I reach over and pick up my phone to call Emily. She answers me right away.
”Surely, you know more words than amazing, do you not? I thought that is what you learned at that expensive preparatory school,” I begin. She snorts derisively. “I’m getting you a thesaurus for your Christmas gift,” I continue. “And while you may think I unjustly judged Elizabeth Murasaki’s restaurant, this is what I do. I take a snapshot of what is happening at the time, and report on it.”
Emily replies, and I can see her eyes rolling as she says, “Oh great, a thesaurus from my Thesaurus Rex brother. How fitting.”
Before I can argue, she continues accusingly, “Aren’t you supposed to eat someplace three times before writing a review? What was all that negative shit about anyway? We both know that you were in a shitty mood because you had to come to Seattle once again to rescue my pathetic loser ass. But you went ahead and took it out on Elizabeth Murasaki. You’re such a punk!”
“Language!” I bark at Emily. She just laughs.
“Oh, Brother, I love you, I really do, despite the stick up your butt. Actually, it’s one of the most endearing things about you. Do you keep it up there to scare off women before they find out how really adorable you can be? I think the only one who isn’t put off is Caroline Bingley, Charlie’s sister, and that’s only because she’s got an even bigger stick up hers!” And with this statement, Emily laughs again so hard, she can’t speak.
“Funny,” I growl at her. “We both know I’m not interested in Caroline, or any of her ilk. She is that kind of society woman who thinks I am a wealthy meal ticket and I write only as a hobby and yes, I should have eaten at Ocean Breeze three times, but I was on a tight deadline, and yes, I was in a bad mood but I cannot do anything about it now, and I have vowed to never do something like it again, and my younger sister writing reviews on Yelp is certainly not going to make a difference now,” I say in one breath.
“Oh wow, Pete, you really need to relax more! Hey, do you know you just said a huge ass run-on sentence? You must be upset! Is it Elizabeth? She’s really cute, you know. Are you crushing on her? You are crushing on her! Oh! My! God!”
"Emily, why are we talking about grape crushing? What does that have to do with me?"
“Pete! Crushing means that you like her! You like Elizabeth, don't you?"
Before I can respond, she continues in a rush. "Me, I’m doing fine, thanks for asking, not! I’m attending classes, and even went to therapy all this past month. I’m actually feeling better. I might even start singing again!”
At that announcement, my heart lurches. I know how mercurial and fragile her moods can be. She is happy today, but tomorrow could bring thunder clouds to her emotional world. There is no warning, it just happens.
I remember how Emily trained and auditioned for an apprenticeship at the Metropolitan Opera, only to be rejected. The reason? She stayed out late the night before, snorting coke with George Wickham and was in no condition to sing. George Wickham, my old nemesis and son of Father’s right-hand-man, ingratiated his way into my sister’s life without me knowing about it. He introduced her to cocaine and made an addict of her.
George has always resented the fact that my father paid for his schooling, making him beholden to our family. George viewed my father’s kindness as pity and he hated it. He took his revenge on Emily in such an ugly way, ruining her career chances. He wanted a Darcy to feel the sting of pity. He brought her so low I feared she would harm herself. He succeeded. Emily has been wallowing in self-pity ever since.
I want to shield her from more disappointment, but Emily is old enough now to make her own successes as well as mistakes. I have to let her go. I have raised her as well as I could, and need to trust she will remember what she has learned. I tell her to stop making up fairy tales about my non-existent love life. I repeat that I am always there for her and hang up reluctantly. I silently ask Mother to look after her.
I do not know where George Wickham is now, but I hope and pray that he is far away from her. Our cousin Richard is living nearby to Emily, so she should be safe. Unlike me, Richard has no scruples about giving someone a black eye when they deserve it. In fact, he has long yearned to give Wickham his comeuppance. Richard scoffs at my reluctance to use all my years of karate training unless I am absolutely provoked to do so. He does not understand the principles and discipline behind this martial art. I do think I might have too much of a stick inserted in that hinterland orifice of mine where Wickham is concerned. I should relent every now and then. I imagine giving George a swift kick in the ribs, and I smile.
Lou-Lou jumps into my lap, sensing my angst. I rub her silky gray ears and coo to her. She is the one female who understands me without question. She bumps her head into my arm, and places one delicate gray paw against my face. Her green eyes look into mine, and she blinks a cat kiss to me. I stand up, sliding her off my lap, which she takes as a signal to race me to the kitchen. I pour a glass of Belgian beer for me, and a spoon osetra caviar into a dish for her. I turn on Bach, her favorite dinner music before returning to my work.
Chapter Twelve
Elizabeth
The Sum of It
Labor Day weekend is over and despite our best efforts, summer sales have lagged. It seems Mr. Darcy’s words might be more influential than I was willing to give him credit for. Jane and I look at the numbers again, trying to figure out how we can make it through the winter.
Jane pushes her laptop towards me. “Take a look, Lizzy. Even if we do well this winter, we still won’t be able to afford to keep the restaurant doors open and pay for Dad’s full-time care. It just doesn’t add up.”
“Would it have made a difference if our summer revenue had been stronger?”
“If we only had the restaurant to worry about, we would be okay. But we really need to get Dad into a care facility in Seattle, and you know, Mom is going to want to see him everyday. We can’t keep the doors open, pay for his care, and then drive Mom to Seattle every day.”
“I’m sorry, Jane. I failed, didn’t I?”
“Oh, Lizzy, you didn’t fail! You couldn’t save this place by yourself. It was all of us. I should have called you back sooner. There was so much more we might have done. I don’t blame you. It’s just the way it is. It’s time to move on. I think it’s time to sell."
I have to agree with Jane. We’ve done the best we can. I can’t measure the impact of Mr. Darcy’s words, but I don’t care anymore. We need to take care of Dad, and selling the restaurant is the only option we have.
The listing agent will be here later today to start the selling process. Jane and I walk through the restaurant, deciding what we would like to keep. My eye falls on the sumi-e picture of Puget Sound my father painted in his early twenties. The painting definitely goes with us. So does the black ceramic ikebana vase that has graced the host credenza since Day One of the Ocean Breeze.
My grandmother cradled this vase in her kimono, dress, when she immigrated to Washington. It was one of the few possessions she brought with her. Over the rough seas and tortuous mountain trails, she carried it until they reached their new home.
I’ve tracked the seasons by the flowers blooming in the vase. Spring was always heralded by branches of ume, plum, and sakura, cherry, and velvety pussy willow wands. Summer exploded with delphiniums, zinnias and daisies held in check by stately segments of bamboo. Autumn whispered in with the understated charms of spider kiku, chrysanthemums, and swags of bronzed oak. Winter was celebrated by red holly berries seductively reclining against fragrant green Douglas fir.
Other than the painting and vase, everything else is immaterial to me. Jane feels the same way. We carefully wrap these two objects in bubble wrap, and then continue to clean and sort our way through twenty-five years of restaurant history.
Charlotte arrives to tell us goodbye. She’s heading back to Seattle today, making me promise I’ll text her when we get there. I give her a huge hug, this woman who has been a champion for my fami
ly all these years. She rocks me back and forth as she embraces me, telling me everything is going to be okay.
As the days pass, our neighbors and friends file in to say goodbye. Most of them wish us well. A few of them are vultures, trying to buy things from us at rock bottom prices. I give them what they want; I can’t be bothered with their petty ways. We pack a few boxes, sell much of our furnishings, and donate the rest to the local shelter. We will be moving into a small house in Seattle. Things such as rowboats and fishing poles will be of little use to us there. As our pile of belongings dwindles away to the bare essentials, I feel my ties to this town severing.
I think about how our life here has been distilled down to the bones. Twenty-five years have been cushioned in old newspapers and packed carefully into cardboard coffins. Packing tape seals these vaults shut, and they are loaded into the moving truck, despite their mute protests at the indignity of it all.
On a crisp October morning, I climb into the driver’s seat and pull the door of the U-Haul shut. This will be my last trip out of this town. The new owners of the restaurant, a young couple from Los Angeles, stand on the stairs, keys in hand and a dream in their hearts. I give the restaurant one last look in the rear view mirror, whisper, “I’m sorry, Daddy, I tried.” I hit the accelerator and lead the Murasaki caravan into the wilds of Seattle.
Chapter Thirteen
Darcy
Seattle Calling
My phone vibrates and chimes, letting me know I have received a text. I look and see it is Bingley pinging me.
“ICYMI, Ocean Breeze closed last month, and the Murasakis have moved to Seattle. Apparently, your pen is mightier than her chef’s knife. Call me.”
Dammit. This is not what I wanted to hear. I certainly do not have time for a dressing down from Charles, but I pick up my phone and call him.
“Charles, what does ICYMI mean?” I ask him when he answers.
“In Case You Missed It,” he replies impatiently. “Pete, do you live in this world? Do you seriously not know any of the meanings of texting shorthand or emojis? I mean, I always knew you were an upright prig about some things, but really?”
“Have your laugh, Bingley. I prefer to use real words. Yes, I did miss it, that the Ocean Breeze closed. One of a thousand restaurants that close each day across this country. So the Murasakis have to start over. How is this my problem again?” I say defensively.
I am three thousand miles away, but I can feel Charles’ eyes bugging in anger. I do not care. Emily is morose and rebellious again, and I am at my wits’ end about to what to do with her. Her therapist has called me three times this month to let me know she has missed her sessions. The dean of her liberal arts college has emailed me to tell me if Emily does not raise her GPA and attend classes, she will be expelled.
“Look, Charles, I know how you feel about the Murasakis and I am really sorry. I still do not think my words in reviews are that powerful, but I will try to make it right with them if I ever get the chance.
“I know I am not exactly your favorite person right now, but I have a favor to ask. Emily is being, well, Emily. Can you check in on her, make sure she is okay?”
Charles has known Emily since she was five. Charles was one of the few people who my sister would actually turn to when our mother died. Charles’ father was a business associate of my father’s, which offered us two sons the chance to spend many afternoons together racing toy cars on the plush carpet in the conference room at the office while our fathers worked.
After Mother died, Father was loath to turn Emily and me over to a nanny while he worked. For all his stern bluster, he had a soft spot for us. He let us three kids hang out and play in his office while he tackled his business. Charles treated Emily like a princess. She was the referee of our wrestling matches, Maid Marian to our Robin Hoods, and she decided whether we had chocolate or vanilla ice cream for dessert. While almost all older boys would scoff at having a little girl tag after them, Charles was total patience and kindness with her.
I think having Caroline as his sister also gave Charles a good idea of how little girls think and how to treat them. Oddly enough, Caroline and Emily never got along. Caroline would never agree to sprawl on the floor to race toy cars or hide in the closet waiting to be found. She called us childish and undignified. Caroline was scheming and selfish, which made Emily afraid of her.
Now Emily thinks Caroline is a snob. She is not wrong. Caroline is a snob, which makes me want her around Emily as little as possible. Caroline has been conniving to marry me since she was sixteen, only pausing in her pursuit three years ago when she married a rich Londoner. However, she recently divorced, and now has become quite the menace to single men in Seattle.
I smile at my childhood memories, and I hear Charles’ voice soften on the other end. Charles is too good-natured to stay angry with anyone for long. He agrees to keep a lookout on Emily, promising to invite her soon to have dinner with him. Our long friendship has survived another challenge because he is so good-natured.
“Charles, I should tell you. I have decided to move to Seattle.”
“What? That’s fantastic, Pete! When will you be here?”
“I’m leaving New York sometime in October. I’m taking a long leave of absence, and will drive to Seattle. I don’t know when I’ll actually arrive there.”
“Pete, this is so unexpected! I’m thrilled that I’ll get to introduce you to Jane, the woman I’m dating! I think she’s The One! Hey, I’m psyched you’re moving here, but why are you doing this?”
“Charles, I have spent far too long tossing ideas for my book around in my head. I want to write it, uninterrupted. Now seems as good a time as any to do so.”
“Well, what will your book be about?”
“I’m not sure, Charles. I keep thinking about how Jane Austen wrote about the independent women of her age. But in truth, her women are rescued by marrying well, even though they swear they will only marry for love. I want to write a book about a man who refuses to fall into the marriage trap, but ends up saving his damsel in distress anyway. I want to write it from his point of view.”
“And how is it going, this book of yours?” Charles asks me.
“It is not. I can't even start it. It is a convoluted mess of thoughts in my head. That is why I’m moving. I think being in Seattle will help. I will be able to see Emily more. I hope being near her will bring me enough peace of mind so I can actually concentrate and write.”
“Well, good luck then, Buddy! Let me know your progress, and whether I can do anything for you. I’m really glad you’ll be closer. I know being out here will do you both good!”
I thank Charles for his generous friendship, and hang up. I know I will feel better when Emily and I are once again living in the same city. Add that Richard is now stationed in Bremerton at the U.S. Naval Station there and he will be retiring soon. The three of us have always been close, and I miss them. I have had enough of this undercurrent of loneliness that tries to drown me all the time and this seems like the perfect time to end it.
Richard has decided to remain in Gig Harbor and has purchased a dilapidated cottage there. After twenty-five years at sea, he is ready to put down his anchor and spend his days swabbing down the decks of his new abode.
I reassure myself one more time that I am doing the right thing before resolutely flipping my laptop open.
Chapter Fourteen
Darcy
Go West, Young Man
Moving day arrives. My apartment is now empty, with everything either sold, put into storage or shipped west. I am taking as little as I can with me, divesting myself of the dead weights in my life.
I pack the trunk of my recently purchased used green VW Golf as if I’m playing a game of Tetris. New Yorker that I am, this is my first car since my California days. I carefully arrange Lou-Lou’s bed on the passenger seat so she can ride shotgun. I take one last look at the empty shell where I lived the last ten years of my life, and then shut the door. I push
the key through the mail slot in the front door, place Lou-Lou onto her throne, and start the engine.
I’m in no rush to be anywhere; no one knows when I’m supposed to arrive, including me. I leave Midtown’s congestion, push out to I-80 heading West, and plug in my iPod. Peter Gabriel fills the air with his whisky-tinged voice. The poetry of his lyrics pushes against the confines of the windows as the miles roll away. Lou-Lou looks up every now and then catching me with her green eyes, washing her paws before settling back to sleep.
I think about the book I want to write, about this man who desires a wife of good breeding from the upper tiers of society, but ends up in love with a woman from the working class world who is outspoken and full of sass. I am not sure how to put this all down and make it work because for me, it seems so improbable. The idea just clunks around in my head awkwardly, waiting for the right inspiration. The irony that I am writing a love story when I have never been in love is not lost on me. It does not help that I have been avoiding precisely those society women my whole dating life.
I sigh and look at the road ahead of me, waiting for inspiration to cross my path.
The truth is, this is so different from any kind of writing I have ever done, I am afraid to even start. But I feel compelled to try, to finally craft something beautiful and soft after all the years of hard words and criticism I have done for work over the years.
Lou-Lou and I make good time, despite freezing temperatures in the mornings when we start rolling. So far, we have missed any significant snow. I feel a pang of regret as we cross the New York State line, but it evaporates quickly in the golden autumn sunlight.
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