Jane Eyre

Harper

The rain was steadily dripping from the overhang of the brick-and-mortar coffee shop. My home away from home. Nostalgia rippled through every worn and wobbly table as I took in the elderly couple reading the Sunday paper and children giggling to themselves as their parents stopped to order much-needed caffeine. 

My favorite spot, tucked in the back corner, next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, bordered most of the shop. It was the perfect vantage point to observe each customer as they entered and keep tabs on the eclectic space. Somehow, my favorite spot always seemed to be open and welcomed me each Saturday morning, most importantly during these New England rain-filled days. It was as if all the Saturdays and Sundays spent in and out of this shop with my grandmother claimed a permanent etching on the table we once called our own. 

I meandered quietly to the small table, barely big enough to fit my laptop, a cup of coffee, and my worn notebook. I claimed my spot and ordered my usual black coffee from the weekend barista. 

It had been a slow and casual patron-to-worker relationship as the decades acquainted us through ordering chit-chat. I knew I liked her when she commented on one of my enamel pins fashioned to my leather jacket. Lately, the repeating Saturday-morning playlist she’d chosen featured some of my favorite Indie Alternative bands, like Bon Iver, Half Moon Run, and Matt Corby. There was a comfort between us I’d not noticed until our small talk began to skip the formalities of professional greetings and moved into two girls sneaking office gossip whenever I was there.  

“What are you reading this week, Harper?” Annie asked, pouring my coffee into a handmade ceramic mug. She knew I always started my time with a black coffee. No real ordering was necessary until I was ready to spice things up after an hour or so had passed and the cup was long empty.

“Just revisiting an old favorite of mine, Jane Eyre. Gotta love a Victorian novel on an autumn day like today,” I said through a weary smile. “It’s a comfort read.”

She passed me my coffee as she took notice of the front cover. “You know, I don’t think I’ve read it,” she said, as if she was still racking her brain to confirm. “It always seems too intimidating to pick up. Everyone I’ve seen reading it has been way smarter than me.” She chuckled to herself.

“I bet you could read it,” I said, attempting to ease her self-deprecation.

“Ah, I don’t think it’s for me. It’s a bit too snobby for my taste,” she countered.

“Hmm.” I half chuckled, half remarked as I tried not to jump to conclusions on the comment.

“Oh, I totally didn’t mean you were snobby! Shoot.” Her face bloomed with embarrassment. “I just meant in college, you know, those Lit kids always walked around with such elitism. And why? Just because they’ve read an old book?” She fumbled a laugh and diverted her eyes in nervousness.

I gave her a complementary laugh in return. “You’re good. I get it.”

Her brow furrowed as she shrugged in defeat. “So, why is it a comfort read for you? Make it make sense to me, Harper,” she joked, further attempting to ease her awkwardness. 

I fiddled with the handle of the mug, searching for a quick answer to my aching heart. “It was a book my grandmother always had with her. She read it every year and was always writing in it. She used to say that in every season she could find new meanings in the heartache.” I lifted the copy and flashed her the cover. “This is, or rather, was, her copy.” 

“Oh. Wow.” Annie looked between the worn and ragged book and me, her eyes softening as the space between us stilled. 

“Thanks for my coffee.” I smiled again, half-heartedly, and walked back to my table in the corner and took my place for the day. I forced my thoughts to slow as a bloom of embarrassment for sharing so much crossed my cheeks. Images of my grandmother fluttered through my mind as I fished inside my bag for a pen and highlighter. 

I always made sure I had a red pen on hand just for her. It was her favorite tool when annotating. It didn’t matter if it was underlining sentences, circling words, or adding her own additions; a red pen was always the main weapon of choice. Oftentimes, I’d catch her whispering the lines back to herself, not to mention dog-earing parts that she loved. 

I ran my hands through frizzing locks as the memories floated away. Forcing myself back to reality, I took a sip of the dark roast coffee in front of me.

——

The bell on the door chimed as another customer entered. I glanced up from my book, straightening my glasses in the process. The woman meandered around the place, taking in each eclectic corner, before heading to the counter. I didn’t recognize her as one of the local weekend perusers as I took her in. 

I would have definitely remembered someone wearing a designer trench coat and rain boots with Burberry’s signature plaid design. She was definitely not someone you’d expect to see regularly at a coffee shop outfitted with its own mini library with local crafts for sale. I watched her as she lingered near a handmade mug, glancing nervously from item to patron and back again. 

“Cappuccino for Vivian,” Annie called out, as the bell chimed again. 

The woman fluttered over to her order, smiling graciously at Annie before pivoting to scan the tables. I hadn’t realized I was still watching her, lingering too long with my nonchalant stare, until our eyes locked. 

A mistake on my part. 

Her face brightened, and she flashed a smile at me, as my brain combed through ways to act like I wasn’t just staring. 

But it was too late. She started moving in my direction. 

An introvert’s nightmare. 

I was perfectly content in my little corner, observing and not interacting. But, I suppose I forgot I’m not invisible and people can see you looking at them. 

“Hi! I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I noticed you’re reading Jane Eyre! I loved that book in college!” She paused, eagerness shining through her eyes.

“I just loved the ending!” She continued, allowing awkwardness to amplify her voice with each word. “Thank goodness they ended up together! What a drag that would have been if they hadn’t!”

Are we not going to acknowledge the wife in the attic? I thought to myself as I smiled politely. 

“Hi, I’m Harper.” I extended my hand to hers, assuming she wasn’t going to leave until I spoke up. She fumbled her purse and cappuccino between her hands, unable to decide how to get both to one arm. 

“Do you need help?” I asked, watching her struggle.

“I’m good, ah, wait, no,” she said, before setting the drink down on my table, grabbing the strap that was beginning to fall off her shoulder, and extending her hand to shake mine. 

“Looks like you got it.” I tried not to chuckle at her fumbling.

Chaotic.

“Oh, yes, hi! I’m Vivian, but everyone calls me Viv!” A few seconds of awkward silence passed as I watched her body language grow nervous. 

I guess she was expecting me to say something to that? 

She jumped back into eager-beaver mode. “I’m new to the area. I’m trying to get my bearings straight on weekends.”

“Oh, that’s great,” I replied calmly, hoping to settle her rushed tone. “What brought you to the area?”

“I just got married last month! My husband, Calum, works at a tech company in town.” She hesitated, glancing around at the nearby tables. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Slightly startled by her request, I nodded. “Sure, there’s a chair right over there if you want to pull it over.” 

She dumped her large shoulder bag onto the already cramped table and quickly grabbed the neighboring chair. Nearby patrons turned at the commotion, looking between the two of us. 

Small talk, small talk, I thought to myself. Ok, what to say…

“I’m sorry. I hope it’s really okay that I crashed your Saturday morning reading sesh!” She said through a sheepish smile. “As I said, I’m new to the area, and, well, you’re the first person I’ve come across who happened to look friendly, and you were reading something I’ve read before! I thought, well, what better odds than that!”

Wow, she is very animated at nine o’clock in the morning. 

Ok, Viv, let’s see what you’ve got.

“So,” I lingered, “you just got married? Congratulations.”

“Thank you so much! Yes, Calum.” She pulled out her phone and opened the photo folder titled Love Story, which I assume is a nod to the Taylor Swift song. Viv definitely seems to be the kind of chick who had a summer filled with cowboy boots, crimped hair, and Tim McGraw songs back in the early 2000s. She scrolled through the album, with her phone half facing me, and slowed to the family pictures.

“Here’s one of us!” She enlarged the image and gazed at it longingly as if it were nothing but the most idyllic photo she could ever imagine. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop staring at the princess-style dress she was wearing. 

Viv, herself, seems to be one of those rare real-life people who could have been a model, if only she’d have lived in LA or New York, where scouts could have fallen at her feet in awe. So freakishly pretty, she should definitely be on some TV drama as the main female lead, with her trim figure, perfectly straightened blonde hair that had somehow not been affected by this East Coast wetness quite yet.

Is it a blowout, or maybe just a really good straightener that she uses? 

If there is a way to tame my unruly brown waves, I need to know. 

Calum, her husband, was just as good-looking. 

What a pair. 

It took everything in me not to whistle at his chiseled jaw and baby blues. Small talk, small talk, I thought to myself. Ok, what to say…

“I’m sorry. I hope it’s really okay that I crashed your Saturday morning reading sesh!” She said through a sheepish smile. “As I said, I’m new to the area, and, well, you’re the first person I’ve come across who happened to look friendly, and you were reading something

I’ve read before! I thought, well, what better odds than that!”

Wow, she is very animated at nine o’clock in the morning. 

Ok, Viv, let’s see what you’ve got.

“So,” I lingered, “you just got married? Congratulations.”

“Thank you so much! Yes, Calum.” She pulled out her phone and opened the photo folder titled Love Story, which I assume is a nod to the Taylor Swift song. Viv definitely seems to be the kind of chick who had a summer filled with cowboy boots, crimped hair, and Tim McGraw songs back in the early 2000s. She scrolled through the album, with her phone half facing me, and slowed to the family pictures.

“Here’s one of us!” She enlarged the image and gazed at it longingly as if it were nothing but the most idyllic photo she could ever imagine. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop staring at the princess-style dress she was wearing. 

Viv, herself, seems to be one of those rare real-life people who could have been a model, if only she’d have lived in LA or New York, where scouts could have fallen at her feet in awe. So freakishly pretty, she should definitely be on some TV drama as the main female lead, with her trim figure, perfectly straightened blonde hair that had somehow not been affected by this East Coast wetness quite yet.

Is it a blowout, or maybe just a really good straightener that she uses?  If there is a way to tame my unruly brown waves, I need to know. 

Calum, her husband, was just as good-looking. 

What a pair. 

It took everything in me not to whistle at his chiseled jaw and baby blues. 

Alright, Viv. You go, girl.

What a pair of Nantucket-looking royalty.

“You guys look incredible,” I said, finally pulling myself together after the shock and awe of their nuptial beauty.

She proceeded to flip through a few more shots of the two of them, then paused on a group shot. “Here’s both of our families together. There aren’t many of us on either side, but it made the day all the more special with just close friends and family,” she said, staring through her puppy dog eyes, glazed over with emotion.

“Here are my parents and my brother. Here are Calum’s parents, and,” she let out a dramatic exhale, “here’s his brother.”

“Not a fan?” I asked.

“No, it’s not that. He’s great,” she said, her eyes narrowing at the sight of him. 

Something about that look had me curious. Curious about this new Rhode Island transplant and her suspiciously handsome brother-in-law.