by Ari Rhoge
Our waitress scribbled her name on the tablecloth, and asked if she could start us off with something. I opened my mouth, and Catherine's voice rang out, sharp and bell-clear:
“I don't suppose you have tea.”
“We do, ma'am. What kind would you like?”
“I don't care. Just make sure to include two packets of Splenda.”
I raised an eyebrow. Reer. “I'll have a coffee, please.”
“Decaf?”
“Regular.”
The waitress smiled and nodded, turning on her heel. Catherine's over-plucked eyebrows rose, her lips settling into a grim line. “And you think it's practical to have caffeine so late in the day?”
“Why not? I could use some perkiness. Especially given the direction this conversation's going to be headed in,” I said, leaning back in my seat.
“I haven't even raised the issue yet, Elizabeth.”
I rolled my eyes. “With all due respect, Mrs. de Bourgh, I didn't come here to chat it up. We both don't like each other too much.”
“Very well.” Catherine cleared her throat, fixing me with a cold stare. “You're a bright girl. Obviously, you understand why I'm here.”
Chyah.
“Obviously, I don't.”
She laughed, even though it wasn't really amusing to either of us. Convenience laughter. Painful.
“Funny. You're pretending to be ignorant about a rumor you started. Of course, I was aware of the fact that you had no class, but it seems to me that you're ever-sinking, Elizabeth. Playing dumb isn't a good look for you.”
“Oh, ouch.” I laid a hand against my chest. “Right in the heart — what a zinger. Don't worry. I'll get over it.” My fist tightened. I wondered if Italian restaurants could blacklist you for right-hooking an old woman. Whatever. Maybe the collagen injections would soften the blow.
She narrowed her eyes. “Enough of this. My nephew, Elizabeth. The rumor concerns my nephew. It has been revealed through a trusted source that you and William… you and William are seeing each other.”
I looked up, and opened my mouth.
“Of course,” Catherine continued. “I know this is impossible. What could he ever see in you? I was kind enough to give you the benefit of the doubt at Rosings, but it wasn't before long that I was able to write you off. And Will has similar, levelheaded judgment of character. After all, his mother and I are sisters. It's a family trait.”
The waitress dropped off the coffee and the tea, and I stirred my cup quietly, controlling my voice. “That's funny,” I said, setting my spoon aside. “Will's sister told me that their mother abandoned them at an early age, moved to California, started a new family and induced her ex-husband's heart attack. You must be a real gem, too.”
Catherine clenched her jaw and leaned in close. “Don't you dare talk about my sister like that. I don't condone her behavior, however —”
“Save your breath. Altoids would be nice too.”
“Elizabeth Bennet —”
“You know what?” I mumbled, digging through my purse for a tip. “I don't have to put up with this shit. Enjoy your nonexistent dinner.” I got up to leave, and she clamped a hand around my wrist, her blue eyes wide and angry.
“Are you or are you not involved with Will?”
“Why is that your business?”
“I'm practically his mother… I reserve a right to know who is in his life and who — preferably — isn't.” She rose, nostrils flaring. “Answer me.”
“If you came all this way, it had to be to confirm this so-called rumor.”
She balked at me, and I watched as worry lines sprouted at the corners of her eyes. “Are you confirming it?”
I hesitated, and moved my wrist, and her hand fell limply. Dean Martin was playing, and our entire wing of the restaurant was empty. And my throat felt dry when all I could do was murmur, “no, I'm not.”
Catherine's shoulders relaxed with visible relief. She straightened, and regained her composure, collecting her purse. “Obviously, I need your word that you will never become involved with him in the future. I know your type. Men are often deluded by the illusion of a supposedly “free spirited girl”. They don't immediately fall for the straight-laced, sensible ones. You must promise me —”
“Absolutely not.”
“Excuse me?”
“You're insane. Like, certifiably. Psychiatric ward, Girl Interrupted insane.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Lady, you have a severely skewered sense of what would make your nephews happy.”
Catherine laughed. “You actually think you could make him happy?”
“You know what? I don't know,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I do know that I'm done here. Good night.”
I stopped, and turned back. Catherine was staring at me, absolutely livid.
“By the way,” I said. “Send my regards back to your 'trusted source' — please tell Carolyn Bingley that she can go fuck herself. Thanks so much.” I turned on my heel, and made for the door.
• • •
“Any particular reason for stabbing your chicken there, Lizzy?”
“I'm just making sure it's tender.”
“If it was any more tender, it would be chicken broth.”
I set my fork down, and looked at Dad across from the dinner table. He was smirking at me, fingers steepled. Mom was flitting about the kitchen, searching through cabinets for salt. Nobody was really home. Jane had conveniently slipped out of dinner plans (of course, any mention of her reunion with Charlie had Mom singing in a throaty soprano). Lydia was out, and Kit had followed. Friday nights will be Friday nights.
It was a pretty crappy Friday night, though, not just from my perspective — it had been raining all evening. I could hear torrents of it slashing against the house.
Marin raised her eyebrows at me. “Tough day?”
“You could say that.”
“Guy issues?” she asked, haphazardly, and I looked up before I could tell myself not to.
“No.”
“Lizzy, I didn't know you could blush,” Dad teased, his eyes skeptical.
“I'm not blushing,” I replied, hotly.
Marin snickered. “Dare you to stop attacking your dinner.”
I couldn't. I was picturing Catherine de Bourgh's face. That meeting had left me with nothing but an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. Oh, and anger — that was pretty palpable.
Mom set a platter of vegetables beside me, tucking a strand of my hair back. “You okay, hon? You look out of it.”
“I can't get a word out of her, Faith. —— Good luck to you,” Dad acknowledged.
“Wow, does nobody else experience less-than-perfect days?” I asked. “You want to stop attacking me? It's not a big deal.”
“Nobody's attacking you, Lizzy.”
“That's not what I meant,” I murmured. I shoved away from the table, and sighed, leaving my plate by the counter. “Sorry if I'm being really bratty. It's not personal — I swear. Can I go upstairs?”
“You're asking us if you can go upstairs?” Dad asked, dryly. “Really?”
I smiled a little, grateful for the jab. “I know my room is Lydia's, now. Think she'll mind if I take a nap?”
“I see how it is,” Marin said, smugly. “Choosing her bed over mine. So, okay, mine's a full size and hers is a queen, but I've got the tricked-out comforter.”
“Jeez, fine, Marin. I'll use yours.”
“Don't use mine… that's my personal space.”
Dad snorted, and Mom rolled her eyes. Sometimes I didn't miss living at home at all. I shook my head, and gathered my bags, leaving the room. Upstairs, in my old room, walls plastered with magazine snippets and crappy, ill-suited posters, I felt really small again. I remembered having bunk beds in this room with Jane, of reaching down from the top bunk, for her hand, to see if she was sleeping.
Of course, the walls were light-green at the time. Lydia favored purple.
I sat on top of the bed, and rested my back
against the wall, digging through my bag. I pulled out my purple notebook from my tote, creased at the corners. I hadn't looked at it in months and I suddenly felt compelled to. I had tossed it aside since Rosings.
I rifled through the pages, then froze. In the margins were tiny footnotes, scribbled in blue ink, in foreign handwriting. Not girly handwriting — Will's handwriting. He wrote a key out in the header. A star meant (according to him) that the quote was “pretty beastly,”— this made me snort — and a dot meant “this is too deep for me.” And an exclamation point meant, quite blatantly, “damn, I wish I wrote this first.” I grinned, pressing my hand against my mouth.
He had starred most of Emerson's. Nixed all the proverbs. He seemed to have a thing for Margaret Atwood, though. Also, Woody Allen, which got a star and an exclamation point — “I was nauseous and tingly all over. I was either in love or I had smallpox.”
I laughed, shocked, and flipped to the last page. At the bottom, there was a small block of his writing, not very neat, and too loopy. He had written it quickly. I couldn't even remember any time where I had left the notebook out. I leaned in close:
I wish I had an inspirational quote to pull out of thin air or something, just so you could write it down here. I actually want to feel that special. Ridiculous, right? It's a good collection, though, Lizzy. Maybe I should start a collection. My dad used to collect plates from different countries. I can't pull that off. Anyway. Maybe I should have written this in pencil…
You're inside, changing. I'm scared shitless. I came here to see you. To be with you. I guess I'm writing it off as moral support for Charlie just in case you get freaked out. Because, let's face it, you could get freaked out. But just in case you've been doubting it, I gotta say something.
I love you.
Just thought I'd let you know.
Oh. By the way, it's Will.
I smiled, took in a breath, let it out. I had my fist pressed against my mouth.
And because life is either extremely dull or extremely bizarre, two minutes passed before Marin hollered for me downstairs and announced that there was some guy asking for me out on our stoop and how she wanted to let him in because it was raining and all, but also voiced her fear on how many rapists and criminals tend to lurk in unassuming suburban neighborhoods as well as urban areas. I hadn't even heard the doorbell.
I shot up, and raced downstairs, heart in my throat. Dad was on his way to the door to scope out the commotion, but I leaped ahead of him, wrenching the door open, eyes wide.
I know, I know. It would be a severe letdown if it was somebody really insignificant. Man, can you just imagine? What if it was Collins, of all people? Or even George Wickham? Or a neighbor? Grim.
Nope. It was Will.
Will, who had stupidly boycotted all umbrellas at this time. His hair was matted down and his jacket collar was up, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He was shivering. Will smiled at me hesitantly, almost apologetically. I stared at him, and he opened his mouth. “I hate to be rude, but, um, Lizzy? Can I come in before I freeze to death?”
Marin lurked at the door skeptically. “Who's this again?”
“God, you're dumb,” I muttered, yanking him in by the sleeve. He stomped his shoes on the rug, and sniffed. “At least keep a spare umbrella in your trunk before driving the two hours over here from Philly.”
“You've worked out that much,” Will said, smiling crookedly. He stiffened, then, at the realization that he was being watched by three members of my family he had never met before. Mom poked her head out the kitchen doorway and Dad was all wary confusion.
“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “Mom, Dad, Marin —— this is Will Darcy. I don't think you've ever met. But, um, yeah. He helped with Dad.”
There was a high-pitched squeal, then a shuffling of feet, before Mom clasped Will Darcy's hands and began praising him in a kind of babbling whose frequency can be heard only by dogs. And Will — poor Will — out of sheer mortification, disappeared into a cocoon of monosyllabic answers and pained expressions. Only I understood it a lot more this time around.
Dad seemed humbled. Skeptical, sure, but grateful. He wouldn't stop watching my reaction either. I blushed.
“Please don't thank me,” Will muttered, wincing. “Seriously.”
“Oh, Will —— I can call you Will, right?” Mom chirped, and he flinched when she took hold of his lapels and made him shrug out of his jacket. “You must have dinner with us. I hope you like salmon. —— Oh, you're drenched! Lizzy, get him a towel.”
“She doesn't have to do that —— You don't have to —— I'm fine —”
“On it,” I said, turning for the stairs.
“Actually, go on up with her — she'll show you the blow-dryer. I would hate for anybody to get sick under my roof,” Mom sighed, sick with worry all of a sudden. “I'll go make some tea. Or do you prefer coffee?”
“I'm fine.”
“Coffee, then. Lizzy, go.”
“This way,” I said, laughing, taking Will's hand. He followed me, bewildered, up the steps. I led him into the bathroom between Marin's room and the twins', and dug through the closet as he lingered in the doorway. I felt him watching me.
“Here you go.” I set a stack of towels at the edge of the sink. “When you're done, you can just, y'know, sling them over the rack. Blow-dryer's in this drawer.” He stared at me and opened his mouth, and I said, “here, I'll get it for you.”
I snatched it from below the sink, and unwound it, plugging it into the wall. “Um.”
He cleared his throat, and took a towel tentatively, staring at it.
“Sorry,” Will muttered, voice deep and disoriented. “I'm kind of out of it, somewhere between the rain and your parents' interrogation. —— I'm sure they're lovely people, though.”
“Yeah, that would probably explain why you've forgotten how to use a towel,” I smiled, patting the edge of the counter. “Sit here.”
And he did.
“Sorry about my parents,” I murmured, slinging a towel over his neck. “I know they come on strong. Well, my mom does, anyway. My dad's more like the strong-and-silent type. Very dry. And Marin you barely met. The twins aren't even home. And you know about Jane, of course.”
Will stared at me, his mouth quirked upward in amusement. He knew and I knew that I was babbling. I cleared my throat, and looked down, towel drying his hair a little too roughly. He winced, and pulled away. “Easy, easy. I can do it. Thanks.”
“Good.” Because this is extremely awkward.
It felt weird to be this close to him. Which was a little ridiculous given the fact that I had kissed him the other night. But, still, this was my parents' house. Things were clumsy, and strangely intimate. I crossed my arms over my chest, and looked down, straightening the shag rug with my foot.
“So,” I started. “How'd you track me down?”
“Well, you happen to have this sister who has several important things about you on file. I happened to call this sister and get your address. I guess I'm bordering on stalking, now.”
“It's not stalking if I let you in.”
“Yeah, there's that,” Will answered, sheepishly. He looked up at me, rubbing his head with the towel. I laughed. His hair was ruffled and damp, sticking up at the ends, except for the strands that fell into his eyes.
I brushed them back, and took the towel from him. “You look a little ridiculous.”
“It's secretly a turn on, though — right?”
“Not really.” I smiled.
“Figures.”
Will watched me intently as I smoothed his hair back, fighting off embarrassment. Then he smirked, astounded. “Look at that… you can't even look at me.”
“I'm looking at you,” I corrected, miffed.
“You're looking past me.”
“Will —”
“You're not even going to ask me why I'm here, are you?” he asked, patiently, folding his hands in his lap. Smug again. Only it was more endearing than irr
itating, this time around. “Too proud, Lizzy? Or is this just embarrassment?”
“I'm not embarrassed.”
“Right. Your cheeks are just naturally bright-red.”
I laughed, and rolled my eyes, placing my palms against my cheeks. “I already know why you're here,” I murmured, quietly. “So, scooch over.”
Will shifted over and made room for me, and I hopped up on the counter, legs dangling freely. I looked over at him, and all traces of teasing and humor were gone. His blue eyes were serious, his body angled toward mine with full attention. It was almost criminal how rain could make men look dashing and rugged, and transform women into makeup-splattered train wrecks. Maybe this is just one of life's small cruelties.
“So,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know that you met with my aunt. She called me this evening. Well, actually, she called Georgy, who relayed it all back to me.” Will looked up, gauging my reaction.
I didn't say anything.
“Lizzy,” he murmured, taking my hand. “I'm really sorry. You have no idea. Catherine just represents a side of my family that I'm not proud of. And we can't choose what name we're born into.”
“No.” I nodded, looking up. “I know that. Believe me. You don't have to apologize — I didn't really think that she was speaking for you.”
“I just wish I could do something… I was so angry.”
“Like you haven't done enough for my family,” I smiled, taking my hand back. “Seriously, Will. I feel like you need a coat of armor, now.”
This didn't run that well with him. In fact, he looked mildly insulted.
“Lizzy.” Will pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “God, you make it sound like… just stop that. It's not even that big of a deal, and when you play it up like it is… just don't, okay?”
“Okay,” I murmured.
“Besides,” Will sighed, his hands falling into his lap. “My motives were kind of selfish. I know it directly helped your family… but, still — I wanted you to be happy. I wanted to be the one to make you happy.”
He cupped my chin in his hand, and made me look up at him, his knuckles brushing against my cheek, eyes searching my face.
I hopped from the counter, and stood in front of where he sat. I still had to look up at him as I spoke. “I, um —— I found my notebook, today. You know, the one that you stole for five minutes and wrote a message in.”
