Page 6 of The Austen Escape
Isabel, unquestionably my oldest friend, questionably my best, had called a couple months ago with an invitation for a “trip of a lifetime”—a costumed Austen-style adventure to Bath, England. And while aspects of it appealed to me, brought back pleasant memories rather than painful ones, I concocted a few excuses and politely declined.
When I’d told Dad about it, he’d agreed. Work comes first, two weeks is a long time for a vacation, having a new boss is a tough spot to be in...
What I hadn’t told either of them was the truth: I was tired, and on some level was easing my way out of my friendship with Isabel. Our relationship seemed to be stuck at age eight. The same dynamic charged between us—and that might have been fine, but somewhere in the last year it had darkened a shade and taken on an even more competitive edge than it had acquired in high school—which started over an incident regarding Austen too. So despite the temptation to hop on my first plane, take my first true vacation, and finally see something beyond the ninety-mile radius of my world, I’d said no.
That Isabel had rejected my decision and gone around my back to Dad should not have surprised me. That was standard operating procedure. She loved my father almost as much as I did. While her dad traveled to oil rigs and refineries around the world,mine was the one who had attended her parent-teacher conferences, picked her up from field hockey practice when she broke her ankle, and was the name she wrote down as her emergency contact every year. And if you want something, that’s what you do: you ask your dad.
“She needs you.” Dad leaned across the table and rested his hand on top of mine.
I could feel the calluses on his fingertips. I slid my hand to my lap.
“I’m not saying she can’t be a challenge. She lays claims to things and no one else can touch them, but remember, Mary... We had our problems, and God knows it was tough, but that little girl had it even harder. Her mama left when she was only six. Think of her life in England, her father traveling all the time, then uprooting her to bring her to the States but still constantly gone. She went home to a live-in nanny most nights of her growing-up years. Can you imagine that? You had your mama, you had me, and you had your brothers. Who held her when she cried herself to sleep? Who paid attention? No wonder real and make-believe got blurred.”
As much as I wanted to protest, I couldn’t.
Isabel had joined our second-grade class three weeks into school. With her bright-blue eyes, gorgeous black curls, and lilting British tones, she had every girl salivating to be her best friend. At lunch on that first day, Missy Reneker, the most popular girl in the class, with her Guess jean shorts and gladiator sandals, pushed me off the bench to sit with the new girl.
Isabel, without missing a beat and wearing the coolest Beatles T-shirt ever, grabbed my arm to pick me up and said, “Mary sits next to me.” That was it. Best friends. Even now, looking acrossthis table twenty years later, I had to admit... It was pretty much the best day of my childhood.
Dad smiled with an odd mix of compassion and shame. He rubbed at a stain on the linoleum tabletop. “I’ll never forget how she helped you find all those pretty dresses. I had you working as an electrician’s assistant every summer, and your mama was too weak by then to do stuff, but Isabel made things fun. She made them pretty. Your brothers and I... We didn’t know how to do that. She even made the reservations and planned that party for your sixteenth birthday. Remember how she called all your brothers and told them to get their butts back home!”
My laugh morphed to a snort. That was a good memory. At twenty-three, twenty-five, and twenty-seven, all three of them complained the entire weekend, especially about being called to task by a “five-foot-two pip-squeak.” But they showed up, each of them bearing a gift wrapped in newspaper—no bows. They had their limits.
Dad shook his head and continued. “We laugh that she’s silly, but those things weren’t silly. They were important, and I—we would’ve missed them. If she needs you now, that’s what family does. We’re there for each other.”
“Isabel is family now?”
His eyes narrowed.
I raised my hand before he could reply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
And I didn’t. Isabelwasfamily and had been since the first day she came home with me after school. She was there for every occasion. And when my mom died two years ago, Isabel showed up at my apartment every night for almost three months, often waiting hours while I worked late. She always brought something—icecream, a movie, chocolate, a magazine—to make me feel better, laugh, and forget for a while. She was the author of those easy-to-freeze meals. Dad was right—Isabel knew how to make things fun and pretty, even when they hurt.
“So you’ll go?”
Before I could answer, Dad quirked a sideways smile. Deep lines trailed through his temples. He knew he’d won—again.
“Goodness’ sake, girl, you should see your face. She wants to take you to some fancy English estate for a costume party, not torture you.”
I lifted a single brow.
“Stop that. You’ll have a great time. You love wearing skirts. Like the ones you used to wear, the pretty ones that swirled and bounced.”
“Dad, those went out of style long ago.”
“Your mom used to say pretty never goes out of style. Forget the skirts, Mary... This is a real opportunity for you. We could never afford to do stuff like this.”
There it was—the vast, barren landscape that spread between Dad and me. Mom had been sick, and he’d worked to feed and clothe and send four of us to college. There had been room for little else.
“It didn’t matter, Dad.” I reached for his hand now. “I’ll go.”
His sideways smile evened out to a full grin. “Text her now.”
“No cell phones at the dinner table.”
“Don’t be sassy. Go on, text her.” He picked up his menu again. “I’ll look this over while you do.”
I pulled out my phone.
