IN CHARLOTTE’S CAR on El Camino Real, returning to Pemberley the following afternoon, Liz pulled down the sun visor and looked at herself in the mirror, which was something she’d already spent a not inconsiderable amount of time doing at Charlotte and Willie’s house, where she’d carefully applied foundation, mascara, and lipstick. In the car, she said, “Is it weird we’re going?”
“Liz, the ST between you and Darcy is threatening to engulf Northern California in a fiery ball. It’s your duty to save us all by having sex.”
“I’m glad this is providing you with so much entertainment.” Liz pulled her lipstick from her purse, applied a fresh coat—one of the many tips she had learned during her years at Mascara was to begin at the center of her lips and move toward the corners—then rubbed her lips together. “For real, though, I hope Caroline doesn’t think we crashed the party.”
“Who cares what Caroline thinks?”
Liz slid the cover across the sun visor mirror and folded the visor back into place. “True. Did you wear earplugs again last night?”
“It was like an angel rocked me to sleep. Thank you for suggesting it.” Charlotte turned off El Camino Real and said in a more serious tone, “I know Willie isn’t dashing like Darcy. But I think he loves me, and I want to make it work.”
“I’m sure he loves you.”
“It’s weird,” Charlotte said, “because if your dad hadn’t had a heart attack, you and Jane wouldn’t have come back to Cincinnati this summer, and if you hadn’t come back to Cincinnati, Willie wouldn’t have visited with Margo, and I’d never have met him. Sometimes it amazes me how much these defining parts of our lives hinge on chance.”
“I know. I think about that all the time.”
They both were quiet, and the fence of Pemberley came into view. “Are you on the Pill?” Charlotte asked. “Because we can turn around and go buy a condom.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Liz said.
“WHAT A COINCIDENCE that you happen to be in town the same weekend Darcy is here,” Caroline said to Liz by way of greeting. They stood on the lawn near the covered pool, where the croquet equipment had already been set out: the wickets inserted into the grass, the mallets and balls waiting in tidy rows. Along one side of the pool, a buffet lunch still looked vibrant, despite the fact that it was midafternoon: various sandwiches and salads, enormous cookies, lemonade, iced tea, beer, and white wine. Surveying the scene, Liz had the somewhat troubling thought that she was starting to understand Darcy’s unfavorable view of Cincinnati; it would be difficult for any place to compete with these lush gardens, blue skies, and magnificent spreads of food.
“I’m visiting Charlotte,” Liz said to Caroline. “You may have heard that she’s dating my cousin Willie.”
“I guess beauty really is in the eye of the beholder,” Caroline said.
Liz was fairly sure Charlotte didn’t overhear the insult, because she was being introduced to the half dozen other guests, but the remark seemed too rude to simply let stand. “Is it my cousin or my oldest friend that you’re implying is ugly?” Liz asked.
Caroline shrugged. “Take your pick. When two people like that get together, I never know if I should be happy for them or just pray they don’t reproduce.”
You’re awful, Liz thought. You’re even worse than I remember.
“Speaking of which,” Caroline said, “has Jane reached the swollen-ankles-and-stretch-marks stage yet?”
Liz smiled as warmly as she could manage. “You know how some pregnant women just give off a glow the whole time? Jane’s been blessed.” Before Caroline could respond, Liz added, “I hear Chip’s still shooting the Eligible reunion. Is Holly the alligator wrestler part of it? Or it’s Gabrielle who has the Celtic cross tattoo on her tongue, right? It always seemed like she and Chip had a lot of chemistry.” Liz beamed at Caroline. “Either one would be so fun for you to have as a sister-in-law.”
UPON THEIR ARRIVAL, Charlotte and Liz had been welcomed by Darcy in a gracious but not especially fraught way (Liz was almost disappointed by how not fraught) and introduced to the other guests, all of whose names Liz promptly forgot: an anesthesiologist and his lawyer wife, a seemingly single male radiologist, a nephrologist (male) married to an architect (also male), plus two Stanford history PhDs, both slender young men whom Liz suspected, based on their posture and inflections around Darcy’s sister, to be in love with Georgie.
Though Liz’s initial interactions with Darcy were subdued and matter-of-fact, as the afternoon progressed and the croquet began—they were playing two separate games simultaneously, both of them the so-called cutthroat version, in which it was everyone for him- or herself, rather than teams—Liz felt there to be an ever-increasing charge between herself and her host. She was at all times acutely conscious of how far he stood from her, of his absence if he stepped away—to bring out additional bottles of wine from the guesthouse, say, or to greet the final arrival, a dermatologist, at the front gate—and whom he was talking with. Periodically, it was she who was speaking to him, always in an undramatic fashion. They weren’t playing in the same game, but the two courts had been set up on adjacent stretches of grass, and they were sometimes near each other; they’d comment on a shot someone had taken or on the pleasantness of the weather, and while such topics felt faintly ridiculous, so, presumably, would anything else.
When Liz knocked her ball out of bounds, Darcy materialized as she was placing it the prescribed distance from the boundary. “I always have this fantasy of discovering some new skill,” she said. “But apparently it’s not croquet.”
Darcy squinted. “Are you wearing makeup?”
Instinctively, Liz brought a hand to one cheek. “Does it look weird?”
“I guess I’m not used to you in it,” Darcy said, and, more defensively than she meant to, Liz said, “It is something women often put on their faces.”
Without speaking, Darcy patted her right shoulder, as if comforting her; instead, the contact was unsettling, but in a good way.
Eventually, Alberta drove up in a golf cart to clear away the used plates and utensils. Liz had by that point consumed two and a half glasses of wine, three bites of a turkey sandwich, and half a cookie; she was too nervous to eat more. It was Darcy who’d won the first game, and Charlotte the second. Caroline said to Liz, “I take it you’re not much of an athlete.”
Though Liz had mocked her own croquet skills with Darcy, she couldn’t permit such a slight from Caroline. “Well, I run twenty-five miles a week,” she said. “And for my job I’ve tried pretty much every fitness trend out there. But I suppose I’m not athletic besides that.”
The two women looked at each other with barely disguised antipathy, and Caroline said, “You leave town tomorrow, right?”
“Is my presence thwarting plans that you had?”
Caroline took a step closer to Liz and lowered her voice. “Just so you know, I see right through you. Your whole laid-back vibe—I can tell it’s bullshit.”
“Coming from you, I think that might be a compliment.”
As Liz finished her third glass of wine, impatience, regret, and tipsiness collected within her. Oh, to get a do-over for that braless, unprepared morning at her sisters’ apartment! To be granted just one more run up Madison Road with Darcy, only the two of them and no one else, and then to decamp for his apartment, this time with the awareness that he didn’t see the encounter as purely transactional—to know that he liked her! But did he still like her, here, today? How long did the sex hormones to which he’d attributed his love linger in the bloodstream?
A short while later, Liz heard herself telling Georgie, as one of Georgie’s suitors listened in, “Your brother mentioned that you guys might sell or donate this property at some point. And I hope this isn’t too forward, but I want to tell you about something my older sister did. My parents are selling the house they’ve lived in for a long time, so my sister, who’s a yoga instructor, held, like, a ritual farewell where she talked abo
ut some of the things we’d done at the house and what she’d miss. And even though I was skeptical, I think it’s helped me. Oh, and it only took five minutes.”
Georgie looked both interested and confused. She said, “Did someone come and do it for you, or did she do it herself?”
“No, she did it. I can ask if she was following a script or just winging it.”
“If you want to learn about moving superstitions, you should talk to my Chinese grandma,” Georgie’s suitor said. He was still talking when suddenly Darcy was beside Liz; he touched her arm just above the elbow, and again, she felt she might swoon. Instead, in an impossibly normal voice, she said, “Hi.”
As Georgie and her suitor continued their conversation, Darcy said, “I wonder if you’re free to get breakfast tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Liz said. “Sure.”
“It would have to be early, because there’s a group hike planned. Of course, you and Charlotte are welcome to join that, too.”
Aware that her friend would probably contradict the statement, Liz said, “I need to give Charlotte some undivided attention, since she’s the reason I’m in California, but breakfast sounds great.”
“Is eight A.M. uncivilized?”
“It’s perfect.”
“If you text me Charlotte’s address, I’ll pick you up.”
So he felt it, too. Or he felt, at least, something. He wanted to be alone with her, even if, judging from his calmness, he didn’t want it as much as she wanted to be alone with him. She yearned to fling her body against his, to smash her face into his shirt, kiss his neck and face, and take him away to where she didn’t have to share him.
Blandly, she said, “Charlotte and Willie live in Palo Alto. Their house is really close to here.”
“MY BROTHER,” GEORGIE whispered, and she gripped Liz’s wrist. It was dusk, and Liz and Charlotte would be leaving momentarily, though Charlotte and the nephrologist were caught up in a heated discussion about earthquakes. “I think he likes you,” Georgie continued, still whispering. Liz’s buzz had worn off, but she wondered if the other woman was drunk; if so, Liz was surprised, given the caloric content of alcohol. “Seriously,” Georgie said. “And it’s perfect, because I’ve always been scared he’ll end up with Caroline Bingley, and she sucks.”
Yes, Georgie was definitely drunk, which did not mean she wasn’t to be trusted. In the fading light, Liz regarded the younger woman. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you,” she said. “Caroline does suck.”
“Do you like Fitzy?”
Liz hesitated only briefly. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“As in like him?”
Liz smiled. “I knew what you meant, and the answer is still yes.”
Georgie pulled her phone from her pocket. “Give me your number, and next time I’m in New York, you and Jillian Northcutt and I should have coffee.”
“Here.” Liz reached for the phone and typed the numbers in herself. She wondered if Georgie would recall their conversation in the morning and, if she did, whether she’d repeat it to her brother.
Passing back the phone, Liz said, “I can’t speak for Jillian Northcutt, but I’d be delighted to see you anytime.”
HE PICKED HER up on time, in a gray SUV with California license plates; the morning was sunny again but still cool, and Liz had slept even less the previous night than the night before that. Around four A.M., she had decided there was nothing to do but ask him for another chance. As geographically inconvenient and temperamentally implausible as a relationship between them seemed, she wanted it; she wanted it desperately, and she needed to know if he did, too.
Riding to the restaurant he’d selected—the Palo Alto Creamery, though the food was, of course, irrelevant—she felt them inhabiting some simulacrum of coupledom that was both torturous and enticing. His right hand resting on the gear shift near her left knee, his forearm with its brown hair, the almost imperceptible scent of whatever male shampoo or soap or aftershave he used—she could barely stand it. His handsomeness this early in the day was devastating and unmanageable, and so she reverted to small talk. She inquired whether everyone else in the house had been asleep when he’d left, and Darcy confirmed that they had; she asked if a late night had ensued after her and Charlotte’s departure, and he again answered in the affirmative; she noted that he must be exhausted, and he said he was accustomed to sleep deprivation.
Turning onto Emerson Street, Darcy said, “Georgie thinks you’re great.”
“Oh, it’s mutual,” Liz said. “She’s charming.”
“I wish you and my mom could have met. You would have gotten a kick out of each other.”
Liz’s heart squeezed. “I wish I could have met her, too. She sounds very cool.”
Darcy glanced across the front seat. “Seeing Georgie—did she look different from how you pictured? Or maybe you didn’t picture her a particular way.”
A certain giddiness drained out of Liz, which was okay; giddiness was, after all, difficult to sustain. Carefully, she said, “She’s very thin, obviously. Is that what you mean?”
“She’s been in and out of different treatment centers, which, as far as I can tell, do nothing.” Darcy sighed. “But I still wonder if she should go back. She’s lost weight again since I last saw her.”
“I have a colleague who did a program in North Carolina that really seemed to help, I think at Duke. Has Georgie ever tried that one?”
“Duke doesn’t sound familiar. She’s been to places in Southern California and Arizona.” Darcy smiled sadly. “The one outside San Diego, I think the reason she agreed to check in was that a bunch of celebrities have been patients there, but her stint was celebrity-free. It must have been the off-season.”
“I know eating disorders are really hard,” Liz said. “I’m sorry.”
“I worry that her life is on hold,” Darcy said. “And I worry about her heart and kidneys.”
He was pulling into a parking space—how inevitable things seemed, how close to him Liz felt—when her phone buzzed with an incoming text. If not for her father’s heart attack, she might not have looked at the phone; she might simply have gone into the restaurant and ordered scrambled eggs that she would barely have eaten. Instead, she did look. Before she read the message, she saw the name of the text’s sender, and she said, “Speaking of sisters, this is from Mary.” Then she said, “Oh my God.”
“Is everything all right?” Darcy asked, but for the first time in two days, Darcy was not foremost in her mind; something else had abruptly pushed him aside, and his voice was background noise.
Lydia & Ham eloped to Chicago, Mary’s text read. Turns out Ham transgender/born female!!!!!! M & D freaking out can u come home?
“IS EVERYTHING ALL right?” Darcy asked again.
“Lydia—my youngest sister—I guess she just eloped with her boyfriend. And also—wow.” Rapidly, Liz typed, For real? Not a joke? Mary hadn’t yet responded when Liz sent an additional text: ????
Ham being transgender—it seemed impossible. And Lydia had known? But, Liz thought, he had a goatee!
A few seconds later, Mary’s response appeared: Not a joke. Shortly there followed: And Lydia always accused ME of being gay! And then: Dad and Kitty driving to Chicago now, mom losing her shit. When can u get here?
Liz looked at Darcy, who had parked, turned off the ignition, and was watching her with concern. “Sorry,” Liz said. “I just—I didn’t see this coming. I should talk to Mary. Do you want to get a table and I’ll meet you inside?”
Darcy passed her the keys, and as he climbed from the car, Liz was already calling her sister.
“You’re sure that Ham is transgender?” Liz said when Mary answered. “And you’re sure they eloped? This isn’t some prank Lydia’s pulling?”
“They—Ham—came out to Mom and Dad last night, and it didn’t go well. This morning, there was a note on the kitchen table from Lydia saying they’re getting married.”
“Does he have a fake penis?” Lat
er, Liz would be relieved that it was only Mary to whom she’d posed this prurient question.
“How should I know?” Mary said. “But Mom is acting crazy. I can’t deal with her.”
“What are Dad and Kitty planning to do in Chicago? Do they think they can stop the marriage?”
“Lydia and Ham can’t do it today because courthouses are closed on Sunday. Then tomorrow is Labor Day. Plus, I checked online and they’ll have to wait a day to use their marriage license, unless they already had one before they left, which I doubt. Basically, I don’t see how they can make it official until Wednesday at the earliest.”
“I’m not in New York,” Liz said. “I’m in California. Are you at your apartment or the house?”
“The house, and Mom just popped a bunch of Valium that I think expired ten years ago.”
“Hold on.” Liz lowered her phone and began typing, searching for flights to Cincinnati; the earliest option she could plausibly make left San Francisco at 11:40 A.M., entailed a layover in Atlanta, and would deliver her to Cincinnati at 9:28 P.M. The cost of this decidedly indirect journey would be $887, which she was pretty sure would deplete the last of her once-respectable-seeming savings.
“I’ll go to the airport as soon as I can and text you from there,” Liz said.
“It’s so typical of Lydia to make us deal with her shit.”
“I like Ham, though,” Liz said. “Don’t you?”
“I don’t care about Ham,” Mary said. “I have a paper due next week.”
INSIDE THE CREAMERY, Liz spotted Darcy in a booth—a large plastic menu lay open in front of him—and again she was gripped by an awareness of the parallel universe in which they could function as an ordinary couple. This only made it more difficult to say, as she approached the table, “I’m so sorry, but I need to go. Could you—I’m sorry to ask this—could you take me back to Charlotte’s to get my stuff, then give me a ride to the airport?”