The Natural Sequel: a Modern Retelling of Jane Austen’S Persuasion
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The Natural Sequel: A Modern Retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion By Sarah Cords Copyright ©2017 Sarah Cords All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts), without written permission from the publisher. She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning. 1 It was very lucky for her mother, Fran decided, that the only weapon she was holding currently was a glue gun. At that moment, she was using it to attach tiny little pink plastic baby bottles onto equally tiny little wicker baskets, which would eventually hold even tinier little pink after-dinner mints. Even if this task hadn’t already been infuriating to Fran, she was having to undertake it while sitting next to her mother, Shirley, who was busily lining the bottles and baskets up for Fran to glue, and seemed actually to be enjoying herself. For the last half hour Shirley’d busily been chatting away on a variety of topics, most of which centered upon various relatives who’d either recently had babies, lost jobs, or suffered a variety of illnesses and health complaints. None of this chatter was interesting to Fran, even accidentally, but luckily her mother, as per usual, didn’t seem to want any conversational input from her. Nonetheless the task and the company were both starting to wear on Fran’s very last nerve, and her knuckles on the hand grasping the glue gun were becoming increasingly white. Suddenly Fran was aware that her mother was no longer talking. How long had there been silence? She floundered about a bit in her short-term memory, hoping she could remember what her mother had last said, but it was hopeless. She took a chance and murmured a light “Mmmmhmm,” hoping that would suffice if any kind of response had been expected. Her mother gave her a sharp glance, and asked, “So, are you ready?” Fran knew that look. The jig was up. “I’m sorry, Mom, what are you asking?” Her mother snorted, lightly but still derisively. “I knew you weren’t listening. Are you ready for this shower?” “It’s a baby shower, Ma, and I’m not the one having the baby. What’s to get ready?” “Well, for one thing, are you bringing something?” “Yes, I’m bringing something. I’m in charge of beverages, mainly coffee and hot chocolate from the shop. I’ll just get that the day of. Why? Is there something else you think Nancy needs?” “Oh, Nancy,” said her mother dismissively, which is the only way she ever said her co-mother-in- law’s name. “She didn’t even think we needed a cake. Just cupcakes. Imagine! I set her right on that.” I’ll just bet you did, thought Fran. She didn’t really have an opinion about her brother’s mother- in-law, one way or the other, but she felt a bit of sympathy for her if Shirley had felt the need to “set her right” on anything. Her mother felt content to drop the conversation there for a while, and they worked for the next few minutes in silence. They were nearly done, and Fran just hoped her mother wasn’t keeping too close an eye on her handiwork; the basket and bottle pairings were getting increasingly sloppy with glue. Hell, it would dry and you won’t even be able to see it, Fran figured. “Fran!” admonished her mother. “You’re getting glue all over those things. Slow down and be more careful.” Fran sighed. Her mother sighed too, but in a way that Fran knew meant more criticism was coming. “So, you are ready, then?” Shirley asked again. Fran, trying to find the will to both concentrate on her glue gun and continue living, replied, testily, “Can you just tell me what you’re getting at?” “Well, for one thing, when’s the last time you got a haircut? You’re looking pretty shaggy.” Fran rolled her eyes, not particularly caring anymore if her mother saw her. “Shaggy” was her mother’s favorite descriptive word where her only daughter was concerned, and Fran had been hearing it applied to her appearance, in a variety of ways, her whole life: “Did you pluck your brows? Looking kind of shaggy.” “Are those the only pants you have to wear? They’re pretty shaggy.” And her mother always, always used it to describe her hair. It didn’t matter what length her hair was or how she had it styled (it was currently longish, but all one length, and pulled back in a ponytail), her mother always looked it over, clucked her tongue, and pronounced, “Shaggy.” “Ma, my hair is fine.” “And do you have something a little dressy to wear?” “Mom, it is a baby shower. Isn’t the whole point just to have a hen party, and for Laura to score some baby merchandise? What am I dressing up for?” “Yeah, well, missy,” snapped back her mother, referring to Fran by her least favorite nickname ever, “You never know when one of those hens might know someone nice to introduce you to. Then maybe eventually you would get to ‘score some merchandise’ too.” She was not going to win this one. She was thirty years old, she was out of tiny baskets and bottles to glue together, and she had never, as far back as she could remember, ever won with her mother. The best choice now was tactical retreat. “Okay, Mom,” she said, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt, “I am ready for the shower. I promise not to wear sweatpants. Are we done here?” “Of course you could have already had your own shower, years ago, if you’d just had the sense to keep your good boy.” Oh, Christ. Evidently they were not done, and today, of all days, Fran really just had to sit there and take it. The awful truth was that she had not come home just to help her mother with party favors; she had an actual favor to ask, and it was a big one. She was sick that she had to ask it, and she felt even sicker, having to absorb her mother’s last statement, which felt like a metaphorical punch to the gut. “Yes, Mom, I could have had my own baby shower by now.” Her mother squared and settled her shoulders in a way that Fran particularly hated, but which indicated she was slightly mollified by Fran’s statement. It was now or never. “So, Ma,” she said, cringing inwardly, “Do you think I could move home for a while?’ 2 Fran dropped her calculator, sighed, propped her forehead against one hand, and stared at the papers, bills, and bank statements strewn across the table in front of her. Each one was filled with numbers that added up (or more accurately: didn’t) to one answer: she was broke. Good lord, you’re pathetic, she thought. You’re broke, and you don’t even have the excuse that buying expensive coffee every day got you there—you work in a coffee shop and get all your lattés for free. Lately she’d been checking out a variety of personal finance books from the library—including two from Suze Orman—and so far the only things she’d learned about money were that she should spend less of it and make more of it. Some experts. Perhaps she could write a book entirely based on how to avoid spending money on coffee by working in a coffee shop. The thought was so ridiculous that at least she got a laugh out of it, if you could call her short, rueful bark a “laugh.” Whatever you called it, it startled the older woman sitting across from her at the small table. The mothering sort, Roberta had kind eyes under her blunt-cut and heavily graying bangs, and she now focused them on Fran. “Something funny?” she asked. “Well,” said Fran, raising dull eyes to Roberta’s sympathetic ones, “not funny ha-ha, funny sad.” “What’s the problem?” asked Roberta. She was a kind woman, and one of Fran’s best friends, despite their age difference, which is why they were spending their break together at the same table. Years ago, when Fran had first become manager of Beans, Roberta was the first employee she had hired by herself, and she still marveled at how she’d hit a home run on her first outing. Still, Fran didn’t answer immediately. She made a half-hearted attempt to gather up her papers, scribbled notes, and bills without meeting Roberta’s eyes. Roberta was a hard worker and a good listener, but she wasn’t always discreet, and Fran didn’t want all the details of her sad financial life bandied about the shop. It was her own fault, really; she should have done her calculations at home, but she’d already done that twice, and she was secretly hoping that running the numbers in a different location would make them come out differently. They hadn’t. And Roberta was still waiting for an answer. Fran met Roberta’s warm brown eyes and forced herself to smile. “What’s wrong, Roberta, is that I was not born independently wealthy.” Roberta looked unconvinced, but went along with the glib game.