idea why he didn’t come. He had developed such a pleasant habit those wonderful Monday and Tuesday mornings!
I guess I can’t really blame him for having a life outside of me and my little library. How many people can spend two mornings of every week always going to the same place - besides work, I mean? I certainly wouldn’t be hanging out at the library, if I didn’t work there! Well, I take that back, I am fond of the place. The children’s reading hour is most pleasant, and then there’s my favorite coworker, Tracie, so it’s not all bad! And what better place to work for an avid reader, such as myself? So I guess I might be the type of person who’d make a habit of frequenting a library as often as possible, but how realistic is it for real working people, who have jobs that run from nine to five and have other responsibilities? Not likely, at least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
Perhaps my Mr. Darcy was on vacation when we met?
I thought about that probability quite a bit today. Claire, my best friend, dismissed that possibility, though.
I will now introduce Claire.
Name:
Career:
Claire has been my best friend since the fourth grade, when we were on the same girls soccer city league team. She played full back, I played goalie, and we had the best team in the league. Being on the best team in the league, meant that the soccer ball rarely came past the half line, and the full backs and goalie were daisy pickers – as in we needed something to do while on the field, so we made flower chain necklaces while the other girls played. It was a fun sport, and I got to actually play at practice, but it didn’t keep my interest for too long, as I am not the most coordinated person. Neither is Claire, yet we had the sport in common and that was what brought us together.
Claire and I have been friends for a long time, and we’ve had our ups and downs over the years, but through it all, we have remained close friends. We have our differences. The fact that we are totally different in appearance is just the beginning of how different we are. Claire is bold and fearless. I am quite the opposite. Claire speaks her mind without a second thought. I come up with things to say after the conversation has ended. We are opposites, and that must be what keeps us such close friends—we balance each other out.
So, since I was having a bad day, meant that Claire received a phone call. She apparently had the best day ever and had just received a contract to be a back-up singer for a commercial on the radio. She does those sorts of jobs to keep money rolling in until her band makes it big. Anyway, she had lots to say about how great everything was going for her. Rocky had helped refer her to the company, so she was on a big “Rocky high.” Rocky’s so sweet, thoughtful, best boyfriend, love of my life, blah, blah, blah, blah.
It was good to hear her doing so well, and I promised to come down to the club this coming weekend and hear her band play a new set of songs that they’d been practicing. I was trying to bring myself “up” by trying to be “up” for her, but apparently, I wasn’t doing a very good acting job because just after she’d finished discussing the song list she was working on, she asked me, “Okay, Eusless, what’s wrong?”
I gave it to her straight. There was no need to beat around the bush with her, she’d just see right through it, anyway. So I was very blunt and said, “Oh, not much, I just realized I’ll never see the man of my dreams again.”
“Your Mr. Darcy?” she asked.
“That would be him.”
“Well, what’s his problem?”
“He didn’t come to the library today.”
“Oh, is that all?” She didn’t sound convinced that I had a good enough excuse for being down in the dumps. I’d show her though.
“You see, I have it all figured out, Claire,” I began, reasoning with myself as much as I was trying to with her. “I figure he was on vacation, needed a reading break, and now he’s back working.”
“No, that’s not it,”
“Oh, and I suppose you have all the answers?” I asked her, not thrilled that my idea had been so easily discarded.
“Didn’t you say he always brought a briefcase with him?” I told her yes. “Then he was already working. Not many men carry briefcases around with them on vacation. At least none of the men I know.”
“That’s not really saying much,” I teased her. Yet, I realized that she had a point. It was quite obvious, really. The way he was dressed sort of business casual, the briefcase, the having to leave at a specific time every day, like he had some appointment to keep all indicated the same thing. He was definitely not on vacation. I thought of something else, though. Perhaps Claire could clear this one up for me, too. “Why didn’t he show up today, then?”
“I have no idea, Eusless.”
Claire is the only person in the entire world who’s allowed to call me by this hideous name, by the way. Anyone else would be decked.
We chatted some more about non-Mr. Darcy topics, and we hung up, just after I promised again to make it down to the club. I told her I’d bring my sister, Cass, with me. She loves clubbing.
The next time I’ll write how it went, as I see no future perfect day with Mr. Darcy descriptions to tell. Until then, Adieu!
Entry Fifteen
I have some good news to tell and some bad news - where shall I begin? I guess I’ll start with the good news, as most people prefer the good before the bad.
Good news:
We got there early, so early that only the workers at the club were there setting up, so we were able to chat with Claire a bit before she had to prepare her voice.
You know the octave search with a la la la la la la la la la ba num la la la la la la la la la?
Claire was dressed in her usual performance attire, busting out of a bikini top as usual, only she was wearing a shredded pair of jeans instead of her typical leather. Rocky was at the bar, setting the final figures with the club owner on the band’s cut on the profits. The bass player and drummer were already set up and were playing a few “just for fun” riffs. They sounded really good. Claire terms it “tight.”
The bass player was a new member of the band. The other one was booted when he thought that it was appropriate to be intoxicated while playing. Not cool to pass out during a performance.
Claire decided to introduce him to us.
“Chase, this is Elise and Cass, friends of mine,” Claire told him. It was perhaps one of the very few times I had ever heard her call me by my real name.
Chase kept playing and smiled to both of us. He had a nice smile. “Always a pleasure,” he said, not stopping the “groove” that he and Baker, the drummer, were playing. Here my heart stopped. He had an accent - Australian!
Claire looked at me and winked. She knew my weaknesses for accents, especially Australian and English ones.
Rocky called Claire over to him, so my sister and I were standing on the stage, feeling awkward. Well, I felt awkward. Cass is not the type of person to feel uneasiness as readily as I do.
Cass and Chase continued in easy flirtatious banter, while I stood there like a stick in the mud. I watched the drummer make faces as he played. I watched how he licked his lips and scrunched up his face whenever he went on a riff. It amused me.
Claire came back to us hopping up on the stage. “Eusless, will you sing back-up for us tonight? Jamie isn’t coming.”
I gave her a look that said it all. Claire knew better than to waste her time on me. I sang nowhere but the shower.
“Cass, what about you? Care to sing back-up?”
“Oh my gosh! Are you serious?” Cass beamed her enthusiasm, the answer a strong affirmative going by the squeal her voice.
“Yeah, just harmonize with me in the chorus, that’s all. It’ll be fun,” Claire told her and they went off to the back to switch out some of Cass’s clothing with something more punk-looking.
I made my way off the stage and over to the bar. Rocky was going to be my only source of company that night, and I quickly resigned myself to his side.
Shortly, Cass and Claire came back and showed me Cass’ transformation. Cass had only needed to switch her top, her skirt was fine, Claire said. So my baby sister looked like a punk rocker, complete with dyed hair. What?
“Dyed hair?” I asked touching the blue ponytail that was on the side of Cass’ head.
“It’s just comb-in dye, Marianne the Librarian,” Cass said to me sticking out her tongue. “It’ll wash out.”
I had no comment. I was not fond of having my occupation thrown in my face in so prudish and “un-hip” a manner, even if I didn’t really fit in with this scene.
The night progressed. The band played well. I admit to softly singing along to several of their songs. I danced with three men, only one of them overly grabby. So overall, I would call it a good night.
Cass is my good news. The performance was a great success. They performed together as if they had been doing it for years. Immediately after the gig was over, Rocky asked Cass to be their back-up for keeps.
Please pardon my band lingo, as I have just spent all evening with punkers….I guess it’s rubbed off on me.
Cass agreed - end of good news, for her, that is. I wondered what Mom would think of me sort of being the instrument to bring her baby girl into the punk rock scene. Explaining it to her was certainly not anything I was looking forward to, but that’s not the bad news.
The bad news is simple and quick to tell:
What are the odds of catching such a glimpse? I’m not sure and have pondered that idea for quite some time - all night really. I think it’s a sign, and not a good one.
Claire Juliana Ripley, as in “believe it or not.” She uses it as her very clichéd motto… usually referring to her rather abundant bosom.
Lead singer in a band called Anti-vertigo, an alternative grunge band that plays cover tunes. Claire is a typical rocker type person. She has bright pink hair, wears punk rocker clothing - leather pants, torn mesh shirts over bikini tops, and dozens of fabric bracelets. She sings constantly, no matter if we’re at Starbucks or the grocery store, at home, or in the car. She hasn’t a shy bone in her body - nobody is a stranger to her. She’s had an off-and-on relationship with the band’s manager, Rocky, whose real name is Rodney, but goes by Rocky, to sound more hip.
Cass agreed to come to the club with me to hear Anti-vertigo play.
I saw a glimpse of my Mr. Darcy at the end of the night, when we were driving home. He was at a valet box, waiting for his car in front of a nice restaurant. I should stress here that he was not alone.
© 2007 Copyright held by the author.