Page 109 of Jane Deyre
Draping a towel around herself, she darts out of the bathroom. My heavy, conflicted heart sinks to my stomach like the Titanic.
My plan was to fuck John Reed and Céline out of our brains and send them into the stratosphere. Into Elon Musk territory.
That plan never happens. Jane spends the night in my bed, her body turned away from me, distanced.
In the morning when I wake up, she’s gone.
CHAPTER 55
Jane
Reader, my days here at Thornhill are numbered. Mr. Rochester will soon be returning to Oregon with Adele. There’s no reason for me to stay. As the day of Edwina’s gala-slash-book signing nears, I can’t shake the glumness that consumes me. I barely eat. Barely sleep. I stay away from Mr. Rochester and he stays away from me.
“Jane, you seem sad,” says an observant Adele as I help her clean her snail cage. There’s now a new addition: Slimy. A teeny-weeny baby snail. The only one we kept after a hundred hatched overnight to our surprise. The rest we scattered around the old apple tree where she found Speedy, Stripe, and Stripette.
My precious charge feeds the snails. “Jane, aren’t you excited to come with Papa and me on our trip toOrgan?”
“Oregon,” I correct, her charming mispronunciation making my heart grow heavier. God, I’m going to miss her. And yes, reader, I’m going to miss him. So, so much, it aches to admit it. It aches so much I physically feel sick.
I spray the terrarium leaves with some water. “Sweetie, I won’t be coming with you.” Oh, how it hurts to say these words.
Adele looks at me lovingly with her big chocolate-brown eyes. “But, Jane, you have to come! It won’t be any fun without you!”
“I think it’s best I stay behind, and I can look after your snails,” I counter quickly, putting the lid back on the glass tank. And wonder: does she know that she’ll be moving there permanently? That she’ll be out of my life forever?
My hunch is she doesn’t when she says brightly, “But Papa says I can bring them. That means you can come too!”
No matter what excuse I come up with, the clever little girl will come up with something that negates it. I glance down at my watch. It’s almost twelve thirty. Time for lunch. I likely won’t be eating a thing.
Now early September a little after Labor Day, the weather has grown gloomy again as if it’s been programmed to match my mood. Rather than having an Indian summer, Los Angeles is having an early fall. Heavy rain is forecast on the night of the gala, which puts Ms. Fairfax into a mad frenzy because she has to move the outdoor reception inside the Academy Museum. Lashing out at everyone she comes in contact with, she puts Grace and me to work, rearranging the seating chart. Only the arthritic housekeeper knows about my impending departure from Thornhill. When I told her I was leaving—and the reason why—she put her lips to her crucifix and hugged me. I actually heard her cry. Tears, I’ve learned, cannot be muted.
The only positive thing about my final days at Thornhill is that my sleep, the little I get, is not interrupted by night terrors or weird happenings now that John Reed is gone from my life. Though I still hear weird noises in the middle of the night, I attribute them to the age of the guesthouse. It’s in a state of disrepair. Needing new pipes and wiring. And much more. Nothing since the John Reed incident has gone missing. Or been touched. And there haven’t been any more threatening notes. Or intimidating packages.
Soon, I will be living in a place of my own. One that’s decent with security. Over the past several months, I’ve saved money. I even got a small gig on a popular network crime show that paid me twenty-five hundred dollars. Thanks to Edwina’s lessons, I’ve honed my acting skills and I can officially call myself an actress. The producers took note of me and told me they want me for bigger parts. Maybe even a recurring role.
The future is bright.
The future is bleak.
Without Mr. Rochester and Adele.
The day of the gala at last arrives. Gloomier than ever. The sky livid all day, threatening to explode.
All week I’ve felt terribly sick. Instead of getting better, I’ve gotten worse. I’ve thrown up twice today and spent my day on the toilet. I think I’ve contracted some kind of awful bug. Or maybe the mosquito illness that’s been flying around LA. Or food poisoning. Though the latter is unlikely as I’ve only consumed herbal tea over the past few days. And there’s this, reader. Maybe it’s a disease of the heart. Despair so deep it gnaws at my marrow. Eats away at my stomach.
Heartache.
Since my last intimate, if you want to call it that, encounter with Mr. Rochester, I’ve lost a considerable amount of weight. I used to be thin, but now I’m skeletal. My ribs are protruding, and my face is wan and gaunt. Nothing fits me, including Edwina’s iconic red gown, which she’s insisted I wear. Grace, God bless her, took it in two days ago. And now tonight, it’s again swimming on me. That’s how sick and thin I am. There’s no time to take it in further. A limo awaits outside to take us to the gala. So much of me wants to stay with Adele, who despite pleading to go with us, is staying behind at Thornhill with Grace. Truth, I can’t bear sharing the same air as her father.
Our entourage is already gathered in the entryway.
Edwina is dressed in a shimmering gold lamé caftan and a matching turban, looking every bit the legendary star she is. She’s planning on boldly taking off the turban tonight to expose her alopecia in front of the star-studded crowd and the press.
Blanche, who flew in yesterday for the red-carpet event, is in a slinky ivory silk gown with rhinestone-studded spaghetti straps and a slit that reveals one of her long, toned thighs. The glamorous, blond-again goddess looks much like a movie star herself... huddling next to Mr. Rochester. Dressed in black tie, his back is to me as I slowly descend the staircase, Grace and Adele behind me holding up the train of my gown.
I grip the banister, hoping I won’t collapse. I’ve tried so hard to extricate him from my soul, but at the first sight of him, all my feelings for him are revived. Without looking at me, he’s made me love him again. Because, reader, I’ve never stopped loving him. And maybe never will.
“Papa, doesn’t Jane look beautiful? Like a princess?” beams Adele, who begged for me to wear one of Edwina’s diamond tiaras.