Page 3 of Jane Deyre

“Help me up.”

Is he serious? He’s twice my size.

“For Chrissake, what are you waiting for?” he growls.

Looping my arms under his armpits, I try to lift him. While I look like a two-ton blue monster, I feel like the ninety-eight-pound weakling I really am. I grunt as he anchors one hand on the ground. On my next grunt, he catapults himself up, almost knocking me over. He curses under his breath, but at least he can put pressure on his foot. It doesn’t seem broken or even sprained. I stand up as gracefully as I can and size up his height. Even with my ginormous Smurfette head, I barely come up to his chin. He must be at least six foot two. Maybe taller. Ignoring his injury, he bends down and effortlessly lifts up his sleek bicycle by its handles. Black and yellow like his outfit, it looks like a racing bike. He gives it a once-over.

“It looks like it’s in one piece,” he mutters. He seems more concerned about the condition of his bike than about himself. My eyes stay on him as he mounts it, swinging one long, muscular leg over the seat. His feet barely touching the ground, he balances it, then turns his head to face me. I study his features. His dark eyes, lush lips, and masculine straight nose. The helmet strap under his chin draws attention to his strong jaw and the layer of dark stubble that covers it. He furrows his thick ebony brows, anger seeping back into his expression.

“What the hell are you doing here anyway? This is private property.”

I suppose I could ask him the same question. But I refrain. “I—I was invited here by some lady with a cat.”

Gripping the handlebars, he shrugs one shoulder. Then hoists himself onto the bike’s narrow leather seat. Without another word, he takes off, disappearing into the fog. I continue my trek up the serpentine road. Limping from the blisters forming on my feet.

Ten shaky minutes later, I’m standing before a massive iron gate. I’ve caught up with Madame Tussaud and kitty.

“There you are!” She beams.

My eyes widen. Set back behind the gate is a sprawling, gray stone house, three-stories high with pitched gables, a slate tile roof, numerous chimneys, and countless windows. It’s something straight out of a Jane Austen or Thomas Hardy novel—almost identical to the one on my vision board. Is this where Madame Tussaud lives?

Next to the gate on a stone pillar, there’s a panel with a keyboard, and beside it, a tarnished bronze plaque.

THORNHILL MANOR

1926

It’s a historically registered property. I read more about it while my companion jabs a handful of buttons—the security code—and the imposing gate swings open. I flinch.

“Come, my dear,” she says, “before the gate closes. It’s been acting up lately. Just another thing to fix!”

Not wanting to get squished, I hurry inside the property.

“Is this where you live?” I ask in awe, realizing I don’t know the Madame Tussaud impersonator’s real name.

“Yes, my whole entire life. I was born here and I suppose soon I will die here.”

The thought of death makes me shiver. I’ve been close to it more times than I care to remember. Unsure of the woman’s age, I stay by her side as we wend down a pebbled path toward the house, my eyes shifting left and right, taking in the magnificent grounds that stand out despite the fog. The verdant rolling lawn, mature trees, and formal gardens. In front of the house there’s a gravel motor court that could easily hold a dozen cars. No doubt behind it, a pool and tennis court. And God knows what else. I feel out of my element. I don’t belong here. But here I am.

My petite companion effortlessly opens the hand-carved front door and as it closes behind us, I follow her into a grand entrance hall that’s bigger than my entire rental. Breathtaking, it feels gothic with its vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows, and tall archways. I stand frozen as a statue, as if my rubber shoes are glued to the creamy marble floor, catching sight of myself in my ludicrous costume in the ornate gold-leaf mirror perched above a console. Sitting on the exquisite chinoiserie table is a vase of fragrant roses and a single gilt-framed photo—a black-and-white one of an adorable little dark-haired boy, flanked by two stunning women, both wearing sunglasses, one a brunette, the other a blonde; the toddler holding the hands of each. Hanging from the soaring two-story ceiling is an enormous wrought-iron chandelier with a gazillion candles that looks original to the house. About twenty feet ahead of me lies a wide, sweeping staircase with a gleaming mahogany balustrade and a wine-colored runner, snaking up the steep steps. It seems to go on for miles.

“Dear...” Madame Tussaud’s voice breaks into my stupor. “Would you be kind enough to remove Pilote’s leash? I think I may have bruised my knees a bit in that nasty spill.”

“Uh, sure.”

“One other thing... could you please remove that hideous head covering you’re wearing. I think it may be upsetting Pilote, and it would be rather nice to see your face.”

Less sweaty, I manage to remove the headpiece with its cheesy white baker’s hat and stringy yellow-blond hair. My unwieldy red-brown curls spring from my head as I take a deep, freeing breath. I roll my head around. In addition to making it hard to breathe, the polyfoam headpiece weighs a ton and puts a lot of pressure on my neck.

“Where should I put it?”

“On the console table, please. I’ll ask Grace to toss it in the trash bin where that hideous thing belongs.”

Please don’t toss it. Please do.I do as she’s asked, carefully setting the oversized headpiece on the antique table, next to the photo. I glimpse myself again in the mirror and am appalled by how disheveled I look. I run my fingers through my damp, tousled hair. I admit I’m no beauty, a plain Jane to be honest, but I’m flushed from the heat and wearing not a stitch of makeup. My job, or should I say former job masquerading as the Smurfette, didn’t require any. As I crouch down to remove the kitty’s leash and harness, I make a mental note to call the agency through which I got the gig to let them know I’m quitting. Wasting no time, the cat scampers off.

“Thank you, my dear Jane,” breathes Madame Tussaud, studying me. “You have lovely skin. And what striking eyebrows!” They’re licorice black and thick. “They remind me of mine when I was younger.”

“Thanks,” I say humbly. Except for a smattering of freckles around my nose, I’m blessed with clear, almost flawless skin. My features, on the other hand, are nothing to rave about. Hazel eyes too big and wide set, my nose slightly crooked, and lips a little too plump. And I think my caterpillar-like brows are too dark and look weird with my elbow-length auburn hair. Plus, they bring attention to my elfin ears. One day, if I ever become a big star or have enough money, I’m going to get them professionally plucked and colored. And fix my ears.

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