Lost in La La Land(33)

“Are you fixing it up?” His eyes widened with delight.

“Yes,” I lied. I didn't know why. This wasn't his ghost and the real Jonathan wasn't going to see the house. For some vain and shallow reason, I wanted him to think I was doing better than I was. As if giving away my beloved dog, moving from my cozy apartment, selling my prized company, and living in his dead aunt’s run-down mansion wasn't a sure sign things weren’t going well.

But this wasn't Jonathan. He was dead.

So dead that I couldn't even make him real in my mind.

I called it preservation and told myself it was because I didn't want to mourn him again. I’d nearly died last time. But I really did want to say sorry.

“I always dreamed about fixing that old house up. I imagined it beachy and more Hamptons than scary with old wallpaper and smelling like dog piss.” He smiled. “I’m glad I got to find out you’re fixing it up. And that I got to see you again.” Was that what he would have said? Or did my mind make him say it? Would he be glad to see me but not be able to touch me? How had Lana made this transition so smoothly?

“Me too.” That was true. While I was grateful to see him, even in this form, I couldn’t trick myself into believing this was him. I saw this for what it was, my imagination. In Austen’s book, I could play along and be convinced of everything. Everything but Jonathan being real. He was a man who made snide comments and joked constantly and laughed when he should have cried. He was something I could not create. I could not fake my way through.

I wished, only allowing myself a second, that he were real, that we could kiss and touch and he would make me smile.

But instead he faded. “I love you, Em. I will always love you.”

“I know,” I whispered back as he became nothing but a figment of my imagination, the remnants of something once great. I made my way back up to my room, closing the fireplace again and slipping back between the sheets.

I lay for a long time and stewed on how final it all was. Jonathan was dead. He was really dead. He was never coming back. I was never going to see or touch or hold him again. We would never kiss. I would never be able to tell him I was sorry for letting him go back inside. Sorrier than I had ever been about anything.

And while this machine didn’t bring back my husband and didn’t trick me into believing he was still with me, it had done something else.

This story had saved me the way it had saved Lana, differently though. She was saved finding the man she missed, and I was saved finding joy.

I blew out the candle and sighed, exhaling so many things beyond a bit of air.

When I woke, I felt rested in a way I hadn’t in ages. A servant brought in tea for me to drink while she readied me.

“Did you hear the news, miss?” she asked softly, glancing back at the door.

“What news?”

“Captains Benwick and Harville, ma’am, they’re on their way. They’re coming to stay.”

My eyes widened. “They are? What about Miss Anne Elliot? Have we heard anything from her?” I no longer wished for Anne Elliot to join us. She was now competition.

“Just tragedy in the last letter Miss Mary received. A Mrs. Smith has passed suddenly, pneumonia. Miss Anne was devastated and her father was disinclined to attend the funeral, leaving her alone.”

“How tragic.” Mrs. Smith was the widow friend of Anne’s in the novel. She was the one who saved Anne from marrying Mr. Elliot, her cousin. I wondered if she had been able to tell Anne of William Elliot’s cruel nature and social climbing ways. Or of his affair with the treacherous Mrs. Clay. “I need to send a letter.” I cringed at the thought of interfering, but I also couldn't sit by while poor Anne was heartbroken and ruined by a horrible marriage. She might have been competition, but she didn't deserve that fate. No one did.

“Of course. I’ll send for some paper and ink. Or would you rather dictate it?” Her eyebrows lifted in hope.

“No, thank you. I will write it myself. I appreciate the news as always.” I lifted one side of my lips in a slight grin.

“Yes, ma’am.” She curtseyed and left me.

I went to breakfast, lost in what I should do for Anne and unsure if writing the letter was really a good idea. Wentworth greeted me with a wide smile. “Good morning. Did you hear?”

“Yes, how exciting. Your friends are joining our party.” The story was twisting and turning, and I was the one driving the crazy train taking us into uncharted waters.

“I am expecting them this afternoon. Were you made aware of the other sad news?”

“I was. Poor Mrs. Smith. Poor Anne.” I sat, picking at some grapes as tea was poured for me.

“And to be there with only her father and Elizabeth to comfort her. It’s awful. I had Mary send word that Anne should join our party as well.”

My stomach sank. “Certainly. That was kind of you.”

“Do you think it sensible of me to do such a thing? I don't want to be misleading in my intentions.”

The fact he was confessing this to me was a crushing blow to our obvious attraction to one another. Of course, I should have known he was still in love with Anne, and I should have realized I was nothing more than his friend and confidant. “Yes. In polite society, a respectful invitation should only be considered sent as a courteous offer. No one would think you having ulterior motives beyond helping an old friend.” It was a lie but I hoped a genuine sounding one. Surely, Anne and her awful father would believe this to be the rekindling of the relationship between Captain Wentworth and Anne. And now that the Elliots were broke, the captain was suddenly a good prospect.