The Keepers: Christmas in Salem. Heather Graham
and nerve-racking and sometimes downright boring. Her fantasies were so much better. So a solitary Valentine’s Day was far preferable to the other option—paralyzing nerves and unfulfilled expectations.
Besides, what more could a girl known as Plain Jane expect? In high school, she’d been the brainy girl who’d never had a boyfriend, who spent every free minute at her studies. Her social life had revolved around science fairs, academic decathlons and orthodontist appointments. Of course, her hard work had won her a full academic scholarship to Northwestern—where she chose to major in botany. But nothing much had changed since graduation, except for the loss of her braces. Though she’d had a few dates, she still hadn’t found the man of her dreams.
Jane picked up her journal and sat down on the sofa, tucking her feet under her. “Another Valentine’s Day without a man,” she murmured as she wrote. “I’m trying to remain optimistic on this bleak occasion. I just haven’t found the right man. The perfect man. My Prince Charming. He’s out there somewhere. I just have to be patient and wait for him to find me—like Paul found Holly Golightly.”
There was one man, a guy who was just about perfect in every way, and even dreamier than George Peppard. When she fantasized about her Prince Charming, it was his face she saw in her dreams. And he lived downstairs, just like Paul had in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Actually Paul had lived upstairs, but that was an insignificant point—considering this guy had never looked at her the way Paul looked at Holly. Or the way Prince Charming looked at Cinderella. Or the way a man was supposed to look at a woman he wanted—with lust in his eyes.
Jane shook her head and closed her journal, tossing it onto the coffee table and refusing to surrender to melancholy. Moping around would make this Valentine’s Day go from moderately lonely to completely pathetic. Still, it was hard to put him out of her mind. Right now, Will McCaffrey, her Prince Charming, was downstairs getting ready for a romantic night on the town with one of his many girlfriends.
Jane knew he had a big night planned. He’d asked her advice on flowers and she’d sent him to her favorite floral shop with a list of choices for an elegant bouquet. She’d ripped a few restaurant reviews out of the Chicago Sun Times and urged him to make a reservation early. And when he’d needed a button sewn on his dress shirt, she’d obliged. She’d even helped him choose the right tie.
“Good old Jane,” she muttered. She and Will had been friends since he’d moved in last year, meeting after her bathtub had overflowed and dripped through his apartment ceiling. He’d helped her sop up the mess, she’d offered him freshly baked cookies and a glass of milk in return, and they’d become friends.
It hadn’t taken long for her to place him squarely in the middle of her fantasies. And it had taken even less time to realize that he’d never fall for a girl like her. Will preferred tall, willowy blondes with stunning smiles and bodies better suited to wear Victoria’s Secret lingerie than comfy chenille robes. His girlfriends were always confident and worldly, and seemed as though they knew exactly how to please a man and weren’t afraid to show him. Jane was short and brunette, with a body that looked more boyish than bodacious and a tongue that got tied in knots worthy of any Boy Scout. The only thing about her that had ever pleased a man was her oatmeal-toffee cookies.
With a soft groan, she grabbed the asplenium nidus from the coffee table. “What would you do, Lulamae?” she murmured, picking at the foliage of the houseplant. “There has to be a way to make him see that I’m a woman, too. I can be sexy and seductive just like those other girls.” But the moment she said it, Jane knew it wasn’t true. She’d never be Holly Golightly, she’d always be Jane Goslowly or Jane Goclumsily or Jane Go—
A knock sounded on the door and she frowned as she set down the plant and crawled off the sofa. When she opened the door, her best friend, Lisa Harper, rushed in, a garment bag dangling from her hand.
“You have to help me,” she said. “I can’t decide on the red dress or the black. I think the red makes my butt look like Montana. And the black one shows entirely too much cleavage. And I wanted to borrow that beaded choker that you bought at Navy Pier last month. Oh, and I need a decent coat to wear. A jacket would look really stupid and make my butt look like Asia.” She stopped babbling long enough to look around. “Are you expecting company?”
Jane forced a laugh. “No, just a quiet night alone—me, my plants, Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard.”
Lisa groaned. “Oh, not Breakfast at Tiffany’s again! How many times can you watch that movie?”
“It’s timeless,” Jane said. “It’s the most perfectly romantic movie ever.”
“Why don’t you come out with me and Roy? You’ll eat a fancy meal and drink too much champagne and you’ll feel like a new woman.”
“This is only your third date. I don’t think Roy would appreciate me tagging along.” Jane unzipped the garment bag and examined the two dresses. “Wear the red and don’t worry about your butt. You can borrow my black cashmere coat. And the necklace is in my jewelry box.”
Lisa gave her a quick hug. “You’re a peach!” She raced into the bedroom, while Jane settled back on the sofa. Lisa never seemed to be without a date and she’d tried to set Jane up any number of times. But Jane had always felt blind dates were for desperate, love-starved girls who couldn’t find a man on their own—and she wasn’t about to admit defeat so soon. She still had two and a half years of undergrad left and a whole campus full of possibilities.
“All right,” Lisa said as she rushed back through the living room. “Are you sure you won’t come? Roy’s roommate isn’t doing anything tonight. We could make it a double date. He’s really cute.”
“Maybe another time,” Jane said, certain that Roy’s roommate—cute or not—would be less than enthusiastic about a last-minute date with her. Besides, Jane’s mother had brought her up to believe in the old-fashioned conventions of dating and romance, conventions that required a man to make the first move and a woman to wait patiently until he did.
Lisa shrugged. “All right. But I’ll see you tomorrow at the library. We have to study for our cell biology exam.”
As Lisa hurried out of the apartment, Jane sighed softly. She’d just have to make a plan to get out and meet more men. She and Lisa could hit one of the many bars near the campus. Or she could get involved in some extracurricular activities, or take a class that didn’t include so many science geeks.
“See, things are looking up already,” she said as she grabbed the remote. “I’ve got a plan.”
The opening credits had just finished when a sharp rap interrupted her again. Jane rolled her eyes and scrambled off the sofa. “What did you forget?” she asked as she yanked open the door, expecting to find Lisa with another request. Her breath caught in her throat when she looked up into Will McCaffrey’s startling blue eyes.
He wore a suit, but his shirt collar was open and his tie askew. His dark hair was mussed, giving him a slightly rumpled look, as if he’d just crawled out of bed. With a gallant gesture, he whipped a huge bouquet of English roses out from behind his back. He frowned as he took in the candlelit room, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve interrupted something.”
“No, no, it’s all right.” She took the flowers and stepped aside to let him enter, the distinct scent of whiskey following him inside. When he stumbled slightly, she reached out to grab his arm. “Are—are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right,” he mumbled, throwing himself down on her sofa and covering his eyes with his arm. He held up the nearly empty bottle he carried. “I’m almost out of whiskey and I’m not nearly drunk enough yet.” He sat up straight. “Do you have any whiskey?”
“No,” Jane said. “I have champagne and some wine coolers. And I think I might have some peppermint schnapps. It—it tastes good in hot chocolate and sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I—”
“Bring on the schnapps,” he shouted, throwing out his arms. “Let the celebration