Eligible (14 page)

Liz had just hit Send when her mother entered the room. Mrs. Bennet glanced around, as if for spies, before whispering, “Is Lydia dating a bodybuilder?”

Uncertainly, Liz said, “Do you mean that guy Ham?”

Mrs. Bennet appeared distressed. “Gyms can be very dirty places. There are lots of germs on the equipment.”

“Kitty and Lydia seem pretty healthy to me.”

Mrs. Bennet took a step forward. “Can you find the bodybuilder on the computer?”

Liz looked at her watch. “I’m leaving in a minute to take Willie on his tour.”

“Just quickly,” Mrs. Bennet said. “It won’t take long.”

Liz sighed and pulled up the same webpage with the photo of Ham she’d found before. Her mother bent toward the screen.

“Oh, he’s very handsome.” Mrs. Bennet sounded surprised and pleased. “And look, he
did
go to college.”

So that had been the source of concern. “How do you even know about him?” Liz asked.

“I just heard some talk. Oh, dear.” Mrs. Bennet was again reading from the computer screen. “Does ROTC mean his family couldn’t afford tuition?”

“Either way, CrossFit is very popular,” Liz said. “I bet he’s financially stable now.”

“I hope he doesn’t take steroids. They shrink the testes, you know.”

Trying to ignore the unappealing sound of her mother using the word
testes,
Liz said, “I don’t think steroids are a CrossFit thing.”

“Your friend Jasper,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Is he married or not married?”

Liz tensed. Had she been lured into a trap with this talk of gym germs and Ham’s testicles? Looking straight ahead, not at her mother, Liz said, “He’s married.”

“I was trying to remember,” Mrs. Bennet said, and Liz thought,
Yeah, right.

She put her computer to sleep and closed it. “Want to come on the tour with Willie and me?”

“Oh, I’d just be a third wheel,” Mrs. Bennet said confidently. “I’m sure the two of you have loads to catch up on.”

IT WAS COUSIN
Willie who kept Liz waiting; still apparently on Pacific time, he had slept in, and at noon, their agreed-upon hour of departure, he was in the shower.

Even though it was hot, Liz went outside, sat on the Tudor’s front steps, and pulled out her smartphone; checking it only worsened her mood as she saw an email from Kathy de Bourgh’s publicist saying that Kathy de Bourgh would be available for the next ten minutes. Which wasn’t completely impossible to take advantage of, though Liz would have preferred that it were—she wished she hadn’t known about the publicist’s message until it was too late. Because although she
could
dash upstairs, turn on her digital recorder, and ask earnest questions while hoping Kathy de Bourgh couldn’t hear her panting, Liz didn’t, in this moment, possess the will. She didn’t feel like a grown-up professional journalist; sitting in the heat in a T-shirt, not-so-stylish shorts, and flip-flops, waiting for her dorky cousin, she felt instead like a sweaty, grumpy teenager.
So sorry but about to enter a meeting,
she typed on her phone to the publicist.
VERY disappointed and really appreciative that Ms. de Bourgh has made time for our conversation. Any way to reschedule for late this afternoon?

Churlish as her mood was, Liz recognized that Cousin Willie was not at fault, and once he was in the passenger seat of her father’s Cadillac, she made an effort to sound chipper. “I thought we’d start by going to the riverfront,” she said. “It’s kind of nice to walk along Bicentennial Commons, even though it’s sweltering. And then we can go to the Freedom Center, and after that a late lunch at Skyline Chili.”

“Great,” Willie said. “I always enjoy spending time with you, Lizzy.”

“Remind me what you’re working on now,” Liz said, and after that, little more was required of her because Willie proceeded to deliver a monologue that took them all the way to their destination: He spoke of load balancing, scaling strategy, CPU usage, SSL certificates, and maintenance windows, or lack thereof. Finally, as they were pulling into the parking lot off Pete Rose Way, Liz interrupted and said, “So tell me about the coolest women in Silicon Valley that I’ve never heard of.”

Willie seemed confused. “Cool how?”

“The movers and shakers,” Liz said. “The up-and-comers. Who’ll be a household name two years from now?”

“If you’re trying to write an affirmative action piece about female entrepreneurs, you have a better chance of finding a field full of four-leaf clovers.”

Slightly taken aback, Liz said, “Well, who’s the next Nancy Nelson?” Nelson was the CEO of one of the world’s largest software companies.

“My point exactly,” Willie said. “She was hired for that job two years after the IPO. She’s a suit, not a visionary.”

“I realize she isn’t a coder, but she has an impressive track record.” Then, to change the subject, Liz said, “Have you been seeing a stylist?”

She’d meant it as a factual inquiry, but Willie seemed pleased. “A woman at Nordstrom named Yvette has been helping me. It means a lot that you noticed, Lizzy, with where you work.”

“Well, I’m not in the fashion department. But you’re welcome.”

After a brief silence, Willie said, “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you? I’m assuming I’d have heard about it if you did.”

Liz hesitated before saying, “Not exactly.”

“Do you want children?” It was strange but not offensive—certainly less offensive than his remark about female entrepreneurs—to be asked so straightforwardly. With her family, such questions were usually alluded to rather than openly discussed. Somehow the fact that all five sisters were unmarried made them a phenomenon, an amusing or appalling one, depending on your perspective, though in either case there was rarely recognition of each woman’s individuality.

Yet still Liz knew better than to answer honestly. She said, “I’m not sure. Do you?”

“Of course,” Willie said. “And, Liz, you’d be a great mom. For someone like you, with your quality of genes, not to have kids would be a real waste.” Clearly, he believed himself to be complimenting her.

“Are
you
seeing anyone?” she asked.

“Frankly, a lot of the women I meet are gold diggers. I recently thought I was taking a girl out for dinner, and it turns out she was a lady of the night.” Willie hadn’t relayed the information in a humorous tone, so Liz tried not to laugh.

She said, “How’d you figure it out?”

“She eventually mentioned a fee.”

Liz pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, which didn’t adequately conceal a snort. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m not—you must have been horrified. But how did—did she say, ‘Okay, now you have to pay me’?”

“We’d gone out for dinner, and I thought we were having a good time. I asked if she’d like to have a glass of wine at my house, and she said, ‘Okay, for a thousand bucks.’ ”

“Jesus. I’m in the wrong line of work.”

Liz had parked, and they climbed from the car and followed the path toward the river.

“There was no penetration,” Willie said. “Just a BJ. I hope that doesn’t make you think less of me, Lizzy.”

They were walking side by side, which Liz hoped meant Willie didn’t see the revulsion that passed over her face. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d accepted the prostitute’s offer in any capacity. But Liz couldn’t deny that she had helped lead them to this point in the conversation. She said, “I’m sure there are lots of women who’d love to date you free of charge.”

“Liz.” He touched her elbow. “Paying for sex—I had never done anything like that. But I just—I’m not very experienced. I’m not still a virgin, but I was till I was twenty-three.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation. Seriously.”

“Please don’t mention this to Margo.”

“Of course not,” Liz said. “Let’s never speak of it again.”

THE OAKLEY SKYLINE
Chili wasn’t the closest one to the Freedom Center, but it was Liz’s favorite, the location the Bennets had frequented during her childhood, long before she’d realized the famous combination of spaghetti, cinnamon-and-cocoa-infused ground beef, shredded cheddar cheese, and crumbled oyster crackers was actually fast food. It was after two o’clock and the restaurant was mostly empty when Liz and Willie entered. Right away, Liz noticed him: Sitting at the counter, apparently alone, was Fitzwilliam Darcy. He wore a navy polo shirt and seemed to be eating a three-way, so named for its noodles, chili, and cheese; a four-way would include either beans or raw onions as a topping, and a five-way would include both.

She pretended not to see him. Willie ordered two cheese coneys and Liz a four-way with beans, and as Willie commenced a lengthy analysis of Bitcoin, Liz was grateful to remember that among Skyline’s attractions was the efficiency of its service; no more than five minutes had passed when the waitress delivered their loaded-up oval plates.

“Admittedly, the client isn’t where it needs to be vis-à-vis user-interface,” Willie was saying as Liz crushed oyster crackers and sprinkled the crumbs over her chili. “But it’s not that far away. Why are you doing that?”

“You just do. It’s part of Skyline.”

“Is it mandatory?”

“Yes, and the chili police will arrest you if you fail to comply.” Willie looked confused, and Liz said, “I’m teasing, Willie. Do whatever you want.”

He took an individual cracker and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Go like this.” Liz scooped up a handful, smashed them in her fist, and dropped the cracker dust onto his chili. “Don’t overthink it.”

“I had no idea that you offer private tutorials,” a voice said, and Liz knew without looking up, though she did look, that it was Darcy.

Gesturing across the table, Liz said, “My cousin Willie is in from out of town.”

“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Darcy said, and extended his hand.

Willie stood and, as they shook, said, “Will Collins.”

Semi-sarcastically, Liz asked Darcy, “Are you a regular here?”

“I try not to come more than once a week.” He patted his abdominal region, which was flat. “Everything in moderation.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you for a Skyline fan,” Liz said. “We have to make sure visitors try it, but usually people who didn’t grow up in Cincinnati don’t like it.”

Darcy’s expression was haughty. “I believe we’ve established that there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Nodding once at Willie, Darcy said, “Enjoy.” A moment later, he was gone.

ON MOST NIGHTS
after dinner, Mrs. Bennet and varying combinations of her daughters gathered in the den behind the first-floor staircase to watch television. On this particular night, the family matriarch was joined by Liz, Mary, and also Aunt Margo; Jane had gone to Chip’s apartment, and Kitty and Lydia were at a birthday party for one of the members of their gym. (The cake—Liz had not been able to resist asking—would be made with almond flour and coconut oil frosting.)

Just as some people enjoy knitting in front of the television, Mrs. Bennet was fond of perusing housewares catalogs; indeed, the sound of pages turning, that quick flap when no item caught her eye and the pauses when something did, the occasional businesslike lick of the index finger, was one of the essential sounds of Liz’s childhood. This habit was also, apparently, what allowed Mrs. Bennet to maintain a belief that she had not actually “watched” a wide variety of shows even though she had been in the room for the duration of entire episodes and, in some cases, entire seasons.