by Inman Majors
She realized this whole debate about settling down with Fitzwilliam, or even being intimate with him, had never been a debate at all. She just liked to speculate from time to time, to challenge herself with pretend moral dilemmas to see how her brain teased things out. For instance, if she had to kill someone, where would she dispose of the body? Or if she won the lottery, what would she do with the money? Simple hypothetical exercises when things got a little dull.
She turned away from the naked women and toward the bathroom closet. It was her luck, of course, that she’d decided to hide her contraband panties in the never-perused closet the one night it got perused. Such was life. Feeling philosophical as she pushed a footstool into place, she stood on tiptoe and retrieved the panties with a satisfied smile. She snagged the wet towel as well and placed it discreetly at the bottom of a tall stack, where it would dry naturally over the years, untraceable to her or her bidet adventures.
Now for the panties. She took another look in her purse, but no mystery portal had appeared there, as in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Her phone was blinking like a mother with texts indicating all kinds of urgent business, but she ignored it. Might she fling the panties out the window to collect later? No, it would be impossible to shake Fitzwilliam at night’s close. He seemed just the sort to believe in long good-byes, with lots of cheek kissing, all the while shouting Toodle-loo and Ta-ta.
That settled the matter. It was closet or bust for the incriminating undies.
She heard Fitzwilliam walk down the hall, his nose in tune with the piccolos pipping from the invisible speakers. He was after candelabras and she had to move quick. Her piccata would get cold and she was still hungry. Those escargot had been a drop in the bucket. She could have eaten a whole can of those worms. On the closet floor was a large box containing masks and beads. If Fitzwilliam threw Mardi Gras parties she wanted to attend the next one. That promised to be a sophisticated freak show of the first order and Algernon would certainly come in costume. He looked made for baubles and feathered finery, and a mask would help him in those moments when he wished to be incognito, as earlier under the table.
Behind the box, in the deepest, darkest corner of the closet, looked a ripe spot to hide something that wouldn’t be discovered for months, maybe years. Decision made, she scrunched down, scooted the box just so, and once again bid adieu to the wet panties.
Breathing a sigh of relief at the close call, she collared her purse, winked at the bidet, and returned to the dining room. She’d worked up quite the appetite.
She was back at the table, waiting for Fitzwilliam, when her phone buzzed. With Theo out of town and being eaten by red ants, there was no longer the obsessive need to keep it on at all hours of the day, so she reached to turn it off. She chanced just one quick glance.
The first text was from Missy.
When did team snacks become a thing? Back in my day, kids could go fifteen minutes without a protein bar. Is every single kid in America hypoglycemic?
And the second.
Did you know that adult coloring is also a thing? Like with crayons? I’m at Applebee’s and this couple is in a booth just going to town on a box of Crayolas.
Penelope trashed these vigorously and with relish. She’d never erased texts so fast.
The next one was from Rachel.
How is The Admiral? Are you smoking cigarettes out of holders?
Then her smartass partner in crime, Sandy.
Is Matlock asleep yet? Just sneak off and leave a note on the Pinochle table.
She return-texted both of them.
Way off, losers. He’s a nude artist.
The replies came back in record time. They were losers. Manic-texting on a Saturday night like seventh graders? Get lives.
Rachel:
Are you now naked?
Sandy:
The Admiral paints in the nude or he paints nudes?
She smiled and wrote:
He wants to paint me some day. Naked. But wants to get to know me better first.
As expected, her phone exploded then. First Sandy.
By getting to know you better that old fart means sex, doesn’t he?
Then Rachel,
Tell All.
She was about to respond but changed her mind. Let them wait. It wasn’t her job to save their boring night by supplying vicarious thrill after vicarious thrill. They could joke all they wanted about Admiral this and Admiral that, but at least her night wasn’t dull as dirt. She was smiling at her adventurous self when her phone buzzed with yet another text. The number was unfamiliar.
Hey Brad here. From the gym. Good to meet you. Lunch next week if you’re free?
And then Fitzwilliam came in with the candelabra and Penelope jammed her phone into her purse.
“Ah, the lighting is much better now, is it not? I am sorry for the delay but I could not find my best candelabra for the life of me. They will turn up one day, I am sure. Until then, we will have to make due with this lesser set. But I digress. Shall we dine?”
They were now on dessert—tiramisu and port—and as Penelope nibbled and sipped, she wondered how soon she could leave without appearing rude. She enjoyed talking to Fitzwilliam and hearing his globe-trotting tales, and he’d asked about her own past as well, which she’d struggled a bit to explain. How to account for the HHR? Or James? Or her mother and best ever stepfather, George? Her bouncing in and out of the middle class for much of her life? Could a life lived completely in Hillsboro be interesting to anyone else, especially someone so sophisticated and well traveled?
She had hit a rich vein with Theo, specifically the bullying incident at school, which he’d successfully navigated on his own, and this elicited a number of Bravos and Theo the Stouthearted comments and finally a one-man standing ovation, over the top but sweet.
It was this reaction—as well as the inviting blank space over the mantel—which confirmed once and for all that she would pose for Fitzwilliam if asked. So she had a little ego. Didn’t everyone? And how would Theo or the Garden Club or anyone else in Hillsboro ever find out that she was nude-model mom? With this kind of portrait, where the features weren’t super specific, plausible deniability was built right in. No one even knew the identity of the Mona Lisa, for crying out loud, and she was the most famous model in the world. Penelope could pose nude one day and bring team snacks the next, and no one would be the wiser. And sometime down the road, a houseguest would ask about the painting above the mantel and Fitzwilliam would sigh wistfully and say, Oh yes, lovely Penelope. My rustic beauty. Sealing the deal with herself, she took a hearty gulp of the port and felt right with the world.
It was then that Fitzwilliam said, “Oh, Algernon. You have deigned to join us? And what have you there?”
The cat was across the room and blocked from her view by a serving table. All she could see was a fluffy swishing tail. The tail flipped to and fro in a stiff, measured way, and Penelope felt sure that Algernon had found something to entertain himself with. She’d not seen him this animated since just before he’d pounced on her leg.
“Come come, dear fellow, don’t be coy. What have you there?”
At this, Algernon did a deliberate about-face. Penelope could see clearly now what Fitzwilliam was going on about, for Algernon did have something in his mouth, a toy or some small prey. It was grey, or purplish, but that was all she could tell from this distance.
Fitzwilliam turned toward her and said: “If he has caught something,
it will be a first! On the one hand, I shall be mortified if he drops a wee mouse on the floor during dessert. On the other, how could I not beam like a proud papa at clever Algernon and his first trophy? Isn’t that right, my boy? Aren’t you indeed the king of the Serengeti?”
Algernon was being furtive, flashing the creature briefly then tucking it under his chin the next moment.
Fitzwilliam turned to Penelope and said: “Look at him. Like Hemingway with his chest all puffed up. Oh, have you brought Penelope
a prize to apologize for your earlier behavior? Is it a mouse? A shrew? Why, it could be anything, couldn’t it, my dear sorbet?”
Algernon had come fully into view and was indeed padding toward her with his trophy.
“Oh my,” said Fitzwilliam. “Pray tell you are not skittish about this sort of thing, Penelope? I know it is abominable dinner behavior. But this is truly an historic occasion. Until now, I thought the dear boy was an avowed pacifist.”
“No, I’m not skittish,” Penelope said.
She had a better view of Algernon’s prize now. The thing that the cat had drug in, as the saying went, was not grey as she’d first thought. Nor was it purple. The shade was a true lilac, like one sees during a particularly lovely sunset. Sprinkled here and there—as might appear in that same sunset—were little flashes of a color that looked very much like magenta. Penelope couldn’t be sure, but she would have bet her last dollar that these glimpses of magenta were shaped like a certain flower, a wildish type that her mother allowed in her formal garden despite their undomesticated ways.
Fitzwilliam was out of his seat and coming toward the end of the table that she and Algernon shared. The cat looked once, casually, at the fast-approaching ascot, then turned back to her. They shared a moment both inscrutable and crystal clear. They each knew the score. Behind Algernon, out in the foyer, Penelope could just see one of Roxanne’s bare, grey legs. Penelope thought of how Fitzwilliam might have made her portrait seem enigmatic as well. She thought of “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and the unnamed woman who was universally known as Mona Lisa.
And then Algernon dropped his prize at her feet.
She looked down at the twisted lilac bundle, the magenta zinnias just visible from where she sat.
Fitzwilliam was beside them now, patting Algernon on the head. “Now what have you here, my brave boy? What have you brought to our friend Penelope? Did you pounce upon it unawares? Ha. Ha. Did it put up a fight? Oh, do tell me you were merciful with the wee creature. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Penelope felt her face get hot and knew she was in full scarlet hue. Just moments before, she’d been swirling port in a snifter, imagining herself immortalized above the mantel, like a mysterious countess that Vanity Fair wrote about every month when one baron killed another in a pique of continental jealousy. How had the cat retrieved them from behind that box? If only she’d left well enough alone. The washbasin had been the ticket all along.
Fitzwilliam tried to scoot Algernon away from his catch, but the cat was having none of it. He stayed where he was, eyeing first Penelope and then the parcel at his feet. He seemed worried that her eyesight was not up to snuff, and that she hadn’t caught on to the fact that he, Algernon, had just busted her good. Then suddenly, like a proper cat with a mouse, he swiped at his prize, tossed it into the air, then rolled onto his back for the retrieval. He proceeded to gut away at the lilac/magenta with his hind claws, his motor roaring away, his tail flicking everywhichway, as Fitzwilliam murmured, “So ferocious. So strong. Aren’t you, Algernon? Aren’t you, my brave boy? And so active! So very, very active!”
And then, just as suddenly, Algernon sprang up, and with one fearsome swipe of his chubby paw sent the wee creature flying onto the table, where it landed with a soggy thump in front of Penelope, between her snifter and the small saucer that held the last savory bite of tiramisu.
“Oh my. I do apologize,” said Fitzwilliam, reaching for Algernon’s trophy before Penelope could register what had happened. “Such bad form.”
Fitzwilliam stood there for a moment, looking quizzically at the wet, twisted, gutted item in his hands, which not long ago had been an innocent pair of panties beneath her sundress. Penelope could tell he was confused. He’d reached down quickly, but daintily, as if to remove the quarry by its tail as one does with small varmints. He held Algernon’s trophy as if expecting it to give one last twitch before expiring. He looked down at the cat in a scolding fashion and then apologetically to Penelope. He seemed at a loss, as if his literary studies on the banks of Lake Cayuga had not prepared him for a moment like this, nor had biking the wine regions of France.
Penelope tried to speak, but managed only a sound like one attempting to clear a phlegmy throat. Below her, Algernon was giving himself a victory bath. She didn’t know him well enough to feel betrayed, but she felt betrayed nonetheless. He’d never even given her a chance.
“Whatever in the world?” said Fitzwilliam, unfurling the twisted bit of lavender in his hand like an ancestral flag one finds in an old cedar chest. She’d seen James with that same look of curious awe when he’d first come across his great-great-grandfather’s kilt one weekend at his parents’ house in North Carolina, home of the Tarheels.
Fitzwilliam held the panties at arm’s length, then drew them close to his eyes. Penelope wondered if she should leave now or take her medicine before beating a hasty retreat to her car and the life she was meant to live in a rented house. It was clear her days as a nude model were over before they’d started. Someone else would one day occupy the spot above the mantel, and she’d never get to see Algernon and Fitzwilliam at one of their costume balls.
“These are undergarments,” Fitzwilliam said.
Again Penelope tried to speak, but no words came. What words were there?
“They are damp,” said Fitzwilliam.
Penelope managed to nod her head to this.
“Oh, ha, ha. Oh ha ha ha,” said Fitzwilliam, still enunciating his has rather than laughing freely but managing to convey mirth nonetheless. “Has the bidet claimed another victim, Algernon? You bad boy. You bad, bad boy. Embarrassing our guest as you have. Shame, shame, Algernon. After the episode with Roxanne, I thought you’d learned your lesson. She wouldn’t talk to you for the rest of her stay. Oh, you are an incorrigible rogue, you are! A prankster of the first order! Oh my dear Lemon Sorbet, can you ever forgive Algernon for his little jape? And me, Fitzwilliam Darcy, who failed to warn you about the overexuberant—ha ha—bidets here at Pemberley?”
Fitzwilliam gazed down at her with a small, sympathetic smile, her wet, lacerated panties nestled still in his hand.
What was there to do or say in such a situation? How to maintain a shred of dignity when life insisted again and again that such a commodity was not the purview of a twice-divorced working mom trying to date again in a place like Hillsboro?
And then she realized what had happened. That bidet was a well-known booby trap, one that had ensnared even enigmatic, cosmopolitan Roxanne. She smiled at the folly that is life, and then giggled, and then LOLed. Dignity, schmignity. She’d been born under an absurd star, there was no disputing that, but aren’t we all in the end?
As if in response, Algernon came and rubbed himself against her leg. It had all been one of his japes. Laughing still, she reached down to pet him, but by then he’d sprung onto her lap.
Fitzwilliam said: “My dear Penelope, I do believe you are growing more mysterious by the minute.”
16
After the eventful weekend, Penelope was relieved to pull into the parking lot Monday morning and find that she’d beaten Missy to work. This was usually the case, but after Sunday’s fresh round of skunk texts and Dimwit nonsense, all bets were off. Missy could have built a lookout fort on the roof. Or hidden all weekend in the supply closet wearing infrared glasses. You couldn’t put anything past her when she got like this.
She got out of the car, thinking that she should probably respond to Bald Brad at some point. Dating was so complicated now with all the instantaneous ways to contact people. It made stalling a lot harder to do. One thing that was no longer complicated was the nature of her relationship with Fitzwilliam. Though never explicitly stated, it was clear they were to be friends and no more. They’d parted—amid much good cheer and Algernon twirled around her legs—with the understanding that she was now to be a regular guest at Pemberley. No more was said about future works of art. Penelope would just play that as it came, if it came at all. Regardless, it felt good t
o have made a new friend and one who was so different from others in her social circle. She could hardly wait to see Algernon in his mask—or was it masque?—and cape come Mardi Gras. He would be a furry little mischief maker is what he’d be.
She unlocked the office door, surmising that most dating scenarios from here forward would end with a cordial parting of ways. So why bother? Why not just delete the Bald Brad text and stop thinking
about it?
Hope, that’s why. She could live without a steady man in her life, but if the right one came along, one who Theo liked, that would be okay by her. Right now, she’d just live in the present and concentrate on the things she could control, like whether to surprise Theo with a PlinkyMo mural in his room when get he got back from camp. She thought it important that the new place be as inviting as possible, stuck way out in the country as they were with no other kids nearby to play with.
Speaking of her new place—specifically its turquoise walls—her intuition had never felt keener. In fact, right now it was telling her that some surprise waited inside the door she was presently unlocking.
There was. Turquoise was working its magic already, though she wondered if this was a kind of black magic. On her desk were a walkie-talkie, a pair of binoculars, and a note from Missy.
Penelope put her things on the desk next to the walkie-talkie—which looked expensive but still stupid—and slid her just-purchased pack of Starburst into the top drawer. It was a tradition to treat herself to a pack of chewy tart goodness at the start of the workweek. If the day started to drag, she could count on her multicolored friends to act as a pick-me-up. They’d never let her down before.
All but patting the drawer fondly, she walked to the back window to investigate. She didn’t see Missy or the Critter Catcher, though she did spot their vehicles parked in the cul-de-sac that marked the ending boundary of the trailer park domain. She took up the binoculars and scanned the adjoining field until she spotted a sticklike woman in heels. In the woman’s hand was a two-way radio. Next to her, a long-haired older gentleman in a Stetson smiling affably as she gesticulated hither and yon. Between them was a steel cage about two feet high, commonly used to catch nuisance creatures.