Page 29 of The Austen Escape
“The current isn’t strong enough to hurt you. I promise.”
She made the connection, and her smile was brighter than the bulb.
“Can I show my parents?”
“Of course, but I’m not sure running through the house with a lightbulb is a great idea. How about I carry it and come with you?”
We disconnected our project, and she grabbed my hand to drag me from the hallway.
“I can’t wait to see their faces.”
I let myself be pulled. “I can’t wait to explain what we’ve been up to.”
A half hour and countless questions later, I found my way back to the Green Room. Isabel was already curled in bed.
I plopped onto mine and relayed the adventure—wandering the house, opening dark cupboards, finding Clara, making a lightbulb glow, and the embarrassment of explaining the entire story to her parents, including how I’d fixed the flashlight.
Sylvia had shuddered good-naturedly at the thought of what her daughter might do next if left unsupervised or, worse, met me in another abandoned hallway. She had a lot of questions and concerns. But Aaron, in a soft voice with a quiet smile, declared it a very good scientific experiment.
His contradiction had not pleased Sylvia, which I thought might amuse Isabel.
She was not amused. By the end she had sat up straight and swung her legs off the bed. “You didn’t.”
“It was easy. A simple circuit. No big deal. Tomorrow I might teach her—”
“It’s not the circuit, Mary. It’s the fact that you dug around in the pantry, a private, off-limits-to-guests kind of space, and started making your little projects. You’re a guest here, not the resident electrician.” She slapped her hand over her eyes.
I pulled back. “I... I’m sorry.”
We sat, knees almost touching in the small space between our beds.
“No.” She dragged her hands down her face, pulling her cheekswith the gesture. “That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have said that.” She arched her back and pressed her fingers into the inner corners of each eye. Only then did I notice she’d been crying.
I tapped her knee. “I am sorry, Isabel. I won’t embarrass you again.”
“No... It’s not you. I was horrid tonight. I felt horrid. It’s... How can a place I’ve never been bring up memories? Daddy used to take me on business trips after we moved to Texas. He’d get furious when I acted like a kid. I was eight. What did he expect?”
She took a deep breath and dropped her voice low with a hint of southern drawl. “‘With decorum.’” She let her father’s two words rest between us before continuing. “I clearly didn’t have any, because he quit taking me and hired Mrs. Trumbull. Remember how she smelled like onions? And her voice... Anyway, after hearing from Gertrude about the interview thing and—he’s in my head tonight.”
I caught theandin her statement. “You talked to him today, didn’t you?”
“He replied to my e-mail.” She shrugged. “It usually takes days to get him to reply to anything.”
“And?”
Isabel’s father, distant at best, had declared his job done when she graduated college. But I often wondered if he had ever thought raising and loving Isabel was his job. He never attended any school events, wasn’t around for birthdays, even missed high school graduation. In August, right before we parted ways for college, Isabel and I came home from the movies to find a Honda CRV in her driveway. Mrs. Trumbull handed her the keys with a note:Happy Graduation. It’s a three-hour drive to Dallas. Work hard at SMU. Dad.He didn’t even pretend he might make it to her college graduation.
Isabel didn’t reply. Instead she reached for her phone, tapped it, and handed it to me.
Isabel. Your petulant e-mail was not appreciated. I expected a thank-you rather than a temper tantrum. Five years is ample time to finish your doctorate and move on. If this trip is what you need, as you have claimed, just thank me. Do not pout. Consider it my gift to you, but if you continue to behave like a child, you may consider it my last gift.
This reply is also to inform you that Abby and I were married yesterday. As you set yourself against her from day one, your attendance was not desired.
Please e-mail when you reach the States. I want to hear of your progress. If you wish to meet us for Christmas this year, I expect you to be more respectful to Abby.
No signature line. Certainly no ending endearment.
I pushed off my bed and dropped next to her. “Yesterday? You’re thinking that’s why he sent you here. He couldn’t have written that, Isabel. Maybe Abby planned the timing and wrote the note.”
