Modern Persuasion: 21st Century Austen, #1

Modern Persuasion

21st Century Austen 1

Sara Marks

Illuminated Myth Publishing

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Illuminated Myth Publishing

https://www.illuminatedmyth.com/

Copyright © 2017 Sara Marks

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

Fourth Edition – March 2022

http://saramarks.net

Print ISBN-13: 978-1545527832

Cover Design by 100 Covers

https://100covers.com/

To Grammy and Nana, I wish you had both been here to see this happen.

To Anita and Frank, who may have had their own plans for my life, but always support the ones I make on my own.

Also By

The 21 st Century Austen Series

Modern Persuasion (#1)

A Little More Modern Persuasion (#1.5)

Pride, Prejudice, and Pledging (#2)

A Little More Phi Alpha Pi (#2.5)

Love and War in Woodhouse Hall (#3)

A Little More Woodhouse Hall (#3.5)

Love From Northanger Parks, Katie (#4)

A Little More Northanger Parks (#4.5)

Unraveling Carrie Woodhouse (#5)

Sweeten Up Ginny Darcy (#6)

Romancing Mr. Tilney (#7)

The Yom Tov Romance Series

Purim Fling

Matzo Ball Billionaire

Forgive Me, I Love You

Latkes of Love

Anthologies

Open to Negotiations in Dangerous Curves Ahead

The Prince Without A Throne in Wickedly Ever After

Contents

1.Chapter One

2.Chapter Two

3.Chapter Three

4.Chapter Four

5.Chapter Five

6.Chapter Six

7.Chapter Seven

8.Chapter Eight

9.Chapter Nine

10.Chapter Ten

11.Chapter Eleven

12.Chapter Twelve

13.Chapter Thirteen

14.Chapter Fourteen

15.Chapter Fifteen

16.Chapter Sixteen

17.Chapter Seventeen

18.Chapter Eighteen

19.Chapter Nineteen

20.Chapter Twenty

21.Chapter Twenty-One

22.Chapter Twenty-Two

23.Chapter Twenty-Three

24.Chapter Twenty-Four

25.Chapter Twenty-Five

26.Chapter Twenty-Six

27.Epilogue

Reader's Guide

Acknowledgments

About Sara

Chapter One

Your father's art collection is quite... large," said the woman sitting before me.

She was in her mid-sixties with a jet black pixie haircut and glasses with thick black frames. She wore a fitted black suit and carried a black leather portfolio as she walked around the apartment. She had been part of the New York art scene for most of her life and had been recommended to me by most of the people I spoke to.

We were sitting on wooden boxes in the Upper Eastside NYC apartment that has been in my father's family since, in his words only, the dawn of time. This woman was trying to pick her words carefully. To be fair, the fact that we could sit anywhere in this apartment surprised me. My father's art collection was a hoard. This woman knew perfectly well that inside the box on which she sat was some piece of art he was refusing to part with. I was sitting on another box. I knew what this woman would tell me next. She was here to tell my father the reality of the situation. The only problem was that my father was not in the room to hear it. He was off explaining his selection criteria to my older sister. He believed this woman and I were with them.

You can be honest. I know he hasn't purchased items of value, I said in an attempt to speed this up.

She didn't make eye contact with me as she wrote something on her pad. Well, to be fair, he has picked items from important artists.

Yes, but he doesn't pick valuable items and pays more than they're worth, I said, letting my shoulders sag.

Yes, you're correct, she finally looked up and gave me an encouraging smile.

I shook my head. I've told him this for years.

Walter seems to have some type of criteria for selection, though, she said and closed her portfolio. I'm unclear how he makes such bad choices.

I could hear my father continuing to talk about that very criterion in another room. While a spoiled brat, my sister would allow him to continue to share the justifications he had developed over our lifetimes.

I leaned to the side to look down the hall, ensuring he wasn't coming. I love my father, but he's full of shit, I said, lowering my voice. His real criteria is to buy pieces by anyone people are talking about, but to pick the pieces that... well, he probably just picks the first one he sees.

You can make money selling these pieces, the woman said, raising an eyebrow.

Just not enough to make up for what he paid, I said, holding up a finger.

She nodded and sighed. Yes.

Can you lie to him?

How so? she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I glanced down the hall one more time. Tell him he can make money selling all these pieces. He needs the money much more than he needs art, even if he doesn't make enough money.

Fine, she said with a sigh.

I was exhausted by the time the appraiser left. I had wasted a lovely spring Saturday in New York City dealing with my father, Elizabeth, and the art hoard. I wanted to go home, drink an entire bottle of wine, and fall asleep while reading manuscripts for work. I couldn't, as I had to supervise the movers who were boxing up the art.

Emma, you're breaking my heart, my father said after the appraiser left.

He slumped on one of the large boxes and picked at the corner of a piece of tape.

I felt terrible, understanding that I was unraveling his world. Someone has to make the difficult decisions.

He waved an arm toward my sister's room. Next, you're going to make Elizabeth sell her shoes.

I winced. She's going to have to do that too. You can sell the apartment, or you can sell the stuff. The decision is yours.

Emma, he said, straightening up, this apartment has been in our family since the dawn of time.

He may have been exaggerating, but my family had been living in the apartment for generations. It wasn't large, but it had once fit five people with a little room to spare. My father had filled the space with art over the last ten years. Every inch of wall space was taken up by abstract and modern paintings. Every flat surface had a sculpture on it. Even the bathrooms had been filled with some type of art.

My sister Elizabeth, who still lived in the room the three of us had shared as children, allowed my father's art to invade her space. That is, what space was not already filled with her crates of designer shoes and purses. She had them stacked up along a wall with labels of what was inside each container. At least Elizabeth was organized, but items were never taken out of their crates after the first use. She still hadn't noticed that I often took purses and shoes from her collection, even when she saw the shoes on my feet and the purse in my hands.

Then the art has to go. You need the money to live on, I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.

If I sell the art, can we stay in the apartment? my father asked, his voice wavering slightly.

I shook my head, frowning. No, you can rent something less expensive in Westchester and use the rent from this apartment to support yourself. You have gone through almost all of your retirement money because of the art.

I could see the tears begin to fill his eyes. Art's important. Who would you be if you had not grown up surrounded by my art?

There is a difference between your art collection before Mom's death and now, I said as I sat down next to him and put an arm over his shoulders. I would've been fine with you showing restraint or picking valuable pieces that we could sell for more than you bought them for.

Time will tell on their value, my father whispered.

I put my head on my father's shoulder. You don't have time. You need money now.

What about my shoes? My older sister Elizabeth said, coming into the room.

I stood up, having far less sympathy for Elizabeth's situation than I did for our father. You need money too. Get a job or sell the shoes. While you are at it, sell some of your purses and clothes. Also, get a job. You've blown through the money Mom left you when she passed.

They didn't get it and probably never would. I couldn't leave until the apartment was empty, so I stayed another few hours. Art was packed and moved to the auction house while the remaining items were sent to the rented townhouse in Westchester. My younger sister Mary was on that end waiting to receive the moving trucks and let the movers into the house. My father and Elizabeth had rented a car and took their personal items to get settled quickly. I was left to supervise the cleaning crew and get the apartment ready for new tenants. I left the key with the concierge before I left the building and followed everyone to Westchester to supervise the bookend of this adventure. I was barely out of the building parking lot when my phone rang.

The truck is here, Mary said before I could even say hello.

Great. Get them unpacking, I said, navigating the city traffic.

Emma, I am not feeling great. I really need to go home and relax. Plus, the boys need dinner. How long before you get here? My younger sister said with a whine that was part of her natural speaking voice.

I massaged my temple as I waited at a light. I'm not even out of the city yet. I just got into the car. It'll be at least an hour.

Can't you drive faster? she said in a whisper.

I suspected she was trying to remain unheard.

It's not a matter of faster, I said as the light changed and I needed to focus again. Just deal with things, and you can leave when I get there.

Are you staying with me? She asked, her voice getting louder since she would want to make sure Elizabeth heard which of my sisters I preferred.

I was too focused on the road to push back. I was hoping to if it's ok with you.

Of course it is. I set up the spare room. The boys are terribly excited that you are staying with us.

I'm staying through Sunday, I reminded her. I can take Louisa with me into the city for work on Monday. I'll spend more time with you and the boys once we are on Cape Cod for vacation.

Louisa's very excited. She can't wait to tell you about her first week, Mary added, now perky as we talked about her life.

Ok, can I focus on driving then? I said as I stopped for some people randomly crossing the street. I promise it won't be more than another hour at the most.

Fine, but I really need you here. Dad and Elizabeth are just ignoring me.

I wasn't surprised since this had been the case nearly all of Mary's life.

Just deal with the movers. Dad and Elizabeth are just irritated with the whole situation, I said before hanging up and putting on some music for the rest of my drive.

As much as I love my family, I resent them more than I probably should. Not that I would ever let them know that.

The drive had been easy once I had gotten out of the city. I arrived at the townhouse thirty-five minutes later. Even though it was dark out, I could clearly see my sister Mary directing the movers as they carried things into the house.

That was the last box! Mary said when she saw me get out of my car.

I gave her a hug, grateful that she had managed it all without needing to call me. You did that faster than I expected.

Once I got Dad and Elizabeth out of the way, it was a breeze, she said, glowing under the praise.

Are they unpacking? I asked as we started walking toward the door.

Mary sighed and shook her head. He's complaining about the art he had to sell. She's in her room, making sure her stuff's undamaged. They aren't going to make any changes, are they?

I gave her a small smile, glad I could count on her to be rational and to back me up. It's doubtful. They both seem to think I've been secretly hoarding his money for such a situation.

You set up the trust with what's left, right? Mary asked with a look of panic on her face. I mean, there's some left, right?

When she passed away, my mother left her small fortune to my sisters and me. While we all used it to pay for college, we spent the remaining money in different ways. Mary followed our mother's example and put her share away in various accounts and trusts so her children could have it someday. Elizabeth spent hers on shoes, purses, and clothes. I used mine to buy an apartment in the city. My father had his own money and a retirement account he had blown through while buying his art.

In the ten years since our mother died, we had taken on atypical roles for our place in age order. Instead of being the responsible, practical, older child, Elizabeth had never been denied anything or expected to make anything of her life. My father was happy to still have her living with him at home. She had no responsibilities beyond her own imagined ones. Mary, the youngest, turned into an attention-seeking middle child. That left me in the middle, acting as the responsible and practical one. Mary had her own family to take care of, so I had allowed myself to take on the burden of paternal care.

Yes, the rent from the apartment will be used to pay the rent and bills here, I said, ticking items off my fingers. The credit cards have been canceled and are being paid off with the money from the art auction. It won't bring in enough, but they're getting an allowance. If either of them gets a new credit card, then I wash my hands of this once and for all.

Later, I got to Mary's house to find it filled with people, food, and wine. Mary's in-laws, the Musgroves, filled the house with good cheer. It was completely different from the world we had grown up in. I understood why my younger sister found herself drawn to her husband's family over her own. Mary's attention-seeking nature can be annoying. The Musgrove family give my sister the attention she needs and I love that about them. They adore her and her children, and she is far less annoying because they give her so much attention. I enjoy her much more