He'd listened to the workshop story. While I was oblivious, thanks to him, he'd had the presence of mind to comprehend what she read. Now he focused that same level of inspection on me. I didn't want to come up lacking. I didn't want to end up ditched as bad writing or bad flirting or bad anything. Nervous, I launched into mindless chatter of the sort that would surely have me thrown out for bad conversation. My Jane Austen closed her eyes and slashed her throat as I chattered about the water and the gas leaks, Magda's takeover, and Nigel's illness, willing my pulse to settle as I described my urgency to get something signed by Lady Weston before the kitchen exploded. "Vera wants me to accompany her to the hospital and ask Lady Weston to help us get a lease extension signed," I said. "Soon."

His expression gradually changed from happy interest to mild censure as he stood to fetch a book from the stack behind his table. "I don't think that's a good idea."

I slumped against the window. "Neither does My Jane Austen." No sooner were the words out of my mouth than My Jane Austen stopped breathing and stared at me. I froze, touching my fingers to my lips. Did I feel the vibration of a kitchen explosion two floors below or was that my stricken heart? Had he heard what I said?

"What do you mean your Jane Austen?" Willis asked.

I inhaled. "Sit down," I said.

"I'm sitting." He smiled, joining me on the window seat.

"Everyone who reads The Six..." I went slowly to make sure he was with me.

"Six Jane Austen novels." He nodded.

"Yes. Believes they know Jane Austen personally. In our secret heart of hearts, each of us believes that she speaks to us personally in her writings. My Jane Austen just happens to follow me around most of the time," I said very slowly.

"I see." Willis bit his lip.

"She's here now."

"Where?" He glanced into the room.

"In the corner." I nodded toward the murky fringes of the room without looking directly. Willis looked directly. "She's like a floater you get in your eye. If you look at her she'll dart off to another periphery."

"Inconvenient," Willis said.

"She's not real." I reached for Willis's arm as if he might be the one with the mental problem.

"Okay." He looked at the hand touching his arm.

"This is all make-believe, Willis. You'll have to stretch the imagination here a bit."

"No, I'm with you. Go on."

In an expansive rush, I told Willis what I'd never told anyone—couldn't even imagine telling anyone. "She's not beautiful. In my mind, she looks like the sketch Cassandra made of her, perpetually irritated, a bit of a bully. She died young so she's eternally forty-one years old, and gray runs through her dark brown hair. Her face is pale with a hint of blue. Sometimes she reminds me of a vampire in a Romantic sense, sucking the experiences out of people to fill her pages."

Willis leaned toward me as I continued.

"But her strongest representation for me is Patron Saint of Thoughtful Women." I paused, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. "She believes that women whose inner lives dominate their personalities, reserved women who take a backseat to the witty, charming Mary Crawfords of the world, should marry for love." I glanced at him. "Secondary types, like me and Fanny Price, are the protagonists in her stories."

Willis looked at me in a way that made me stop talking.

"What?" I said.

He didn't answer, but took my chin in his hand, raised my face to his, and kissed me.

"Sorry," he said. "I was overcome by all that."

Eleven

A tea-theatre conflicts directly with our productions and the poor quality will reflect badly on this festival." Magda stood near my desk addressing Nigel while Omar stared at the floor. "Amateur hour is not what we need at this moment when we are trying to take the festival to the next level." Magda raised her hands. "Who will seriously consider funding something so unprofessional?"

They all glanced at me walking in. Then Nigel ushered Magda and Omar into his office and shut the door. I strained to hear but could distinguish only the occasional rising of Magda's voice, no actual words. As if I needed more distractions. After my last session with Willis I could barely think; the limits of my resources became clear as I struggled to gain traction with Business Plan for Dummies. I finally gave up and stared blissfully into the space over my open book recalling the Kiss, during which Willis slowly bent his neck, touching his lips to mine, his hand gently lifting my chin, as if he were the Prince and I the Fair Maiden. I was about to relive it from the beginning, when Vera arrived. She paused in front of Nigel's closed door and glanced at me.

"Omar and Magda," I whispered.

"Oh yes." Vera frowned, remembering. Then she let herself in, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

"A cover-up?" Nigel said patiently, although I heard exasperation in his voice. "It is quite possible that the trip to Antigua is no more than a literary device to get the father out of the house and further the courtship plot. Put yourself in 1814, Magda."

"I have," she shot back. "And in 1811, the Slave Trade Felony Act was introduced. Austen knew this; her readers knew this. Fanny Price was an abolitionist."

"Really?" Vera said.

My tea-theatre was not the subject of discussion.

Nigel sounded weary. "I simply ask that you not tamper with what is explicit. Don't alter the prose."

Omar spoke for the first time. "So," he said in a careful monotone, "are you saying to cut those lines where Sir Thomas provides details of his slave ownership to Fanny?"

I still felt a little shock, thinking of Sir Thomas owning slaves.

"Yes," Nigel said. "Suggest larger political issues—for God's sake, use Mrs. Norris's green baize to imply whatever you like, but keep it implicit."

Magda interrupted to voice an objection but Claire rose from her desk to close the door, shooting me a glance.

*   *   *

At my first opportunity, I went to the attic.

"Hello, Willis," I called up. No response. I called again.

Everything remained as we left it, except his laptop which he had taken with him. A stack of telephone messages accumulated beneath his collection of pens and the books waited unmoved. The room felt incredibly lonely and even spooky without him. I sat at the window while My Jane Austen read his phone messages. The loneliness grew so oppressive that I left her there, crossing the floor to the stairs in haste, tripping loudly as if she chased me down the stairs. I didn't stop until I found myself outside the second floor bathroom where John Owen continued to wrestle with our plumbing issues.

*   *   *

The next day Willis was still not there and I began to feel slightly desperate. After my third trip up the stairs to look for him, I decided to try the church. I sat in the back, allowing the powerful words entry, giving myself up to calm meditation and deep breathing. My Jane Austen paced an empty row behind me but I ignored her, focusing instead on summoning the necessary blend of reserve and aggression to deal with Willis. He couldn't see me and I felt like a spy, watching him listen to the homily from his seat in the sanctuary.

After the service, Willis stationed himself with the clergy in the entry, shaking hands, wishing everyone a good morning as they left. He saw me before I reached him so when we shook hands my presence was no longer a surprise. He smiled and said, "Good morning," but anyone watching could tell from our smiles that a secret joke existed between us. I struck the tiniest, nearly imperceptible flirtatious pose. Almost immediately, I felt the connection. I kept it light. "Do you have time for coffee?" I asked.

He watched me. I didn't move. If he wanted more, he would have to join me.

"Yes," he said.

*   *   *

Willis didn't want to sit by the window so we carried our coffee to the back of the small cafe Willis nodded to an empty table, placing his hand on the small of my back to guide me. I was what's-her-name to his Maxim de Winter, falling for each other in a quaint dining room. He rested his arms on the table and stared at me.

I whispered, "Are you aware of the slavery issues in Mansfield Park?"

He sipped his coffee. "No," he said, "tell me."

Appropriating a breathy voice, I told him about the conversation I'd overheard in the office between Nigel and Magda, the explicit references to slavery I was aware of, and Omar's forced adaptation. Willis listened, sipping coffee, his back to the room. We drew attention, people curious about the woman confessing her sins to a priest in a coffee shop, which explained why Willis chose a secluded table.

"But I thought she restricted herself to writing about a few country families," Willis said.

Two things about talking with Willis. With Martin, I could make it up as I went; no facts, no problem. Not Willis, he had a background in this stuff and he listened critically; he would be on to me in a heartbeat. The other thing: I might as well have been describing in minute detail how I planned to disrobe later that evening. He studied me as if every word were an intimate revelation, a window into my deep personal places. "Some people, Magda for instance, believe the novels are charged with political meaning," I said.

"What does your Jane Austen say?" he asked, his slow smile an invitation to deeper confidence.