Haunting Jasmine by Anjali Banerjee

Jasmine?”
    “Why not?” Lucia says.
    A key turns inside me, a subtle unlocking. “I can help my aunt get this shop in order.”
    “Fine, let’s see what you can do.” Virginia glares at me.
    Lucia pulls out her dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice . “This book was originally called First Impressions . I looked it up.”
    Virginia slurps her tea. “That’s a stupid name for a book.” A mysterious breeze ruffles her hair, leaving a couple of strands sticking straight up, as if electrified.
    Lucia forges on. “More important, it’s about how first impressions can deceive you.”
    The breeze subsides.
    Another woman says, “I’ve heard that authors think of many titles for their books before they settle on a final one.”
    Virginia keeps slurping. “Both titles are silly.” Her silver bracelet slips off her wrist and falls on the hardwood. “The clasp broke!” She reaches down, fumbles around on the floor. “Where the heck did it go?”
    “I’ll help you.” I get on my hands and knees. The bracelet fell impossibly far from where she is sitting. “Here it is.”
    “Thank you.” When she sits straight again, several new strands of hair are sticking out. I stifle a smile.
    Lucia pulls a pocket notebook from her purse, licks her thumb, and flips to the first page. “Was Jane Austen a realist? Charlotte Brontë said her work was like a ‘carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden.’ Ralph Waldo Emerson said that her depiction of life was ‘pinched and narrow.’”
    A creaking sound comes from the hallway. We all glance in that direction.
    “Mark Twain thought libraries shouldn’t carry her books,” Lucia goes on. “But I say don’t pay any attention to jealous authors. She wrote a masterpiece. I love this book every time I read it—because it makes me believe we can overcome any obstacle.”
    Every time she reads it?
    Virginia tucks her broken bracelet into her purse. “I’m not fond of so much dialogue without any description.” Her arm bumps into her cup, tipping it over and spilling tea on the table.
    I jump to my feet, grab napkins, and dab at the liquid. “I’ll get towels. Carry on.”
    Lucia laughs. “The house is angry with you, Ginnie.”
    Everyone turns to me. My heart skips a beat, but I smile.
    “So, Jasmine,” Virginia says, glaring at me, “you have to give us the key question.”
    “The key question?” I blink.
    “You did read the book, didn’t you?” Virginia stares at me.
    “Your aunt poses an important question about the book, but if you didn’t read it—”
    “Of course I read it.” A long time ago. I hold up the soggy towels. “I’ll go and put these in the wash.”
    I run to the laundry room, take a few deep breaths. What question, what question? I read this book so long ago.
    Their voices drift down the hall.
    “Consider Mr. Wickham,” a woman says behind me. Her voice is musical, touched by a soft English accent.
    I spin around. Did one of the women follow me? Nobody’s here.
    Complex odors spread through the air—dried horse manure, wood smoke, roses, and sweat. As if someone has entered the room, someone who makes fires, tends a farm—someone who bathes maybe once a week and wears cologne to mask her body odor.
    “What do you mean about Mr. Wickham?” I say. Mr. Wickham, the smooth-talking young soldier who tricks Elizabeth Bennet into believing the worst about stoic Mr. Darcy. But Mr. Wickham turns out to be a scoundrel. I knew my own Mr. Wickham, someone I trusted. Someone I wanted to trust.
    “You know the story better than you think.”
    My mind spins. The smells grow in intensity, and fabric swishes—a dress rustling nearby. “I haven’t read the book in years,” I whisper to the empty room.
    “You must learn to trust your instincts.”
    “Why?… Virginia, is that you?” I’m talking to myself in my aunt’s laundry room. The perfumed detergent must be poisoning my mind. But what of the horse manure odor? Smoke?
    There’s a soft