Off the Page Read online

  When we step outside (after a few flicks of the light switch so Maureen can experience the miracle of electricity), I find Jules sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, and Oliver missing. I tamp down the immediate panic that swells in me. I have to be able to let him out of my sight without freaking out every single time and assuming he’s been sucked into the story again.

  Jules looks up at me. “Relax. I sent him back downstairs to say goodbye to the people who are leaving. It’s weird if the birthday boy isn’t even at his own party.” Then she turns to Maureen, surveying her critically. “I think you’ll pass. But we’d better get out of here quickly so we’re not tempting fate.”

  I turn to Maureen. “Can you give us a minute?” Rummaging in the folds of my princess gown, I pull out my phone and thrust it toward her. “Here,” I say. “Knock yourself out.”

  I leave Maureen pushing buttons and gasping in surprise as music begins to pour out of the tiny speakers. Taking Jules’s arm, I drag her toward my room and close the door behind us.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Jules jokes. “She’ll probably hack your Facebook.”

  I sit down on the bed. “You can talk to me, you know.”

  Jules, in classic Jules mode, snorts. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.”

  “You can be as snarky as you want,” I tell her. “I know how crappy you feel right now. I’ve been there. Twice.”

  Jules jerks her chin up. “I’m fine. You just worry about Prince Charming. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I know I don’t have to worry about you. But I do. And I know you can talk to me . . . but you’d rather talk to someone else.” Reaching past her, I take the fairy tale from the nightstand and place it in her hands. “I believe this is yours now.”

  I stand up. “I’m going to take Maureen downstairs and have her say goodbye to my mom. Preferably without ever speaking in her British accent. How about I meet you at the car?”

  Jules looks at me and then traces her fingers over the lettering on the book’s cover. Then, unexpectedly, she throws her arms around me in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispers.

  As I walk out of the room, she is just cracking open the story.

  I find Oliver standing guard at the front door, thanking people as they leave. Raj fist-bumps him. “Great party, bro,” Raj says, and Oliver grins.

  “Glad you liked it.”

  Allie and Chris are the last to go. “See you Monday, dude,” Chris says, putting his hand on the small of her back. Oliver looks up at me, shocked.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” I murmur.

  When it’s finally quiet, my mother walks out of the kitchen holding a dish towel. “That went well!” she says brightly. “I’m thinking we should have Thanksgiving during a full-on tornado!”

  I laugh. “Thanks for your help, Mom.”

  “I’d better be getting my mother back home,” Oliver says. “Thank you so much for letting us use your house, Mrs. McPhee.”

  “Anytime.” My mother gives Oliver a hug first, then Queen Maureen. “I hope you feel better soon.”

  “Thank you,” Maureen replies, sounding only faintly British.

  Just then, Jules comes running down the stairs, her cheeks pink. “Sorry,” she calls. “I’m here.” Her car keys jingle in her hand. “Ready to go, you two?”

  She escorts Maureen out the door. Oliver lingers behind, his hand on my waist. “See you . . . tomorrow,” he says.

  Just hearing that word makes me smile.

  He leans down and brushes his lips over mine, the way you say goodbye to someone you know you’re going to have many more goodbyes with.

  When the door closes, I turn around to find my mother shaking out a giant black trash bag. “No, Mom, I’ll take care of it. You did so much already. Just go to bed and let me clean up.”

  “I’m not going to say no to that.” My mother yawns. “You think Edgar liked his party?”

  “I’m pretty sure this was his best birthday ever.”

  Her footsteps fade as she climbs the stairs, and I begin to sweep the debris of the party into the trash bag. I dump paper plates and cups and gather crumbs and frosting off the table with a sponge.

  “Well, Delilah,” I say out loud, pretty proud of myself for pulling this off. “What can’t you do?”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of a voice behind me. Oliver stands in the doorway, watching me clean up. “You scared me to death!” I say, but I’m smiling. I can’t not smile. “Why did you come back?”

  He walks toward me. “I told Jules to take Maureen home alone. It occurred to me that I had forgotten something.” He plucks the trash bag out of my hand and sets it aside.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You never gave me my present.” Oliver’s hands settle on my hips. “So? What did you get me?”

  I wrap my arms around his neck and slowly lean toward him. “Forever,” I whisper.

  Oliver dips his head, just a breath away from me. “Well, look at that,” he says, dropping a kiss onto my lips. “It fits perfectly.”

  There’s a difference between a house and a home.

  Why don’t you walk into your neighbor’s apartment or your best friend’s mudroom and think it’s where you live? Obviously the surroundings are different. There will be odd bits of furniture, and walls that are the wrong color, and pets that don’t belong to you.

  But even if every house looked identical—if all the furnishings were the same—it still wouldn’t feel like yours.

  That’s because home isn’t where you are. It’s who you’re with.

  OLIVER

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  Every day, I wake up to the smell of vanilla.

  Maureen is up before dawn, frosting the cupcakes that have become the most sought-after sweets in New England. Her home-based business, the Queen of Tarts, has been featured in newspapers, in magazines, and even on television. Once she figured out the concept of basic economics—namely, the fact that one could sell cupcakes for a profit rather than just giving them away for free—and once she realized that the refrigerator would not restock itself every night, her career as a master pastry chef really took flight. People who taste her pies and cakes beg to know the secret ingredient, and she always answers, “A little dash of magic.”

  I take a quick shower, towel my hair, and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Then, proudly, I grab my car keys from my desk. After several weeks of Delilah’s Driving Boot Camp, she has deemed me worthy of Edgar’s driver’s license. Given that neither Maureen nor I knew how to drive when we first arrived, this was quite a necessity. Jessamyn’s van is now officially my valiant steed.

  From what Jules tells us, Jessamyn’s career is blossoming too. She’s writing again, for the first time since she penned Between the Lines, and at a rapid rate. The kingdom has been captivated by her books, which have a special sort of twist: she somehow is able to create a story that is exactly what the reader needs at the moment he or she is reading. What one person takes away from a book might be very different from what the next person takes away—almost as if the story is altered depending on who’s reading, where, and when. But then, maybe all books are like that—a little different each time they are opened. The real question is who’s doing the changing: the story, or the reader.

  The best news of all is that Jessamyn is healthy once again, and is being courted by Captain Crabbe, who took her on a moonlight sail and learned how to use a knife and fork while eating, just for her.

  And Edgar? Unbelievably, he’s gotten to do some space travel after all, inside the book. It may not be the plot, but it makes a great hobby. His rocket ship is Pyro, and he navigates galaxies from the dragon’s back. Even more unbelievably, he’s not the only budding astronaut. Seraphima, who formerly couldn’t hold a single thought in her pretty little head, now talks nonstop about black holes and pulsars and quasars.

  When he’s not flying missions,