Page 54 of The Austen Escape
“Here.” Nathan pulled me and the net up. He patted his hands against the wet sides of the net, then unhooked the fish. “About a thirteen-inch brown trout; what a little beauty.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Fish are covered with a film. Dry hands will ruin it and hurt the fish, so you wet them in the water or on the net first.” He held up his “little beauty.”
“Now I feel bad; I didn’t know they needed that viscous coating. I used to wipe it off as a kid.”
“Ugh... Really?”
“We ate the fish,” I whined, sounding like a five-year-old. “It hardly mattered.”
“This one we’ll release, if you don’t mind.” Nathan smiled and dipped his hands and the fish under the water. He pumped it beneath the surface like winding up a Matchbox car and let it go.
“Too small to eat anyway,” I quipped, then retreated to the bench behind us. His pack of gum lay on top of his coat. I took a piece.
“Are you giving up?”
“I’m not very good at it and, you’re right, this dress makes it awkward. I’ll try it again someday, in my own clothes. Right now, I’d rather sit here and admire you while you fish.”
As the words left my mouth, I realized that, like a true aficionado, I’d just appropriated an Austen line. Mr. Bingley’s sister Caroline was a wonderful model for fawning adoration. She’d practically salivated over Darcy, and he was only writing a letter.
I sat and Nathan fished. The silence was light and lovely until I realized it wasn’t silence at all. The stream gurgled, birds chirped, something called in the distance. It was downright noisy—and perfect. I closed my eyes to enjoy every sound... and then opened them to watch Nathan, like a good and proper Caroline Bingley. He still faced the river and cast with ease. But there was a rhythmic quality to his motions, as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was in front of him. His shoulders lifted up then seemed to stiffen and broaden as they dropped back. I’d seen the gesture before. Nathan had made a decision.
“Mary?” He called and let my name linger in question, but he didn’t turn.
“Yes.”
“You know Isabel calls me TCG. She has nicknames for everyone. Have I heard about you?”
“I thought you knew.” I closed my eyes. I felt almost swamped with relief that he didn’t. But then... how fair was that? “SK.”
I expected him to take time and converge the girl with the nickname. He didn’t. “Will you translate it for me?”
“I can tell you when it started.”
He slanted a look my way.
“When we were about ten, my mom took us to Dallas to the American Girl store and we each got to pick out a doll. Isabel’s dadsent along the money to fund our expedition, so Mom said she could pick first. She chose Kit Kittredge.”
“Who?”
“She’s this spunky blonde from 1934, saves her family from the Depression and is a genuinely adorable heroine. Isabel beelined straight to her. She then spent the next hour cajoling me into picking Ruthie, Kit’s best friend.”
“Who you didn’t want?”
I shrugged, which he couldn’t see. “Not exactly. There was nothing wrong with Ruthie. She’s quiet, cute, loyal, and all good things, but it was more complicated than that, at least it felt that way even then. Isabel and I... It doesn’t matter. I bought Ruthie.”
I envisioned Ruthie, with her long, dark hair and her fine coat of dust, sitting in her box at the top of the hallway closet. “She’s probably a collector’s item now. The company doesn’t even make the sidekick dolls anymore.”
I froze.
“That’s it, isn’t it? SK. Sidekick.”
I shrugged again. This time he saw it. He turned back to the stream.
Einstein was right about the space-time continuum. Massive objects, or statements, or revelations, can cause a bending—a disruption. I sat in such a distortion now. I could physically feel him lining up WATT’s Mary with Isabel’s SK. I looked down the path—it seemed to tunnel away into the distance. Another distortion—that path hadn’t seemed so long before. It wasn’t a viable escape route.
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
