Pride and Prejudice and Mistletoe

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “There she is!” said Kenneth. “Late to Christmas as usual.”

  “Why haven’t you opened the presents yet?” she asked.

  “We opened ours already,” James explained. “These ones are for you.”

  “These?” Darcy stared in shock at the bounty. These couldn’t possibly all be for her. She wasn’t even expecting one present, let alone what looked like about fifty.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed. “What, did you think we’d forget about you?”

  “No, I uh…” Darcy tried to find the right words. “I just thought since you didn’t know I was coming home you wouldn’t have time to get me anything.”

  “Wouldn’t have enough time?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed. “Please, darling, though you just got here, we work fast. We had time to prepare.”

  “But…” Darcy began breathlessly, staring at the gifts. “There are just so many of them. How did you … Why would you … When did you … Even as a kid I never got this many presents in one Christmas.”

  “Oh, these aren’t for one Christmas,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam. Darcy was confused.

  “They’re not?” she asked.

  “These are all your presents accumulated over the past eight years, since you’ve been away from Pemberley,” explained James. “You weren’t coming home anymore, but we assumed you’d still want presents.”

  “What?” Darcy laughed incredulously. “I don’t mean to sound disrespectful or unappreciative; I’m just trying to understand. Why didn’t you just mail them to me?”

  “If we mailed you your presents, then you’d really have no reason to ever come home,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  “Yeah,” added William. “We wanted to make sure, whenever it was that you came home, you’d have a good reason to want to stay.”

  Darcy was baffled. She didn’t know what to say. First of all, there was their serious gap in logic. Darcy was a multimillionaire and could buy herself anything her heart desired. She didn’t need to come home to Pemberley, Ohio, in order to get gifts. Had she known presents were waiting for her, it would still be no motivation to fly home. Surely her family must have understood that. Second of all, if they wanted to lure her home with presents, why would they not tell her these presents existed? Third of all, and most important, she had no idea her family felt this way about her. She knew her mom was fond of her, but as far as she had known, her dad resented the hell out of her and her brothers were mostly irritated by her existence (most likely because they were intimidated by her, she told herself). How could she have been so completely wrong? She had fled and never looked back because she thought they wanted her gone, but could it be that, all along, they had wanted her here?

  “This is … incredible. Incredibly sweet,” she said, bringing one hand to her chest. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

  “The Fitzwilliams don’t have to do anything,” Kenneth reminded her. “We wanted to do this.”

  “Even you?” she laughed.

  “Yes, even me!” He laughed with her. “You’re arrogant and irritating but you’re my sister and I love you.”

  Whoa. The L word. Darcy hadn’t heard that word from anyone in her family in years and years. Hearing it now, she was taken aback, and was surprised to find that she had to fight back tears.

  “Welcome home, honey.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam stood up from her reclined position to hug her daughter. “Grab a hot chocolate and start opening your presents!”

  “Now?”

  “Definitely now,” said James. “What the hell else are we going to do on Christmas?”

  “Oh, okay.” She smiled hesitantly. “Sure, why not?”

  Self-consciously, she sat down at the base of the tree and surveyed the boxes. She felt uncomfortable with her entire family’s gaze on her. The pressure was on and the stakes felt high. She would have to like every gift, and when she didn’t, she would have to pretend.

  “Now, remember,” her mom said, “we didn’t have a list from you for eight whole years, so we had to improvise. We hope you like them, but we won’t be offended if you don’t.”

  “Oh, okay.” Darcy nodded, trying to hide her feelings of being overwhelmed.

  She chose a box at random and began to slowly unwrap it.

  “Ooh, I think this is the one from 2012,” said James, looking to William. “Remember?”

  “Ah yes,” William replied. “She’ll like this one, I bet.”

  Beneath the paper was a boxy, sleek black suitcase that looked like it could be made of alligator skin. There was a silver latch that read “Open me.” She opened up the suitcase, and inside was the most stunning typewriter she had ever seen. It was polished, glossy black with pearl keys, each one a perfect circle. They’re much nicer to look at than the square keys of computers, she thought.

  “It’s a 1920s Smith Corona,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said. “It belonged to Napoleon Hill.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Darcy stared.

  “You heard him correctly, sweetie,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam assured her.

  “How did you find it?” she marveled.

  “It was at a Sotheby’s auction in London,” her dad explained. “And I remembered how you always were a fan of him and his work. So I made sure I was the highest bidder.”

  “This is incredible!” She ran her fingers over the cool black metal.

  “Oh, it wasn’t that big of a deal,” Mr. Fitzwilliam insisted. “It was easy. Nobody likes to try to bid against me because they know I always win.”

  “Well, thanks, Dad. I love it.”

  “Thought you might.” He smiled briefly, then reverted back to his notoriously solemn resting face, as if to say, Don’t make this a sentimental moment. Darcy was relieved, as she also was stubbornly against sentimental moments, or sentimentality of any kind at all.

  “Open this one next,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, rummaging through the boxes and producing a small rectangular one. “It’s from 2010. It will be funny.”

  Still stunned and speechless from the typewriter, Darcy peeled off the old wrapping paper, which seemed to have almost permanently merged with the box beneath it.

  “Oh my God, it’s an iPod!” Darcy laughed nostalgically at the picture on the box of a silvery iPod with a white click wheel.

  “Open up the box,” said James. “Look what’s inside.”

  Darcy opened the box.

  “It’s an iPod,” she repeated, taking the iPod out of the box, not entirely sure what the point of it was. “Thanks so much, guys! What a time warp.”

  “Turn it on, turn it on!” William urged.

  Despite it being eight years since she’d operated an iPod, her motor memory kicked in and she knew to slide the switch on the upper right corner in order to turn it on. The dark-gray screen flickered to life with a blushing white glow, and black digitalized letters appeared: the names of bands and songwriters and musicians of all kinds, in alphabetical order. Not just any musicians, but her favorite musicians at the time of 2010, to be specific: Ludwig van Beethoven and David Bowie and the Cure and George Gershwin and Philip Glass and Carole King and Joni Mitchell and Mozart and the Police and Carly Simon and the Rolling Stones. The list went on and on and on.

  Wow, she thought, scrolling through, they really must have been paying much closer attention to me than I ever thought. She was pleased to see that, despite knowing her better than she thought, they still didn’t know her guilty pleasures, which she always made a point of keeping secret: Taylor Swift and Britney Spears and Carly Rae Jepsen and Maroon 5 and even, sometimes, as ashamed as she was to admit it, Nickelback. She’d rather die than have anyone find out that she listened to any of these musical “talents.” Truthfully, she found some of these to be genuinely talented (if she were a less prideful person, she’d defend Taylor and Britney to the bitter end), but so much of the power she held at work and around just about everyone in her life had to do with a carefully constructed appearance of toughness and transcendent, untouchable coolness.

  “You
guys … these are amazing presents,” she told them. “I feel bad I didn’t get anything for any of you. I just never thought—”

  “Oh, you don’t have to get us anything. That’s not how it works,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam explained. “The kids don’t get the grown-ups presents. The grown-ups get the kids presents. Everyone knows that.”

  “Aren’t we all grown-ups now?” William asked.

  “You are definitely not a grown-up,” James laughed.

  “Oh, like you are?” Kenneth rolled his eyes.

  “You’ll all always be my babies,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “And a mother couldn’t ask for better babies! You all came right over to see me when I had my heart attack. I’m just so grateful.”

  Mr. Fitzwilliam and Darcy recoiled at the mushy sentimentality of it all, then caught each other’s eye and shared a knowing glance.

  “Darcy, you gonna open the rest of your presents?” asked James. Darcy let her eyes rove over the remainder of the gifts and felt intimidated by them all.

  “I think I need to take a break,” she said. “Can I open the rest later?”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “They’re your presents.”

  “Have some eggnog and chill,” suggested Kenneth, lifting his porcelain mug. “That’s what we’re all doing.”

  “On Christmas you can start drinking whenever; everyone knows that,” William reminded her. “It’s like … it’s like … it’s like what?”

  “An unspoken rule?” suggested James.

  “Yes!” said William excitedly. “That’s it!”

  “Well, it’s hard to argue with that,” admitted Darcy. “One glass of the house eggnog, please.”

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam pulled a white porcelain mug from a stack of them and used a white porcelain pitcher to fill it with eggnog.

  “Mm,” said Darcy, bringing it to her lips. “Smells amazing.” She took a sip and reclined deeply into the velvet armchair closest to the fireplace, feeling for the first time since she got back that she was actually home.

  * * *

  Later, the Fitzwilliams were still lounging, buzzed and lazy, around the fireplace. James got a phone call from his fiancée and Kenneth had fallen asleep with his head back and his tongue hanging out. William was drunkenly showing off his piano skills on the baby grand, playing a clumsy rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock.”

  “I think I’ll bake my special Christmas chocolate chip cookies,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam announced.

  “Dr. Law said to avoid creams and butters, darling,” Mr. Fitzwilliam reminded her, sitting upright in concern.

  “Well, they’re not for me,” she said sassily, with her hands on her hips. “They’re for my family.”

  “Well then,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, reclining back into his chair, “by all means. Be my guest.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam curtsied and exited dramatically into the kitchen.

  Even though Darcy and her father had cleared the air that day, things between them still felt a little awkward.

  “So, uh,” he began, clearing his throat, “how are things in New York?”

  “New York’s great,” she heard herself say. “Work is busy. I’ll probably have to work crazy hours to make up for this vacation.”

  “I see.”

  “But, I mean, it’s good.” She realized how that could have come off as ungrateful, and she wanted to fix it. “I haven’t had a vacation in three years and I’m really grateful to get one now.”

  “Well, it’s no Bahamas, but at least it’s something.”

  “It’s more than something,” she told him. “I’m actually really happy to be home.”

  “I thought you hated Pemberley.”

  “I don’t hate Pemberley,” she explained. “I actually love Pemberley. It’s beautiful here. So many people I lo—like live here.” She caught herself on the verge of the L word and reined herself in, not wanting to become any more vulnerable than she absolutely had to be right now. “I just don’t want to live here. The world is so big; there’s so much to see out there.”

  “I get that.” He nodded. “Pemberley isn’t exactly the thrill capital of the world.”

  “No,” she laughed, “it’s not.”

  “Look,” he said. “I’m proud of all you’re doing in New York. It’s not easy making it on your own, let alone getting rich as hell on your own.”

  “Really?” She was shocked.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “You remind me of my mother. Her whole life she wanted to do things her own way, on her own conditions. She was headstrong and free-spirited, just like you.”

  “I thought I was selfish and entitled.”

  “You can be those things,” he said with a sly smile. “But we all can be at times. We’re Fitzwilliams. We were born entitled, unfortunately. It’s a blessing and a curse, I suppose.”

  “I suppose so,” she agreed.

  “Look…” He took a deep breath. “You gotta understand, I wasn’t trying to be an asshole by insisting you marry Carl. I was trying to do what I thought was best for you, and I wanted you to stay close to me. I thought it was best for you to have security and family and respect from the community and … you know, a life companion so you wouldn’t have to go through life all alone.” He shrugged, notably embarrassed. “But it turns out you didn’t need a man to have security and respect from the community. You got that for yourself all on your own, and that’s impressive. I was wrong. You’re not the kind of girl who needs a man and a family to be happy. At least not now. And that’s okay. I just wanted to let you know that I accept your path.”

  Darcy knew she should feel relieved. All she’d really wanted for the past eight years was for the guilt of letting down her family to be lifted from her shoulders. But she didn’t feel relieved. Or pleased. Or comforted. Instead, she felt a cloud of sadness and worry begin to brew in her chest. She knew right away what it was: it was the words he’d used, words like family and all alone and happy. It was true, she had accomplished a lot, but this, she knew, was also true: she was all alone and she was not happy.

  She blinked back her tears, wanting to let her dad know she appreciated what he had told her.

  “Thank you, Dad,” she said. “That really means a lot to me.”

  19

  “You’re honestly telling me that you didn’t have a crush on me in high school?” Luke was lying underneath the blankets of Darcy’s childhood bed while Darcy applied her lipstick, using a compact mirror, a charcoal-colored turtleneck pulled up snugly to her chin. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since their kiss, and Darcy’s head still spun like a carousel.

  “Yes, honestly.” She laughed. “I thought you were … weird. Too rough around the edges.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “But you were always so … prickly with me. I could swear there was tension there.”

  “Yeah, the tension of me not liking you. What, are you honestly trying to tell me you thought I liked you back then?”

  “Well, I liked you. And you were a jerk, but I always suspected it was because you were secretly into me.”

  “I was a jerk to you because you were a jerk to me!” she protested.

  “And I was a jerk to you because I liked you! See my logic?”

  “That’s some pretty tangled logic, my friend.”

  “Nuh-uh.” He pulled her close. “We’re not just friends anymore.”

  “Oh really?” She set her mirror down and let herself be cajoled back into his arms. “What are we, then?”

  “Well, let’s see. I love you and you love me, even though you claim that you didn’t have feelings for me in high school, which is probably a lie, and people who love each other shouldn’t lie, so—”

  He was interrupted by the pillow she used to whack him across the head.

  “Stop being a moron,” she giggled.

  “Okay, okay.” He composed himself in mock seriousness. “Would I … could I dare ask you, Darcy Fitzwilliam, to be my girlfriend?”

  Girlfriend. The wor
d sat like thick liquid in her stomach. She wondered why it made her so uncomfortable. First of all, there was the fact that she was almost thirty—was being a girlfriend taking a step back? She had been on the verge of being a wife, after all, hadn’t she? Second of all, and buried deeper down, was the idea of a label that said she belonged to somebody—wife, fiancée, girlfriend, or otherwise—which had actively repelled her for as long as she could remember. Girlfriend, last time she checked, was just the first step you took that led to being chained to somebody for the rest of your life.

  Darcy, get a grip, she told herself. This is what you want, remember? You want Luke; you fought for him. This is good. Be happy about this.

  “Uh, Darcy?” he asked, snapping her out of this zooming train of thought. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, of course.” She blinked repeatedly. “And I’d love to be your girlfriend. I may not have liked you in high school, but I certainly made a point of letting my, uh … current feelings for you be known.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “So then we’re officially boyfriend and girlfriend.” She stood up out of bed and reached for a tan suede skirt that hung over the foot of the bed frame. “After all these years.”

  “Where are you going?” He pulled at her hand, trying to lure her back to bed.

  “Well, we have to leave my room sometime. People are going to start to talk.”

  “Start to talk? They’re already talking. We both called off engagements that the entire town knew about. I mean, I canceled my rehearsal dinner the night of.”

  “Still, I don’t want my parents to think we’re just in here … you know. The respectable thing would be to come out of hiding and, you know, acknowledge that things are different now. That I’m not getting married to Carl and you’re not getting married to Charlotte and that … we’re, you know, together now.”