Holy crap, this guy even texts in complete paragraphs! I think if he could send a copperplate engraved text on heavyweight linen paper, he would. I’m amused and charmed. In a world of emojis and texting shorthand, I find his careful selection of words to be refreshing and sweet.
I reply, “rum bar fri 6 c ya.” I confess I take perverse pleasure in guessing my short response will probably irritate him.
Chapter Twenty
Darcy
Inconsequential Garnishes
One sentence. One!
That’s all she sent. I carefully crafted my invitation to her, and she sends me one short reply. Does she not know that in New York alone, there are hundreds of women like Caroline Bingley who would die to receive such a text from me? I am not exaggerating. I have perfected the art of dodging those persistet Mrs.-degree-seeking females, which is definitely a feat.
But her? It’s like I’m an afterthought to her, a haphazard piece of parsley thrown onto a plate to fill in some space and give the dish color. I am not a fancy garnish, I am plain parsley to her. Not even Italian parsley! Curly leaf parsley, cheap parsley, common parsley, fifty-cents-a-bunch parsley, the kind they use at Denny’s, tossed as a haphazard afterthought onto the plate along with a dried-out slice of orange and a fluorescent maraschino cherry, just because they need to put something there! In her eyes, I am obviously the most inconsequential kind of garnish! And here I am, rambling about it!
This is unacceptable!
Fine, game on, Miss Elizabeth. I’ll take up your challenge! I am going to be a shining knight to her, the consummate gentleman, showing her what she is missing in today’s world of loathsome casual hook ups and abbreviated social interactions. Miss Elizabeth, you have no idea of what is about to befall you.
Friday evening finds me at the rum bar a full fifteen minutes early, a bouquet of yellow calla lilies by my side. I considered roses, but decided to choose something less conventional for this date. Damnation, I just used that four-letter word “date.” I swore off dating, and yet here I am, with sweaty palms and flowers, awaiting a woman. Not just any woman, her! I remind myself again to keep breathing and fight the urge to pace.
Please do not stand me up, I silently beg her. Please show up, and do not make me look the fool.
“I will not be parsley to you, Miss Elizabeth,” I vow as I check my watch again for the hundredth time.
The door opens at five minutes to six, and in walks Elizabeth. I stand to greet her, losing my ability to breathe for a moment. She is dressed in a simple black skirt that flares to her ankles, a gray sweater with a few snags in it and muddy combat boots. Her face is bare of any make-up, causing her red lipstick to look more dramatic. It has been raining heavily, and her hem is drenched six-inches from water in all the puddles. Somehow, despite all this, she is feminine and alluring. I reach out my hand, and when she places her tiny one in mine, I bow over it. She giggles at this, and it’s the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.
I then motion to the bar stool besides me, and she hops up, placing her petite self on top of its seat. I hand over the calla lily bouquet, shocked to see a moment of horror flit across her face.
“Is something wrong with the flowers, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Darcy! It’s just that my mom is superstitious and thinks calla lilies are funeral flowers. Oh, my god, did I just say that? I am so sorry! The lilies are beautiful, really, thank you for bringing them for me!”
I groan inwardly. Great. I wanted to impress her, and instead, I gave her the Flowers of Death. Can I do nothing correctly where she is concerned?
She tries to smooth my ruffled feelings by talking about how much she’s heard about this rum place and how excited she is about trying the drinks and food here. When I remain silent, she nudges me with her elbow.
“Come on, Mr. Darcy. We have to have some conversation, even a little will do. I commented on the menu and drinks. Now, it’s your turn to say something.”
I look at her, but like my recent writing attempts, no words come out. I finally manage to blurt out, “This room is very tropical.” That’s it. That’s all I can say, despite my almost photographic memory of the dictionary, my Ivy-league education and my penchant for four-syllable words. I truly cannot do any worse.
She smiles. “It really is tropical in here. That’s a good thing. It would be weird to find igloos and walruses painted on the walls of a Caribbean rum bar.”
How the conversation continues is beyond me. I certainly do not contribute much to it. Elizabeth, however, is adept, guiding our talk along safe and entertaining lines.
After fifteen minutes or so of one-sided banter on her part, I hold up my hand. “Miss Elizabeth, please allow me to tell you how ardently I admire your work and end my torment of the past few months. I have sincerely wanted to apologize to you for the harsh words in my review of your family’s restaurant, and now I have the chance to do so.
“When I visited the Ocean Breeze, I did not want to be there. But Charles Bingley can be rather persuasive. I was in Seattle, visiting my sister. Well, suffice it to say, it wasn’t a pleasure trip. I was in a dark mood and should probably have just flown straight back to New York. Upon my return to the city, my editor pressured me to write a review for the upcoming summer travel season. I was desperate, and so I wrote about your family’s restaurant. I know now I was wrong to do this. I was unfair and unprofessional. I humbly apologize.”
Elizabeth’s eyes never waiver from mine as I talk. When I am finished, she takes a deep breath, and says, “Mr. Darcy, thank you for your apology. I was really angry when I first read your review, especially the part about female chefs. I was even more pissed off when our restaurant sales sagged this past summer and we were forced to close down. I blamed you for our failure.”
I shut my eyes at her words. I open them again and am about to speak, when she holds up her hand.
“Please let me finish. You see, my dad has Alzheimer’s, which meant my sister kept the menu to things he could remember how to cook, recipes from the ‘70s. She called me to come back home, to take over the restaurant, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. But I did. I quit my fancy chef’s job in San Francisco and headed home. When you dined with us, I was in the process of changing the menu to my style. But, as I came to realize, it was too little too late.
“My dad, he started to wander around town at night, which made it clear we needed to put him into a full-care home. Closing the restaurant and selling it was really the only way we could afford to do this. So we sold it. Now my dad is in his last days and we three sisters and Mom are here in Seattle, waiting. I could stay mad at you, blame you for our downfall, but really, it was inevitable. Please, stop blaming yourself.”
She adds, quite impertinently, “You’re really not that powerful, buddy,” and then winks at me.
I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I bow my head in her direction and thank her. She is being much more magnanimous than I deserve. I don’t know how yet, but I am resolved to help her.
Then, she shocks me and pokes me in the ribs with one tiny finger. “Dude, if you’re trying to be a gentleman and apologize, it’s really bad form to let a lady starve!”
I laugh, a real laugh for the first time in ages and we pick up our menus to order.
The rest of the night passes quickly. Conversation never lags, and I discover Elizabeth is smart, incisive and witty. She is decided in her opinions, and yet she seems open to debate and to considering the merits of the other side of the argument. She is an adorable mixture of over self-confidence and debilitating shyness. We laugh and find we both like the original Star Wars from the ‘70s, don’t understand grunge music, and have a preference for Jane Austen.
My god, this woman is perfect for me! I think this over and over again, shocked and a bit bemused. The wise proverb, “Love happens when you least expect it,” is proving true for me.
Wait, do I think this is love? I have had my fair share of f
emale attention, and have felt fondness for some of the women I have dated. But nothing feels as easy and light as this. Nor has anything felt so dizzying, frightening or true as what I’m feeling right now.
Elizabeth repeats her question, and I realize my mind has strayed. She asks me why am I in Seattle and what do I plan to do now that I’m here? I tell her I am on hiatus from my writing job in New York. My plan is to write my Magnum Opus, the book that has been sitting in the corner of my brain for so many years. I have to give it voice.
She asks what my book is about, and I describe its convoluted plot I realize how ridiculous it sounds as I verbalize it to her but she patiently listens to me, one eyebrow arched in curiosity.
Elizabeth cocks her head at me, and says, “So, you think deep down, every woman wants to marry someone solely to be elevated financially and socially? If you do, you don’t seem to have a very high opinion of women, because you make it sound like we’re all money-grubbers. Do you really think women are incapable of being successful on their own?”
I stumble over my response, because apparently the only thing I do well around this woman is trip on my own words.
She takes advantage of my hesitation and continues, “Have you asked many women how they feel about marriage? How do you know what a woman wants? Are you able to crawl inside our heads and find out, or are you assuming you already know, and will “mansplain” to us exactly what we need?”
“Mansplain? I am afraid I do not know what that means, Miss Elizabeth,” I admit. She gives a snort of laughter, looking at me wide eyed. “Truly, I have not heard this term before. Perhaps you need to enlighten me?”
“Oh dude, mansplain is right up your alley. Have you ever started a sentence with ‘well, actually,’ and then preceded to explain to a woman exactly what she didn’t ask you to clarify? Have you ever just stepped in it, assumed a female needs your expertise, whether she wants it or not?”
“Well, actually,” I start, but that’s as far as I get before Elizabeth gives a bark of laughter and crows gleefully, “I told you so!”
I shut my mouth, chagrined that all this time, I have been mansplaining, and not one woman has taken it upon herself to put me in my place. Only Elizabeth, who seems to have no regard for my name, status or influence, sets me back a step.
She looks at me with a serious expression. “Have you ever wondered why Elizabeth the First never married? She was afraid to lose her power, because even as Queen of England, once she married, she would become her husband’s property. Or worse, end up dead like her mother, Anne Boleyn. She already had her hands full dealing with the machinations of her all-male cabinet that thought they knew better than she did how to run the country. She had to entertain all their matchmaking efforts, pretending to be interested in the potential husbands they paraded in front of her. She flirted and dissembled, hoping it would be enough to distract them while she held on to her power.
“What about Mary Queen of Scots? Her life was profoundly altered from a young age when she was promised to the Dauphin of France. She left Scotland to marry him, and then became useless when he died unexpectedly. Her worth was valued in her ability to give France an heir, and when she didn’t, her life there was over. She continued to make foolish choices for her spouses when she returned to Scotland, playing right into the hands of her enemies because of the pressure she felt to marry. She was reduced to being a political pawn, as too many women were in that era. She eventually was beheaded because of it.
“We are told from the cradle that marriage for women is the end goal. My mom wants nothing more for her daughters than for us to become wives of doctors or lawyers because she thinks we’ll be secure for life that way. I don’t agree with her. I want to be my own person. One day, if I marry, it will be for love, not because I need to be rescued or protected.
“I assume it’s safe to say you’ve never heard of “manspreading” either?” she asks me with one eyebrow raised expectantly.
At my confused look, she clears her throat and tells me, “It’s when a dude on a train or bus sits with his knees wide apart, like his junk is so big he crowds out the woman sitting besides him.”
“Junk?” I ask, feeling puzzled.
“Yes, ‘junk.’ You know, the family jewels, the old tennis balls, the eggplant emoji,” she helpfully explains.
“Ah, you mean, their avocados!” I quip, relieved to find a subject I am knowledgeable about. I then mansplain to her the word avocado has its root in the word “testicles.”
“You know, Mr. Darcy, you need to get out more, and when I say get out, I mean, mingle with us, find out how we women really think,” Elizabeth says with a laugh.
“Consider me duly advised, Miss Elizabeth. Today has been an educational day, and henceforth, I will make sure to take only my allotted space on public spaces, taking care to not freely hand out my expertise when it is not requested.”
She gives me a self-satisfied smile, and then attempts to fist bump me. Except I don’t know how to fist bump and her hand ends up bumping empty air.
“Dude,” she says, “You really also need to learn to use contractions when you speak. You sound like you’ve got a stick up your butt when you talk, like you’re an antique school marm.”
I tell her earnestly that I will try. No, I correct myself, and tell her I’ll try.
It’s been a lovely evening, and I have had more fun with Elizabeth than with any other woman I’ve dated, ever. I reach out my hand, helping her slide off her bar stool. As we leave the bar, I ask her if I may see her safely home. She refuses, telling me her bus stop is on the next corner.
I thank her again, and watch as she dashes off into the night, the yellow calla lilies a beacon of color as the rainy gloom swallows her. I keep watching until her bus pulls away, turning at the next corner.
Dammit, I never did ask her for another date. I start to dither about how much time needs to pass before I can contact her and ask her out. I’m in uncharted territory in this age of texting and dating. I resolve to wait three days, yes, three days seems like a safe bet. Jesus rose after three days. I should be safe to send a text.
When I get home, Lou-Lou brushes against my leg, and then meows at me. I reach down, and apologize for being late with her dinner.
“I’m sorry, Sweetheart, I know I’m late. Would you like salmon and crab for your dinner? You know, Lou-Lou, you may have to share my affections with someone else, another woman. How do you feel about that?”
Lou-Lou ignores me, gulping down her dinner with gusto. The only time she looks at me is when she asks for seconds.
Chapter Twenty-One
Elizabeth
All in Our Family
Wow, if you had told me a week ago I would have that much fun with Mr. Darcy, I would have laughed my butt off and been totally skeptical. But here I am, sitting on the mint green tile of my kitchen floor, talking to Dido, my canine Queen of Carnage, and telling her about my date.
Dido is a great listener. She perks up her ears at just the right times, and then barks in agreement when I need her to. I tell her I hope he calls soon, that I really want to find out more about him, to discover what he’s all about.
But the next morning, my phone remains rebelliously quiet in the Darcy department. Jane tests me, Mom calls to harass me about something or other I should have done had I been a good daughter, but not a peep from Mr. Darcy. Day Two passes the same way, making me a little anxious.
Did I offend him when I talked about mansplaining and manspreading? Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word “junk.” Perhaps I was a bit too assertive, as usual, and let my I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar attitude fly too fiercely. Maybe Jane is right and I need to watch my tongue more. I sigh. It’s too late for that.
On Monday, Jane interrupts my sulking to ask if I want to meet her and Charlie to have for sushi for dinner. Charlie and Jane are getting serious, which makes me glad at least one Murasaki sister has romance in her life. I ask if I’m going to be the third wheel, and she says
, “Nope.” She’ll pick me up promptly at 6:30.
Jane is on time, driving us to the restaurant. I ask why we’re meeting Charlie at there instead of him picking up both of us. She says he’s working late, so it’s easier this way.
Jane and I enter the restaurant, and push past the noren, short curtains, hanging behind the front doors. Sushi Yuichi is a small place with ten seats at the bar and four booths located along the walls. No more than twenty to thirty people can sit in the restaurant at one time. It doesn’t look anything like a high-end sushi bar. There are no dramatic black and red walls, no shiny re-purposed wood tables. The decor is mid-century scavenger hunt. The focus here is unwaveringly on the food.
I see Charlie seated at one of the booths. There are two other people with him, a dark-haired man and a blonde woman. As we approach, the man stands. It’s Fitzwilliam Peter Darcy.
We stare at each other in shock and recognition. Charlie tries to introduce us, but Mr. Darcy waves him off.
“I’m already acquainted with Miss Elizabeth, Charles. She was kind enough to have drinks with me last Friday.”
Charlie gives a hoot of delight, and Jane grabs my arm.
“You didn’t tell me you went out with Mr. Darcy!” she exclaims.
“You didn’t tell me this was a blind date!” I hiss in return.
Charlie steps in. “It’s not a blind date, it’s more of a chance for you to get to know Peter in a better light, and maybe for him to, say, apologize to you.” With that, Charlie pokes Mr. Darcy sharply in the ribs with his elbow.
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