before saying, “This is you,” though the portrayal was not photo-realistic. “I couldn’t quite get the eyes,” she said.

“You got them just right.” He didn’t look away from the painting when he said, “They are beautiful.”

Jane didn’t know whether to thank him or clear her throat, so she did neither and

instead handed him the second painting of her window and the tree.

“Ah,” was all he said for some time. He glanced back and forth between both

paintings. “I like this second one best. Beside it, the portrait looks stiff, as though you

were too cautious, measuring everything, taking away the spontaneity. The fearlessness

of this window scene is a better style for you. I think, Miss Erstwhile, that you do very

well when you loosen up and let the color fly.”

He was right, and it felt good to admit it. Her next painting would be better. “I should let you retire.” He held the self-portrait a minute longer, gazing at it as

she had sometimes felt him look at her— unblinking, curious, even urgent. She peeped through the keyhole to make sure no one was in the corridor before

opening the door and letting him slip out. After a moment, she peered again and could see

nothing, then Mr. Nobley’s face dropped into view. He was crouching outside her door,

looking back.

“Miss Erstwhile?” he whispered.

“Yes, Mr. Nobley?”

“Tomorrow evening, will you reserve for me the first two dances?” “Yes, Mr. Nobley.” She could hear how her voice was full of smile. “Miss Erstwhile, may I come back in a moment?”

She yanked him back in and shut the door. Now he was going to grab her and kiss

her and call her Jane, now she’d witness the pent-up passion that explodes behind

Regency doors! But... he just stood with his back to the door and looked at her. And

smiled in his way, the way that made her stare back and wish she could breathe. “I should not put you in danger of Mrs. Wattlesbrook by staying,” Mr. Nobley

said, “but I suddenly had to see you again. I know that seems ridiculous, but I look at

you, and I feel sure of something. Things are changing, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” she said, and they were, right at that moment.

He took her hand and looked at it a moment, then he turned it over. He lifted it to

his mouth and kissed her palm.

“Tomorrow, then.” And he left.

If only he was real! She stood and pressed her palm to her chest and breathed her

pulse back into submission and thought she’d rather fancy a swoon.

To her self-portrait, Jane whispered, “This is the best therapy ever.”

Guy after Boyfriend #12

Jake Zeiger, AGE THIRTY-ISH

One Saturday during the Tad era, Jane was checking the mail slot when fake from 302 came up beside her. The nearness of their slots meant the back of his hand touched hers as he inserted the key.

“Hey, how’s your dog?” he asked

“Better. The vet said it was just something he ate.”

“That’s a relief, huh?” His smile was like a first kiss. She stood there after he left, staring into the cavern of her mailbox,

cold tingles passing through her body because she’d just had an Emmaloves-Mr. Knightley epiphany experience. She had just realized, “I might be secretly smitten with fake.”

She did not so much as whisper the idea to her house-plants. Then the week after it had become excruciatingly clear that she and Tad were over, Jane remembered Jake and let herself wish that tragedy might actually be opportunity. She walked down the hail to 302, hope bouncing in her step.

A bed-headed Jake opened the door, squinting.

“Hi, Jake! Hey, it’s a beautiful day, and I was wondering, I noticed that you have Rollerblades, too, and I was wondering if you’d like to go to the park, with me, maybe after—”

“You woke me up for this? It’s not even ten in the morning.”

He rubbed his face and appeared to be heading back to bed as he shut the door.

day 20

JANE’S BALL GOWN WAS BRIDAL white. Lace and ruffles, tiny seashells beaded around bodice and hem, a low neck, and cap sleeves. She wore long gloves, her hair up with rosebuds, a string of pearls around her neck, and twenty-first-century makeup products. A maid other than Matilda helped her dress and do her hair, then stood back and said, “Oh, my.”

It was very gratifying.

Jane surveyed the party from the top of the stairs, hoping to hear music before she descended. Gentlemen, most of whom she had never seen before, were in their fine black-and-white attire. Women swirled and laughed, all in white, coming and going between the drawing room and great hail, helping each other pin up their trains for the dance. It reminded Jane of the time she’d used the women’s bathroom at the Mirage in Las Vegas, every inch of mirror jammed with brides in a hurry.

Some of the guests she recognized as servants and gardeners, dressed up for the night as local gentry. Others had that thin college undergrad look, the kind who donate plasma and volunteer for bizarre clinical studies to make a few extra bucks. Others seemed to be actors of the community-theater variety—slick and self-aware, overanimated, their ball gowns wafting a costume-closet scent of mothballs and cloves. But there were at least three women who had that Miss Charming jovial glint, that Miss Heartwright engaging earnestness, or that (did she dare admit it?) Miss Erstwhile bewildered hope. There were other Pembrook Parks, then. Sister estates. Some of the guests were actors, some players. Just who was real in this place, anyway?

Mr. Nobley was walking briskly from one room to the next, his eyes up as though trying to avoid eye contact. He looked scrumptious in his black jacket and white tie. Even better when he saw her and stopped. Really looked. Zing. Hello, Nobley.

“Mr. Nobley!” A stranger woman of retirement age waved a handkerchief gleefully and bustle-jogged toward him. Mr. Nobley fled.

And then, Martin was there, in tails, cravat, and all, and scanning the crowd.

For my face, she thought.

It was Martin’s turn to look up, to see her. His expression was—whoa, she knew now that she was looking pretty good. Others noticed his expression and turned as well. The murmuring hushed and music swirled from the other room. She was Cinderella entering alone. What, no trumpets?

Martin rushed up several steps to escort her down.