I went to Seattle because Emily was threatening, again, to drop out of college. She’s been attending Seattle University for the past five years, honing her talents as a professional student. Since my father’s death eighteen years ago, Emily has been rudderless and searching, no matter how much I try to steer her in the right direction. School is her refuge from the harsh world, and yet she feels inadequate, like an impostor in a sea of students earnestly trying to make something of their lives. She does not think she deserves such a second chance at life.
This trip to Seattle was another transcontinental dash to convince Emily that she should continue her education and complete her degree. I set up more appointments with her therapist, knowing she will skip them anyway. I have tried for so long to convince her that her mistakes are in the past, and that I do not hold them against her. But my words fall on deaf ears; she cannot hear me over her own self-recriminations. She cannot see how much I love her and how I would do anything for her to make her smile believe in herself again.
I was in my third year at Stanford University when, overnight, I became both parent and brother to her. She was eight-years-old, and I knew nothing about life, much less anything about raising a young girl. I considered sending her off to boarding school, or to live with my aunt and uncle in Matlock, Connecticut. But when I told her about my plans for her, Emily refused to eat. After three days of her stubborn refusal to even lick spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream, her favorite, I relented. I returned to the East Coast, transferred to Columbia and set up residence in the city with my little sister in tow.
Oh God, that was a hellish time! If not for Mrs. Reynolds, our kind housekeeper, I am sure neither Emily nor I would have survived those years. I thought, naively perhaps, that as Emily grew up, she would adjust to this new normal of ours. But as she reached her teenage years, she became more morose and unsociable. She spent most of her high school days stoned, hidden behind a gaming console or keyboard. If she wasn’t playing the piano or video games, she was playing hooky from her expensive private school.
Looking back on this time, I realize Emily had no idea of the anguish and worry she caused me—and causes me still. I keep it all buttoned up behind my starched and logical presence. I am afraid if she finds out how much I worry about her, she will sink further into depression and never get over feeling guilty.
Emily finally found her focus when she heard a recording of our mother singing. Our mother, Anne William, was a blossoming star soprano in Boston when she met my father. When he proposed, her parents saw it as a way to get their daughter off the stage they hated so much. Pressured by them, she chose marriage over her passion.
Although my father’s family was a well-to-do New York family, my maternal grandparents always thought she married beneath her. They were Boston Brahmins and could trace their roots back to the Revolutionary War, and even further back to the titled William dynasty in England. Still, having their daughter marry into a nouveau riche family from trade was a better option that having her cavort shamelessly on stage. They were afraid she would take Maria Callas as a role model, with her notorious affairs and all.
Mother’s brother and sister live in their exclusive hamlet in Connecticut. There, my uncle John Frederick William rules as de facto mayor. Being the largest landowner and employer in the area certainly helps his cause. He drives around in his pristine white Mercedes, waving at people as if he’s the Pope himself.
Her sister, the imperious Catherine William Barrymore, terrorizes the citizens of Matlock with her supercilious manner. She takes joy in being celebrated for her frank and direct character, caring less about who she runs over in her path. She pronounces loudly and often that she descends from English aristocracy with Plantagenet blood running through her veins. She even has the family crest mowed into the front lawn of her estate during the summer. She tells this to anyone who will listen, which usually means the courtesy clerks helping her load groceries into her car. They politely smile, and then take the dollar bill tips she regally flaps at them.
The townfolk call her “Empress” behind her back. Knowing my Aunt Catherine as I do, she would probably consider this moniker a compliment. She doesn’t care what “her serfs” think of her, as long as she can live undisturbed in her mansion of many windows overlooking the golf course.
The Darcy family made its fortune in the railroads and coalmines of America. Today, most of the business’ money comes from e-commerce. When Father died, I was left as sole executor of his will. I sold all my shares back to the company, and then walked away from any interest in the family business. The money I made from the sale was considerable. I put everything into two trusts, one for me and a larger one for Emily. Her fund pays for her education and basic living expenses, but she cannot access any more of it until she either graduates or reaches the age of forty.
At Emily’s current pace, she may be forty anyway by the time she graduates from college. I take some small comfort in knowing she will not be a trust fund baby like the ones who take their money and blow it on wild vacations, stupid habits and addictions before they even reach age thirty. Her money is well-guarded from this kind of mindless squandering.
As established, the interest from my funds goes directly to organizations conducting cancer research, a scholarship endowment at a prominent university in the psychiatric department for the study of depression. The lion's share is put into the William Prize, a grant for a young musician to study with their local opera house. I have little need for my fund. I live frugally on my salary as a writer. I do not date; I thoroughly detest that word and everything involved with it. I rarely go out with friends. My most expensive habit is hunting down tasty treats for furry purring Lou-Lou. She and Emily are the only two females in my life that matter to me.
I shrug my shoulders; there is little I can do now to redact my review of Elizabeth Murasaki’s Ocean Breeze restaurant. I reassure myself, saying someone else could have written those exact words about the place. Am I not doing her a favor by pointing out the restaurant’s weak spots? Is this not what reviewers are meant to do? For a moment, I feel a twinge of disquiet at my statement about female chefs. Then I reassure myself that there must be truth to it, considering most of the best chefs in the world are men. I am just stating the facts. Women just don’t make it to the top like men do, plain and simple.
I rub my eyes, carefully shut my laptop, and decide to head out for a run in Central Park. Emily, Charles and the unknown Miss Murasaki will all need to deal with their problems on their own. I put chunks of freshly chopped albacore tuna in Lou-Lou’s dish, lace up my running shoes, and then head out the door.
Chapter Nine
Elizabeth
Hey, Little Sister
It’s the Fourth of July weekend and the whole town is bustling with excitement. This is the real start of our busy season, when our town’s population swells by two hundred percent. This is when we squirrel away enough money to sustain us through the dark and dreary quiet winter months looming ahead on the calendar.
For this Independence Day, Jane and I have planned a dinner with fireworks viewing off the restaurant deck. The deck offers the best viewing of the town’s pyrotechnic display set off from a tiny island in the middle of the bay. Seating is capped at sixty, and each guest can view the lightshow after dinner from the deck while being pampered with hot chocolate, brandy and warm blankets. Tickets have sold out quickly, and we’re excited about what should be a great evening ahead.
Jane walks up to me in the kitchen and points out a name in the reservations book, Emily Darcy. “Darcy, isn't that the name of that reviewer that wrote that awful piece about us?” she asks me.
I glance over, too busy with my mise-en-place to really pay attention. “Darcy is a fairly common name. ‘Darcy’ as a kid’s name is vogue now, thanks Jane Austen. Besides, she’s listed a Seattle number, not a New York one. Even if they were remotely related, I could give two fucks about that. He means nothing to me. Who names their kid Fitzwilli
am anyway? What a pompous sounding name!”
I turn the volume of the radio up, blasting all thoughts of Fitzwilliam and Darcy out of my mind, chopping parsley viciously in time to the rhythm of the music.
Jane taps her pencil thoughtfully and walks away. I know she’s nervous, wondering if this mysterious Emily might be related to the infamous Fitzwilliam Peter Darcy, but even if she is, there’s nothing we can do about it.
Our Fourth of July dinner is a smashing success. Plates are returning to the kitchen almost sparkling clean; I know because I watch almost every single time a plate is returned. It’s a habit of mine, one I picked up when I worked in a four-star Napa Valley restaurant.
The servers know I will ask about any food left on a plate. It’s gotten to the point where the servers will almost beg guests to eat everything before they remove their dinner plates. Charlotte tells her guests that she will be subject to The Inquisition by the chef if she brings back food on a plate without an explanation. It’s no surprise the plates she returns are practically licked clean.
Dinner is over. The tables are cleared, and hot chocolate and cookies arranged for easy access. Guests are moving to the deck, swaddled in the cushy throws we provide for everyone.
With a boom and flash of sparkling lights, the fireworks start. I stop my work in the kitchen, fill my mug with a little hot chocolate and a lot of brandy, and step outside to watch. Jane brings Dad out to a remote corner of the deck to ensure he can see the sizzling nighttime display. Mom sits next to him, and in a rare show of affection, reaches out and holds his hand.
I see pain and fear written on Mom’s face, and feel guilty for getting so mad at her sometimes. I can’t imagine what she must be feeling, to realize she’s being forgotten, and that soon, she’ll be alone. Is this why she’s so intent on having her daughters being married or becoming doctors? Does she think we’ll all be safe if this happens?
The thunder of the rockets reverberates in time with my heartbeat, and I find myself tearing up. I always get teary-eyed at fireworks. I don’t know why. This time though, it feels extra poignant, as if this will be the last time I will see our town’s Independence Day gala. I take one more deep drink, and then head back to the kitchen, to the anchor in my chaotic world. At least, behind the stove, I know what to do and everything feels normal and calm.
At the end of the night, as our guests are leaving, Jane points out Emily Darcy to me. She’s a striking girl, tall and blonde. She seems shy, however, and looks around nervously as I approach her.
“Hi, I’m Elizabeth. How did you enjoy your dinner here tonight?” I ask her.
“Oh,” Emily gushes, “it was amazing! Everything! The food, was, uh… it was brilliant! And the fireworks! I’m going to give you a five-star review on Yelp! I think the Ocean Breeze should have an amazing review, not like the one... uh, never mind. Um, I’m going to post about how fantastic you are here!”
Emily looks at me as if she’s expecting a scolding. When I don’t bark at her and smile instead, she giggles. She hugs me quickly and rushes out the door.
Jane and I look at each other, bemused. I remark that Emily looks nothing like the forbidding Mr. Darcy, so I doubt they are related. Jane mentions Emily’s pause when she spoke and mentioned the food, that maybe she was thinking of the review. She’s still uneasy the two Darcys may be related.
“Jane, you know I hate Yelp. Still, it’s nice that she promised to give us five stars, for whatever it’s worth. It’s too late tonight to worry about any reviews. I’m tired, plus we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Let’s clean up and get out of here!”
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth
End of Summer
It’s early morning in the third week of August, and Jane hands me a cup of much-needed coffee.
“How are you holding up, Lizzy? We have just a couple of weeks to go until Labor Day. Then, we can take a couple of days off.”
“I’m fine, Jane. You know I stop feeling exhausted after the first thirty days. Besides, we have to stay open every day during the summer, even though it does mean working a hundred days in a row. You’ve been working just as much as I have. I’m sure you’re ready to get off this hamster wheel of a schedule, too!”
“Yes, I cannot wait until the Tuesday after Labor Day! No alarm clock! No guests! A spa day! Maybe if we’re lucky, we won’t even have to hear Mom whine on about some nonsense! She complains about everything! How much you’re spending on ingredients. How many reservations I’m taking each night. How the flowers in the dining room look or don’t look. I’m ready to lock her inside the walk-in fridge!”
“You wouldn’t dare! If you lock Mom inside the walk-in, where will I go for sanctuary? Yelling at the vegetables in the walk-in is the one thing helping me keep my sanity, Jane! You should try it. Walk-in screaming therapy is really great!”
Jane laughs at me. She would never make me give up the privacy and comfort of the walk-in fridge. She knows I bear the brunt of our mother’s complaints, and that I’m usually being the scapegoat when something goes wrong, and therefore need my chilly refuge.
Charlie Bingley has been stopping in weekly to bring our wine order. Each time he comes by, he surprises Jane with a little something. One day it’s chocolate, on another day, it’s a small bouquet of flowers. He is smitten with her and the feeling is returned, although it’s hard for him to see this. Jane is not one to openly display her emotions to anyone except her family and close friends. Charles doesn’t know how to read her, which plainly it makes him anxious.
“Girl, you better show that man you’re interested!” Charlotte has Jane plopped on one of the bar stools and is giving her the benefits of her wisdom. “I know you think you’re being ladylike and all, but really, Jane, if I were Charlie, I would think you’re just being polite to me. Wait, are you just being polite to him?”
“Charlotte, you know I like Charlie a lot more than any other guy I’ve dated. But maybe he’s just being a good salesman by bringing me chocolate and flowers? What if he’s just trying to keep our business, or to make up for the horrible things his friend Mr. Darcy wrote?”
“Oh yes, Jane,” replies Charlotte teasingly. “I’m sure Charlie is bringing flowers to all the old male restaurant owners he knows, just because he wants to keep their business, too. Or maybe because he thinks they’re as cute as you.” She winks at me as she tells Jane this.
“Fine, Dear Abby, how do I show Charlie I like him, since you’re so wise and dating all the time?” quips Jane.
“Look, just because my love life is a shambles doesn’t mean I can’t give good advice, especially to a friend who needs it. Next time Charlie comes by, you should invite him out to lunch at some other restaurant in town. Take him to the Sandwich Man and buy that boy a sammie! Isn’t he making a wine delivery today? Come on girl, you can do this!”
On cue, the front door opens, and in walks Charlie. Charlotte gives Jane a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbows, and then saunters off, muttering something about having to help me split some peas for soup.
Charlie presents Jane with the bouquet of gigantic chartreuse gladioli he’s been unsuccessfully trying to conceal behind his back. As he hands the tall stems to her, Jane takes a breath and says, “Charlie, would you like to grab lunch with me at the Sandwich Man? I mean, if you have time?”
Charlie’s face lights up. “Yes! That would be wonderful!” He offers Jane his arm, and she accepts, hopping down from the stool. As they walk out arm in arm headed for their lunch date, Charlotte reappears and we smile together at seeing their happy faces.
“Well, at least one of us has some sort of love life,” I tell Charlotte before we each return to our tasks for the day.
Chapter Eleven
Darcy
Everyone’s a Critic
It is the middle of July, and I am typing away madly at my desk in my spartan railroad apartment. I have a deadline in three hours for my review of a family-run Turkish restaurant in Brooklyn. My edito
r has me on a hunt for obscure places outside Manhattan proper, and this is the latest installment for his “What You Don’t Know Yet” series. I sit here in front of a box fan pathetically wheezing warm air into my face. The two small windows are wide open, but useless in the breeze-less air. The humid heat of the city is sweltering and every sane person seems to be off in the Hamptons or at the beach. Well, I did give up that luxurious living lifestyle when I set up my trust fund, so I have no cause to complain.
My laptop pings, and I see Emily has sent me an email. I frown; I rarely get emails from her. Usually, she sends texts of emoji characters or Snapchats, even though she knows I loath that kind of communication. She is the only reason I even have those detested applications on my phone. I never send her anything using them, and I abhor the deceit of their insipid filters. I most certainly never use emojis. I believe in solid words that leave no room for interpretation. I open the email and find nothing in the body of it, only a screenshot attached.
The screenshot is of a Yelp review, her Yelp review. She writes: “Never have I dined in a more happy and delightful place than the Ocean Breeze restaurant. I found the food to be AH-MAZING, and thought fireworks viewing on the deck to be BRILLIANT! Elizabeth Murasaki is an AMAZING chef and I love that she’s a kick-ass WOMAN in a male-dominated world. I don’t care what any fancy schmancy food critic has to say, this WOMAN and this restaurant are doing AMAZING things, and you should eat here!!!! FIVE STARS!!!!!”
I sit there, feeling chagrined. First, does my sister have any other word in her vocabulary than AMAZING? Second, did she really need to stick her proverbial middle finger up at me with the jibe about what food critics have to say? Finally, is this how she really sees the world, how females see the world? That they must carve out a toehold in a man’s world? Surely it can’t be that hard for them, can it? When did my little sister become such a feminist?
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