Commencement (Becoming Jane) Read online

  My mouth went dry while my thighs went wet, and I struggled to speak. “You, well, the bottle…you, uh…,” I mumbled.

  “It was fucking torture. This, is fucking torture.”

  I nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see me. I was sweating buckets now, his words heating me, stoking fires along my spine. I held the phone tightly to my ear and walked back towards the bathroom.

  “When we are finally together…that, I promise, will be rapture.”

  “Rapture?” I whispered.

  “Exultation,” he replied

  “Those are good words,” I said quietly, the evidence of my arousal still trickling down my thighs.

  “Yes, those are bloody excellent words.”

  I nodded again and dropped my towel to the floor. I was going to need another shower.

  * * *

  We talked for twenty minutes, a ridiculous conversation full of flirting and obscene innuendo that left my cheeks hurting from smile strain by the time we hung up. I could’ve talked for hours, but I really did need to pack and then swing by Clouds for my paycheck before I drove down to my mom’s house the following morning.

  “What’s up, cupid?” I said to Sasha as I walked in to her office.

  “My frustration,” she quipped, setting a stack of papers down and sliding a pair of readers off her face. “I’m sick to death of paperwork.” She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. “Sit and help me procrastinate for a moment. Why am I cupid?”

  “Because you gave the Professor my number.” I sat down opposite her and leaned my elbows on her desk. “I thought you had a rule against giving the customers our contact info?”

  “Oh, let’s not be coy—he’s not a customer. He’s your lover.”

  I grinned at her, bouncing in my seat a little “Yeah, he is!”

  “That’s my girl. So last night was…?”

  “Last night was amazing. Complicated, but amazing.”

  “Complicated usually is. I am deeply envious.” Sasha laughed, opened a drawer in her desk, retrieved my paycheck and handed it to me. “Here is your pay, and here”—she plucked a slip of paper from a stack— “is my list.”

  Sasha is a foodie, with a knack for knowing all the best artisan bakeries, cheese-mongers and small wineries in a four-state radius. It just so happened that my three-hour drive down to Cape Annabel takes a route that is peppered by some of Sasha’s favorite spots. For a few years I’d been keeping her, and sometimes the club’s tiny bar menu, stocked with pastries, charcuterie and the best micro-brews that Maine has to offer. I took the list from her and looked it over.

  “If Torkelson’s has that incredible Pinot Noir infused Salami then get as much of it as you can and just cut half of the prosciutto I listed.”

  “Wow, a pretty big haul this time,” I said, looking up at her.

  “I put cash in with your paycheck,” she said, shrugging.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Can’t a women buy twenty pounds of salami without the third degree?”

  “No.”

  She sighed and drummed her painted fingernails on the desktop. “The gentleman I’ve been…spending time with, recently informed me that he plans to run for State Senate.”

  “Oh?”

  “Our relationship, what little of it there was, has been ended. He feels he’s less likely to get elected if it becomes known that his…inamorata is, as he phrased it, a ‘modern day madam’.”

  “Shit, that sucks.” I frowned at her. I wasn’t entirely sure what this had to do with salami, but I was definitely pissed on her behalf. “Fuck him.”

  “Not anymore,” she said and lifted her reading glasses to her face. “My two greatest pleasures in life,” she said, sliding a letter opener into the flap of an envelope and dragging it violently down the length of the fold, “are food and cock. I currently have no prospects for cock, hence the list. If I cannot stuff one hole, Jane, I intend to stuff the other.”

  “Food and men, huh? Yeah, I think I can agree with that.”

  “No, I didn’t say men—men I can do very well without. It’s cock I like, and at the moment I’m in short supply, so I’ll be needing quite a lot of Pinot Salami.”

  “Alright then, boss.” I stood up and lifted my hand to my forehead in mock salute. “I won’t let you down. You’ll have your salami dildos by Friday!” I turned and headed for the door.

  “Jane,” she called after me, laughter choking her voice.

  I turned and raised my eyebrows.

  “I’m going to eat the salami, not fuck it.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “Jane!” she shouted, and I waved her off as I headed down the hall.

  “Made you laugh!” I called, and I heard her groan even as she continued laughing.

  * * *

  The next morning, as I was gassing up my car for the drive down to Mom’s, I remembered what I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten. Again. The third surprise. Good God it was like every time I spoke to this man my brain reset to zero and all sense flew out of my head. I pulled up his number on my phone as I buckled in, and then transferred the call to the Bluetooth speaker in my car.

  “Don’t say anything,” I said when he answered.

  “Alright, um. For the sake of clarity, are you instructing me to refrain from using that particular word or all words found in the English language?

  “All of them. Shush.”

  “How about French? Est-ce que je peux te parler en français?”

  “Fuck, that was sexy. I can’t think when you’re being sexy. Shut up.”

  “Votre désir est ma commande.”

  I squinted at the road, trying to wrestle a translation from the tiny lexicon of French that I still possessed from high school language classes. “Oh! Your wish is my command! Aw, that’s cute. And also sexy. I told you to stop being sexy.”

  “Je suis désolé”

  “Gah!” I yelled. “Stop!”

  There was silence. Well not quite, it sounded less like actual silence, and more like someone holding a hand over the receiver of their phone while they laughed.

  “Okay listen, I meant to ask you this when we spoke yesterday and I forgot.”

  Nothing; no reply.

  “Hello?”

  “Je t' écoute”

  “Je…je…oh ‘I’m listening.’ Right, sorry. I told you to shut up, didn’t I? Okay, my question is what was the third surprise?”

  Silence again.

  “You said that I surprised you three times. You explained the first two, but you never said the third. I mean I kind of assume the third was walking into Cloud’s and seeing me gyrating half naked around a pole, but you didn’t specify that. We kind of got distracted by other things and you forgot to say, and I’m really curious.”

  He cleared his throat. “Am I to talk now?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  “Okay, how about the being sexy part? Can I be sexy again?”

  “Just answer the question, Mr. Charming Pants. Jeez.” I laughed.

  “Mr. Charming Pants? Nice. Alright, let’s see, what was the third way in which you surprised me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm, let me think. Ah yes, I remember. I remember very well.”

  “Okay,” I prompted. “So tell me.”

  “No. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Well, I didn’t actually forget to list it the other night, I just decided to keep it to myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s private.”

  “It’s about me!”

  “Too right,” he said, laughing, “but it’s my secret and I shall discharge my secrets… as I see fit.”

  “Discharge? That sounded suspiciously Shakespearey there, buddy. You were just about to quote something, weren’t you?”

  “I was, but I thought better of it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you asked me to stop
being sexy and you have on previous occasions implied that the quoting Shakespeare thing could be construed as sexy. I’d hate to disappoint you.”

  “Oh my God. I’m rolling my eyes right now. I’m rolling them so hard. I want you to know that.”

  “Duly noted,” he said and I heard laughter in his voice again. “How’s the drive?”

  “Ugh, just started. I’ve got a few long, boring hours ahead of me.”

  “Well, shall I keep you entertained?”

  * * *

  The long drive to Cape Annabel was considerably more enjoyable with the Professor to talk to.

  “You’re an excellent car buddy.”

  “Well, thank you. I’m aiming for the perfect balance of entertaining you, without risk of dangerous distraction.”

  “You’ve done great.” I laughed. “So what are your plans this week?”

  “I’m going to ply my body with large quantities of lo mein as supplied by a most excellent Chinese restaurant nearby, and then I’m going to finally catch up on some television programs that I’m obscenely behind on.”

  “Yeah? Which ones?”

  “First up is Downton Abbey. I think I’m about two decades behind everyone else.”

  “Oh, I love that show. Which season are you on?”

  “The third.”

  “Oh,” my voice fell flat. Shit, he’s in for a bad week.

  “What? Why the ‘Oh’?”

  “Really? You’ve got no idea? You’ve managed to remain spoiler-free for that show all this time?”

  “Yes, I have. And I’ll thank you not to ruin it for me now.”

  “Alright, I’m just astonished. You’ve got a serious talent for avoidance, sir.”

  “Mmm, so I’ve been told.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” he said, then changed the subject. “What are your Thanksgiving plans? Large family gathering?” he asked just as the call waiting on my phone buzzed.

  “Oh, that’s my mom, can you hang on?”

  “Absolutely”

  I put the Professor on hold, switched over to my mother, and then switched back a minute later.

  “I’m back,” I said. “My loving mother is standing me up for our pizza date tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, but I forgive her. Her boyfriend snagged reservations to Pinelli’s, an incredible restaurant in the city—the waiting list is like two years long—so I don’t blame them one bit for taking it. Sounds like they are going to stay the night, too. So it’s just me and a bottle of wine and a pizza tonight.”

  “Pizza and wine? That’s one of my favorite meals. Want company?”

  “Company?” I asked as I turned down the long gravel driveway that led to my mom’s house, high on the cliffs overlooking Cape Annabel harbor. “How does that work with you three hours away?”

  “Modern technology, darling. I assume you have a camera on your phone or laptop?”

  2

  “So let’s see…We’ve done the sitting room, dining and living room, and the library, that leaves the kitchen,” I said as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, my mobile phone held aloft as I took the Professor on a remote tour of my mother’s house.

  “I’m completely obsessed with that library,” he said. “You have to give your mother my compliments. I could get lost in there for hours.”

  “I’ll tell her you said so. She’ll laugh, because that’s exactly what my sister and I used to do as kids. We’d curl up on the window seat in there during a storm with mugs of hot chocolate and our favorite classics.”

  “You have a sister? Does she also have a name plucked from the pages of a gothic novel?”

  “She does.” I nodded, grinning at him. “Charlotte, and before you ask, yes, she was named after the Bronte sister. And she’s insufferably proud of it.”

  “I see, so those two little girls in the window seat during a storm, one was reading Bronte and the other Austen.”

  “Oh absolutely. Charlotte is an unapologetic fan of the Byronic hero. Case in point, her boyfriend, Mason, is a moody, controlling piece of shit. Naturally, she adores him.” Which is why she won’t be here for the holidays, I almost said out loud.

  The Professor laughed so hard he choked. He reached for his beer and sputtered through a sip. “So poor Ms. Frank, in my class, she never had a chance. You’ve been arguing for team Austen since childhood.”

  “You bet I have. I’ll take Mr. Darcy over that pyscho Mr. Rochester any day,” I said. The oven timer chimed, signaling that the frozen pizza I’d popped inside twenty minutes earlier was now ready for consumption.

  “I am comforted to hear that. If your taste in literature has affected your tastes in men, then I like knowing you assume I have more in common with Darcy than Rochester.”

  “Me too,” I agreed. “By the way, this is the kitchen,” I said, panning my phone quickly around the room before setting it on the counter top.

  “What a spectacular ceiling—a truly exemplary use of the color white.”

  “Oh shut up,” I said, slipping on oven mitts. “You’re just there for a minute while I get my pizza.”

  “This must be what it feels like to be a turtle, on its back at the mercy of the elements.”

  “Quit moaning and eat your food. How’s the lo mein?” I asked, setting the pizza on the counter and picking up the phone just in time to catch him shoveling a slippery tangle of noodles into his mouth.

  “Dellishuss,” he said. “Brudy, famtasic.”

  “Hey, say it don’t spray it, mister,” I said, pretending to wipe off my face.

  He swallowed and laughed, then lifted a napkin to his screen and mimed dabbing at my face.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I smiled back at him, admiring how sexy this man could look even in casual attire. He wore a blue T-shirt under a bulky, black cardigan with a high rolled collar. His hair looked like he’d combed it in a wind tunnel and his jawline bore a healthy sprinkle of scruff. Dellishuss indeed.

  “What kind of house is this? Where does it fit in the standards of American architecture?” he asked.

  “That is a topic of some lively debate in this family, actually. Really I’d say it’s a beach bungalow that swallowed a cape cod and then developed delusions of Victorian grandeur. Lots of built-ins and wainscoting, and plenty of nooks and crannies for epic games of hide and seek when we were kids.”

  “So you spent your summers in this house, then? As a child?”

  “We did, until my parents divorced, then we moved here full time.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “It was a long time ago and my dad is an ass-hat; we are all better off without him.”

  “Sadly, I can relate.”

  “That is sad,” I said, genuinely sorry to hear he had a crap dad too. But the last thing I wanted to do right now was derail our fun by swapping sob stories, so I fast forwarded to the next part of the tour.

  “So now you’ve seen the kitchen,” I said, waving behind me. “Time to show you the garden and the beach.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

  “I am,” I said, opening a cabinet and snagging my mom’s oversized picnic basket from a shelf. I stacked several slices of pizza on a paper plate, and then set it, a bottle of wine, corkscrew, glass and a pile of napkins into the basket. “I love eating outside this time of year.”

  “Isn’t it too cold and dreary for that?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I’m a Mainer. My people invented cold and dreary.”

  “No you didn’t. You inherited your hearty dispositions from your forebears, who, I might add, come from the same genetic stock as my own. So you’re welcome.”

  “Don’t get smug with me, buddy. My forebears ditched your rainy rock collection centuries ago in search of brighter shores and they found them. That’s why they call it New England. New, as in better. New, as in awesome.” I grabbed the phone and the picnic basket, and walked from
the kitchen to the double set of French doors that banked the back wall of the living room.

  “Well, listen, if my forebears hadn’t had the good sense to…persecute and oppress yours, then this brave new world would have…would have…,”

  “Keep pedaling,” I said as I stepped through the French doors to the all-season porch.

  “Well, it would have belonged to the French, wouldn’t it? And no one would’ve wanted that, except the French of course, so really you should be thanking us.”

  I laughed as I set down the basket and pulled on the pair of galoshes that sat next to the door leading to the garden.

  “Thank you, Professor, and please thank your countrymen for me. We Americans are so grateful to you. Without your noble efforts the world might have never known the joys of baseball, mega malls or reality television,” I said, retrieving one of my mother’s down-filled winter jackets from where it hung on a peg.

  “Again, you’re welcome. Although I can’t tell if those examples were meant as an endorsement or an indictment.”

  “Neither can I, actually,” I said as I threw the winter coat over my shoulders.

  “I think I prefer observing this process in reverse,” he said, the Professor’s voice coming from inside the sleeve I was currently sliding my arm through. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re no doubt just as becoming cocooned in puffy coat or whatever this is, as you are in bits of lacy nothingness, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I prefer the nothings.”

  “Right, well, while it’s always a bit warmer here by the seashore, it’s still November and it snowed today, so I’m afraid you’ll have to learn to love the puffy coat,” I said, and stepped out into the garden.

  * * *

  The path of my mother’s garden wound through what looked like a vegetative crime scene. A layer of snow blanketed sleeping ferns and drooping succulents, and edged the perimeter of a few evergreens with the stark grace of a chalk outline.

  “In the summer, this garden is amazing. At the moment it is, underwhelming at best, ” I said as I plodded across paving stones and ducked under a branch to the staircase that led down the hill from the garden to the beach below. “So we’ll skip it, and just head down to the pavilion.”