sooner had she formulated that thought than there was the dull aching of an apprehension that maybe this was a fluke and there would be no more messages. She tried to rationalize this with the reality that she would be no worse off than she was now. She knew she would be though. A glimpse of a better life and a true love had stirred a kind of hunger in her that left her with a longing that could not be satisfied fulfilling the book wishes of others.
After trudging through her morning routine, Maggie made her way through the slushy streets and entered the bookstore.
"Hemingway? Where are you?"
The calico made her way to the front of the store and took her place on the counter awaiting her morning love fest. She knew Maggie loved cats and she knew that her night of solitude would be rewarded with some tactile show of affection.
"How was your night, Hemingway?"
Hemingway responded with a wet-nose nuzzle and then ran off to lie among the biographies.
Maggie turned on the computer, anxious to go back to the shelves and retrieve the night's orders. Once more she found herself afraid that there might not be a message today and equally afraid that there would be. These occurrences were creating a dangerous anticipation inside of her heart.
Once she compiled the list of orders, she went back and took her time, allowing whomever time to find the perfect passage for her. As she sought the books, she began to panic. What if nothing was there when she got back to the desk? She shrugged it off and finally returned to her desk. Tears that she could not explain poured from her eyes. There was a book. She looked. She read:
"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own, than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that this love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to London. For you alone I think and plan. -- Have you not seen this? can you fail to have understood my wishes? -- I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine.
I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others. -- Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating in, J.G.
Maggie knew this passage all too well. After all, she was an Austen, and this was from her favorite Jane Austen offering, Persuasion . Only it was Captain Wentworth—F.W. and not J.G.—and it was Bath, not London. This passage, though one of the most intensely passionate in literature, did not lend any clue to the "whom" that was haunting her. Haunting. Odd that she should think that word rather than stalking or sneaking or harassing. Everyone knew of her love of Jane Austen and that Persuasion was her favorite. So the list of suspects was not narrowed down.
She dialed the phone to her sister, Lizzie, the one who actually got to be named after a notable Austen character, and asked if she were pranking her. By the tone in her voice, Maggie knew that Lizzie had no clue what she was referring to. There was also a hint of delight in Lizzie's voice at the prospect that Maggie might have a secret admirer. Everyone wanted to see Maggie happily paired off to a nice man of her equal; everyone, that is, except Maggie.
With a mixture of school-girl crush and aggravation, she went about her dusty business at the bookstore until her tasks were complete and her workday was at an end. As
After trudging through her morning routine, Maggie made her way through the slushy streets and entered the bookstore.
"Hemingway? Where are you?"
The calico made her way to the front of the store and took her place on the counter awaiting her morning love fest. She knew Maggie loved cats and she knew that her night of solitude would be rewarded with some tactile show of affection.
"How was your night, Hemingway?"
Hemingway responded with a wet-nose nuzzle and then ran off to lie among the biographies.
Maggie turned on the computer, anxious to go back to the shelves and retrieve the night's orders. Once more she found herself afraid that there might not be a message today and equally afraid that there would be. These occurrences were creating a dangerous anticipation inside of her heart.
Once she compiled the list of orders, she went back and took her time, allowing whomever time to find the perfect passage for her. As she sought the books, she began to panic. What if nothing was there when she got back to the desk? She shrugged it off and finally returned to her desk. Tears that she could not explain poured from her eyes. There was a book. She looked. She read:
"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own, than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that this love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to London. For you alone I think and plan. -- Have you not seen this? can you fail to have understood my wishes? -- I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine.
I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others. -- Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating in, J.G.
Maggie knew this passage all too well. After all, she was an Austen, and this was from her favorite Jane Austen offering, Persuasion . Only it was Captain Wentworth—F.W. and not J.G.—and it was Bath, not London. This passage, though one of the most intensely passionate in literature, did not lend any clue to the "whom" that was haunting her. Haunting. Odd that she should think that word rather than stalking or sneaking or harassing. Everyone knew of her love of Jane Austen and that Persuasion was her favorite. So the list of suspects was not narrowed down.
She dialed the phone to her sister, Lizzie, the one who actually got to be named after a notable Austen character, and asked if she were pranking her. By the tone in her voice, Maggie knew that Lizzie had no clue what she was referring to. There was also a hint of delight in Lizzie's voice at the prospect that Maggie might have a secret admirer. Everyone wanted to see Maggie happily paired off to a nice man of her equal; everyone, that is, except Maggie.
With a mixture of school-girl crush and aggravation, she went about her dusty business at the bookstore until her tasks were complete and her workday was at an end. As