Confucius Jane (41 page)

Sutton felt the nape of her neck prickle and made quick work of flipping over the remaining few fortunes. Like a refrain, or maybe a litany, the two simple sentences stared back at her over and over and over.

Trust yourself. Trust me.

Sitting back in her chair, she stared down at the papers scattered like tea leaves across the battered surface of the table. “Okay,” she murmured, smiling through the tears that continued to trickle down her cheeks. “Okay, universe. I get it.”

*   *   *

CURLING HER TOES INTO
the sand, Jane hugged her knees as she gazed out into Guanabara Bay. The panorama before her belonged in most people's version of paradise: a pure white beach giving way to turquoise waves that curled like the necks of dressage horses before descending to break against the shore. The late afternoon sun warmed her back, and a light breeze cooled her face. She had been out here all day, not bothering with a towel or with any clothes other than her bikini, and there was time for one last dip before she needed to return to her parents' nearby condo to pack her bags.

Brushing a lock of hair across her forehead, Jane struggled not to look over her shoulder—north and west, in the direction of New York. She had found herself doing that so frequently, over the past two weeks—unconsciously angling her body to face Sutton, like some kind of pathetic pointer dog.

Scoffing at her own simile, she let her arms fall to the ground and pushed herself up. Longing after Sutton was pointless. Her brain had long since accepted that as fact. Now if only she could convince her heart. She had come here to escape Sutton's ghost, but she couldn't flee her own memories. Her mind wouldn't stop retracing them. She felt like the needle of her father's ancient record player, which never made it through an album without getting stuck in one groove.

At least her parents had been kind and sympathetic. Her mother had greeted her at the airport, immediately declared her to be too thin, and had started cooking up a storm the moment they'd walked in the door. Jane felt guilty for imposing, but at least she'd been able to bring along several cooking supplies from Chinatown that were nearly impossible to find in Brazil. As the kitchen filled with fragrant steam, her mother had pressed her for details about recent events. It didn't take long before Jane was surrendering—offering up the story of her aborted romance with Sutton. While she spoke, she had felt fortunate. Whom did Sutton have to turn to? Her parents were completely self-absorbed, and as far as she knew, Sutton wasn't close to anyone at the hospital. Where was she going for comfort and a friendly ear?

Jane dusted the sand off her hands, wishing it were as easy to rid herself of her lingering concern for Sutton. She couldn't stop asking herself those questions, even though she had no business doing so. Sutton wasn't hers to care about and worry over. She never had been. The sooner she accepted that, the better everything would be. Her priority now was to move on with her life—to focus on her own needs, instead of on the needs of someone who wanted nothing to do with her.

Twenty feet away, a wave began to gather offshore. Jane dug her toes into the sand before pushing off, sprinting as fast as she could toward the swath of cerulean blue. She raised her knees high as her toes met the ocean, barreling toward the looming wall of water that threatened to pound her body into the sand. As it began to crest she dove, escaping the clutches of the current to emerge victorious on the other side. Smiling broadly, she steadied herself against the undertow and waited for the next wave to take aim.

She loved the freedom of this—the sun beating down on her shoulders, the salt stinging her lips, the swirling eddies that clutched at her ankles. Last night, her parents had suggested that she return over the summer. Her father thought he could get her an internship at the embassy. If she enjoyed it, he had said, perhaps she should consider taking the Foreign Service exam before she was thirty.

It was a good idea. A solid plan. When she aced the exam, several careers would throw open their doors to her. She would finally be independent—finally able to provide for herself instead of having to rely on the clemency of her family. It was the right thing to do. For all the wandering she'd done through the winding streets of Rio over the past several weeks, the city had yet to speak to her in poetry. Maybe she had left her muse behind in New York. And maybe that was for the best. With a twinge of shame, she thought of the fellowship, and Sophia's letter. When she returned to New York, she would write a real letter in reply, thanking her for her generosity in reaching out and explaining her decision not to apply. Anders might not have approved of the choices she was making, but she couldn't live her life for him. Or for anyone else.

Another wave began to rise, but Jane turned her back to it. This would be her last—instead of crashing through it, she would ride it in to shore. Sucking in a breath, she pushed off from the sand and began to swim. The water gathered beneath her, buoying her body instead of smashing it into the sand. Exhilaration sang through her veins as the shoreline hurtled closer.

Remember this,
she told herself as she touched down again.
Remember this feeling.
She would return to New York triumphant—not bruised, not battered, not broken. She would be strong. She would be fine. The Atlantic had given her its benediction.

*   *   *

“ARE YOU OUT HERE,
Mom?” Jane called as she stepped through the sliding doors and onto the patio. The distinctive hoots and whistles of a variety of indigenous birds greeted her approach. “Just wanted to let you know I'm home.”

Shading her eyes with one hand, she finally spied her mother standing at the far end of their fenced-in yard, apparently taking a break from gardening by speaking with someone on the phone. The air was redolent with the spicy perfume of the exotic flowers she loved to cultivate, and Jane paused to watch the haphazard progress of a blue butterfly, its wingspan as broad as the length of her hand.

“Jane, come here!” Her mother beckoned with her free hand. “Minetta wants to speak with you.”

“Can't she wait a day?” Jane said, even as she felt herself smile. “I'll see her tomorrow, after all.”

“Just talk.” Her mother held out the phone.

“Hey, Minnie,” she said, anticipating the outraged squawk that would greet her use of Min's least-favorite nickname. “What's up?”

“This is no time to be cute.” Min's syllables were clipped and rapid. “I just got off the phone with Sophia Niles.”

Jane's good mood evaporated. She and Sophia hadn't actually spoken since Anders' funeral, and now she was calling her aunt and uncle's residence? “Oh man. Was she really upset that I didn't send in my application?”

A long pause greeted her question—so long that Jane checked the phone's display to ensure the call hadn't dropped. “Min?”

“Um … no? Because I sent it in for you?”

“You did what?” The sudden roar of blood in her ears drowned out the cacophonous birdsong. “Are you serious? You sent it in?”

“It was almost done,” Min said defensively. “So I finished it for you and put it in the mail.”

“You finished it
for
me? What the hell does that mean?”

“Aiyah,” her mother scolded from where she was kneeling before a flower bed. “Language.” But Jane barely heard her.

“You needed one more poem, so I typed up that one in your notebook.” Min's tone was becoming almost as screechy as the birds.

“You looked in my notebook?”

“You left it on the nightstand!”

Jane clamped her lips together. She didn't want to say anything she'd regret, especially not to Minetta, but the knowledge that she had raided her private notebook—and then sent something in it to Anders' widow—made her head pound as though it were about to split open.

“Jane?” Min asked in a small voice, suddenly sounding very much like an eleven-year-old. “Are you really mad?”

Was she really? Surprised—yes. Terribly anxious about how her work would be received—yes. Frustrated that Min hadn't respected her privacy—yes. But Min had been motivated by generosity and selflessness. For some reason, Min believed in her work enough to take the time and make the effort to complete her application. Was she really going to let her fear of negative criticism stand in the way of showing her appreciation?

“No, kiddo. I'm not mad. You're the brave one, you know that? I need to learn to be more like you.”

She could practically hear Min rolling her eyes. “You're only realizing this now?”

Jane let the gibe pass. “When you talked to Sophia … what did she say?”

“She wouldn't tell me anything. But she wants you to call her ASAP. You will, right?”

“I will.”

Butterflies the size of the one she had seen in the garden began to terrorize Jane's stomach as she took down the number. After promising Min a full report in person tomorrow, she hung up and punched in the digits with trembling fingers, forestalling her mother's questions with a brisk shake of her head. If she didn't follow through on her promise and do this
right now,
she might lose her nerve.

The call took forever to connect, or maybe it was her imagination. But when Sophia finally answered, the sound of her voice brought with it a wash of memories—from the warmth of winter evenings spent discussing literature in front of their fireplace, to the dank chill of the morning when Anders' body had been lowered into his grave.

“Hello, Sophia,” she said, unashamed of the snarl of tears behind her words.

“Jane? Is that you?”

“It's me. I'm in Brazil and calling from my mom's phone.”

“I take it your charming little cousin delivered my message?”

Jane had to smile at her description of Minetta. “She did.”

“I want to hear all about your adventures,” Sophia said. “But before you say another word, I want to congratulate you on being the recipient of the first annual Anders Niles Memorial Fellowship.” Her voice faltered as she spoke her husband's name.

Under the hot sun, Jane stood paralyzed as joy and grief ignited in the center of her chest. Only her tears ran free, coursing down her cheeks to drip, drip, drip onto the lush grass. Unlooked for, unhoped for, this moment was entirely overwhelming. Cradling the phone to her ear, she sank to her knees and looked up at the same blue sky that arced above the spires of New York City …

 … and thought that perhaps she hadn't abandoned her muse, after all.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

T
HE TEXT FROM MINETTA
came in as Jane was waiting in line at Immigration:
dont take train Sue & G will pick u up.
Jane blinked down at her phone and adjusted the strap of her messenger bag with her free hand. That was unexpected. And wholly unnecessary—she could have easily taken public transportation back into the city. At least their presence together meant Giancarlo had recovered from his shingles.

Still, she reflected as the line crept forward, it felt good to know she had been missed. It would be nice to have a welcoming committee who might be able to distract her from the trepidation she felt about returning to the city. The feeling had plagued her for the entire plane ride, making it impossible to concentrate on the in-flight movie. Each time she got distracted, she tried to manage her expectations. Yes, she was returning to the city in which Sutton lived. But they weren't going to see each other. Sutton had moved on. And so had she. End of story.

After showing her passport and answering the curt questions from the Immigration officer, she collected her duffle from the baggage carousel and walked toward Customs, mentally reciting the litany she had invented on the flight.
Don't think about her; don't look for her; don't go anywhere she's likely to be.
Instead of dwelling on her failure to maintain her relationship with Sutton, she needed to focus on her success. Not only was she a published, award-winning poet—she had also just won a distinguished fellowship. The fact that she had done so despite her own idiocy was a warning she needed to heed. Next time, the universe—or Min—might not be so kind.

“Jane!” Sue's voice thankfully interrupted her ruminations. Jane looked up and saw her waving frantically from beyond the security barrier, Giancarlo beside her. Smiling, she raised one hand in acknowledgement and hurried toward them.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” she said once Sue had embraced her and Giancarlo had thumped her on the back with an avuncular awkwardness.

“Welcome home,” Sue said.

“We're glad you've returned safely,” Giancarlo echoed. “The car is this way.”

“How are you feeling?” Jane asked him as they followed the signs toward short-term parking.

“Good as new. The doctor said we caught it early enough for the antivirals to work quickly.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Jane snuck a glance at Sue, hoping she had heard that last part about modern medicine. “Can we all agree now that shingles is caused by a virus? And not by anything else?”

“Of course it is.” Giancarlo seemed confused. “A particularly nasty one.”

Sue only shot her an admonishing look. At least she stayed quiet.

They stopped before a small red Fiat, and Giancarlo pulled out a key chain attached to a plastic gnome with bright pink hair. When Jane raised her eyebrows, he looked a little embarrassed. “The car belongs to my sister.”

“It's cute,” Jane said as she stuffed herself into the tiny backseat. “Must be easy to find parking.”

As Giancarlo pulled out of the lot, Sue peppered Jane with questions about her parents, and about the culture of Rio de Janeiro. Jane had to pause her story several times while Sue scolded Giancarlo about his driving, and by the time she had satisfied Sue's curiosity, they were already speeding down the expressway.