by Ari Rhoge
“What are you talking about?” I asked, skeptically.
George rolled her eyes. “Listen, Georgy is a sweet girl. I wouldn't wish her any harm. It's not her fault her brother is a dickhead. I haven't told her anything, and I'm definitely not fooling around. We're friendly. And her being Will's sister is one of the reasons I'm leaving that job, okay? It's too weird. Too tense.”
“But Jane said —”
“Jane probably saw that Georgy was attached, and made her own conclusions from there,” George said, reasonably. “Because it's really obvious how Georgy feels. I don't return those feelings. I'm leaving that place, even though I love it. Are you happy? Jesus Christ,” he scowled, hopping off from the trunk. “Of all people, Lizzy, I really didn't imagine you'd think I'm some manipulative asshole. I wouldn't do that to somebody.”
I couldn't really say anything. He looked so upset. And when he looked up he knew he wasn't off the hook. And so, he asked, very carefully, “are you sure this isn't, like, leftover resentment for me, or something? I mean… I made a move, Lizzy. I was interested, and you completely blocked me. Not that I'm on to somebody new, but if I was —”
“God, no, it's not that,” I said, frustrated. “That's a non-issue. The first thing I could think of was that you hate her brother. Why else would you be getting that close to her unless you wanted to affect Will somehow?”
“That's pretty insulting toward Georgy, don't you think? She's a great girl, and it's wonderful spending time with her just as it is. As her friend, you'd think you would know that.”
“I do know that, I just —”
“You don't trust me,” he finished, eyes cold. “That's wonderful. Thanks for reducing me to a petty, revenge-seeking asshole. Honestly, it's an enlightening moment in my life, right next to getting kicked out of college. Give me a second here to enjoy it.”
Sarcasm looked ugly on George Wickham. I didn't like it.
“Don't be such a self-pitying jackass, okay?” I scowled, shoving his shoulder half-heartedly. “I'm just concerned for Georgy. I had to ask. I asked, so there. I'm relieved at the answer, and that's pretty much it.” At that, I started walking past him to the passenger's side, but he caught my wrist.
“Listen, I'm sorry for snapping at you,” he said, sincerely. “But you have to understand. I just come by to see how you're doing, and you turn around and practically interrogate me. It's actually really insulting. —— I get that you have good intentions though.”
“No, I just like doing this to make people feel like shit,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Of course, I have good intentions. I care about her.”
“She's lucky, then.” George nodded once. “Considering her brother is Will Darcy, and he doesn't seem to be in anybody's good book. Maybe she got the good genes.”
I didn't answer. In fact, I was getting a little tired of the Darcy-slamming. I agreed with it, but, for a second, it seemed to be the one thing we had most in common. Which was just sad. And it spoke volumes about George and me together.
“Don't tell me you're warming up to him,” George teased, quietly, face incredulous.
“Hardly. I just don't feel like talking about the Darcys anymore,” I sighed, brushing my bangs from before my eyes. “Listen, I'm holding Brenda up. —— I'll see you later.”
“Okay,” George murmured, burying his hands in his pockets.
“I'm sorry,” I said, quickly, not entirely sure why I said so. Not entirely sure that I meant it.
“Me too,” he said, nodding, and giving a short-lived little smile as I got settled inside. The air was far from clear, but I just prayed that he was telling the truth. I would have to check, at some point.
Sure enough, three days later, Georgy was mopey. Even studying more effectively. It didn't take much thinking for Jane and I to understand what had happened.
• • •
“This place is gorgeous,” Jane said, exhaling loudly, and running a hand along the polished granite counter. Charlie beamed from the entrance to the kitchen, untying his scarf and shrugging out of his jacket, which he perched clumsily on one of the chairs. He set two grocery bags on the powered-off stove in front of me, and emptied the others at the kitchen table.
“Please tell me you didn't get cranberry sauce,” I said, laughing, reaching into a bag and pulling out cans. “Oh, yuck.”
“I'm sorry, Lizzy — I wasn't under the impression that we were catering to your tastes alone this evening,” Charlie grinned, ducking when I flicked a sliver of cucumber at him from the salad I was preparing. “In all honesty, I can't really thank you guys enough for saving me like this. I've never even attempted a Thanksgiving dinner,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I asked Carolyn to come over earlier and help out, but she hung up on me. And Lyssa is tied up with Simon, of course.”
“Simon?” I asked, tying my hair back into a loose ponytail before I cut up more vegetables. “Is that her husband?”
“He's Lyssa's five-year-old. She's a single mother,” Jane informed me, checking the oven. “And relax, Charlie —— the bird's doing well. We probably need two more hours. My mom taught me well. Lizzy, not so much.”
“Screw you. I'm excellent at salads and pasta. You put meat into the equation and it's all gone to pot.”
“To pot,” snorted Charlie. “Aha.”
Jane rolled her eyes, laughing — and Charlie grinned, slinging an arm around her. He pulled her close and planted a kiss on the top of her head, and Jane buried her face into the crook of his neck. After a second, she said, “you smell good.”
“I know,” he murmured back, smiling.
“Way to take a compliment,” she teased, swatting at him. “You know that a thank you could suffice, too.”
I hid a smile, and went back to the pantry to look for some seasoning. Truthfully, leaving home early to get to Charlie's gorgeous upstate home, ridiculously well-furnished and tasteful and chandeliertastic (“Chandelierious?” Jane had suggested) was nothing I was objecting to. We had been working in the kitchen since morning, sleepy in sweats and blaring old KC and the Sunshine Band hits. Aretha Franklin and Louis Armstrong followed. And then Lil' Wayne, because Charlie had a really strange combination of songs on his iPod, and it was tolerated because he's so dang adorable. And Jane liked Let It Rock, before we opted for Vampire Weekend.
“We need to set the table soon,” said Jane, distractedly, glancing at the clock. “I can't wait. Your china is beautiful.” Charlie and I took an opportunity to roll our eyes, and she blushed. “—— It is! It's going to be a gorgeous table. We're going to recreate that scene in the movie House Arrest when all the kids set this grand, fancy table with candlelight, and make toasts.”
“Is that with Jamie Lee Curtis?” Charlie asked, ruffling her hair. “You're so cute.”
About an hour later, Jane had set a beautiful table. I'm talking matching dinner plates (two each!), crystal champagne flutes, and the crème colored, expensively scented, intricate and gauzy tablecloth. The Netherfield house was kind of stocked up like Bed Bath & Beyond and Ikea. Of course, nothing was on the actual table itself yet. The dining room had magnificent lighting though. Stuffing (far from homemade) was prepared. And godawful cranberry sauce that everybody seemed to enjoy. The turkey hadn't exploded yet, and the salad was top-notch — so, overall, things were running smoothly for the time being.
After a little while, I separated from Charlie and Jane (they were getting too cozy for an awkward third wheel to tolerate) and explored the rest of the house. It smelled warm. Woodsy. The thing was that it was absolutely breathtaking without being gaudy. The floor was marble, the walls were a deep wine color, and nearly everything — including the winding staircases — had a dark, mahogany trim. Down the hall from the gourmet kitchen was a library. I shit you not. You can guess where I disappeared for a good hour and a half.
I don't know if Charlie's folks were avid readers. Something told me that the shelves might have been crammed with volumes just for the sake of appearance. When
I finally wedged out a book from an alphabetically organized (I'm not kidding) rack of Mark Twain's works, the spine of Huckleberry Finn crackled like some new hardcover from Borders. So much for getting a lot of use out of this room — most of the books had scarcely been opened. Either way, I found a copy of East of Eden (a favorite) and tried to locate one of my favorite passages.
“Adam's a fool.” This familiar voice managed to scare the shit out of me — I whipped around, and the book dropped. Will Darcy stood before me, smirked a little, and picked up the novel. He handed it back to me and I glared at him.
“Way to sneak up on a girl.”
“Actually, these floorboards creak. You would've easily heard me if you weren't so oblivious,” he informed me, inspecting the shelf I was leaning against. I grumbled under my breath, and backed up a little, watching him. He didn't bother looking back, but, still, I couldn't thumb through the book in peace. I felt antsy with him there.
“Why is Adam a fool?” I asked, hesitantly, rubbing the back of my neck.
Darcy glanced over, rolling the sleeve of his gray button-up neatly. He had made an effort to dress presentably for dinner, and he looked good. I was still in jeans and a thermal, and my hair was tied in a messy knot. I wasn't sure why I felt insecure. Was it the remnants of our argument a month ago? No, that was silly — he had probably forgotten about it. And then Darcy answered my question — “Adam Trask is naive, that's all. I know Charles is supposed to be the aggressive, jealous one — but at least he's got sense enough to be wary of Cathy.”
“It doesn't stop him from jumping into bed with her,” I pointed out, finding the first couple of pages. Steinbeck's dedication was one of my favorites, and I reread it again silently, before Darcy interrupted with a simple explanation for Charles' motives:
“He's a guy.”
I snorted, looking up. “That's obviously a good enough reason. He knows she's the spawn of Satan, but, hey, a man's got to get some. Is that your thought process here?”
“Not mine personally.” He looked at me carefully. “You're getting awfully defensive over a character.”
“Yeah, it tends to happen. —— How was your flight?”
“Annoying,” Darcy responded.
“I'm not surprised,” I said, laughing.
“Why, you don't like flights either?” he asked, smiling slightly. Or maybe it was half of a grimace. It was hard to tell with this man.
“No, I'm not surprised you found it annoying.” I closed the book, slipping it back into place. “You kind of have that habit. With everything.”
“Yeah, but everybody has their thing. Their separate quirk, if you will,” Darcy mumbled, turning to face me, and I was a little surprised he hadn't argued. I walked carefully around him, and found another book I was interested in, not very keen on holding eye contact.
“Quirks exist, I know,” I said, after a while, flipping through a used, crinkled (for once!) copy of The Last of the Mohicans. I looked at Will Darcy from the corner of my eye. “For instance, your quirk is probably this super, tricked out ability to hate everything you see. With an intense passion. Pretty much.”
“Then yours must be to misunderstand everything you see. With an intense passion,” he added, smart-alecky. “Pretty much.”
“Kudos for throwing that back at me — that was cute.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Then it hit me that I was actually having a non-argumentative conversation with Will Darcy. He wasn't even scowling. It was like a cross between contented and smirking, and I didn't like it because I wasn't used to it. Holy awkward moment, Batman. I quickly closed my book and cleared my throat. “I'm going to go and check on the turk—— Jane. The turkey. And then Jane.” I paused. “Wow, I'm literate.”
“My sister's already here, by the way.” Darcy said this in such a cryptic way that I glanced up sharply to see if he was implying something. I don't know why George Wickham instantly sprung to mind. But Darcy looked unaffected — he had simply been sharing. He then told me that my “friend Charlotte is here with some skinny, shorter guy,” who kept sweeping the walls with a hand and rubbing his forefinger and thumb together like Mary Poppins, searching for dust.
“He's a ridiculous little asshole,” I muttered, feeling my stomach curl at the thought of sitting through Thanksgiving dinner with Collins across from me, blowing achy little kisses to Charlotte Lucas, girl-I-refused-to-speak-with, AKA girl-who-was-suffering-from-a-severe-case-of-stupidity.
“I'll steer clear, then,” Darcy muttered, indifferently, not interested anymore. He was already rifling through the leaves of a book intently (Siddhartha) and I found it best to leave. At the very last second, though, I turned on my heel. And I couldn't believe what I asked next. I don't even understand why I did it — I probably like torturing myself. Secretly, I must be really fucked up.
“Say, Darcy, what is it that you do again? Georgy told me and I can't remember.”
Liar, Liar… is a movie with Jim Carrey.
He looked up, surprised at the inquiry. “Um, editing. I took over my father's publishing house after he passed away. It's a small, privately owned one in North Carolina. It isn't like McDougal Littell, or Random House, or anything like that.”
“Do you like it?”
“I hate it,” he said, seething, snapping his book shut. “I don't even handle many manuscripts. If a query letter is good and a manuscript gets requested, it travels up the chains. But most of it is such unoriginal garbage. It seems promising and then it just fails. Not that I'm going to be there for much longer, thank God. I think I'd rather shoot my own foot off first.”
It was funny. I knew that he was trying for once to maybe improve himself. Actually, no — he was probably attempting to make himself sound important while simultaneously broadening the social spectrum by carrying on a decent, civilized conversation with Elizabeth Bennet, a girl he had openly scorned. I would have appreciated the effort if the response didn't anger me so much. But I had asked for it. Maybe I am a masochist. Either way, I barely responded.
“There you are.” Charlotte Lucas poked her pretty little head through the doorway, and I completely forgot that I was angry with her when her eyebrows shot up. It took me a second to understand that she was surprised at who I was in the library with. I cleared my throat, looked back to Darcy, and followed Charlotte out.
“Chummy with Will Darcy now, are we?” Charlotte asked, carefully, smirking a little. I didn't respond, and I got the impression that she was trying too hard, especially when she added, “FDarce doesn't work as well. Maybe Georgy has rightful ownership of that kind of name.”
And because grudges are held partially because of necessity and mostly out of convenience, I didn't answer her. I'm actually that mature. Instead, I turned toward the kitchen and left her just as Collins entered the hallway.
14
—
Well, Shit
Lyssa Hurst was a single mother with pretty great bangs and a charming job working in the beauty department for the UK version of Glamour magazine. For this reason, she often interrupted daily conversations to inform you that loose powder applied before eyeshadow would leave the color more lasting. Or that a short burst of cold water at the end of a shower would close pores and retain moisture. She had a son named Simon who had a ton of messy dark-blonde hair and a strong, palpable devotion to Lightning McQueen. He was also under the impression that Batman could “totally wreck” Superman any day of the week. I wanted to put this child in my pocket and carry him home with me. Lizzy Bennet, future kidnapper. Lock your doors.
“The child's on speed,” Lyssa explained, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Speed meaning juice boxes and cartoons — but the energy never stops. I blame Henry for those genes, before he became a lazy shithead and alcoholic, that is.”
I grinned, delighted. Lyssa also had a tendency to avoid sugarcoating things. She had gotten knocked up nearly six years ago by a childhood friend named Henry Leeds on a bored (and excessi
vely drunken) Saturday night. They had never married. He liked hard liquor — a lot. Ergo, he was held at a distance, sending child support checks. Did I mention this was shared within the first 10 minutes that I met Lyssa Hurst? Yeah, there was no contest between Bingley sisters here (even though Lyssa was Charlie's half-sister).
“Uncle Charlie!” a banshee shriek came, from the kitchen, and I jumped, Lyssa steadying me with a hand on my shoulder, and saying, “relax, darling, that's his indoor voice.”
Charlie — poor Charlie — had the skinny little brat swinging like a primate from his neck. Wincing, he unlatched the boy from his body and set him beside his mother. “Lyssa, you need to invest in a sedative for this boy. I personally have friends who hunt. You could take a set of tranquilizer darts back to England with you.”
“You're an exemplary uncle,” Lyssa snorted, with amusement, running fingers through her son's hair. Simon smiled at me, all deep-brown eyes and dimples.
“Who's this, Mum?” he asked, tugging on his mother's sweater.
“This is Lizzy. You know that girl Jane that you met in the kitchen, Sy?”
Simon's face registered vague comprehension. “You mean the pretty one Uncle Charlie's going to marry?” He whirled around to face his uncle, who, matching the shade of a tomato, avoided eye contact.
“Simon, I'm Lizzy.” I extended a hand, and he shook it enthusiastically, little hand gripping my fingers. He continued shaking 20 seconds longer than what is socially acceptable for adults. Also, a little more violently. And I couldn't help but laugh.
Georgy appeared by my side, casually popping a couple of olives from the table into her mouth. She looked a little sullen for Thanksgiving, but she was brightening up a bit, especially when Simon tackle-hugged her. Kids have that effect.
“I didn't think he would recognize you — it's been two years,” Lyssa remarked, curiously. “Simon, do you actually remember Georgy?”
“No!” the boy screeched, arms locked around the younger Darcy's waist.
