Jason's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 37
Barbara Caine stared at her phone for the third time that morning, another text from her grandmother lighting up the screen:
“Darling, when are you bringing your remarkable young author to meet us? Aunt Theodora is simply DYING to discuss his book.”
Barbara groaned and shoved the phone back into her messenger bag. Six months of this. Ever since her grandmother Catherine had read “Chilkoot Pass: The Adventures of Finnegan Sheehy” and become convinced that Jason Stone had somehow channeled the spirit of her great-aunt Margaret.
The problem was that her family didn’t do anything quietly or simply. The Caine-Prescott clan had been fixtures of Seattle society since 1866, when Barbara’s great-great-grandmother Abigail Cabot had scandalized Boston society by running away to become one of Asa Mercer’s “Mercer Girls”—the young women imported to the Pacific Northwest to address the shortage of marriageable women in the territory.
“You’re mean-mugging your phone again,” observed a graduate student named Peter, who was cataloging 19th-century newspapers in the archive room they shared.
“My grandmother wants me to bring Jason Stone to a family dinner.”
“Your author? I’ve met your family. That’ll be fun.”
“He’s not ‘my author.’ Fun is not what I’d call it. You know what a Sunday dinner is like with my family. Twenty-three relatives spread across three generations in my grandmother’s mansion on Capitol Hill, all of them with opinions about everything. Half of them will be a little drunk on grandmother’s sherry. Aunt Theodora conducting the whole thing like it’s a theatrical performance.”
Peter grinned again. “Like I said. Fun.”
“It’s exhausting. And Jason is not the kind of person who’ll appreciate being put on display for eccentric Seattle aristocrats.”
But her grandmother was relentless, as Barbara knew from decades of experience. By noon, she’d received two more texts, a phone call, and an email with the subject line “PLEASE, DARLING—IT WOULD MEAN SO MUCH.”
Barbara finally called her back.
“Grandmother, I can’t just spring a family dinner on someone I’m working with professionally.”
“Nonsense. You’ve been working together for months. Surely you’re friends by now?”
“We have a professional relationship. That doesn’t mean he wants to be interrogated by the Caine-Prescott inquisition.”
“We wouldn’t interrogate! We’d simply like to meet the man who wrote so beautifully about Mary Penrose. The resemblance to Aunt Margaret is uncanny—the same determination to prove herself, the same recklessness, even the same Gibson Girl hairstyle before she cut her hair off and ran away.”
Barbara had heard this story many times. It was a favorite family legend. Great-aunt Margaret Prescott had indeed disguised herself as a boy to travel to Alaska during the gold rush, though she’d done it to escape an arranged marriage rather than to become a reporter. The family still had her journals, which described the journey in detail that sometimes aligned eerily with Jason’s fictional account.
“Grandmother, Jason wrote a novel. It’s fiction. He did historical research, but he didn’t somehow access Aunt Margaret’s ghost.”
“I know that, dear. I’m not senile. But his understanding of what it felt like to be a young woman constrained by social expectations in that era—it’s remarkably empathetic. I’d simply like to thank him and discuss his research methods.”
Barbara knew when she was being manipulated, but she also knew that resistance was futile. “Okay. I’ll ask him. But I’m not promising anything.”
“That’s all I ask, darling. And Barbara?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps wear a dress? You look so lovely when you’re not deliberately hiding your figure in those awful oversized cardigans.”
Barbara hung up and caught her reflection in the window. Her grandmother had a point, though she would never admit it. She’d spent years deliberately downplaying her appearance—minimal makeup, shapeless clothes—partly because she was tired of being judged on looks rather than intellect. She’d inherited the kind of classical beauty that came with her WASP aristocratic lineage.
Her family was old Seattle money. Her grandfather had been a judge, her father was a corporate lawyer and her mother sat on the Seattle Symphony Board of Directors. They lived in restored Victorian mansions, attended charity galas and maintained the kind of social connections that opened doors throughout the Pacific Northwest.
Barbara had rebelled against all of it by becoming an academic, pursuing a PhD in history and taking freelance editing work to avoid touching her trust funds. But she couldn’t escape the family gatherings that were equal parts affection and performance art.
That evening, she texted Jason: “My grandmother wants to meet you. Fair warning—my family is eccentric Seattle aristocracy. No obligation to accept.”
His response came twenty minutes later: “How eccentric are we talking, as bad as you?”
“Much worse than me. My great-great-grandmother ran away from Boston to become a Mercer Girl. My great-aunt disguised herself as a boy to travel to the Klondike. My grandmother read your book and became convinced you channeled her great-aunt’s spirit. Current family includes three lawyers, two artists, one semi-professional psychic, and my Uncle Teddy, who claims to be writing the definitive history of Pacific Northwest socialism while living off his trust fund.”
Jason’s reply: “Sounds fascinating. When?”
Barbara stared at her phone in surprise. She’d expected polite refusal, not genuine interest.
“Sunday dinner, 6 PM. Capitol Hill mansion. Dress code is ‘nice but not formal.’ Escape routes will be pointed out upon arrival. Alcohol is plentiful. Aunt Theodora will try to read your aura. Uncle Theodore will want to debate labor history. Grandmother will cry when she meets you.”
“I can handle that. You can drive; I plan to get roaring drunk and embarrass the hell out of you.”
Barbara picked Jason up from his apartment.
“Last chance to back out,” she said as they drove up Capitol Hill toward the house where she’d grown up.
“I’m a combat vet. I teach teenagers. Eccentric aristocrats are no challenge.”
“Combat experience does not prepare you for my Aunt Theodora.”
The house appeared shaded by two massive cedars. It was a perfectly preserved Victorian mansion that had been built for family in 1889. Lights blazed from every window, and Barbara could hear music and laughter even from the circular driveway.
“Holy cow. It’s beautiful,” Jason said with awe.
“It’s a museum that people happen to live in. My grandmother refuses to modernize anything except the kitchen and bathrooms.”
They were greeted at the door by Catherine Prescott Caine herself—eighty-three years old, impeccably dressed in vintage Chanel, with the kind of bone structure that Barbara had inherited and tried to hide.
“Mr. Stone!” She tucked her arm around his and led him into the parlor. “Thank you so much for coming. And for writing such a beautiful book. You’ve given me back my Aunt Margaret.”
Barbara watched Jason handle her grandmother with unexpected grace. “Mrs. Caine, I’m honored that the book resonated with your family’s history. Would you mind telling me about your aunt?”
And that, Barbara thought ruefully, was exactly the right thing to say. Within minutes, her grandmother was leading Jason through the house, showing him Margaret’s journals and photographs, explaining the family history with the enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting decades for an interested audience.
The dining room was chaos—a long table set for twenty-four people, multiple conversations happening simultaneously, wine flowing freely, children running between adults. Barbara’s father, David, attempted introductions but gave up after the third person.
“You’ll figure out who everyone is eventually,” he said to Jason. “Just remember that Theodora is the dramatic one, Theodore is the socialist one, and if anyone tries to discuss real estate development, change the subject before it becomes a three-hour argument.”
Aunt Theodora swept in wearing what appeared to be vintage 1920s evening wear. She was seventy-one, theatrical in every gesture. She had been a flower child in the 1960s. She was full of tales about her life up at Emory, living with the witch-crafters.
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