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

music lowers to a whisper.
    “That better?” he asks.
    “How did you do that?”
    He hands me one of the cups. “Very funny.” He brings over the grayish object. “Apparently, your amnesia entails the simple things as well. Don’t worry; it will all come back. Here’s volume, on and off, CD, DVD, auxiliary, and so on. And—wait a sec.” He presses a button and the music stops mid-phrase, and he removes the white rectangle from its stand and brings that over, too. “Here’s how to find your music by artist, genre, album, song.”
    Then he retrieves a third object, also flat and rectangular. “You do remember how to use a phone, don’t you?” He regards me skep tically. “You’re kidding, right? This should be surgically implanted in your ear. Here, this is how you can call me.” He clears his throat. “Or anyone you want to talk to.”
    I can hardly follow the rapid movement of his fingers on these odd contrivances; I am so caught up in the citron freshness of this man’s scent as he perches on the bed next to me, so enchanted by the damp curls of hair on his neck as he bends his head to focus on what he is doing, that I am only vaguely aware of the sound of a key in a lock. In fact, I would hardly blink an eye if a host of musicians, in the flesh, were to suddenly appear in my room.
    Instead, it is Paula who sails in, steaming containers of coffee in hand, resplendent in a scarlet dress, longer than yesterday’s, pink and blue tresses wild about her face, and Anna trailing behind her in an unornamented, short-sleeved gray bodice and snug white trousers.
    “Good morning, darling, I’ve got your pills,” she says, waving a paper bag in my direction. “Did you sleep well?” Her toothy smile vanishes as she regards Wes and me on the bed. I pull the bedclothes up around my neck and am instantly vexed with myself. Who is Paula, with her bare arms and legs and scarlet lips that match her dress, to pass judgment upon me? Or is Wes indeed a member of the serving class, as I had first suspected, and is this the source of her disapprobation?
    Impossible. Despite his coarse clothing, from what I have observed, he has most certainly comported himself as an equal with the ladies in every possible way, even attempting to assert his dominance whenever he could.
    “Wes,” Paula says, “don’t you have a website to optimize or something?”
    “Like you even know what you’re talking about.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “Give me a break, Paula. You know Courtney asked me to stay.”
    I asked Wes to stay here? Heaven only knows what else I might have said under the sway of that evil pill. My face is burning.
    Paula flashes me a conciliatory smile, then turns to Wes with a softened tone. “Would you mind terribly if Anna and I took over for a while?” And turning to me, “If you think you’re up to it, it’s a typical L.A. blue sky and not too hot yet, so Anna and I would like to take you to breakfast.”
    I glance over at Wes, who is watching me with what looks like a feeble attempt to affect unconcern at my answer.
    Paula turns to Wes. “There are some things we need to discuss—just us girls.” The tightness returns to her tone. “Do I need to spell it out?”
    Wes is looking at me instead of Paula. “If that’s what Courtney wants, I’ll leave you to it.”
    “Yes,” I say, “I suppose I had better. . . .”
    “Call me later if you need anything,” Wes says, placing a card on top of the bookcase. He gives me a wry grin. “Just in case you’ve wiped out all traces of my contact info.” Paula gives him an icy look and Anna raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, I folded your laundry; it’s still in the living room.” A quick wave and he is gone.
    Within fifteen minutes I am washed—oh heavenly water and soap and thick downy towels—and dressed, with the help of Paula and Anna, who assist me in choosing my ensemble and fastening myself into the various garments. Today this lovely, shapely