The Book of Jane (2 page)

Lee's from Charleston, South Carolina, which he describes as “the Southernest place in America” and also “the only civilized place to live,” and so he has a lovely drawl and insists on calling me Miss Jane, no matter how many times I've explained that “my people” come from “Yankee territory.” I get my smoothie and plop down next to him. It is cold and sweet.

“What's Ty up to?” he asks, sucking on a straw.

“Writing,” I sigh. My boyfriend, Ty, is better known as Tyson R. Williams and is an up-and-coming writer. A young editor at Anchor signed up his first novel a year ago on the strength of some short stories he'd had published in
Tin House, Boulevard
, and
The Virginia Quarterly
. It wasn't a major book deal, but we thought it was exciting all the same.

“Hey, what's that?” I ask, squinting at a large piece of metal on the other side of the deck.

“Elvis,” Lee says and continues to coo at my dog.

I squint harder. It is Elvis. A giant, four-foot-tall metal statue of Elvis. “So he's not dead after all.”

“No, it seems he was living at the Flea Market in Queens. I rescued him. Two Hercules types delivered him from the back of a van. I thought he needed some air.”

I stand up to inspect the statue. It's not young, sexy Elvis, which I could probably deal with. It's Vegas Elvis, complete with a paunchy body and realistic-looking suede pants. There's even a “hound dog” at his feet. “Lee, he can't stay.”

Lee looks at me, horrified. “Jane, have you no roots? This is Elvis.”

“I can see that,” I say and rub Elvis's tummy for good luck. “And he's ugly. He can't live up here.”

Lee's shoulders sag. “Please? Just for a little while? He's a huge mistake and, well, you've seen my place. I can't fit another thing in there.”

Lee works out of his apartment, and it looks like a flea market itself. It's crammed from wall to wall with his “finds.” Sure, sometimes he palms them off on his clients, but mostly he just grows attached to them and refuses to ever part with them. “What happened?”

“Look, she said she was into kitsch. What's more kitschy than Elvis? How was I supposed to know that she's a Manilow fan and that she positively hates Elvis?” He holds his head in his hands.

“You bought the Pelvis for a client, and she refused it?”

“‘Refused it' makes it sound so rational. I think people in New Jersey heard her screaming at me. And I scoured this state for days just to find that for her. I can't even look at him.”

I stare at Elvis, his face twisted into his patented snarl. “Well, okay,” I say, sighing. “Just for a little while.”

“Really?”

I shrug and sit down on the edge of his chair. “Sure,” I say. “You'd do the same for me.”

“I would,” he says and sighs. “Of course, this kind of thing would never happen to you, Jane.”

I squint at him. “True. I tend to avoid buying statues of dead pop icons.”

“Oh, come on.” Lee laughs and throws his hands up in the air. “Hello? Jane, you're perfect. I can't believe I can even stand to be your friend. It's not easy, you know.”

“I'll remember your generosity at Christmas.”

“With your stupid blond hair.”

I roll my eyes. “It's just hair. It grows out of my head this way. Nothing I can do about that.”

“And your perfect boyfriend who is perfect for you. You even have the same last name!”

“Williams is a really common last name. Look in the phone book. It can happen.”

“And your perfectly organized cabinets and your neat little day planner.” I have the world's cutest Kate Spade day planner that I could not live even one day without. Sure, some people like those little organizer gadgets, but I'm old-fashioned. There's just something about being able to write out events and cross them out when you're done.

“And your adorable family and your great job. Aaah!” he screams and throws his hands up in the air. “Even your dog rings a bell on command. I mean, that's insane, Janie.”

“Look, Lee. My life is good. I know that. And I'm very grateful for it. God has really blessed me, and I'm—”

“Oh please. You're always talking about God,” he says, shaking his head. “What if you didn't have it so easy, Miss Religious? Would you still be so ‘God is my best friend' all the time? I don't think so. You'd be down here in the trenches with the rest of us.”

I take a deep breath. “I suppose the less you have, the more you have to trust God,” I say, but it sounds a little hollow, even to my ears. I walk over to Elvis to inspect him again. He's really not so bad. “I have been very fortunate,” I say and nod, thinking. “But you know, even if tomorrow it were all gone, I'd still be thankful for all that God has done.”

“Would you?” Lee asks, narrowing his eyes.

“I would,” I say, sitting back down on the lounger. “Absolutely.”

“I hope you never get the opportunity to test that statement,” he says.

“I hope I do,” I say, locking eyes with him. “Then you'd see.”

Lee shakes his head and takes a sip of his smoothie. “Whatever,” he mumbles, and we both fall silent, looking up at the stars.

“What are you thinking, Lee?” I finally ask.

He looks at me, his face composed and serious. “You should really consider getting a mini fridge out here for us.”

Chapter 2

O
kay, it's
pin candy time!” Raquel says. I'm sitting in a circle with twelve eight-year-olds decked out in “Brownie” brown and orange and covered with patches and pins. Raquel and I sit next to each other in the circle so that we seem to be in charge, although I'm never sure. They're eight-year-old girls. They could make a Navy SEAL cry.

Raquel is my best friend from my church back home. Even though she's a few years older than me, we were always close and reconnected when we both ended up in Manhattan. She's an Upper East Side supermom with two darling children, and I'm a working girl with, well, a very smart dog and a boyfriend who sometimes bathes. Raquel married Jack Hardaway, her college sweetheart, at twenty-one and moved with him to the city, where he had landed a great job at Brown Walton after passing the New York bar. I think she had intentions of getting a job since she was a computer science major, but, whoops, wouldn't you know it? She got pregnant two months after the wedding, so she just stayed home instead. Nine years later, she's the leader of Troop 192 of Manhattan, a ragtag bunch of little girls that includes her own precocious daughter, Haven Hardaway. The troop meets in our church's basement, and Raquel talked me into being her second in command. I must admit when I signed up I was hoping it was temporary, but I've gotten very attached to the girls now and could never leave. If I did, how would I ever find out who ended up getting picked by Tommy Drake at kickball? Tommy is apparently the only boy at their entire school who is cute. How can a whole Girl Scout troop have a crush on just one boy? I don't know. But I pity poor Tommy. I know these girls.

“I can see your bra, Jane of the Jungle,” Bella says and rolls over in raucous laughter into the arms of Kaitlin. Bella, Kaitlin, and Haven are the popular girls in our troop. I look down and discover that my conservative collared shirt has become unbuttoned at the top so that the girls can see a tiny inch of my black bra. Bras are the kind of thing the troop lives for. I button it up and shrug. Rule number one of Scouts: never show you care when they tease you. They can smell weakness.

“Bella, excuse me! It's pin candy time. Let's all zip our mouths shut and open our ears,” says Raquel. The girls all make a zipping motion across their mouths and toss an imaginary key over their shoulders, then put their hands over their ears and slowly lift them to reveal their “listening ears.” Raquel has somehow made being quiet a game. In the beautiful, peaceful silence that follows I worry about the day when they'll outgrow this game. May the good Lord help us.

Raquel turns to the girl on her left. It is Abby, as always. Abby is pudgy and clings to Raquel as if she were her mother. Meanwhile Haven, Raquel's real daughter, wouldn't be caught dead sitting next to her mom. “I see that Abby has remembered to wear all of her pins, her sash, and even has on her sock tassels. Good job, Abby!” Raquel hands her four pieces of candy, and Abby's eyes light up. I thought up the “pin candy.” The girls are supposed to wear their uniforms to Brownies, but ever since they turned eight, half of them have decided the outfits are uncool and started showing up in T-shirts with Shakira on the front instead. So now we reward wearing your pins with pin candy. The most you can get in any given week is four pieces, and Abby always makes sure to get all four. She lives for candy. We go around the circle, and everyone gets a few pieces of candy, but no one else gets four pieces because only Abby would wear her sock tassels. I definitely understand. I mean, sock tassels?

“This week, we're going to learn how to pitch a tent….”

Eight hands shoot up, and Raquel looks around.

“Yes,” Raquel says to Haven. I smile. Raquel is way more patient than I am.

“Mrs. Hardaway?” Haven refuses to call her “Mom” in Brownies. “Can I pitch the tent with Kaitlin and Bella?” The three girls lock arms together, and I groan inwardly.

“
I'll
put you into groups in a moment.” Raquel motions to Abby for her question.

“How are we going to pitch a tent inside?” asks Abby.

Raquel smiles, and Abby begins to pick at the scabs on her legs. “Right on the floor. You can pitch a tent anywhere, and we need to learn how before our big campout next month.”

A lot of the troops in Manhattan take wilderness walks in Central Park and “field trips” to the Toys “R” Us in Times Square, but Raquel and I had agreed that our girls were actually going to learn useful skills. We would hike, camp, tie knots, sail.

“I don't want to pitch a tent,” says Haven, crossing her arms over her chest.

“My mom said that sleeping in a tent is ree, ree, reediculous.”

“Do you think we're going to get our brains sucked out by ghosts if we sleep in the woods?”

“Can I be in your group?”

“Tommy talked to me in Social Studies, I swear.”

“Twee-r-wheet!” I whistle shrilly through my teeth. The girls all stop chattering and put their hands over their ears. There will be no anarchy on my watch.

“Listen up!” Raquel says. “I'll take questions at the end. We're going to divide into two groups, one with me and one with Jane, and we're going to learn to pitch a tent.” Raquel eyes the girls warily. No one dares raise a hand, so she continues. “Sleeping in a tent is fun. Pitching a tent is fun. When we go on our big fun campout, no one will have her brain sucked out by a ghost. We will instead have a lot of fun building campfires and singing songs, which are fun.”

I stifle a laugh. Boy, I'm convinced, Raquel. Sounds like fun.

 

My
group is doing just fine pitching our tent. I've been assigned Abby and Haven, but Raquel wisely took Kaitlin and Bella, and we have all been working together as harmoniously as can be expected. We have just correctly assembled the little flexy-poles when I steal a glance at Raquel's group, which is nearly done with their task.

“Okay, girls,” I say and they turn to look at me. I'm holding the instructions in my hand and reading them out loud, thinking that somehow, between all of us, we'll figure this out. Six little pairs of eyes stare back at me, confused. I try to pretend that I'm in a board meeting for an important client. “Great. Well, this should be a snap, right?”

“Do you know what you're doing?” Abby asks.

I look at her, feigning shock. “Of course I do.”

“Duh, Abby. She's the grown-up,” Haven says, as if any grown-up is trained in all manners of knowledge, not excluding tent pitching.

“Okay, what I want you all to do is get one of those poles over there and begin to thread it through the fabric loops. Start at the bottom.”

A few of the girls get the first pole and Haven holds the tent material so that they can put it through. “Great work, guys. See. It's a little bit like that sewing badge we earned.” They guide the first pole through a series of loops and down to the other side. It's really starting to look like a tent now. My phone rings, and I can see that it's Tyson. “Great. Now do the other one on the opposite side. I'll be right back,” I say, walking away to the corner to talk.

“Hey, you,” I say into the phone.

“Hey yourself,” he says. “What's the plan for tonight?”

“Well…” I say, stalling. My eyes sting from three late nights in a row, my body aches, and all I want to do is go home to my dog Charlie, eat a pint of ice cream, and go to bed early.

“Oh no you don't,” he says. “You're not canceling on me again. All work and no play makes Jane a dull girl.”

I melt. “Okay,” I say.

“How about Alice's at nine? That will give you some time after Brownies to relax. We'll just get some dessert.”

“Deal,” I say. Alice's is a little café around the corner from my apartment. We go there weekly. Since Tyson's a full-time writer, he's been really nice to accommodate my schedule, which is a lot more hectic. “See you there.”

I hang up and turn back to my group, gasping. Somehow all the tent poles are now out of the shell and Abby has wrapped the material around her body and is pretending to be the Statue of Liberty. Two of the other girls are sword fighting with the Flexomatic poles, and Haven is singing “Greatest Love of All.”

“Girls!” I say, loudly. “What on earth is going on?”

They all freeze. Raquel looks over to our half of the church basement and frowns. I give her a confident smile to reassure her I have it under control and then plant my hands on my hips.

“Haven said this was stupid,” Abby says in front of the other girls, pointing at Haven. Haven pinches Abby on the back of her arm. I sigh for Abby and regret I even asked. This is the sort of behavior that makes the other girls resent her.

“It doesn't matter what happened. Let's just build the tent now. We're way behind the other group,” I say. I give each girl a specific task, and slowly but surely we assemble our tent. At the end we all clap and then rejoin Raquel's group, which has been playing “Duck, Duck, Goose,” waiting on us to finish up.

“Everything okay over there?” Raquel asks under her breath when we rejoin the Brownie circle for closing songs.

“I broke the second rule of scouting,” I sigh.

“Never turn your back on them?”

“Exactly.”

 

“Right
on time,” I say, brightening as Ty walks up to the table at Alice's. We always sit at the same small round marble table in the corner. We even have a favorite waitress, Simone. Ty leans over and kisses my nose. I smile and sigh. “I've really missed you.”

“You too,” he says, sitting down beside me. At six foot one, he is lean and muscular and has sparkling blue eyes and light blond hair. After dating probably every available guy at my church and then dating every available guy that Raquel knew who wasn't married yet, I'd given up hope. And then, poof! I met Ty on a stalled A train, going downtown. He'd just moved here and hadn't found a church yet, so I considered it my Christian duty to get him installed at mine immediately. On our first date we went to Coney Island, where we rode the Cyclone and ate cotton candy, and he pitched softballs at milk cans to win me a stuffed animal, a giant pink elephant, which I pretended to really want. I still remember how it felt, standing there on the boardwalk in front of a pretzel stand, kissing him for the first time. I had never felt anything so perfect. And before I knew it, we had become Ty and Jane.

Simone comes over, and I order a shot of espresso, immune to caffeine after all these years, and a slice of apple tart, and Ty gets a ginseng tea and crème brûlée.

“I have big news,” I say, sitting up straight in my chair and clapping my hands as Simone places our orders in front of us. I have been waiting all day to tell him this. He's going to flip.

He cocks his head to the side. “Well, spill it.”

“Hamilton's going to let me do it,” I say and knock twice on the table for good luck, then realize it's made of marble and shrug. Hamilton is the CEO of Glassman Co. and has been my boss for the last five years. The company was started by Hamilton's father, the notorious Herb Glassman, who retired a few years back and now spends most of his time in the Hamptons. I've been stalking Hamilton around the office, trying to make him give me fifteen minutes of his time to tell him my new idea. And today, he finally listened.

“What?! How on earth did you pull that off? Wow, Jane. You could convince anybody of anything. That man has a heart of coal,” he says and shakes his head.

“I've been praying about how to tell him that I want to pursue charities and nonprofits for accounts, and then last night the perfect idea came to me.” I take a sip of espresso. I'm so happy I can barely sit still. “The solution is Matt Sherwin.”

Tyson looks at me like I've lost my mind. “The actor? Married to Chloe Martin?” I smile at Ty. It's been a lot of work, but he is finally starting to learn the difference between Lindsay Lohan and Ashlee Simpson and last week he correctly listed the names of Angelina Jolie's children.

“They're only engaged,” I say. Okay, so celebrity gossip is a minor habit of mine. I get all the magazines. Don't judge. At least I don't chew my nails. “He's going to solve all of my problems.”

“I don't know how,” he laughs, “but I'm happy for you.”

Ty knows me better than anyone, so he knows how much this means to me. I love my job, but…well, I just always thought that I'd end up helping people. In college, I knew that someday I'd be out there in the streets passing out bowls of soup and bread or working long hours organizing campaigns against pollution. Seven years later, the Brownies are the only semblance of the life I wanted. But about a month ago, I saw a solution. I needed to convince Hamilton to let me do pro bono PR for charities.

“Matt Sherwin was just signed up to be the spokesperson for the charity World Aid,” I say, taking a sip of my espresso. “They are helping feed the poor,
and
he's a celebrity. He's the perfect middle ground that will make Hamilton happy and allow me to do something to effect change.”

“And Hamilton took the bait?”

“He was skeptical at first, but he likes the idea of Glassman Co. working with A-listers, so I have the go-ahead to pursue them. I just hope they bite,” I say.

Tyson takes a long sip of tea. “You really are incredible.”

“So are you,” I sigh.

“And I have good news too.” He takes a bite of crème brûlée. “I'm over the writer's block.”

“Hooray,” I say, and toast him with my espresso. His book comes out just before Christmas, and he's currently putting the final touches on a critical scene, but Ty has been stumped about what to do. His character is literally standing on the edge of a building, thinking of jumping, and he hasn't been able to figure out how to get him down again.

“I'm so relieved. For a while there, I thought I'd blow my deadline.”