H. L. Menken


Everything fell away but that misshapen parallelogram of paper—the fourth in a series—that read like a message from above ... or beyond. Was it possible I was reading too much into these trite little sayings? That I was letting my obsession with Sean and his abrupt departure, not to mention Fairy Jane’s involvement, twist words and meanings in my mind? Was there a chance I was seeing hidden meaning where there was none? Or had Fairy Jane’s magic wand truly extended into innocent little cookies?

I would have killed for the ever-popular, always ridiculous You love Chinese food fortune right about now.

I could feel the regret starting to close in, its clammy hold grasping at everything. It came over me with the stunning power of a tidal wave, and its undertow was brutal. I regretted ever trusting in a magical journal, letting my guard down with Sean and then yanking it back up at the worst possible moment. And I regretted tearing into all four fortune cookies and the fact that I was now going to be subjected to a sympathetic but rousing pep talk when all I wanted was to slink away on my own, curl into a ball, and decide what to do.

Because clearly, I had to do something.

“It’s only a fortune, Nic.” Laura’s voice was quiet, soothing.

“Well, four,” Leslie clarified. “Pretty big coincidence, if you ask me.” Judging by the quirk of her lips, Leslie was both impressed and befuddled by the whole situation.

Wrinkling her nose a little in consideration, Beck suggested, “Maybe today holds some sort of astrological significance for you.”

“Like sexy planet rising over shy and quiet little moon?” Leslie cackled at her own joke, earning herself a collection of dirty looks from the rest of us. “What? I think writing horoscopes could be a blast.”

“I’ve known him less than a week.” The words came tumbling out, and I was too overwhelmed to stop them. “I wasn’t looking for anyone and certainly not him, but he charmed his way in. He made me imagine how it could all, just possibly, work out, and I just followed trustingly along.” My shoulders slumped in remembered defeat. “But then it became an international incident. If I were to go for it now, I’d have to contend with airlines, passports, customs, time zones, exorbitant cell phone charges, driving on the wrong side of the road, incessant drizzle ...”

“Pick me up a couple Toblerones and a bottle of Scotch whisky at duty-free.” I shifted my gaze to Leslie, marginally derailed. “When you get it all worked out,” she clarified.

“I like to stop at the duty-free shop.” The little Seinfeld ditty was Beck’s contribution to the muddle.

I decided to put a stop to it just as Laura chimed in. “Okay, enough!” A little karate-chop motion, and the table fell silent. “I never said I was going to Scotland. I was expounding on the fateful twists my life has taken in the last week, pondering what to do, and all you three can contribute is commentary on duty-free!”

“It’s only a matter of time, sweetie. I’m just trying to get my order in early,” Leslie said, sitting back to sip her wine.

“What makes you so sure—and smug?” I demanded.

“You’re in love with him, and you let him go. Now you’ve got four fortune cookies busting your ass, and you’re waffling.” Damn, was she smug. “Sean is your sexy coincidence, Nic. You know Lizzy would agree with me.” Raising her eyebrows in that “you know I’m right” way she had, Leslie waited as I mulled this over.

“Lizzy who?” Beck had switched from pity-partygoer to avid curiosity seeker in the space of a second.

“Elizabeth Bennet,” I clarified, grudgingly admitting to myself that for once, Leslie was spot-on: Sean was my sexy coincidence. He was my Mr. Darcy. Fairy Jane had been hyping him all along.

Beck pondered this a moment and then said, “I think this would blow Lizzy’s mind.” She leaned in, nudging her plate with her hands, and added, “You know, you’re like a character from one of Austen’s novels now.”

“No, I’m not.” I shook my head, bobbleheading again.

“Oh yes, you are, and it’s your turn for a happily-ever-after and a Darcy of your very own. You have to go!” Beck insisted.

“And stop at duty-free,” Leslie reminded me.

“Who would have imagined you’d end up with a Brit?” Laura added.

“But what about all that other stuff?” I asked desperately.

“Trivial in the face of true love,” Leslie answered. “Didn’t The Princess Bride teach you anything? Sheesh.”

Is this true love? I’m not sure. But there’s only one way to find out.

“But what if he doesn’t want me back?”

“Seduce him.” It was Leslie who answered, but the other two nodded in sage agreement.

“But what if I start to resent him and—”

“Don’t do that,” Laura interjected in a voice she might use to talk to a three-year-old.

“But what if I’m not ready?” This was really the crux of it all.

“I have an idea,” announced Leslie, a huge grin settling over her face as her eyes twinkled with mischief. All eyes swiveled in her direction, braced against the very worst. “Do a test run—try something you wouldn’t have before Sean but that isn’t too terribly out of range for you now, in your ... chrysalis of Weird.” It was evident she felt as awkward saying that last bit as we did hearing it.

As an idea, it wasn’t half-bad. As an idea from Leslie, it was outstanding: nary a crude, unmentionable, or objectionable aspect in sight. Within seconds suggestions were flying around the table: a tattoo. A piercing. Body shots. Cliff-diving. Hippie Hollow. It was at that point that I felt compelled to intercede.

“I’m shooting for a mini-adventure, Leslie. I think a visit to the city’s token nude beach is more than I care to take on right now. And I’m afraid that’s all the time we have,” I announced in the mellow slide of my game-show-hostess voice. Not counting my little bribe to foot the bill for dessert at Amy’s Ice Cream, that was all it took to turn the conversation.

I had much to consider.

19 

In which Cinderella storms the castle

Believe it or not, I’d settled on getting my navel pierced. Right up until I’d Googled it. Turns out the healing process runs from four months to a year! Considering the possibility of infections and a selection of less-than-desirable diseases, the adventure du jour promptly fizzled flat. With no particular fondness for any of the other outlandish suggestions, I skittishly considered the option of going for the whole enchilada, chips all in. Within seconds I was typing “Loched In” back into the search window.

I’d memorized the band’s URL, but with all this talk of Scotland, I was in the mood to see that photograph I’d stumbled over days ago—the ethereal castle poised on the edge of silent lochs, hovering serenely between the depths of sky above and water below. Lingering over it again had my thoughts turning to fairy magic, making me wonder whether it was foolish to fight it. And even downright dangerous to bury it in the laundry bin.

The spell was soon broken, though, and shaking free of those wispy thoughts, I typed in the band’s URL, prepared this time for the musical onslaught. As the site cycled through snatches of various songs, I pored over every detail, every picture, every word, rather startled with myself for not having indulged in this little vicarious thrill while Sean was still on my home turf. Then again, he’d kept me pretty busy.

I tried not to let my mind linger overly long on certain, particularly fond memories, but it was a definite tussle to stay on track. Navigating back to the band’s bio page, I reread Sean’s blurb. He hailed from the picturesque village of Dornie and began singing in the local pub as just a lad; he played guitar, piano, and if sweet-talked, the bagpipes as well. He was also a firm believer in the famed monster of Loch Ness and hoped the band’s music shared a little of the magic of Scotland with the rest of the world.

Suddenly I wasn’t just lusting over the man but the country as well.

What if I went?

Out loud (and straight from Leslie’s mouth) the idea seemed absurd. But I wasn’t the same girl anymore—I’d outgrown a lot of things, I’d changed. And with the haunting music of Loch’d In niggling at my subconscious, a little international adventure seemed like an exhilarating possibility.

Pulling up Google Maps, I typed in Dornie, Scotland, and searched around a bit, zooming in and out, checking for airports, calculating distances. The village was on the edge of three lochs: Loch Alsh, Loch Duich, and Loch Long.

Something was skirting the edges of my memory. I pulled up the castle again and read the artist’s description. Eilean Donan Castle sat at the join of three lochs—the very same three! My fingers skimmed over the keys as I Googled the castle, and as I read, they begin to shake ever so slightly. That glorious, steeped-in-history, edged-in-mystery “Loched In” castle was just outside the village of Dornie, home of the band “Loch’d In.” I couldn’t decide whether it was coincidence or fate. Or possibly even magic.

My mind started zinging with what-ifs.

I’d visited Scotland once, about two years ago, for work, and it had been wet, green, and chock full of rowdy, rosy-cheeked, laugh-a-minute, deliciously accented people. I’d lived in a hotel for seven days, sick for six of them, ordering room service and longing for ice cubes. On that last day, I’d trudged out, taken the train to Edinburgh, and indulged in a gorgeous adventure via window seat. As lilting conversation buzzed around me and the hedgerows whizzed past, my thoughts had run to the filmed-on-location BBC adaptations of Miss Austen’s masterpieces. Staring out into the drizzly gray, I’d daydreamt of country dances, frilly bonnets, and curly haired gentlemen.

Those remembered mental images had me newly wondering whether Fairy Jane’s competency was sufficient to direct my own whirlwind romance nearly two hundred years beyond her expertise. In her defense, Jane had ensured, in each of her novels, that things had all come out right in the end, romantically speaking. Not to mention the fact that she’d somehow found a way to provide happily-ever-afters for those intrepid journalers in the years in between. With Sean in Scotland and me in Austin—and a vacuum between us—this was hard comfort. But given a couple minutes, I just might get around to fixing that.

I tried for a moment to imagine a longer stay in Scotland and pictured myself schlepping about in wellies and hand-knit sweaters, making up peat fires and spending casual evenings at the pub. Hmmm. It all sounded very cozy, but I didn’t know how I’d feel after a few weeks of rainy, chilly days with no quick runs to Target and the closest Mexican restaurant hundreds of miles (or more!) away. But Scotland had marvelous, melt-in-your-mouth butter toffees. And well, Sean, of course. There’d be Sean, with his sweet-n-sexy grin, his smooth, velvet voice, all wrapped up in a kilt ...

Spurred into action, I dashed into the kitchen, grabbed hold of the quote-a-day calendar with both hands, and scanned the top page. “ ‘What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.’ Emma.” I grinned, grabbed for the phone, and dialed Gabe’s number. He answered on the fourth ring, and unable to contain myself, I blurted, “I’m thinking of giving chase.”

“Huh?”

Closing my eyes, priming myself to start over, I explained. “Sean’s in Scotland, I’m here. Ergo, I’m thinking of giving chase.”

“Who is this?” The jocularity was coming through loud and clear.

“Get it out of your system, Gabe—this is a serious call.”

“Okay, fine. But who knew you’d give up the ‘thrill of the 401(k)’ for the ‘thrill of the chase.’ ” Gabe’s laugh was barely contained and so was my temper. I didn’t answer. “Okay, seriously?” he said around a chuckle. “That’s awesome. When are you leaving?”

Wishing we weren’t doing this over the phone, I begged, “Just play pro and con with me. Subject: Compulsive International Travel. I’m pro, you’re con.”

“Really? I have to be con? I think I’m much better suited to pro.”

“But shouldn’t I be the one fighting for him?”

“Point taken,” Gabe conceded. “Me first?”

“No, me. If I go, I have a much better chance of getting Sean back.”

“And an equally good chance of embarrassing yourself to within an inch of your pride.”

“I’ll have made the grand gesture, followed my bliss ...” I envisioned all sorts of pride-numbing endings, and my conviction faltered a bit.