Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler Page B

heavily with cream.
    “Oh, it’s you, Courtney,” she says, smiling her delight.
    Oh, dear. Another person I am supposed to know but whose countenance is wholly unfamiliar to me.
    “You don’t remember me, do you. I’m Deepa. You were at my party a couple of months ago?”
    Her accent is like that of the actress from the Pride and Prejudice movie. Could she be from my country?
    She frowns, a concerned, good-natured sort of frown. “We talked for quite a while, actually. Hey, you okay? You don’t look okay.”
    I suppose the sour countenance looking back at me from the mirror must be the opposite of what “okay” means.
    “I assure you I am,” I say, but that is all I can get out, for my eyes begin to fill and my mouth quivers with the effort to keep back the tears.
    Deepa pulls a paper handkerchief from a brown spangled reticule, sparkly bracelets jangling, and hands it to me. There are rings on almost every one of her fingers, and from her ears clear globes studded with diamonds dangle from the thinnest wires imaginable.
    I take the handkerchief and wipe my eyes, and she looks upon me kindly with large brown eyes as she hands me another one. Her hair is shiny black and cut short, with jagged strands over arched black brows.
    “You were unhappy the last time we met as well. And I was in a bit of a strop, too, I might add. All those people coming up to me and telling me how sorry they were about my divorce. When all I wanted to do was breathe a big sigh of relief. Though I must say, you and I ended up making each other laugh.” She gazes at me searchingly. “You really don’t remember, do you? You’d had a lot to drink, but I didn’t think you were that drunk.”
    “Do forgive me,” I say. “I am told I have a—concussion, and there is much I do not remember.”
    “No way. What happened?”
    “I hit my head in a pool, I’m told.”
    “And you don’t remember that either?” She regards me kindly. “But it’ll all come back, won’t it?”
    I shrug.
    “Hey, some things aren’t worth remembering, believe me.”
    At that moment, there is pounding on the door, which then opens slightly. Wes peeks in and looks sheepish when he sees that there is another lady here beside me. “Oh, hi, Deepa. Sorry, but I just wanted to see if—Courtney, you okay?”
    I can hardly bring myself to meet his eyes after what he saw me do with Frank, who, in that moment, strolls in and leans against the wall as if he has every right to intrude upon our sanctuary.
    Deepa gives me a significant look, and my face burns. “Like I said, some things aren’t worth remembering.”
    How much does she know about my connection with Frank?
    “You do realize,” she says to the gentlemen, hand on hip, “that this is a women’s bathroom?”
    Frank smirks. “I hadn’t noticed.”
    Wes reaches for me. “Courtney, let’s get out of here.”
    I am so stunned that he would still wish to escort me home that I cannot even speak.
    “You sure, Courtney?” says Deepa. “I’m happy to take you home.”
    “Is that what you want?” Wes says to me.
    All I know is that I want to get away from Frank and those—memories, or whatever they are. And from the disappointment in Wes’s eyes.
    “I would like to leave with Deepa.”
    “Pity,” Frank says, eyeing me as if I were a tray of rout cakes. Then he has the assurance to take my hand and give me a soul-searching “trust me” look as he takes his leave.
    “I’ll call you,” is all Wes says, his hands at his sides, his attitude that of one who would like to stop me but knows he is helpless to do anything but leave.
    The door closes behind the two men. Deepa arches an eyebrow. “You’re not still with Frank?”
    “Apparently, I ended our engagement. I believe I found him with another lady.”
    She nods and purses her lips. I can see that she is not in the least surprised by this intelligence.
    “You said I was unhappy when last we met. May I ask, was I unhappy about