His and Hers
by Dawn Calvert
ISBN: 0821780603

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 PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Jane Ellingson, Woman Wonder with a shredded cape flapping in the virtual breeze, watched as the barista poured a bag of beans into the espresso machine. You knew your life was up to no good when you could seriously relate to beans being chewed up and spit out in a high-pitched whine.

Some days you’re the machine, some days you’re the bean.

Jane buried her head in her hands, pressing her fists to her ears to dim the sounds of conversation, chairs scraping across the wooden floor and bursts of steam. The voice of a cheerful employee sailed above the din. Normally, she loved Starbucks, craved Starbucks. Not today. She stared at the cup in front of her, holding a White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino with a shot of peppermint, no whip. Hadn’t even yet lifted it to her lips. Maybe wouldn’t at all, given the stomach crawling over itself in agony and the headache pressing at the edges of her temple.

Unbelievable. One pretty great life, destroyed in a matter of days. Twenty-six years to get to this point and less than a week to chuck it all down the drain.

She didn’t want to think about it. Unfortunately, all she could do was think about it. Run it over and over in her mind. The face of her boss, Senator Alice Tate’s chief assistant, open-mouthed in disbelief as he stared at his screen. Jane had included a paragraph on the senator’s stint in alcohol rehab in a news release on the bill that would assist struggling apple growers. The same news release Jane had so efficiently distributed to the media list. It was her job, after all. She did it so well she’d been given the “Woman Wonder” nickname after only a few months on the job. But this time, it turned out she had a challenge with the cut and paste functions.

“You knew,” Chase had said, between lips pulled so tight, they had turned white, “that was something we were working on in case of a news leak.” He had clutched his thick brown hair so hard, Jane was sure he was going to pull it out in clumps. “We weren’t intending to announce it.”

And she could only stammer, “I– I–”

Because she had no comeback. No excuse. She’d been in a hurry to get home and have time to change for her date with Byron. He of the brilliant, white-toothed smile and deep blue eyes. He, who it seemed, she’d waited all her life to meet.

The news release had been a last-minute task, like most in the senator’s office. A hasty, pull-this-bit-from-this draft and this-from-that one. She hadn’t proofread, for the first time in as long as she could remember, or she would have seen what she’d accidentally included.

A politician who championed tough legislation on drunk driving could not have it hit the press that she struggled with her own alcohol issues. Especially if an enterprising member of the press dug deep enough to find what else was there.

Jane rubbed one pink manicured finger hard into her forehead, as though physical pain could help obliterate the memory.

Byron, when he’d arrived at her apartment, found her shattered from her day and the realization she could be out of a job. She’d sunk into his familiar arms, heard him murmur in her ear and somehow believed everything would be all right. If only she had him around permanently, she’d thought, to soothe her every night, instead of seeing him just a couple of times a week.

They could have a life, the two of them. In a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs. Maybe kids, eventually, on a swing set in the backyard, under the watchful eye of Mother of the Year candidate Jane and a protective, but playful, collie named Shep. Or Bob. Something. One of those names people gave to dogs.

Jane, the kids and the dog would wait patiently for a smiling Byron to come home from his job at the investment firm. Where he would have skyrocketed through the ranks fast enough to be able to afford that house in the suburbs and all the Pottery Barn furniture that would go inside it. She knew just what colors she’d paint the walls.

The picture had its appeal. Didn’t matter that Jane didn’t have much experience with kids. Or dogs. Or even like the suburbs, when you compared that sort of life to the excitement of the city.

What mattered was that it was a life. One she’d been sure she’d grow used to. Even like. Better yet… love.

In a burst of spontaneity that at the time had seemed so romantic, she’d whispered the idea in Byron’s ear. “Let’s get married.” And felt his entire body freeze.

“What?” he’d choked.

That had been her chance. She could have, just that fast, turned it into a joke. But instead, she’d repeated the words, with a desperation even she heard in her voice.

He’d ruffled her hair, a little more firmly than usual, and broken from their embrace to bolt for the bottle of wine he’d brought, banging the cupboards open and shut in a search for glasses. She’d stood in the middle of her Persian lookalike rug, surrounded by generic off-white walls, feeling more alone than she ever had. With her boyfriend no more than six feet away, turning a visible shade of pale beneath the tan he’d acquired on a sales reward trip to Mexico. Tiny arrows of hurt stabbed at Jane’s heart until it felt like a sieve, raining tears she couldn’t shed.

They’d put on music and drunk wine. Lots of wine. Just as her eyelids had begun to flutter between open and shut, she’d seen Byron, shoes in hand, tiptoe from the couch to the door. And, she’d been sure, out of her life.

She highly suspected that, once terrified, boyfriends rarely returned to the scene of the terrification.

Just because she’d asked him to marry her. How… sixties of him. She’d be offended, angry, glad to be rid of him. If only she didn’t love him. How sixties of her.

As if it wasn’t enough for her to delete her own chance at ever-after happiness, the very next day, she’d had to try and wreck Holly’s, too. Holly, who’d been her loyal friend since the ninth grade. Jane stifled a groan as she relived spilling an entire glass of red wine down the back of Holly’s wedding dress as it hung on display for the bridesmaids to admire.

It had been an accident. An accident. One minute Jane was talking to redheaded Brianna Brisbee about the groomsmen they’d be matched with and the next, wine was spreading like blood in a horror film.

Holly wasn’t speaking to Jane at the moment. Wouldn’t let her FedEx a replacement or find a dry cleaner who worked stain miracles. Nothing. “Just stay away from me,” her friend had said. The wedding was in two days.

Stay away. What did that mean when you were supposed to be a bridesmaid?

Jane pressed the small of her back into the stuffing of the coffee shop chair, letting her head rest against the top, and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t the first time she’d screwed things up in her life, but it could be the first time the screwups had all converged at once.

Maybe she could write a book. A memoir. Call it, Jane: A Life in Chaos. Only one problem with that. If you’re going to have chaos, you pretty much have to pull it out with a happy ending or no one will buy the book.

Hmmm. All things considered, she’d put her chances of a happy ending at about fifty million to one.

Her finger brushed against something on the windowsill. Something that made a clinking sound on the aluminum. Jane let her head flop to that side and looked down to see a small stone, with a piece of paper tucked under it. She pulled both upward for a better look. The paper appeared old and fragile and the stone unnaturally heavy for its size.

The sport of wishing. A guide for those so disposed.

So disposed. Hah! Was she ever. A strangled laugh made its way out of her throat. Like she hadn’t done enough wishing in her life, for all the good it had ever done.

“You okay?” Jane’s head whipped upward to see a freckled face crinkling in concern. “Something wrong with your drink? We can make you a new one.”

More frappuccino can take care of a lot. But not this. Jane shook her head.

“What’s that?” The green-aproned woman pointed to the paper and the stone in Jane’s hand.

As if she knew. “Nothing.” Jane grabbed for her purse, hurriedly tucking both into it. “Just a– Doesn’t matter.” She pushed herself up. “And my drink is fine. I’m taking it with me.” She stood, waiting for the woman to move aside. “Nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”

Thank God she could still lie. Sort of.

She left the place, pushing so hard against the door that it banged into a metal chair outside and she found herself apologizing. To a chair.

Then she walked the seven blocks home, past mild-mannered houses with neatly trimmed lawns, past the Italian restaurant that had started cooking for the day, sending its spicy aromas into the air, past the row of storefronts that offered everything from fresh bagels to stationery, and two more coffee shops.

Her shoes beat out a steady rhythm on the sidewalk, where she carefully avoided cracks, in order not to break her mother’s back. Her mother. Who had moved to Florida last year and even now was soaking up the sun, oblivious to her only daughter’s most recent debacles. The response would be kind but baffled. Why did this sort of thing always happen to Jane, her mother would wonder aloud, and not to Troy?

Jane’s older brother Troy led a predictable, organized life, working as a tax attorney in Seattle. Things didn’t happen to Troy that he hadn’t first “penciled out” and made a conscious decision on. The siblings couldn’t be more different.

She glanced to her left before stepping into the street. A car slowed and came to a stop, the driver waving her across. After raising her hand, Jane crossed the street to her apartment building, recently converted from an old elementary school into highly desirable units with hardwood floors and lots of windows. Her apartment had been a seventh grade classroom, once upon a time. Mary loves Jimmy was still scratched into the old wood in a corner of her bedroom closet, apparently missed by the remodeling crew. She loved the place. Hoped she would be able to keep paying the rent on it, now that she was likely not employed.

Home, on a Thursday. When she should have been at the office, preparing press releases and on-the-road-in-the-home-state schedules and answering the phone with a brisk, “Senator Tate’s Office, Jane Ellingson speaking.” The day off had been her boss’s idea and not a bad one since the senator had a reputation for tantrums. At least Jane would get paid for this day, if not for any that followed.

She turned her key in the lock and stepped inside her apartment, taking off her jacket and laying it on a chair. She avoided looking at the couch, where she’d been curled up, half-asleep, when Byron made his escape. And she stayed away from the bedroom, where her dress for Holly’s wedding hung on the front of the closet, practically shouting the fact that it, if not the bride’s gown, remained stain-free.

If only… she could turn the clock back. Make it all go away. Start over again.

Wish all you want. Won’t make it–

Hold on. The sport of wishing. She’d almost forgotten what she’d tucked in her purse. The crazy thing from the windowsill. Somebody’s idea of a joke.

She reached into her purse to pull it out, dropped into an overstuffed chair and lifted her legs up and onto the ottoman. Absently, she rubbed the stone between her fingers. It felt smooth, except for one rough spot. Then she looked at the paper, which listed instructions for wishing. Who knew you needed a manual? She’d been doing it all of her life, without any directions. Could be part of the problem.

Head to one side, she reflected on how much easier life would be if it came with instructions. Graduate from high school, the checklist would say, without riding in the car of Amber Wycliff, who, it turned out, earned money to buy her designer purses by selling drugs on the side, and without downing spiked punch at prom and accidentally knocking down one date and one chaperone, who ended up with a broken nose and a minor concussion, respectively. In the official photo with its background of fake clouds, Jamie Wheeler’s puffy red nose had matched the corsage she’d been so proud to pin on him, stabbing herself with the pin only once. But at least he’d been willing to have a photo taken. To remember the night.

Like either of them, or old Mrs. Delbert, could forget it.

Moving on. Graduate from college without… Oh, forget it. Life didn’t come with a checklist. Back to the instructions. She placed the stone in the palm of her right hand, just as the paper said. Next, it told her, form a wish.

No. Problem. What-so-ever.

She began to rub the stone in a circular motion, repeating the words a posse ad esse over and over. The part of her that thought it a silly thing to do was quickly replaced by the part disposed to wishing. Really disposed.

Next, it said, she should wait for the stone to heat, and then voice the wish aloud. It was, actually, getting warm. The wish bubbled on the edge of her tongue, frantic to make itself known. “Please,” she said, in a voice surprisingly strong, “take me away from here. Let me start all over. Someplace where no one knows me.” Wouldn’t it be great to wipe out all the mistakes of the past and start from scratch? No one ever got a chance like that. They had to carry baggage around until it had them hunched over and leaning to one side. She repeated the Latin words again, in case they hadn’t been heard the first time by… whoever. “A posse ad esse.”

Might be good to know what the words meant but, on the other hand, when playing with something that probably came out of a cereal box, it didn’t matter. They had a certain lyrical quality, she thought while fighting disappointment that nothing had happened. And never would happen. Because she was stuck with this life she had created, the one that resembled a stock car race, where she crashed and burned at every turn. Not because she barreled into other cars, but just because she was there, riding around the track. Unlike Troy, her steady, practical brother, who stuck to the back roads – one lane, no traffic, no roadblocks.

She should try it his way, sometime.

Her hand dropped to one side, fingers barely holding on to the stone. Just how low had she sunk, thinking this cereal prize could actually–

A loud boom on her right jarred the thought from her mind. Then a rushing, deafening sound of air, whirling and spinning all around her, and her body knocked straight out of the chair and into darkness, where she tumbled head over heels. Slivers of light appeared in vivid shades of red, green, white, until her eyes squeezed shut in self-defense. Panic shot through every inch of her, rendering her limbs useless.

Don’t play with matches, her mother had told her. Not… Don’t play with wishing instructions. Oh, God. Really. This was. Bad. She tried to move an arm. It remained glued to her side. The thing couldn’t have taken her seriously. No one started again. Ever.

She tried a new wish. Okay. I didn’t mean it. Please stop–

And it did. The rushing noise disappeared, replaced by a steady clip-clopping sound and a movement that jerked her back and forth until she put a hand down on each side to keep her balance, petrified to open her eyes. She felt smooth, supple leather beneath her fingers and heard a horse whinny.

A horse? Not only the sound, but the smell of a horse and…leather. The feel of clothing. Lots of it, weighing her down and cinching her in tight. More clothing than she’d had on a minute ago, that much was for sure.

Jane pried open one eye and then the other. Snapped them shut and opened them again. She was in some sort of moving carriage. The seat squeaked beneath her as she looked down at the clothing that felt soft and unfamiliar against her skin. Blue silk, covering her from neck to ankles. The skirts were voluminous, with rows of fabric edged in lace. She was wearing some sort of long jacket over the dress. The jacket had tight upper sleeves that were bell shaped at the end, with more lace. Lots of it. What the–? She’d been wearing her favorite jeans, the ones that fit perfectly, with a pink tank top under her white gauze shirt. And flip-flops. Not an explosion of silk.

She put a hand up to touch her hair and realized that a hat sat firmly on top, with long ribbons tied in a bow under her chin. How bizarre. Had she wished herself right into a theatre piece?

As the carriage slowed to a stop, Jane’s chin lifted and her shoulders drew up straight and back all by themselves, as though someone was pulling invisible strings while she sat back, an interested observer. Weird. Really weird. And the door. It was opening, inches from where she sat. She watched, fascinated, as a gloved hand reached inside.

“Miss Ellingson,” said a man in perfect, cultured British tones. “Welcome to Afton House. This is indeed a delight.”

A delight. Not a shock, a surprise or a bolt from Heaven. A delight.

He knew her name. But she didn’t have any idea who he was or why he would be standing outside her horse-drawn carriage dressed like someone straight out of the nineteenth century. She opened her mouth to ask, but other words came tripping across her tongue. In a lilting British accent. “Thank you, Mr. Dempsey,” she said, extending her gloved hand to take his. One foot moved forward, toward the carriage step, as her other hand grasped her skirts.

No. Oh, no. Something that required this much coordination was sure to end in disaster. Damn. And he had a great-looking suit on, too. Too bad it was going to end up covered in mud or something worse after she’d–

Descended. With a grace as alien to her as the funny half boots on her feet, she ended up standing on the ground after nothing more than a few delicate steps. Standing, actually, straight up. No dry cleaner’s dream roll in the mud for either one of them.

Now that was a delight.

Her body. Had to have been possessed. That was it. By someone with coordination. Social graces. And a British accent?

Wait. What was that? She heard herself speaking again.

“I should like for you to meet my aunt, Mr. Dempsey.” She nodded toward the carriage. “Mrs. Hathaway.”

A plump woman, whose eyes blinked so rapidly, it must have been difficult for her to see, emerged, murmuring pleasantries.

Interesting. Her aunt. Even though both her mother and father had been only children.

“Mrs. Hathaway. Welcome,” Mr. Dempsey said with a broad smile.

“And my sister,” she heard herself continue. “Miss Anne Ellingson.” One hand extended toward the carriage.

A fresh-faced girl, her cheeks rosy and her eyes sparkling, prepared to alight. She looked about fifteen or sixteen. Her sister? And how was it Jane knew the names of these people and they knew hers?

Nothing made sense here, least of all the carriage with the sour-faced driver and the let’s-just-call-it-what-it-is mansion they stood before. Yet, she could not feel her face contorting in the way it usually did when confused and this Mr. Dempsey wasn’t giving any indication he could see she was confused. Instead, he turned in one grand motion, crooked both arms and offered them to her and her aunt.

They took them as though it were the most natural thing in the world and began walking toward the house, shoes crunching on the dirt, the teenaged Anne following closely behind. Jane’s skirts swayed elegantly as she moved, with the confident step of someone other than herself.

This was some…dream?

She could feel Mr. Dempsey’s warm arm beneath her gloves and his jacket. As he began speaking, she heard a giggle and tossed a look that seemed like a frown in the direction of her “sister,” who quickly pulled her face straight. Wow. That seemed a little harsh to do. Nothing wrong with a giggle. Jane tried to follow with an apologetic smile, to no avail.

Hello? Person inside here, not being allowed to do what she wanted to with her body?

Meanwhile, Mr. Dempsey, whoever the hell he was, had begun talking again. “My father, alas, has taken to his bed. He is once again ailing. But he insisted that nothing should deter your visit, which we have anxiously awaited these many days.”

They had awaited her visit. Anxiously, even. Very nice. To be wanted. Not something a lot of people seemed to be doing when it came to her, at least not lately.

“Of course,” Jane murmured, with perfect diction. “But I do so hope your father will recover his health soon.”

Mr. Dempsey turned toward her, rewarding the concern with a perfect smile. He was good-looking, in a chiseled, GQ sort of way, with dark blond hair and green eyes. He stood even with Jane’s five foot seven inch height and walked with a confident stride, something she herself had never managed to do. Until…now. Weird.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Dempsey, ushering them through the door to the massive house, where a servant gave a deep bow.

“I confess I have also been eager for a visit to Afton House,” Jane said, with a tip of her head.

Their eyes locked. Jane tried to look away but couldn’t. Her head remained firmly in place, as though someone else held it between two hands.

And she could swear, ninety percent for sure, that she saw an actual twinkle in his eye. It was there and then gone. A twinkle. But you only read about something like that in books. She’d never actually seen one in real life.

A pause. And whatever had been holding her upright seemed to loosen its grip, allowing her to breathe freely for what seemed the first time in several minutes. Except that breathing freely seemed to be a relative term since something hard and unyielding on the inside of the dress seemed to be working at cross-purposes with any movement she might try to make.

“Ah,” said Mr. Dempsey, a furrow appearing between his perfect brows. “She has decided to retire. I shall take my leave.” A courtly half-bow. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Who’s retiring? And who are you?” Jane blurted.

He turned to her in surprise. “James Dempsey,” he answered, in a tone that clearly said that should explain everything.

She shook her head. “Why are you dressed that way? Better yet, why am I dressed this way?”

He regarded her gravely for what felt like an eternity before saying, “You, Miss Ellingson, are the heroine of the book Afton House. And I am the hero of the tale. At your disposal.” With a dip of his chin, he made it clear he awaited her joyous approval. Or possibly screams of delight, if she had any waiting to leap forward.

Jane looked at James, then at Anne and back again. “Book,” she repeated.

“Book.” As though this should all be so obvious. A vague sort of suspicion began to creep through her, beginning at her feet and moving upward until it came barreling out of her mouth. “And exactly who is the she?”

“Our author. Miss Mary Bellingham.”

“Author.”

“We shall resume in the morning. Surely you have no expectation she will write at every hour,” James replied. He made Jane sound demanding.

“No. Of course not.” Did she?

“She is well tired today. It is such when one is undertaking the beginning of the story.”

“The beginning.” She felt dim-witted, repeating everything, but she had to get this straight. “And you’re saying I’m supposed to be in the story? Me. Jane Ellingson. Actual person.”

He exhaled while his eyes did a slight but unmistakable roll. “You, Jane Ellingson, are more than in the story. You are, in fact, the second most important character in the story.” He gave a sweeping gesture and another gallant bow. “After me, you understand.”

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