Eligible (39 page)

“It’s like the White House,” Charlotte said, and Darcy said, “In a way, I suppose.”

From the library, they proceeded through the reception room, which was a sort of mini–living room; the drawing room, which was another sort of mini–living room, this one apparently intended for women to retire to when the men enjoyed their post-dinner cigars and brandy; then the dining room, the butler’s pantry, and the kitchen. In the reception room, Darcy had gestured at the doorway, which was framed by columns and a peaked roof, and said to Liz, “All that trim is known as an aedicule—that’s a good word for a writer, huh?”

Who
was
this man, this gracious and genial host sharing his time, demonstrating impeccable manners in a context in which he’d have been justified showing the opposite? And how strange it was that he’d grown up in this ludicrous house; truly, it seemed more like the set of a television show about opulence than a home.

The black marble stairwell they ascended was near the trophy room; from the landing, an orchard was visible. On the second floor, the bedrooms all included fireplaces, and most featured televisions from before the flat-screen era. A poster of Larry Bird still hung on the wall of the room that had been Darcy’s, and a CD player with a slot for a cassette tape rested on the small desk. There was to Liz something unexpectedly poignant about these items, as well as about the navy blue comforter smoothed over the bed (how many years had elapsed since he’d slept in it?) and the framed photo of his soccer team in perhaps fourth or fifth grade. But doubt overtook her, and she wondered if her surge of tenderness toward Darcy was gold digging in disguise. She didn’t consciously yearn to be the mistress of a place like Pemberley, but the wealth it implied was astonishing indeed.

Darcy led them back downstairs and outside. Behind the house, in a fruit and vegetable garden off the kitchen, they sampled one small, ripe tomato each before proceeding through a walled garden; then a sunken garden; then a rose garden; and finally a descending series of terraces, on the lowest of which a reflecting pool shimmered in the midafternoon sun. This wasn’t the swimming pool, Darcy explained, though he led them there next. The swimming pool had been added in the 1940s, and adjacent to it was the guesthouse where Darcy told them he and some of his visitors would sleep during the weekend.

As the tour wound down, Liz wished to say something that conveyed her appreciation for his kindness while leading it, a kindness all the more remarkable in light of their last interaction in Cincinnati. What she said, as the three of them approached Charlotte’s car without reentering the main house, was “Thanks for showing us around.”

Darcy looked at her, and she looked at him, and if not for Charlotte, Liz wondered what sentiments either of them might express. “Of course,” he said. “It’s funny, both of us being out here this weekend.” He stepped forward and kissed Charlotte’s cheek. “My knowledge of the area is dated, but if you need any pointers, be in touch.”

“Will do,” Charlotte said.

“Goodbye, Liz,” Darcy said, and when he leaned in to kiss her cheek, she resisted the impulse to cling to him; in an instant, the kiss was finished.

What was there to do but climb into Charlotte’s car? Liz did so, and as Charlotte started the engine, Liz felt she might cry. On the other side of the window, Darcy’s expression was pensive. As the car pulled away, Liz gave him a small and miserable wave.

“Okay, that was
nuts,
” Charlotte said. “That was totally, completely—”

“Wait, he’s saying something. Stop.” In her side-view mirror, Liz could see Darcy jogging after them from twenty feet back.

Charlotte braked, and Liz opened her window.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier,” Darcy said, and he was only the slightest bit breathless. “You two should come here for dinner tonight. And Willie, too, obviously. Given what a fan of yours my sister is, Liz, she’d be thrilled to meet you.”

“Oh—” Liz turned to Charlotte, then turned back to Darcy. “We’re supposed to have dinner with my aunt and uncle, Willie’s parents. I mean, thank you but—”

“Bring them along. How does six-thirty sound?”

“Six-thirty is great,” Charlotte said.

“Any food restrictions for either of you?” Darcy asked. “Georgie doesn’t eat meat, so we’ll have vegetarian options.”

“No restrictions for me,” Liz said, and Charlotte said, “Me, either. What can we bring?”

“Just yourselves,” Darcy said. “I’ll grill something simple. Liz, if you tell me your number, I’ll text you now, and when you get here tonight, you can text me to open the front gate.”

She recited the digits, and seconds later, her phone buzzed in her pocket. (After all this time, she had Darcy’s cellphone number! She had Darcy’s number and he had hers, and she felt as giddy as if the cutest boy in seventh grade had slipped a note into her locker.)

“I’m glad this will work,” Darcy said.

In a purring tone that made Liz want to slap her friend, Charlotte said, “Darcy, the pleasure is ours.”

SUCH WERE LIZ’S
nerves that when she and Charlotte stopped to buy wine to take to Pemberley that evening, Liz purchased an additional bottle of merlot, which she opened as soon as possible in Charlotte’s kitchen. “It
is
after five in Cincinnati,” Liz said. “And New York.”

“Hey,” Charlotte said. “Go for it.”

“Do you really think he wants to make dinner for a bunch of people, including my aunt and uncle, whom he’s never met, when he has all those guests arriving tomorrow?”

Charlotte grinned. “That man is completely in love with you,” she said. “I’m sure he’d like nothing better.”

Liz took a long swallow from the glass she’d poured. “Join me?”

“Twist my arm,” Charlotte said, and Liz poured a second glass.

The one advantage of the new dinner plan, Liz thought, was that her complicated feelings about spending the evening with Darcy so overshadowed her complicated feelings about seeing Cousin Willie as to make the latter set of emotions negligible; her rejection of Willie was no longer the one that preoccupied her.

Liz and Charlotte carried their wineglasses to the front porch of the modest three-bedroom ranch house that Liz knew, because she’d checked online, had cost Willie $1.1 million in 2010. As they sat on Adirondack chairs, the afternoon sky was cerulean with a smattering of cumulus clouds. Palo Alto seemed in this moment an unaffordable yet truly delightful place to live.

“The problem with your theory of Darcy still being into me,” Liz said, “is that he invited Caroline up for the weekend. And not even with her brother—just by herself.”

“Caroline is odious. There’s no way she can compete with you.”

“Well, they were involved in the past. They’ve definitely slept together.”

“And that distinguishes Caroline from you how?” Charlotte was leering.

“Did you ever notice in Cincinnati that she was all over him? It’s obvious she wants to get back together.” Liz felt too jittery to remain seated, and she stood. “Is it okay if I take a shower?”

“Of course. The towels are on the bed.”

Before entering the house, Liz said, “Sorry for letting this stuff with Darcy hijack my visit. After we get through dinner, we’ll hatch a plan for your life here.”

“Lizzy, nothing could bring me greater happiness than to have you staying at my house, freaking out about a boy.”

THEY CARAVANNED BACK
to Pemberley: Willie and Charlotte in his Prius, Liz riding with Aunt Margo and Uncle Frank. Willie had greeted Liz by saying in an accusatory tone, “Obviously, a lot has changed since I last saw you,” and Liz had replied, with a sincerity that took her by surprise, “I’m so happy for you and Charlotte.”

As she rode from Palo Alto to Atherton, Liz offered Aunt Margo updates from Cincinnati: Mr. Bennet’s health, Jane’s breakup with Chip (Liz provided much less detail than she’d given earlier to Charlotte), Lydia’s new beau. Conveniently, describing Ham was helpful in avoiding discussion of the house in which Aunt Margo had grown up being for sale. Shortly, Uncle Frank was turning onto Pemberley Lane; reaching the gates of the estate, he whistled in appreciation. “This must be some friend you’ve made, Lizzy.”

Hi it’s Liz,
Liz texted Darcy.
We’re here.
A few seconds later, the gates opened.

In front of the main house, Liz spotted Darcy and a slender young woman who tucked her straight light brown hair behind her ears and kept her head slightly ducked, as if avoiding the glare of the sunset, though the house faced north. When the cars were parked and their occupants discharged, all seven of them stood in the gravel driveway while introductions were made and handshakes exchanged. Darcy wore high-quality flip-flops, khaki pants, and a white oxford cloth shirt rolled up to the elbows and plain save for a monogram on the left breast pocket—
FCD V,
it said, and Liz knew from looking online that his middle name was Cornelius.

It was immediately obvious to Liz that Georgie was anorexic. More than a decade in the employ of a women’s magazine had given her an abundance of experience discerning eating disorders, and made her both sympathetic to their challenges and wary of focusing inordinate attention on them; indeed, before the end of her first year at
Mascara,
she’d privately vowed to cease all conversation about food or exercise with her co-workers, lest she become as obsessive as some of them. She had, of course, broken the vow many times, but she still credited it with helping her retain perspective.

A few inches shorter than Liz, Georgie couldn’t have topped a hundred pounds; and though she wore a loose linen shirt along with jeans and flats, the line of her jaw and the prominence of her teeth were clues to her extreme thinness. She seemed far more fragile than Liz had anticipated; Kitty and Lydia were downright husky by comparison.

“We’ll eat at the guesthouse.” Looking among Uncle Frank, Aunt Margo, and Willie, Darcy added, “I’ve already subjected Liz and Charlotte to a tour of the main house today, so I’m inclined to spare the rest of you.”

Aunt Margo, Liz observed, met this news with disappointment that she quickly concealed, though neither Willie nor Uncle Frank seemed to care. As they all walked past the east wing of the house, Darcy said, “You’ll see that the pool is next to the guesthouse, but I have to apologize for not offering you the chance to swim. We haven’t opened it in a few years.”

Uncle Frank snapped his fingers, as if let down. “And here I’d stashed a Speedo in my glove compartment, just in case.”

Everyone chuckled politely at this appetite-spoiling image, and Liz found herself falling into step beside Georgie. “Thank you for having us over on such short notice,” Liz said. “I hope you weren’t alarmed when your brother said five strangers would be joining you for dinner.”

“Oh, the opposite,” Georgie said. “Fitzy’s talked about you so much, and I think he told you I’m a big
Mascara
reader.” Quickly, Georgie added, “At the risk of sounding like a dorky fangirl.”

“Ah, but I love dorky fangirls,” Liz said. “So Darcy—or I guess you just called him Fitzy—he said you’re a graduate student?”

Georgie nodded. “I’m in the middle of my dissertation, which will probably be read by about eight people total, if I ever manage to finish it. I have to ask you this, even though I’m sure everyone does—do you think Hudson Blaise cheated on Jillian Northcutt?”

Forsaking her usual guardedness on the topic, Liz said, “Of course he did!”

“Have you ever interviewed him?” Georgie asked.

Liz shook her head. “Although the word on the street is that he’s not big on bathing and smells kind of funky.”

Georgie giggled. “Was Jillian nice?”

“She was nice enough. I think it was such a weird time in her life, and, obviously, she was talking about the breakup not because she wanted to but because she had a movie to promote. I felt bad for her, actually. What’s your dissertation about?”

“Early-twentieth-century French suffragettes and taxation. Fascinating, huh?”

“Georgie, have you seen the corkscrew?” Darcy called from a few yards ahead. They had reached the guesthouse, and he stood by a two-tiered cart that held an array of wine bottles, glasses, and napkins.