Page 5 of The Austen Escape
I started to leave, then stopped. “Is it obvious, Moira? No one else knows, do they?”
Moira had every right to laugh. I did sound like a sixth grader. Instead her eyes softened at the corners with sympathy or pity. “You’re safe. It’s me, Mary. I doubt anyone else would pick up on it.”
“Including him?”
“Definitely him. All shields are up and in perfect working order.” The humor didn’t reach her eyes or her voice.
As I walked away I felt her disappointment follow me.
“Safe isn’t always best, Mary,” she called out—vague enough not to raise listening ears, pointed enough to hit its mark.
I shot back. “But safe doesn’t get her heart ripped out twice in one day.”
Chapter 3
Iinched down Texas State Highway Loop 1—known to locals as MoPac, after the Missouri Pacific Railroad that was there before the road. At ten miles per hour, I had plenty of time to replay every word, spoken and unspoken, from my walk with Nathan.
The sun had dipped to the horizon, but the heat hadn’t abated. It was late October and Austin hovered in the high eighties and low nineties.
I pulled into a spot a few blocks south of Guero’s, directly in front of Crow Bar, and crossed the street to the restaurant. As soon as I stepped inside, I spotted Dad’s cloud of white hair through the mass of people. He always reminded me a little of Albert Einstein, and I was secretly glad he never cut his hair short or even brushed it much.
He wore his usual white oxford withDavies Electricembroidered in red over the pocket, worn jeans, and Ropers. He stood to greet me, and I reached up and kissed him. He smelled of home—WD-40, Clubman, and Tide.
“Hey, Dad. Sorry I’m late.”
He twisted around me so I could take his stool. “You’re right on time. I put our name in about an hour ago. We should be up soon.” He nodded to the bar behind me. “I’ve been chatting with the bartender. Very nice fellow.”
The light glinted off Dad’s whiskers. They were scruffy, gray, and thinner than I remembered. He’d forgotten to shave again. He’d probably forgotten to eat today too.
“Have you gone through all those meals I made?”
Dad fought a grimace, and I almost laughed. I wasn’t a good cook. I wasn’t even a marginal cook. A friend had taught me five easy-to-freeze recipes a couple years ago, and whenever I was home I made double batches for my dad.
“Stop fretting,” he said. “And don’t let me forget—I made a new gizmo for you.”
“You did?”
“Wait until you see what it does. You’re going to love—” Dad stiffened, then his eyes lit. “That’s us.” He gently directed me in front of him to cut through the crowded bar.
Dad made me “gizmos” to solve small everyday problems or simply to make me smile. My favorite remained the toothbrush that self-dispensed exactly the right amount of toothpaste and timed my two-minute brush.
We sat at our table, and he opened his menu.
“Dad? What are you doing?” I pushed mine aside. “You never look at the menu at Guero’s. You always order the Chiles rellenos.”
“What, a man can’t branch out?”
I wagged my finger at him. “There’s something else going on here. Spill.”
His eyes darted up and down the long page, then he gave upand laid the menu and his glasses on the table. “Fine. You should accept Isabel’s invitation.”
I felt my lips part and my body slump against the chair.
“We already talked about this. You agreed with me.”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“She called you, didn’t she?” I closed my eyes. I should have expected it.
