Marilyn Brant - According to Jane

Jane doesn’t waste a second jumping on this comment.

Precisely the problem, she states. You might inquire as to why it has taken him so long to value you. You might also press him to explain why, with so little effort to win your heart, he expects you to declare your affections and faint dead away at his paltry display of passion.

Jane, as always, has a point. It just happens to be a point my heart and my ego don’t want to hear.

Sam, not being privy to Jane’s criticisms, pulls me into his arms once again and sets my mouth aflame with another slow kiss. I’m flying on the wings of ecstasy and disbelief, which make a heady combination. Needless to say, I’ve never forgotten how good he is at the whole kissing thing — and time has only improved his skill. Even being a strong modern woman, I’m hardly unresponsive.

Plus, the pull of a traditional happily-ever-after finale to my life’s story is compelling, both for its own sake, and even more so because it feels potentially within reach for the first time in eons. The only problem is that I could be completely wrong about Sam and me being right for each other.

I step back from this second kiss, my lips and heart both trembling, and stare at him.

Anyone but him, Jane urges. Please, Ellie, promise me you will not enter into an engagement with that man. Promise me this and…and I shall tell you a secret.

What kind of a secret?

One you long to know. One I have kept from you all these years. She hesitates, obviously debating, before adding, The identity of my one true love.

The Clergyman By The Sea? The Mystery Man? I say to her, stunned.

The possibility of this more than intrigues me, I admit, but is the knowledge worth my giving up the chance to find out what might happen next with Sam?

There is more than my love’s name at stake, Ellie. It involves you directly. And your family.

I gasp and my heart pauses mid-beat. Is it as I’ve always hoped? Oh, God, Jane! Am I a relative of yours after all? Was there a secret baby somewhere and now I’m —

Dear heavens, no. You are not an Austen or a descendant of one. But in a way you are like my child, one I vowed long ago to guide and protect. There IS a reason I chose you, beyond the lessons we needed to learn. And I shall tell you what it is, but only if you leave Mr. Blaine this instant.

I breathe in. I breathe out. I twirl my hair and shuffle my feet while sneaking glances at Sam, who’s staring at me strangely.

“Ellie?” he says, eyeing me as he might a psych-ward escapee.

Ellie? Jane says.

But I can’t do it.

I’m sorry, Jane. I can’t promise to stay away from Sam. Not even for you. Not even for a secret like that.

Because, see, as much as I want to know what Jane has to reveal, the truth is smacking me in the face today. It won’t be denied, although I’d all but tramped down my own deep, dark secret and buried it: I’m an optimist.

Still.

Even though it isn’t the ’80s anymore. Even though I’ve been hurt by romantic warfare time and again. Even though I’m not a fifteen-year-old geek with my nose buried in a book who, for some mysterious reason (that I’ll probably never know now), has Jane Austen as my Personal Spiritual Guide.

Hey, I waited almost twenty years for an answer to that question, what’s another decade or two?

But here I am at this moment, a thirty-four-year-old geek, and against my will and against my reason (although, okay, not against my character), I still want that fucking Cinderella story for myself.

More than an amazing, no-one-else-on-the-planet-knows-this secret.

More than anything else.

I want that happily-ever-after ending I imagined, as a teen, I’d get someday. That daydream I held on to as my prize for surviving those sucky years of adolescence.

Dammit, I deserve that ending.

It’s just that, if I’m truly honest with myself, I can no longer tell if it’s Sam, specifically, I want or if it’s the nearly two-decade-old fantasy featuring him as the heroic lead.

So, at the last second, I cop out.

“I need to think about this,” I tell him. “But I’m glad you came back so we could talk.” I nod ever so reassuringly and begin to back away.

He squints at me, perplexed. “But Ellie? Wait — where are you going?”

“See you at the wedding, Sam,” I say. Then I turn and run back home, as though the magic were about to wear off and the naked simplicity of my desires revealed.

Oh! how heartily did she grieve over

every ungracious sensation she had

ever encouraged, every saucy speech

she had ever directed towards him.

 — Pride and Prejudice

Three days later, at the wedding, we have forty-five minutes to go before the ceremony….

Di is freaking out over some Cover Girl Orange Crème nail polish. (It matches her original sardonyx engagement ring and it looks great, but she chipped a nail, so now what’s she gonna do?) Our mother is trying to calm her down.

Angelique and Nadia are in their bridesmaids’ dresses, helping their respective husbands straighten their respective groomsmen ties.

Cousins Aaron and Andy show up late for their ushering duties (because the Twin Terrors may have grown taller, but they never grew up), and neither of them have their tuxes on yet. My father and my Uncle Craig are chewing them out in the dressing area.

The groom is soothing his pre-wedding jitters (with the help of his brother, Nick, and a well-concealed flask of bourbon) in the men’s bathroom.

And Aunt Candice is put in charge of corralling the youngsters into the church playroom. I hear one of the triplets shriek in terror at the sound of her voice.

I grin and say under my breath, “I know the feeling, kid.”

I put the finishing touches on my makeup and smooth out my somewhat racy maid-of-honor dress. It’s scandalously clingy and lusciously purple, the kind of dress I always wanted to wear but needed a tad more nerve. I have more than nerve today. I have my sister’s direct orders.

“I’m the bride,” Di reminded me a few months ago when we were selecting gowns. “I want you to look hot on my wedding day, and that’s final.”

A note to all wise wedding attendants: What the bride wants, the bride gets.

Thirty-two minutes before the ceremony…

I leave the dressing area to locate where the florist left our bouquets, corsages and boutonnieres and to make sure everything we need to have on hand is waiting for us. I find them on a table near the back of the church and count out the number of items. I compare this figure with the number of attendants, ushers, parents, etc. in need of floral adornment. Fortunately, there are roses for all.

Early-arriving guests begin to flutter in. I pause in the foyer to say hello to Terrie and her boyfriend Everett (I knew they were a serious couple), several friends of the family and Reverend Jacobs, who’d officiated at Di and Alex’s last wedding.

“This time it’ll be forever,” the Reverend says to me with a hearty laugh.

I’m about to chime in with my agreement when a shrill “Oh, my God!” interrupts us.

It’s my mother. She’s standing three yards away, looking at her cell phone like it just mooned her.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“They have food poisoning,” she says, her voice a shocked whisper.

“Who? The caterers?” I’m seriously praying it’s not the caterers.

“The band. Three out of the five members. Something about tainted shrimp at their gig last night.” She covers her mouth with her hand, her chest heaving hard. I’m worried there’ll be hyperventilating soon if I don’t do something quick.

I snatch her cell phone. “Just relax, Mom,” I say, although I’m on the verge of panicking myself. “I’ll make some calls and see if we can get a last-minute replacement for the reception.” But I know this’ll be next to impossible. You just don’t try to book a live band a few hours before they have to start playing.

Reverend Jacobs beats a hasty retreat, Mom continues to stand in place and gulp air, and the pews begin to crowd up as the well-wishers fill the church.

“What’s going on?” says the most recognizable American male voice on the planet.

I swivel around to face Sam. “We’re having a little problem.”

Sam stares at me, but doesn’t speak. He’s stunning to behold in his navy suit but, then, he always did clean up nice. I watch him scan my hair, my dress, my mouth. Then he shuts his eyes and bows his head.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing. I mean, you look incredible, but we’ll discuss that later.” He glances up at me and grins faintly. “How can I help with the ‘little problem’?”

I shake my head and glare at Mom’s cell phone. “You can’t.” Then I turn to my mother. “I’m going to need a phone book.”

Mom runs off to snitch one from the Reverend’s office and almost collides with Di, who’s sprinting toward us in full (albeit low-cut) ivory-and-lace bridal regalia.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” Di says, panting. “We’re so screwed!”

“Shhh, we’re in a church,” I tell her. “Keep your voice down, but don’t worry. I’ll find another band.”

“A band?” Sam says, his eyes widening. “For the reception? Tonight?”

Di gives him a fretful nod. “Can you play Billy Idol’s ‘White Wedding’ on electric guitar?”

Sam shakes his head.