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Chapter 1

The Ferrars family had long been settled in Sussex, Pennsylvania. That was not much to brag about because Sussex, Pennsylvania, was nowhere in particular. It was a peaceful dot on the map, about a half hour outside of Pittsburgh and home to a few thousand hearty individuals.

The Ferrars were a respectable family, never very prominent or particularly interesting, and were generally well liked. Mr. James Ferrars had departed to a better place many years ago (some said he went to California, others said to Chicago) and Mrs. Edith Ferrars made no great objections. She worked hard, saved and invested every cent she earned, and brought up their three children in a comfortable home. Her precious little girl, Fanny, was a freshman at a local liberal arts college and still lived at home to save on living expenses. Her middle child, Robert, was an electrician and, most importantly, financially independent. He still lived at home by choice but he insisted on paying his mother rent, just to show what a responsible adult he was. Her eldest son Edward, however, was not so promising.

Edward came into the kitchen wearing his brown tweed sports jacket and light brown khakis. Mrs. Ferrars looked up from the pot roast she was preparing and shook her head at her son's unfortunate fashion sense. The Ferrars clan all had distinct yellow-orange hair, much like the color of cantaloupe, and Edward made his hair even more noticeable through neglect. He had lots of yellow-orange, shaggy hair falling in his eyes and flopping over his ears and the nape of his neck. The brown tweed jacket plus the shaggy cantaloupe hair, plus a very old pair of brown loafers, plus the khakis that weren't quite long enough, plus his cheap glasses with very thick lenses... The boy was a mess. He had always been such a smart boy, always getting the best grades in school and winning scholarships and other academic awards, and now he could hardly dress himself.

"Oh, Edward, we always had very high hopes for you," Mrs. Ferrars sighed.

"Yes, Mom, I know," he said cheerfully, not noticing her use of the past tense. "Could you tie my tie for me?"

Mrs. Ferrars took the tie from him, looked at it, and shook her head again. Red? With his hair and with that jacket? Where did she go wrong with him?

"I paid $15,000 a year towards your tuition for four years so you could become something. That's $60,000. You'd think that would be enough to buy you some sense. You're not wearing that tie," she said, throwing the tie on the kitchen table. When Mrs. Ferrars made up her mind on something, her children knew not to argue.

"OK," Edward said. He was obviously confused by what was so objectionable about the tie, but then he smiled, and Mrs. Ferrars had to smile, too. He had a cute, lopsided smile, unchanged since he was a little boy.

Edward had been living in the garage of the old family home since he had graduated from college three years ago. He spent his days writing stories that he would occasionally send to magazines for the thrill of getting the rejection letter in return, and he said he was writing his novel. He couldn't possibly share it with anyone until it was completed, of course, so Mrs. Ferrars just had to trust him when he said that it was going to be a masterpiece. Unlike Robert, Edward did not pay rent. It would be unfair, like charging a baby for his crib. Robert had real, marketable skills, but what could Edward do? He only wanted to be an artist. He did earn some money by going out and tuning and fixing pianos, but there weren't enough pianos in Sussex, PA, for that to qualify as even a part-time job. Mrs. Ferrars sometimes worried about her son.

"And now you have this crazy idea of moving to New York City," she said, continuing her thoughts out loud. "You've never been there before."

"I know, Mom," Edward said. "But I've always wanted to live there. It will be fun."

Mrs. Ferrars had no idea how her son had made it through twenty-five years of life still being so idealistic. He was going to be eaten alive. In her sternest matriarch voice, she said, "Fun? You don't know what you're doing. You should be glad that your girlfriend isn't around to tell you what she thinks. She'd tell you you're being a fool."

"My fianc‚e," Edward said quietly. He always spoke quietly when daring to correct her. "You know that, Mom."

That was also a very unfortunate thing for Edward. Lucy Steele had her feet firmly planted in Sussex, she knew where she was going in life, she had drive and common sense in excess, and she was 100% wrong for Edward. Mrs. Ferrars knew this as well as everyone else in town. But Lucy was not one to change her mind once she decided to do something, and she had decided that she was going to marry Edward Ferrars. At least the boy was in no hurry to get married, so he could still save himself.

Lucy Steele, though, would be able to whine and complain enough to make Edward give up this New York fantasy. He never lived on his own before. He still needed someone to tie his ties for him and look after him.

"I've supported you in all your major decisions up to now, but I have to tell you now, Edward, that this is getting ridiculous," Mrs. Ferrars declared. "You have to grow up some day."

"I know, Mom. That's why I'm going to New York. I'll finish my novel and come back here and you'll all be proud of me. Really." He spoke so earnestly and he smiled in his goofy, lopsided way. Mrs. Ferrars was now sorry she had said anything. He had no idea what he was doing, she already knew that, but it was still sweet.

"You can always be an English teacher," she said, but she knew it was no use. This was going to be his adventure, and she would wait for the phone calls when he found that rent was due, his refrigerator was broken, and he needed help.

"Yes, Mom. But I have to go to a party tonight..." he started, glancing again at the forbidden tie.

"Which party?" Mrs. Ferrars asked. Sussex was not known for its parties, much less ones that Edward Ferrars would be invited to and would feel compelled to dress up.

"It's outside of Pittsburgh. Lots of rich people are going to be there. Henry got me the invitation."

Mrs. Ferrars looked at Edward's mismatched outfit again and did not comment. She had bought him a nice suit for job interviews when he graduated from college that she knew was hanging up in his closet. But it was hopeless to try to give Edward Ferrars advice on how to dress or how to make a good impression or how to lead his life. She would have to sit to the side and see how her son muddled through everything.

"Don't wear that tie," she said, and she went back to preparing dinner.

The line of limousines outside the von Ridderbusch manor extended all the way down the drive, passed the front gates, and onto the main road. Edward Ferrars parked his mother's Volvo, borrowed for the evening, at the nearest parking lot about two miles away.

Mr. von Ridderbusch was well known during his life for cherishing his privacy, and was equally well known for enjoying nothing more than inspiring that long line of limousines for his parties. His young widow, Mrs. Isabella von Ridderbusch, n‚e Thorpe, continued the tradition, collecting lots of charming, powerful, interesting, and, most importantly, rich people around her to tell her what a good hostess she was.

Edward regretted agreeing to go to the party when he saw all the limousines. Then he regretted agreeing to go to the party during his walk to the house. And he regretted coming even more when he went into the foyer. There he bumped into a woman wearing a dress that was probably more expensive than his mother's car and he almost knocked over a Greek vase that he would probably never be able to pay for. He knew that everyone else, or at least the few people who would give him a second look, knew that he was clumsy, awkward, and poor.

Edward was looking intently at a potted plant in the corner of a room, hoping that Henry would find him quickly, when his hostess, Isabella von Ridderbusch, found him instead. "Mr. Ferrars?" she asked.

Edward immediately spun around, as if caught misbehaving. "Yes?" Seeing Mrs. von Ridderbusch, he muttered some sort of apology about not noticing that she was there and tried to focus on the potted plant once more.

"I do not believe we have met," she said, with an obviously fake smile. Edward tried to give her an equally fake smile but failed; no one could equal Mrs. von Ridderbusch's fake smiles. She said, "I understand you are friends with Henry Tilney."

"Yes."

She waited for him to elaborate, but he never was good at talking to strangers. She said, "Henry has said such nice things about you."

"Has he?"

Edward seriously doubted that; from what Henry had told him, he had never gotten along with Mrs. von Ridderbusch and had only been invited because John Thorpe had told her that Henry was going to be a very influential person in the music business. Influential people were always invited to the von Ridderbusch parties.

She nodded with a particularly fake smile that must mean she was lying through her teeth, and she said, "I always like to meet more of Henry's friends. He is a great guy. He deserves all his success."

Edward didn't say anything for a moment, not seeing anything in her speech that required comment or engaged his interest in any way. He already disliked her immensely. After an extended pause, he finally said, "Henry has good taste in ties."

"Yes," Isabella said, no doubt realizing that all conversation with Edward Ferrars was useless and now scanning the room for Henry. She located her target and said, "We'll just have to find our friend Henry together."

Edward had no objection to that plan, and obediently followed her. While they weaved through the crowd, Isabella said, "Do you know Jessica Morton? She's a lovely girl. You simply must meet her. In fact, I see that your friend Henry is already trying to monopolize Miss Morton for himself. We must do something to save her from Henry's clutches before it's too late."

"Too late?" Edward repeated.

"Before it's too late for the other men, of course," Isabella said, with a high-pitched laugh. "Henry can be very charming when he chooses."

That made Edward laugh as well. He thought of Henry's description of the other guests the night before when they talked about the party: "Stuck-up idiots all dressed up to display their finery in a conspicuous consumption celebration." Henry Tilney was not there to be charming and monopolize the attentions of pretty girls; he was there to laugh.

And, in fact, Henry was laughing when Isabella and Edward came up to them in the crowd. Miss Morton was a stunning blonde in a stunning dress, and she was well aware of the stunning impression she was sure to be making on everyone around her. At the present, though, she could only awkwardly look down at her empty champagne flute and blush. Edward could easily identify her as the unwilling target of Henry Tilney's teasing.

Henry and Edward had gone to college together, giving Edward more than enough examples of his social inadequacies compared to his friend. Henry could talk to anyone and find something that genuinely interested and entertained him in that conversation. Henry's mother was Italian, and he had inherited thick dark hair, brown eyes, and the easy Mediterranean sociability from her side of the family. Thanks to his father's family, Henry towered over other people at six feet tall and could look as formidable and important as circumstances called for. He had good looks, a captivating wit, and a presence that attracted all eyes to him.

But Henry also had no heart when it came to dealing with women, especially when he could get a good laugh at their expense. When he saw Edward, he seemed to immediately forget about Miss Morton and now smiled with genuine enthusiasm at meeting again with his old friend.

Isabella glared at Henry for a moment, probably sensing that he wasn't behaving in a suitable way to Jessica Morton of the Pittsburgh Mortons, one of the wealthiest families in the area, but then she properly smiled and said, "Miss Morton, you must meet my delightful friend here Edward Ferrars. Edward, Jessica Morton."

Miss Morton half-smiled in a very superior manner to Edward (a tweed jacket?), and Edward nodded stiffly and began to say something polite and meaningless about how pleased he was to meet her when Henry interrupted.

"Ed! I was wondering when you'd get here. Now I can assure you, Mrs. von Ridderbusch, that I will have an excellent time tonight," he said, affectionately patting Edward on the back.

Isabella had completed her task of disposing of Edward Ferrars, and she now dedicated herself to the cause of finding someone else for Jessica Morton to talk to who would be more charming than Henry Tilney was apparently in the mood to be.

Now left alone together in the crowd, Edward and Henry could talk about the issue that had been of much interest to both of them for the past few weeks: the New York move. Edward said, "This afternoon I got the plane ticket, so now I just need an apartment, then everything is set."

"Just an apartment?" Henry repeated. "I thought I told you to wait before you got the plane ticket. Have you even begun to look for an apartment in New York City?"

"Not yet. But my flight is in two days."

"Ed, do you have any idea difficult it is to find an apartment in the city? Obviously not. Let's hope you're out of the hotel and settled and working at the shop in a month."

"I'll start work in one week, two at the latest. Really. I really want to be in New York City. I can't finish my book until I'm in New York."

When Edward was home, he had all the distractions of home. There was his mother always complaining that she had paid for an expensive degree from a top university (well, she paid for what wasn't covered by all his scholarships) and all he could do was write stories. There was his younger brother Robert, the good son, who his mother always was comparing him to. There was his whiny little sister Fanny, who wouldn't let him forget that he was twenty-five and still living at home. And then there was always Lucy Steele lingering in the background.

Once he was in New York, he would be away from all those worries. He'd have a room with his old computer and printer, and he'd have the time to write his masterpiece every night. The days would be spent working to be able to afford to stay in the city. Henry Tilney had spent all week trying to determine that Edward wasn't good enough to work for his family's business, but Henry had to acknowledge that his old friend was a fine piano technician. The job was set up, so Edward now wanted to get away from Pennsylvania as soon as possible.

"And your fianc‚e is OK with this? Or have you still not fully told her the details, like the fact that you really are going?"

"Lucy?" Edward asked. That was the one loose end that he still had to worry about. "Well, she understands, I think. At least I hope she understands. Once the book is finished, she'll realize that it was necessary. She's a practical girl, you'd know that if you ever got a chance to meet her. Too bad that your visit was the same time when she was visiting her grandmother. But to find an apartment -"

Isabella von Ridderbusch interrupted before Edward could get any real advice, or at least hear a few sarcastic remarks from his friend about searching for apartments in New York. She had successfully gotten Jessica Morton to talk to an investment banker who may not be the wittiest conversationalist in the world but at least had nice hair and could award a stunning dress with all the admiration it deserved.

"Oh, Edward, there you disappeared to. You must meet Elinor Dashwood," Mrs. von Ridderbusch declared, physically attaching herself to his arm and dragging him to a different part of the room. Edward was so surprised by her reappearance that he let himself be dragged away from his unfinished conversation. He did not expect his hostess for the evening to be so ... attentive.

In a coordinated maneuver, one of Henry Tilney's father's friends appeared beside Henry, preventing him from following Mrs. von Ridderbusch and his friend. Instead, Henry had to hear old Colonel Forster talk about how General Tilney knew how to throw the best parties back in the old days when they were all in the service together.

Isabella gave a stern look to Henry Tilney her shoulder as she led Edward away. This was her revenge to Henry Tilney for not giving Miss Morton the attention that she deserved. Edward noticed the look, too, and decided Isabella von Ridderbusch really must be a social wonder. Not many other people could get away with her annoyingness and still have so many acquaintances to invite to her parties.

Their final destination, Elinor Dashwood, looked bored. A girl, young enough to still be in high school, was talking to her, and Elinor was looking at the pictures on the walls half-pretending to listen. Elinor looked at her approaching hostess with the same bored look of indifference; obviously Isabella von Ridderbusch and Elinor Dashwood were not the best of friends. That was a good sign, as far as Edward was concerned.

"Miss Dashwood, Mr. Edward Ferrars," Isabella said coolly. She then turned her attention to the girl, who looked relieved to be spared the task of talking to Elinor Dashwood. They walked off together, leaving Edward and Elinor together.

Edward had no idea what to say. He felt nervous simply standing next to her; Elinor was beautiful. She was wearing a simple long black dress and only a pair of diamond stud earrings in the way of jewelry, and she still exuded class and good breeding without the display the other guests had. She was tall, only slightly shorter than Edward with her heels, slender, blonde, impeccably stylish - way out of Edward's league.

"It's a big crowd tonight," he finally said. He was terrible at small talk.

Elinor Dashwood smiled weakly and nodded. Edward could see that she was going to resume her examination of the pictures of the walls if he didn't somehow manage to be really interesting quickly.

"So how do you know Mrs. von Ridder-whatever-it-is?" he asked.

"I don't. My half-brother John knows her," she said in a quiet, gentle voice with a slight British accent. A very classy-sounding voice, Edward decided.

"I don't know her either," he said. Perhaps he spoke too enthusiastically in his excitement of finding something they had in common. Elinor gave him another weak smile and he saw her eyes beginning to wander towards the bland landscapes on the walls; he really wasn't doing very well with her.

"Are you from around here?" he asked next.

"No," she said simply.

"Then what brings you to this corner of the world?"

"My half-brother John," she said. Now she must think that Edward wasn't paying attention to what she was saying; she already told him that she was there because of her half-brother. Edward felt like a complete idiot. She obviously didn't want to talk to him.

"John Dashwood?"

"Yes."

"I don't know him."

"Oh."

Now was another pause in conversation, a perfect opportunity for Elinor Dashwood to walk off and look at the paintings. But for some reason she was now looking intently at him, waiting to hear what he would say next. That was the problem with quiet girls: there was so much pressure to be charming.

While Edward tried to think of something that could save the conversation, Elinor calmly sipped some water from a glass. That one motion distracted Edward from all weather-related issues he could bring up. All the tables only had very elegant champagne flutes; how did she manage to get a glass of water? He then looked at her again and decided that Elinor Dashwood could get precisely what she wanted. Perhaps it was something from the expression in her eyes, a sense of strength and control...

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No, why?" he immediately said.

"It's just that you seemed to be staring at something."

"Oh, no, I wasn't. I was just ... thinking. Spacing out, you know," he said quickly, then wished he hadn't spoken. Now he was implying that she was so boring that he was thinking about something else in the middle of their conversation?

"You see, I'm in the process of moving," Edward attempted to elaborate. "To New York City."

"Oh really?" she asked, for once showing actual interest. "I'm moving there soon, too."

For a moment, that made Edward very happy. Then he realized that he was being silly; they would never see each other again. He could imagine her living in a penthouse apartment in some fashionable part of town, going to parties every night and charity balls and the opera and everything else rich people in New York City did. He had a book to write.

Now, at least, they really did have something in common. "When are you moving?" he asked.

"As soon as I am finished with my business here," she said. As an afterthought, she added, "John and I are sorting out some lingering issues from my father's will."

Now Edward certainly did not know to say. The black dress now was obviously a sign of mourning, not a fashion statement, the strength in her expression a mask for grief, her terse answers and boredom a sign of discontent with the world - Elinor Dashwood instantly was elevated from a beautiful woman he had met at a party to a tragic heroine worthy of his next novel.

"I'm sorry," Edward said, not knowing what else could be appropriate.

"Thank you," she said quickly. In a different, more casual tone of voice, she said, "I hope to move next week, actually. I am almost through here, and then I need to find an apartment. I haven't begun looking yet, though."

"Do you know how difficult it is to find an apartment in New York City?" Edward asked, automatically assuming the same sarcastic, skeptical tone Henry Tilney had used when he had been talking about apartment shopping in New York.

"No, I don't," she said, watching him closely and waiting for the punch line. "Just how long does it take?"

Edward shrugged and said, "I have no idea, but I need to find an apartment in New York in the next week myself."

Somehow that one lame attempt at a joke made up for the rest of their conversation. Edward achieved the impossible; he made Elinor Dashwood laugh. It was a very short laugh, hardly loud enough to be heard, but it was a definite laugh. She then did a second completely unexpected thing. She said, "Then let's go apartment shopping together. Then we can both find out how difficult it is."

Edward hesitated, wondering whether they would really be interested in the same sorts of apartments. But then she smiled, a slight, natural smile that showed that she simply enjoyed his company, for some unknown reason, and he was completely won over.

"Too small," Edward declared.

"It's only for one person, you know," Elinor countered.

"But that one person would have to breath. You take it."

"No, it's much too small."

Edward was dressed in his nicest suit, and Elinor was dressed in a sweater and jeans. Of course she looked ten times more professional and in control than he did, but he expected as much, no matter what they wore. Elinor found a real estate agency she liked, and Elinor made the appointment, and Elinor had arranged which places they would visit and in which order. Both Edward and the real estate agent were merely along for the ride while Elinor Dashwood handled everything.

The next place.

Edward's pronouncement: "The view is awful."

"What do you expect? The top of the Empire State Building? The shores of the Danube? We must be practical. There are only so many apartments available in the city. If we are too picky, we will have nothing left and will end up living in New Jersey. Neither of us want that, right?"

Now away from the party, Elinor talked freely and comfortably with him, and Edward felt that was a great compliment. In addition to being beautiful and elegant and classy, he now knew she was also a very intelligent and witty conversationalist. Edward was becoming more and more convinced that Elinor Dashwood was the most perfect woman in the world. Of course, he was already engaged, and Elinor wasn't the type of girl he went after, anyway; but that didn't mean that he couldn't admire her greatly.

And the most perfect woman in the world couldn't possibly think that this apartment would do. He would not be able to live with the guilt if she ended up in a terrible apartment like this one.

"Just look out the window, Elinor," he said. "The wall of the apartment building next door? You can practically see into their windows."

"Then don't look out the window."

"Well, you take it."

"No, the view is atrocious."

The next place.

Edward immediately declared, "The walls are too thin."

"Nonsense."

"You can hear Pink Floyd from next door."

"I don't hear anything."

"Well, you take it."

"No, I hate Pink Floyd."

Day 3 of the apartment search, the twenty-second place.

"Too many closets."

"Is that all you can think of complaining about?" Elinor asked.

"Well, it seems like wasted space. And all the doors..."

"There can never be too many closets. We could put some shelves in them and make them cupboards."

"You can't make a closet a cupboard. A cupboard in your bedroom?"

"Why not?"

"I love the living room. You could maybe remove that wall to make it more connected to the kitchen - we're allowed to do that, right?" Edward asked the real estate agent.

The real estate agent made some comment about not knowing what the landlord would permit. Edward noticed Elinor half-roll her eyes, one of her subtle facial expressions that could easily be missed if you weren't looking directly at her. She was not one to show her emotions freely, but Edward was already beginning to catch the few hints she did reveal.

The incompetence of the real estate agent aside, Elinor still was pleased with what she saw. Edward was therefore pleased as well. The place was rather big, though. Much bigger than he would have thought of looking for himself. It would do nicely for Elinor. She could invite all her fashionable friends over. She would have to redecorate, but then again she would certainly be very good at handling everything necessary for redecorating.

"The view is nice," Elinor said, looking out the double glass doors leading out to the balcony. "Not even you can complain about it, Edward. We could sit out on the balcony at night."

"Yeah," he said, trying not to smile too much. This gorgeous, classy woman wanted to see more of him. He would never have imagined he would have a friend like her.

"We'd have to replace the wall paper in the living room, though," she said, now looking critically at the paper. "What colors do you like? Well, I'm sure we'll agree on something."

"You don't need to worry about what I want," Edward began.

"Why not? You'll be living here, too," Elinor said.

"What?"

"The place is too big for one person," she said, as if it was a foregone conclusion that they were planning in plural. She then turned around from contemplating the wainscoting and looked at him, waiting for his reaction. He, of course, didn't know what to say. He had just met her a week ago. Did she really mean that she wanted to share an apartment with him, a random guy she met at a party?

Elinor smiled at his confusion and said, "Well, what do you think?"

"But the money-" Edward began, turning to the real estate agent. The location was too good, the rooms were too large, the neighborhood was too nice; he wouldn't be able to afford even a tenth of the rent.

"We can handle it," Elinor said before the real estate agent could reply. She would take care of that detail, too. She smiled again, waiting for Edward to make up his mind. Her mind, at least, was made up.

"Are you really sure you want to live with me?"

Elinor glanced at the real estate agent, and she stepped closer to Edward so she could speak in a lower volume. "Yes, with you. You are the only person I really know in the city, and you make me laugh. There are separate bedrooms and plenty of room for our things. It will be fun. So how about it?"

Edward nervously looked around the living room again, and he looked again at the woman standing in front of him. The apartment was lovely; Elinor was lovely; Lucy would kill him. Then again, who said he had to tell Lucy Steele everything about where he lived?

"OK, you're right, it's a great place," he said finally. "Count me in."

Elinor smiled, and Edward knew he had made the right decision. She announced to the real estate agent, "We'll take it."

Chapter 2

Six months later

Northanger Pianos opened at 8:30 am. That was really far too early, but Henry Tilney, the main salesman in his father's shop, was there. There weren't any customers yet and Henry did not expect to see anyone until at least 10:00. People bought coffee at 8:30 am, not pianos, especially not the sort of pianos one found at Northanger.

They did not sell ordinary pianos at Northanger Pianos; they sold the best pianos. And not merely the champagne of pianos, but the Dom Perignons or Roederer Cristals of champagnes of pianos. They had the finest models of B”sendorfers, Bl�thners, Steinways, Bechsteins, Grotrians - mostly German, some high-end Japanese, even some American pianos. If you weren't satisfied with what they could roll up to you out front, Northanger Pianos had the connections to get any type of high-end piano that you could desire so long as one was for sale somewhere in the world. If you wanted the best and if you could afford the price, you went to Northanger.

Alone in the empty showroom, Henry sat on the bench of a B”sendorfer and idly tapped out on the beautiful instrument "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" with one finger. John Thorpe didn't come into work until at least 9:30 am, which was perfectly fine with Henry. John made the quiet hours seem even longer with his constant rattle. For the present, Henry was content with sitting and waiting, and now progressing to his one-finger-rendition of "Mary Had a Little Lamb." At least he had time to think, and even to unproductively daydream.

"Henry, would you mind please helping the young woman!"

Henry immediately looked up to see his father, the always formidable General Tilney in his always neatly pressed suit, walking into the showroom. The General had impeccable timing; he always managed to come into the showroom to check up on his son when Henry was doing something wrong, like not paying attention to the front door.

General Tilney had spent the majority of his adult life in the military and had retired with a collection of medals and honors for his loyal service. His retirement had, however, been interrupted by his younger brother's death, and the General somehow ended up with the family piano business. All the relatives had assumed that Henry would inherit the shop from his uncle since he actually had a degree in business and had been working in the shop off-and-on since he was a kid, but Henry did not complain about the conditions of the will. He had worked for his uncle, so now he worked for his father. That meant he had to keep the General happy so that when the time came for the General to retire for a second time, there would be no doubt of his successor.

The General was smiling, but from his fast, stiff walk, Henry could tell that his father was mad at him for neglecting a paying customer. Henry turned around to see the source of the General's concern: a girl probably seventeen or eighteen years old, very neatly and simply dressed, looking at the $22,000 Steinway grand piano they had up in the front. Henry knew how to read customers, and there was no way she was going to buy the instrument. That instrument was destined to some penthouse apartment or a recital hall at a local music school. That girl did not own a penthouse apartment or purchase pianos for music schools. She could hardly be out of high school herself.

The General, however, saw everyone who passed through the front door as a potential piano purchaser, and therefore worthy of being treated like royalty. "Good morning, miss," he said. "I am General Tilney, the owner of Northanger Pianos. Is there anything you would like to see? My son Henry would be more than willing to help you."

Henry got up from the piano bench and joined the girl and his father by the Steinway. "Are you interested in... Steinways?" Henry asked, trying his best to look serious, or at least serious enough that the General could find no fault with him.

Seeing that the customer was being taken care of, the General returned to his office in the back of the store. At the sound of the showroom door closing behind his father, Henry automatically relaxed.

"Well, actually," the girl stammered. Of course she wasn't really looking at Steinways. She was nervous, looking down at Henry's shoes and biting her bottom lip. Perhaps she was even younger than he had initially thought.

"Would you mind if I... tried it out first?" she said, gesturing to the Steinway. First? What did she expect to do second? Buy the instrument with her lunch money?

She sat down on the bench and straightened her posture just like any piano teacher would tell her to do. Henry stood to the side with a full view of her so he could best appreciate the performance. At 8:30 in the morning, he had little else to do. She laid her fingers on top of the keys, took a deep breath, and started playing.

Henry was no musician himself, but he had heard enough people come in to test out the pianos before purchasing them to be familiar with a wide range of piano compositions. John Thorpe, an accomplished pianist, kept lists of what people played, just for his own amusement, so he could sit in the back and say, "Another Moonlight Sonata." Even Henry couldn't keep himself from immediately judging the customer based on his performance.

The girl was good. Very good. She was just playing a Bach prelude from The Well-Tempered Clavier, the sort of little piece that all piano students would be expected to dutifully learn while working on more interesting piano sonatas and concertos. But the way the girl played the simple prelude, Henry could tell she loved the piece. Its simplicity complemented her own. She seemed to have forgotten he was there while she smiled at the progression of the familiar notes.

Once she had finished the short, one-minute piece, she blushed, remembering where she was, and said, "It's a... really a... lovely instrument. But I... I don't really want to... you know..."

"No problem," Henry said. "Other students come in just to try out the instruments, too. I think they get mad when we actually sell one."

"I'm not a student," the girl said, blushing again and getting up from the piano bench. "That is, I want to be, but I'm not one yet. That's why I'm here."

Now Henry was confused but intrigued. He asked, "So why exactly are you here?"

"I... I saw the ad in the newspaper, about the secretary position," she said very quickly. "I suppose you must already have had tons of people call and give you their r‚sum‚s and everything, but I... I really need the job. I don't have any experience, but I'm willing to learn." She now looked up, scared, uncertain, and ready to cry.

If there was one thing Henry Tilney could not say no to, it was a near-crying woman. "No problem. If you can handle the General, you can have the job," Henry said.

The girl's mouth opened like she was going to say something, but no sound came out. As an afterthought, Henry tried to remember if it was his turn to do the interviewing to find a secretary. The last secretary they had tried lasted only a week. The General went through so many secretaries that John and Henry took turns trying to find replacements for him. John had gotten the last one, a friend of one of his awful sisters. So it really was Henry's turn. He smiled encouragingly at the girl. What was the age limit for working in New York City?

"Really?" the girl finally asked. More skeptically, she added, "But don't you want to see my r‚sum‚?"

"You said you have no experience," Henry said, shrugging. "I don't think it can be all that difficult to learn how to answer phones and write letters or whatever else the General needs you to do. You look like a smart kid."

She still seemed reluctant to accept the good news. "But shouldn't you interview me?"

"Isn't that what we just did?" Henry asked. "I am sorry, miss, but you will not persuade me against hiring you. What is your name?"

"Catherine Morland," she said, still uncertain.

"One last question then, Miss Morland," Henry said, realizing that he hadn't asked the one question he asked literally every single person he met. The interview couldn't be complete without the last question. "Have you seen The Godfather?"

Her awkwardness immediately disappeared and her face lit up with delight. Henry smiled too; he knew that he just found a fellow Mafia-movie fanatic. "Who hasn't?" she asked. "And I've seen The Godfather II, marvelous film of course, and The Godfather III, which really is under-rated, and I've read all the books and all the other books by Martin Puzo and I've seen all the episodes of The Sopranos... And please, call me Catherine."

"Ok, Catherine, welcome to Northanger Pianos."

The morning wouldn't be as dull as Henry had anticipated after all. He had just made a new friend.

Edward Ferrars was not as punctual as his friend, and was still at home when Northanger Pianos found its newest secretary. It was a lovely morning, sunlight filled the living room, the sound of rush hour traffic on the streets below drifted in through the open windows, the light steps of the people who lived in the apartment above could be heard as they went through their morning rituals - all was as it should be. Edward was at his computer working on his novel while he slowly ate breakfast, another part of the morning routine.

The apartment had been redecorated since they had moved in. The kitchen was remodeled to have new wooden cabinets, a re-tiled floor, and all the latest kitchen appliances. All the wall-to-wall carpeting was removed in the rest of the apartment and hardwood floors put in. The walls were stripped of the wallpaper and painted a tasteful off-white. The furniture was replaced to suit Elinor's taste, a wooden hand carved rocking chair, an oak coffee table and bookshelves, matching cream sofa and love seat. Edward's old computer, an Intel 486 from the early nineties that looked as antique as the rocking chair, was set up on an oak desk in the room. The only things not in harmony with the color scheme were Edward's little additions: a multi-colored afghan on the couch that his mother made for him, a few cheap picture frames with color snapshots of Edward and Elinor at their favorite New York tourist spots, an ugly black-and-white-checkered vase that he had bought so he could buy Elinor flowers, and in the vase the most vividly colored flowers he could find. That day it was a bouquet of bright red tulips.

Elinor's bedroom was always sparklingly neat and her door was left open, revealing the same color scheme and tasteful furniture choices as the rest of the apartment. Edward hadn't let her decorate his room, and instead did it himself. He took in some of the rejected furniture from the living room, left the original blue carpet, painted the walls and the door forest green, and left all his possessions scattered everywhere on his floor. The green door remained closed to prevent Elinor from cleaning and redecorating. She told him the paint job alone should be qualified a "crime against humanity, or at least against good taste."

Edward checked his watch and saw it was 9:00. He went back to writing. Then he looked again at his watch. 9:00? He usually was at work by 9:00.

"Drat."

"What?" called Elinor from the kitchen.

"Nothing, don't worry. I'm just late."

He heard her mutter, "I was going to ask you about that," and he had to smile. She knew what he should do much better than he ever did. Edward saved his file and shut down the computer. It was a very slow computer, so he gathered up his breakfast dishes while he waited for all the necessary programs to close. He noticed he still had some tea left in his cup, and then he noticed the three-inch-tall cactus, in its bright orange pot, sitting on top of his computer. The cactus probably needed to be watered, and he conveniently did have the leftover tea at hand. Then he noticed his cactus was looking more ... brown than usual. He took the pot off his monitor to look at it more closely.

Death is a natural occurrence. All things have to die. But cactuses aren't supposed to.

"Drat."

"Things still not going well in there?" asked Elinor from the kitchen.

"My cactus died."

She laughed. Edward didn't need to see her to imagine the smug smile on her face. Ok, so maybe Elinor did warn him that he wasn't taking good care of the cactus. Her exact words two weeks ago: "You're killing it."

So she was right. He should have watered it more often, or at least more than once a month. He still didn't think that it rained more than once a month in real deserts. And when he did remember to water it, he probably shouldn't have used boiling water. It just so happened that when he remembered about the plant he usually had just made himself a cup of tea and had all that extra water in the kettle that he was about to pour down the sink, or else he didn't feel like finishing drinking a cup of tea he had just made himself. But cactuses live in deserts - it's hot in deserts; water's hot there, too.

This was not going to be a great day in the life of Edward Ferrars. He was running a half an hour late, his cactus was dead, and the tea was lukewarm. There was nothing he hated more than lukewarm tea. He poured the rest of it onto the shriveled remains of the cactus out of some vague belief that it wasn't completely dead. He stared at the plant, waiting for some flutter of life as it gulped the moisture from the cooled Earl Grey. Nothing. At least it was a nice pot to add to his collection. And it had taken nearly three months for this one to die. Perhaps he was improving.

He went back into the kitchen to wash out his mug. Elinor was still engrossed in the morning edition of the New York Times while she nibbled on her breakfast, a very unnutritious frosted blueberry pop-tart.

"I bought grapefruit yesterday," Edward said, rinsing the cup out and placing it in the dishwasher.

"I saw. You also forgot to get milk and laundry detergent," she said, more as a statement of fact than as a criticism.

"Oh, sorry, you're right. I'll get them tonight."

"Make a list. You'll forget again if you don't make a list."

"But then I'll forget where I put the list."

"Good point. Maybe write it on your hand or on your forehead," she said, and Edward knew that she wasn't actually angry with him for his thoughtlessness. She never made fun of him when she was mad.

Elinor took another bite of the sugary mess she considered a meal. For someone so practical and reasonable, she had a shockingly unbalanced diet. Of course, it wasn't as if Elinor needed to worry about what she ate. In flagrant contradiction of everything Edward had been taught on the importance of eating well, Elinor refused to gain a pound. Seeing her every day was almost enough to make Edward doubt the importance of eating 3-6 servings of vegetables a day. She must have a wonderful metabolism.

But pop-tarts? Edward knew he should have given up on trying to improve Elinor's eating habits months ago, but he still couldn't abandon his crusade. His mother would never let him eat pop-tarts for breakfast when he was growing up; frosted pop-tarts for breakfast was just inherently wrong.

Edward was experienced in trying to argue with his roommate - one must always take the direct approach. Subtle hints were easier for Elinor to ignore when she disagreed.

"You know, grapefruit is better for you than pop-tarts."

Her curt reply: "I prefer to think of them as toaster pastries."

"You could be giving up years of your life by eating them."

"Years? How?"

She started eating the second pop-tart on her plate. Nice touch, as always. Elinor was very good at timing significant gestures when he was attempting to reform her.

"Tooth decay. Who knows, it may be fatal."

"Oh really?" she asked. "How will tooth decay kill me?"

"It could... spread to your entire body."

"Tooth decay?"

"Yes."

"Intriguing theory, Dr. Ferrars," she said, taking another bite from her breakfast. "Just don't forget that you were the English major and I'm the one in this apartment with degrees in biology and toxicology."

He would think of something better tomorrow that would convince her. The argument would, without a doubt, resume tomorrow morning, same time, same place, same breakfast food. She wouldn't be able to resist forever.

Suddenly, Edward had a burst of brilliance.

"What do you say about buying a cat?" he asked.

Without looking up from the article she was reading, Elinor emphatically shook her head no. "You have a dead cactus in the living room. There is no way you are buying a mammal." She didn't question how his thoughts went from pop-tarts to a cat; she knew him too well to question where his ideas came from.

"We wouldn't be able to forget about a cat," Edward said. The more he thought of the idea, the more he liked it. "Imagine it, Elinor, a cute, cuddly little furry thing to come home to every day." They could take care of it together, raise it, take it to the vet, train it to do tricks, spoil it rotten with balls of string and catnip...

"But what happens when we move out of New York?" Elinor asked. "What if we get places of our own?"

Edward paused. He hadn't thought of that.

He rarely thought of the future; first he had to finish his novel. Then he'd worry about everything else. He now tried to picture himself in ten years, either fabulously wealthy from his book's great success, or incredibly depressed by his book's failure, or perhaps content with where his life took him after his book's failure, or perhaps depressed because his second book really bombed. It would all depend on his book. And perhaps the book after that. And maybe the reviews of his third novel. And maybe the conditions in his five-book contract.

As far as Elinor was concerned, the subject was closed. No cat. If Edward had more time, he would pout and try to argue with her that having a cat would drastically improve their quality of life, but being as he was already late, he would have to postpone the conversation for the evening.

Before he left the kitchen, Elinor said, "You remember that my sister Marianne is visiting this weekend, right?"

"This weekend?"

"Yes. And try to remember her name - Marianne. Marianne Dashwood."

Edward laughed. He was awful with names. He had yet to meet any of Elinor's family, including the younger sister who was a college student somewhere studying something. Perhaps he should attempt to figure out which college Marianne - he mentally repeated the name a few dozen times to commit it to memory - attended.

"We'll show her the time of her life," Edward declared. "You know what would really impress her, though?"

"What?"

"Our new kitten."

Elinor laughed and Edward decided it was a strategically good time to make his exit.

Northanger Pianos was located a five minute walk away from Edward and Elinor's apartment. When Edward was six he hated piano lessons. His mother told him he had to practice an hour every day, and he would dutifully hammer out scales for an hour, making the same mistakes at least a dozen times a day. By the time little Edward went to his music lessons, the same mistakes were too ingrained in his head for him to play any differently. Nevertheless, the piano lessons continued, and Edward made remarkably little progress. And now, almost twenty years later, he was living off what he could make as a piano tuner. He still couldn't play a Beethoven sonata to save his life, but he knew the instrument, he knew what made pianos sound good, and he knew he was good at making pianos sound good.

General Tilney always sent Edward to the most important and most profitable jobs working on pianos in different penthouses and luxurious homes around town. It was the ideal job for Edward. The money was good and so long as the General remained happy, Edward was happy, too, and he had enough time to work on his novel.

"Mr. Ferrars?"

Edward nodded and looked at the schedule posted by the door to see when he was expected for his first appointment. The General apparently had gotten another new secretary.

"Your fianc‚e called," she said. Edward kept on examining the day's schedule. "Excuse me, Mr. Ferrars? Mr. Ferrars?"

Edward blinked a few times to bring himself back into the proper time zone and turned around. What was the new secretary's name, anyway? How long had she been working there? She was a cute brunette with the girl-next-door sort of simple charm about her. Her face was all eyes - large, brown eyes looking around with a sense of complete and utter wonder. She looked young, maybe still high-school age. Perhaps this was her first summer job.

If she were in one of Edward's novels - he already considered them in plural even if the first was still not finished - she'd be the stereotypically nice, normal girl next door to the serial killer, never noticing a thing when she heard the shrieks at night. He wouldn't kill her off by the end, though. That would be too typical. Perhaps she'd secretly be a serial killer, too, and run off with her neighbor into the sunset with police sirens coming from the distance. And then once they made their getaway together, she'd kill him in some creatively brutal manner.

"Your fianc‚e? Lucy Steele?" the secretary said, still trying to get his attention. She looked like she wanted to either strangle for him for not paying attention to her or burst out laughing at him for being so oblivious. Either way, Edward decided that he liked her.

"We've been introduced before, haven't we?" Edward asked his newfound friend, and still not processing the phone call message. "It's just that the General has had a lot of secretaries and I'm really bad with names. Wait, is your name Zelda? Something that starts with a Z? Or a W? One of those exotic letters, right?"

The girl bit her bottom lip in an attempt not to smile, but her eyes were now obviously full of laughter. Edward immediately classified her as the sort who couldn't hide their emotions even if she wanted to.

After a few seconds of near seriousness, the girl gave up trying to be professional and giggled. "We haven't met before. I just started working here today."

Edward paused, still in deep thought, and then asked, "Quinevere?" The secretary shook her head no. He shrugged and said, "Sorry, but I still don't remember it."

The door to the showroom opened and Henry came in. "Her name is Catherine Morland," Henry said as he walked over to the desk. "Caaa-theee-riiine Mooor-laaand. Good luck trying to remember it tomorrow, Ed."

Catherine Morland. He liked Catherine. She looked sweet. And from the way she followed every motion of Henry Tilney's since he entered the room, she was completely enamored with Henry, not as if that was anything new for Henry. Even Edward would admit that Henry looked darn good in the suits he wore at work. But from the way Henry grinned at little Catherine Morland, Edward could tell that his friend just thought that she was a cute kid. The poor girl.

"I'll remember next time, don't worry," Edward said, repeating the name Catherine Morland in his head while he turned to look again at the calendar. Catherine Morland, Catherine Morland, Catherine Moran, Catherine Marianne - no, Marianne Dashwood, Catherine Moor - no, Morwood, wait...

"The phone call, Mr. Ferrars?" Catherine asked, obviously more at ease because of Henry's presence. "Lucy Steele? Your fianc‚e? Do you need the number?"

Henry laughed, patting Edward on the back affectionately. "Don't be too hard on the guy, Cathy. He's going to be a brilliant novelist one day." Edward wondered whether or not Henry was being sarcastic; Henry usually was.

The secretary took the phone on her desk and reached over to hit the receiver on Edward's back. "I promised her that I would get you to call her back this morning."

Edward turned around again, this time taking the phone. Maybe calling Lucy would be a good idea, just to keep her from calling again for a little bit. With his free hand he took his wallet out of his pocket and fumbled around with its contents until he found the slip of paper with Lucy's phone number on it. He probably should know it by now, but somehow the number just never stuck in his head.

While he was slowly dialing the number, Catherine and Henry were talking in slightly lowered voices that Edward could still hear clearly.

"You can tell our Ed is very much in love," Henry said, and Catherine giggled. Edward laughed too, even as Lucy picked up the phone.

"Hello, Lucy? This is Edward Ferrars," he said.

He hadn't given her his apartment's phone number; he knew that she would call enough to tie up the line if she knew where she could always find him. Even Elinor, who could put up with nearly anything, would eventually get tired of having to always answer the phone. Besides, he was living in New York to escape everything from back home that was preventing him from being able to complete his novel, and nothing was more "back home" than Lucy Steele.

Catherine asked Henry, "Do they always talk like that to each other? 'This is Edward Ferrars'," she said in her best Edward-impersonation. If Henry didn't realize soon that this girl was bending over backwards to make him like her Edward would have to hit him over the head with something.

Henry snickered appropriately and said, "You don't know just how rarely Ed calls back. They probably wouldn't recognize each other's voice." Edward tried to pretend that he didn't hear that, and that he didn't think it was hilarious.

"Oh, honey, I'm so glad you called!" said the tinny voice on the other end of the line. Edward tried to think of what Lucy would look like when she said that; all he could think of was brown curly hair. Long brown curly hair. Lots of brown, lots of curls, lots of hair.

"Is there anything you wanted to tell me?" Edward asked awkwardly. He couldn't think of much about his life that would interest Lucy.

"How's the book going?"

"Well." He was almost finished the second re-write. Elinor had helped him go through the first two versions, and they both thought that he had nearly managed to capture the story that he had been trying to tell. Because of something Elinor had said over dinner two nights ago, Edward had decided that Edgar, his anti-hero, shouldn't kill Lucinda in the end. As Elinor had said, killing things is easy. Like the cactus. Edward chuckled.

"What?" Lucy immediately snapped.

"Sorry, just thinking of something else," Edward said.

"Who?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who were you just thinking of right now?"

"When?"

"When you were laughing just now."

"It was nothing." There was a reason why he avoided talking to Lucy on the phone. He glanced at the calendar again. How could he hang up? "I have to get going -"

"Already? But I never get to talk to you anymore," Lucy whined. Now Edward could imagine her face, the whining Lucy he was well acquainted with. Thin lips, small brown eyes - she really wasn't very pretty. Elinor was a much prettier person to see at the breakfast table in the morning, but then again Elinor was New York City, where everything glittered, and Lucy Steele was back home, where everything was... well... back home.

"Sorry, have to run," he said to his hometown-accepted-and-approved fianc‚e and happily hung up.

Catherine and Henry were still looking at him, wearing identical grins. Edward knew he should probably feel very indignant at their eavesdropping, but instead he simply laughed. Henry and the new secretary joined in, until the General came out of his office to properly ruin any and all fun his employees were having that morning and to give his new secretary additional orders for the day. Catherine attentively listened with all the awe and respect the General could want from a secretary, Henry went into the main showroom to make certain no one was there who wanted a piano, and Edward headed to his first job of the day.

Edward came home late, having spent more time than he had expected on his last job of the day, tuning the piano of a particularly particular piano teacher. Elinor wasn't home yet; she always worked until after 7:00 pm. If she got paid, she would deserve over-time on a daily basis.

Her family, of course, was very rich. Edward didn't know which Fortune 500 company they had a controlling interest in, but he knew enough about the Dashwoods to know that Elinor didn't ever have to worry about being able to pay for all the renovations of the apartment and for her share of their rent.

She had grown up in England - she still retained a slight though still noticeable British accent that made her seem, in Edward's opinion, even more elegant and sophisticated - and her family moved to the US when she began junior high school. She breezed through high school and college and was accepted into all the top medical schools in the country, but then her father got sick. She put everything on hold to be with him, and then she realized that she wasn't certain that she really wanted to become a doctor after all.

The family had to move to a new house - part of the settlement of property with the will - and Elinor chose not to go with them. As Elinor explained to Edward, she wanted to be away from her family for some time so she could figure out just what it was that she wanted in her life. And until she knew what that was, she was keeping herself busy by volunteering at hospitals and clinics around the city, doing whatever good she was qualified to do.

During their first few weeks living together, Edward would sometimes hear Elinor crying alone in her bedroom, but he never tried to disturb her or make her talk about it. She told him what she thought he should know, and then she would take long walks alone at twilight to "think about things". He waited for her to come back and then he'd talk to her about his book to try to distract her from her more melancholy thoughts. The long, solitary walks gradually got less frequent, her enthusiasm for his book became more genuine, and now they had a great time together. Edward had really lucked out in his choice of a roommate.

In the clean, orderly world of Elinor Dashwood, somehow Edward fit in. He still could use a haircut and he still wore the wrong clothes for every occasion, but Elinor never did anything to change him. She seemed to prefer him to stay just the way he was when they first met.

"Edward!" He looked up from the newspaper and smiled; Elinor was home. His evenings always began when his roommate walked into the apartment. "Edward, there's someone here I would like you to meet," Elinor said.

Neither of them ever invited friends back to their apartment. It was never formally agreed upon, but Edward felt that their apartment was their private sanctuary in the city. They sometimes went out together and they attended whatever social gatherings that a Dashwood of Norland Park would be expected to attend, but their happiest times were spent together alone in their apartment. So who could Elinor now be bringing to meet him? Edward listened for a moment for another set of footsteps, but he could only hear Elinor's sandals in the living room. And the light jingling of a bell.

"Well, it looks like the someone is going to meet you first," Elinor said as the jingling grew louder. Edward leaped up as excited as a little boy when a small gray and black kitten came into the kitchen.

"Elinor, I knew you'd agree!" he exclaimed, rushing towards the cat, who immediately bolted back into the living room. He followed.

"Try not to kill it," Elinor sighed, but Edward could see she was smiling. "The little thing walked into the hospital today, wearing that adorable little bell. She's obviously someone's lost pet. I'm putting posters up, but I thought we might as well give her a home for the night."

"What do you want to name her?"

"What?"

"How about Alvin?"

"Alvin? But the cat's female, and we're going to give her back to her real owner. We aren't going to name her until -"

"Come here, Alvin," he said, grabbing for the cat as the cat leaped onto the couch.

"Edward..." Elinor said, shaking her head. "You can't call her Alvin. She's already been given one new name today by the nurses on duty who found her. You're going to give the cat an identity crisis. She won't know what to answer to, if cats actually do answer to any name."

Elinor bent down and easily scooped up the kitten and delicately handed her over to Edward. As was to be expected, the cat was out of his arms within three seconds.

"I think she likes me," Edward declared. "Anyway, what name did everyone else give her? I suppose we can use it temporarily."

"Lucy."

"What about her?" Edward immediately replied on reflex. Seeing the puzzled expression on Elinor's face, he panicked and said, "Oh, the name! Lucy! Sure! Excellent name!"

He hadn't told Elinor about his fianc‚e Lucy Steele. He knew he really ought to; he definitely would invite Elinor to the wedding. Perhaps he should ask Lucy to make Elinor one of her bridesmaids.

The problem with telling Elinor about his engagement now was that far too much time had passed since he should have told her about it. If he told her now, Elinor would feel betrayed, like he had been keeping something incredibly important a secret from her all this time. He was trying to think of a way to make her realize that it wasn't that big of a deal; it was only Lucy. Elinor wouldn't like Lucy very much, anyway.

"You know, maybe having a kitten really will be fun," Elinor said as the cat rubbed up against her legs. "I like Lucy. It will be a shame if we really do have to give her up."

"I like Lucy, too," Edward said, not quite as enthusiastically as before. But then he made another dive to pick up the kitten, and his smile returned as he chased his newest roommate around the apartment.

Chapter 3

On Saturday morning, Edward woke up to the sound of the doorbell.

His first thought: He would never go out drinking after work with Henry Tilney, Hugh Palmer, and John Thorpe again. His second thought: Why wasn't he in his bed? He was stretched out on the living room sofa, still fully dressed, with the afghan thrown over him. His third thought: He would never go out drinking with Henry Tilney, Hugh Palmer, and John Thorpe again. His fourth thought: Wouldn't someone answer the door?

Still not opening his eyes, he heard the sound of Elinor's sandals on the hardwood floor, walking through the living room to the door. Who would be coming to visit on a Saturday morning? And just how drunk was he last night when he got home?

The door opened and a loud voice exclaimed, "Elinor!" He would never drink again. There was a shuffle of bags and feet and voices - Edward then remembered who it must be - Elinor's sister. Maria? Mary? Morland? Marilyn? Marie? Marianne!

He now felt very foolish sleeping on the couch and probably looking like a complete wreck while his roommate's sister was about to meet him for the first time. Perhaps he could just pretend to be asleep and make a very good impression in the afternoon.

As if Elinor would let him get off so easily. "Edward, stop pretending to be asleep and meet my little sister," she said, with a teasing lilt in her voice.

Edward contemplated continuing to pretend that he was still sleeping, but he couldn't help himself from smiling at Elinor's remark, and smiling people were most certainly not asleep.

"You win," he said, opening his eyes. And he then promptly closed them again - had the living room always been so brightly lit?

But he was determined to be charming and make a good impression; just last night he was telling Henry about what a good impression he was planning on making. Of course Henry had no idea what Edward had been talking about - Edward had never told Henry or anyone else at work about Elinor except when in advanced stages of inebriation. He didn't want to risk anyone alluding to the potential existence of Elinor to Lucy over the phone.

But the fact remained that Edward was not doing so well in his quest to be charming. He groaned a bit as he opened his eyes again and forced himself to sit up. He could really use a few bottles of aspirin about now.

Marianne Dashwood stood in the middle of the room, looking at him inquisitively. She was a pretty sort of girl; Edward thought she was almost as good-looking as her sister. She had dark silky hair, a flawless brilliant complexion, a model's willowy build, a smile that could only be described as seductive and intriguing, and large green eyes that simply devoured whoever she was looking at. Something in Marianne's features reminded him of her sister, so Edward decided that she was very pretty indeed. Standing quietly behind her was a man closer to Edward's age than Marianne's; presumably he was Marianne's traveling companion.

"Edward, this is Marianne and her friend, our neighbor in Maryland, Christopher Brandon. Christopher, Marianne, this is my roommate Edward Ferrars," Elinor said, in her society-hostess-mode. She didn't seem at all concerned by Edward's disheveled appearance on the sofa; it was part of the tour. "As you can see, he is very attached to our sofa. When he found out that Marianne would be staying here and sleeping on it, he wanted to take the opportunity of sleeping on it himself one last time. Right, Edward?"

"Of course," Edward said, still propped up on the sofa and making no attempt to move. "Most people prefer folding out the sofa bed. Personally, I find that all that effort completely defeats the entire point of sleeping on the couch: namely, you sleep on the couch because it's there and you're really tired."

Elinor smiled - Marianne and Christopher just looked kind of confused by the pair of them, but that was a common enough of a response from their friends - and then proceeded to show them the kitchen.

Lucy flew out of the kitchen and went under the couch; no one had called yet for her and she was already familiarizing herself with all the best hiding places in the apartment. Edward was finding out where they were as well, in his never-ending quest to prove to Elinor how good he was with animals.

Elinor and her guests reentered the living room. "Everything opens up onto the living room, it's a nice set-up. There's the balcony out there with our gorgeous view of the apartment building next door and even some of the city, there's the bathroom down there, another closet, and then those doors are our bedrooms. The door to the right is mine, the green one is Edward's. Edward, I'm showing them your room, fine?"

"Fine," Edward said, now contemplating how best to sweep Lucy off her feet and out from under the couch. "It's probably looking its best now - I'm not in it."

"I was thinking the same," Elinor said, leading the way to the doors of their bedrooms. Edward slowly moved off the couch, hoping to sneak up on the kitten beneath him. Kneeling on the floor, he bent down to come eye-to-eye with Lucy. She had brown eyes, like a certain other Lucy...

"Where's Lucy?" Elinor called from the other part of their apartment.

"Lucy? Where?" Edward immediately said, jumping slightly. He really should stop doing that. He quickly recovered, "Our kitten, yes, Lucy," but he had blown his chance with the cat. She sprinted from under the couch and went back to the kitchen. "The kitchen," he replied dejectedly, getting back up onto the couch.

"Lucy's still a bit shy," Elinor said apologetically to her guests. "Edward and I are still hoping that her owner isn't desperately combing the streets looking for her because I don't know if we'd be willing to give her up."

"Not without a fight," Edward added. "We'll stand by Lucy until the end." He paused and wondered if he liked the sound of that.

"Unless if her owner is in fact a member of the Mafia or the New York Philharmonic," Elinor said. "Everyone knows that you don't mess with the Mob, and Edward wouldn't be able to show his face at Carnegie Hall again if he thought he was stealing from musicians."

"It's a very noble profession," Edward agreed. He decided that Christopher Brandon must think he was absolutely insane. But Brandon wasn't related to Elinor and wouldn't be reporting back to Elinor's parents about her crazy roommate; Marianne didn't seem to think anything was apart from the norm.

"I like your place, Elinor," she now said, with genuine feeling in her voice that was very appealing. She was an ideal little sister, Edward decided, even if she didn't have Elinor's eyes or as pronounced of a British accent. "But now you must show Chris and me the city. Right, Chris? We've been longing for real civilization. Culture! Variety! Interesting people!" She had a starry-eyed look on her face, like any young person making a special trip to a big city. Edward still didn't know which college Marianne went to, but he could say for certain that it wasn't NYU or Columbia.

"Are you staying here, too, Brandon?" Edward asked from his couch. Brandon seemed far too silent, like a butler ready to do his mistress's bidding at a moment's notice. And he did look like he'd be willing to do anything for her, and for only her. He had a small smile for everything Marianne Dashwood said and did, and a look of stern disinterest for everything else.

"No, I have my own relatives to visit," Brandon replied. "But I'm afraid I must rely on your roommate and her sister for much of my entertainment. My grandparents don't get out much."

Edward decided that he would postpone any judgment on whether or not he liked Christopher Brandon until later. He seemed to be the sort who preferred to blend into the background, and Edward was content with letting him remain hidden. Elinor and Marianne began discussing the different places they wanted to go, and Brandon followed them out of the door, leaving Edward at peace and still with a splitting headache. He would never drink again.

After fully waking up (i.e. making that first pot of tea, a very strong Irish Breakfast tea, and raiding the medicine cabinet) and getting dressed, Edward planted himself in front of his computer to edit, edit, and edit. Yes, Elinor was right. He was getting closer to the end of it all. The last two pages were still lacking something, though. Lucy raced by - a cat! Of course! Edgar would get rid of Lucinda and find a cat. The end.

The phone started ringing and, as usual, Edward waited for the answering machine to pick it up. He always forgot to give Elinor telephone messages when people called for her, and no one important ever called for him. Besides, he was working, and answering telephones wasn't nearly as important as getting his novel finished.

"Hello Edward, I know you're there not answering the phone and I know you can hear the answering machine from your computer."

Elinor! She rarely called; actually, on the weekends they rarely did things apart so there was hardly any reason for her to need to call. He'd sit at his computer and she'd sit on the couch right behind him reading the New York Times book review and that week's New Yorker and sometimes reading Edward's novel over his shoulder.

Of course she was an exception to the no-phone-call-interruptions-while-writing rule. Edward immediately got up and grabbed the phone.

"I'm here," he said. "So how are you? What's going on?"

"It's 10:30 now. Do you think you could meet us outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art at one o'clock?"

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know, maybe you'll learn something," Elinor said, no doubt smiling on her side of the line. Edward loved her smile, even if he couldn't see it. She continued, "If you can't come, fine, but I'd ... I'd like you to come."

That was a convincing enough of an argument.

"One o'clock. I'll be there."

It was another Saturday at the piano store for Henry. Another morning left alone with his daydreams. He always worked the most undesirable hours; since he would eventually inherit the shop, it was in his best interests to make certain it did well.

He knew he was both over-qualified and under-qualified to be a piano salesman. He had a business degree and had already been accepted into Harvard's business school to get his MBA. He was taking time off before beginning classes in the spring. He knew that one did not typically need a Harvard MBA to run a family piano shop, but he was interested in the more technical aspects of business, and he was determined to do everything right.

His piano expertise did not nearly match his business acumen. He knew about the manufacturing of pianos and what made a piano sound good, but he couldn't say anything about what made a piano a desirable instrument for a musician. He could say how much a piano was worth, but he could not say whether or not he would want to play it himself. The General, in addition to his extensive military training, had been a moderately accomplished pianist before he inherited the business from his brother, and Henry's grandfather built pianos. Even Henry's older brother Frederick, now in the military, and his little sister Ellie, who was now starting her freshman year at Bernard University, went through the process of taking piano lessons and performing at student recitals. And it would one day be up to Henry to maintain the reputation of Northanger Pianos.

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar perky voice. "Hi Henry!" Catherine said, coming in the front door.

"You don't work weekends," he said, happy for the distraction from the slow morning he had had thus far.

"That's why I can in this door," Catherine said. Henry laughed, but then noticed that she hadn't been making a joke. It was a simple fact in the mindset of Catherine Morland that everyone who came in the front door should be treated as a customer. She seemed mildly confused by his reaction, and then said, "I wanted to play on that Steinway again. I liked its sound. Is that OK?"

He nodded, and she sat down in front of it. As she did the first time Henry had seen her play, she sat up extra straight and put her shoulders back to get into proper playing position. But before she began, she turned to Henry and said, "How could you stand working in the showroom and not play on the pianos all the time? I know I would completely forget about the customers and just play all day long."

"Then it's a good thing you don't have my job," Henry said. "Do you have a piano at home?"

"Oh yes, of course," Catherine said. "It's not very good, it's an old stand-up piano, not worth more than a few hundred dollars, I'm sure, but I don't know what I'd do without being able to practice at least three or four hours a day. You know how it is when you start playing music."

"Actually, I don't," Henry admitted. "I've never been a musician."

Catherine looked surprised. "But you sell the instruments, and I've heard you talk about them. You love them as much as any pianist would. Are you sure?"

"Remember what I was playing the first time you came in here?" he asked. She nodded. "That's the extent of my piano skills."

"But I've heard you talk to John about the customers. You always say who plays well and who doesn't. You must know a lot about how to play the piano, even if you don't yourself," she said, determined to think well of him.

"I've worked here off-and-on since I was a kid," Henry said. "Of course I know by now what sounds right and what doesn't. I know enough to be able to criticize."

"I hope you won't criticize me too harshly today, then," Catherine said, genuinely nervous of him. Of course he'd never say anything harsh to her; she had to be the sweetest person in the world. She continued, "I have an audition Monday morning."

"Really? For what?" Henry asked.

"Julliard," she said. "I can't afford it, but if I get in my piano teacher says that I should be able to get scholarships and fellowships."

"Your piano teacher?" Henry repeated.

"That's why I work here," Catherine said. "To pay for my music lessons." She then looked down at the keyboard, her smile being replaced by a look of concentration, and she started playing.

Hearing her this second time, Henry could only stand by his initial assessment of her playing. She was good. Very good. She now tackled Rachmaninoff, her fingers flying across the keys. Henry stood in silence, watching her rip through the familiar concerto at such a passionate level that he wondered how he could possibly have ever thought her just another cute kid. She was good.

Marianne was the spiritual leader of the expedition. She took the map of the museum's layout and declared, "We must see the European Renaissance exhibit."

Elinor was still playing hostess and agreed by default, though Edward knew for a fact that Elinor always preferred to go in chronological order when in art museums. Brandon took Marianne's instruction as the will of the gods and immediately led the way through the appropriate hallways and staircases to deliver Marianne to her Renaissance paintings. Edward tagged along.

Christopher Brandon, who had already showed off his superior knowledge of twentieth century architecture and early candle-making techniques during the short time Edward had spent in their company, now showed off his extensive knowledge of art history.

"This is a work by the greatest German Renaissance artist, Albrecht Dürer. Remember the Dürer we saw in the National Gallery, Marianne?" he began. Marianne sort of nodded; Edward seriously doubted that she had any idea what he was talking about. Elinor and Edward smiled at each other as they both nodded intelligently.

"Just like in the National Gallery," Elinor repeated in a low voice to Edward.

"Obviously German-it features Saint Anne, who was particularly venerated in Germany," Brandon continued. He went on about the life of Saint Anne and why she was particularly significant to the Germans.

Edward could see the guy was trying very hard to show the depths of his soul and knowledge to Marianne Dashwood. Edward looked at the object of interest, a rather dull old painting showing Saint Anne looking like she was about to fall asleep with the Virgin Mary and Jesus in the foreground ignoring her. The frame was pretty. Marianne listened with interest to Brandon's detailed commentary, and Elinor and Edward pretended to be interested as well.

"Says here it was painted in 1519," Elinor read from the plate by the wall as a contribution to Brandon's lecture. Edward could see that she wanted to move on and he wondered what the chances were that Brandon would take the hint.

"1519, that's the year D�rer became an ardent follower of Martin Luther," Brandon said. He turned to Edward and said, "I studied German art for a few months in Berlin three years ago. D�rer is one of my favorites."

He just wasn't stopping... Edward wondered how he could tactfully move on to the next work. However, he was determined to be polite and stand by Brandon as a reward to him for his superior knowledge of the German art and culture.

But Marianne Dashwood was not as saintly as Edward and Elinor were trying to be. A painting further down the wall caught her eye while Brandon was absorbed in pointing out the added date and signature. When he turned around again, she was multiple feet away and Elinor and Edward were his sole audience. This was hardly what he wanted, and he quickly came to a stopping point.

"Poor guy," Edward whispered to Elinor as the three of them walked together to the next painting.

After that first failure, Brandon did not try to tell Elinor and Edward about the next portrait and instead quietly stood with them to give the impression he was also interested in the painting. Of course he was much more interested in Marianne, and he kept on glancing at Marianne's progression through the gallery ahead of them.

"So what do you see?" Elinor asked, jabbing Edward in the shoulder to keep him from watching the Brandon and Marianne drama in front of them.

Edward obediently turned to look at the painting. After three seconds of very thoughtful silence, he declared in his best art-expert voice, "I see a girl in a dress. How about you?"

Elinor also took a thoughtful pause. "I see... a shawl on her. That must represent..."

"That it's cold out," Edward said, nodding intelligently. "Wouldn't you agree, Brandon?"

"Oh?" He was too engrossed in the other half of the room to notice his expert opinion was being solicited.

"Marianne looks like she's found a really nice ... picture of a girl over there," Edward said, taking pity on the guy.

"Oh yes," Elinor said, smiling at Edward with the same thought. "Let's go join her."

The three immediately set their course in Marianne's direction, just in time to see someone else start talking to her. From their distance, they could only see that he seemed to be fashionably dressed and he seemed have nice hair.

The moment the stranger got Marianne's attention she was visibly enraptured. She turned from the painting and started talking to him in a low voice, too low for the others to hear, but they both laughed and smiled. Edward realized to his horror that Marianne Dashwood was flirting with a guy she just met in the art museum, in front of poor love struck Christopher Brandon.

Suddenly aware they had all stopped in their tracks, Edward spun around and said with obviously phony enthusiasm, "Look at this painting here!" and pointed to an innocuous landscape. Brandon and Elinor both immediately turned to inspect it closely, like that was what they meant to do all along.

"High Renaissance," Brandon said matter-of-factly. Edward and Elinor were now genuinely interested, that is, genuinely interested in getting him to talk and thereby not get his heart broken by Marianne. "Note the use of perspective."

"You're right," Elinor said. "The perspective. It's really impressive in this painting." Edward knew that Elinor knew more about art than she was letting on, but with Brandon around it was much easier to encourage him to talk than to talk yourself.

Marianne laughed loudly, filling the entire gallery. Edward noticed the security guard edging towards the couple to give them stern looks to make them be quieter. Brandon talked more to Elinor about Renaissance perspective techniques. Marianne was now walking beside the stranger, talking in low voices like they were already close friends.

Brandon led them to the next painting, five feet closer to Marianne. All three tried to ignore the fact that they were quickly creeping closer and closer to Marianne without so much as allowing themselves to turn their heads to look directly at her.

When they were finally one picture away from her, Marianne rejoined them to say, "John and I are going to move on to another part of the museum. How about I meet you in an hour - no, how about two hours - out front? John wants to show me the Greek and Roman exhibit."

Obviously the rest of them were not invited in this private tour. Elinor smiled and said, "Sure. But two hours is a long time, how about an hour and a half? Edward needs to get back to work, you know."

"Oh, you have Chris here," Marianne said, giving Brandon one of her dazzling smiles. "He'll make you able to bear the loss of Edward's company. 3:30 outside, OK?"

And she walked off with "John", leaving the rest of the Renaissance gallery for another time.

"All right," Edward said, looking at Elinor for some sort of cue of what they should do now.

"You know what," Elinor said, in her lying-for-the-good-of-humanity voice that Edward could identify but Brandon would not. "I'm thirsty. How about we find the cafeteria here."

Edward smiled; good move as always. In a cafeteria Edward and she could be much more effective in trying to distract Brandon, and Edward was really thirsty, too, now that he thought of it.

The next twenty minutes was spent trying to find the cafeteria. Elinor insisted that Edward lead the way on virtue of his once eating there two or three years ago. Of course she knew that Edward had the worst sense of direction in the world. His ability to get lost was almost as good as his ability to forget names. Then they spent a half hour slowly drinking overpriced sodas. And then they haphazardly went through the galleries with the undeclared plan of trying to find where Marianne and John had disappeared to.

Edward made his exit at three. Right before he left them, Elinor smiled and didn't need to say "Thanks" out-loud. He smiled, too, and went whistling through the lobby before being sternly looked at to be silent.

Elinor and Marianne finally returned to the apartment together late, around midnight. Edward had left his computer only twice during the afternoon to refill Lucy's food and water bowls, and was printing out the final twenty pages - the final twenty pages.

"You do like him, don't you, Elinor?" Marianne was saying as they walked into the living room where Edward was set up. "John Willoughby. I can't wait until tomorrow. He's so handsome, don't you think?"

Elinor smiled at Edward and slightly tilted her head towards her sister and rolled her eyes. Edward tried not to laugh, gathering up his manuscript. So they didn't get rid of "John" all day.

"I'm sorry, Marianne, but I must steal your sister away," Edward said, standing up. "I'm sure your Mr. Willoughby is all that is good in the world, but I need her to read this. Edgar gets a cat!"

"A cat?" Elinor repeated. "Yes! That's exactly what he needs to make his life complete! Let me read it! Why didn't you tell me about the cat this afternoon?"

"Do you mind if I make a few phone calls tonight?" Marianne asked, still smiling too broadly at the thought of her Mr. Willoughby. Poor Brandon. So he really was just a friend, a really super-committed friend with an unspoken adoration for Marianne Dashwood. Or at least Edward hoped that Brandon was just a friend, or else he had just been completely and utterly forgotten about in a single day in the big city.