by Lynn Messina
At one point, he approached a beleaguered-looking redhead and offered to remove all the pimientos from the olives, listing, as proof of his qualification, a childhood skill at the game of Operation. He then held up a pair of tweezers and asked to see the patient.
“I mean, patients,” he amended, “unless the offending pimiento acted alone.”
The woman laughed and assured him surgery was not necessary.
Darcy didn’t understand the substance of the conversation, but she liked the tone with which it was conducted, and by the time she left the party, she was well on the way to being enthralled.
But that was then, Darcy tells herself as her car pulls up in front of the Netherfield, and this is now. Now she refuses to let herself dwell on the baffling events of the night before. Whatever strange magic was in effect—whatever bewildering mix of champagne, moonlight and Forest Hills air had created the sensation—it’s in the past.
As she waits in the lobby for the elevator, she settles into this thought, for surely her fascination with Bennet Bethle is as much of an anomaly as the Longbourn itself. He certainly has none of the traits she looks for in a date—worldliness, urbanity, professional success—and if they were to, say, go out for dinner together, she couldn’t imagine what they’d find to talk about. The conversation would be stiff, stifling and awkward.
Pleased to have dismissed Bennet Bethle entirely, Darcy enters the penthouse with a cheerful hello and drops her bag by the front door. She finds Bingley in the front parlor, a gracious room with gilded mirrors, mahogany bookcases and handmade Persian rugs. Although Darcy is also staying at the Netherfield while her Fifth Avenue mansion undergoes renovations, she’s the only occupant who’s been up since the break of dawn. She’s already had two business meetings—one with the contractor working on Pemberley, one with the management company that oversees her Manhattan real estate holdings—and inspected a work site on the Lower East Side.
“Darcy,” Bingley says, her voice ringing with excitement, “was that not just the most wonderful party last night? We were just talking about how much fun we had.”
Her brother Carl, who’s sitting next to her on the sofa, scowls at her description of their conversation. “You were talking about how much fun you had. I was politely holding my tongue, Hurst was reading the newspaper, and Lucy was texting with her chiropractor.”
“I was reading the paper and holding my tongue,” Hurst says from the comfort of a deep, leather armchair by the window. “I’m multitalented.”
His wife, who’s perched on the ottoman by his feet, concurs. “As am I,” she explains, holding up her phone. “I was texting with Sarah and playing Words with Friends. On the matter of last night, I have no thoughts to hold back, as I’ve already forgotten everything.”
“Ignore them,” Bingley says as she slides over on the sofa to make room for Darcy. “Carl is grumpy because the model he was moving in on shut him down at the end of the evening. He gave her his searing your-place-or-mine look, and she laughed.” She lifts a silver tray with an assortment of pastries. “The croissants are excellent, as are the Danish. I think the apple strudel is a little off.”
“It was a cough,” Carl says defensively. “The woman had a cold.”
Bingley pats him on the back. “Of course she did, darling.”
Carl darts his sister a dirty look and stands up, while Darcy tears off a piece of a croissant. “I thought the party was a dead bore,” she announces.
“Brava, Darcy,” Carl says with an approving nod.
“Since even Darcy is piling on, I now feel compelled to admit I didn’t have the worst time in the world,” Hurst says, “and Lucy liked the bright purple drink. What did they call it? The Loggia? The Doge?”
“That’s right, I did like it,” his wife says wonderingly. “I had five or six.”
Bingley smiles. “I think we’ve gotten to the bottom of the mystery of why you can’t remember anything.”
Carl shakes his head. “Impossible. They were watering down the drinks, I’m sure of it. Places like that are always cutting corners. Lucy is a lightweight. If they weren’t skimming on the alcohol, she would have been dancing in the imitation Trevi fountain by the end of the night.”
“Trevi?” Lucy asks. “I thought it was a copy of the Fontana delle Rane.”
“If she was seeing frogs on that fountain,” her husband says thoughtfully, “the drinks had more rum than Carl is giving them credit for.”
“You jaded grumps can grouse all you want,” Bingley says, reaching for another cheese Danish, “but I had a marvelous time and I’m very glad we went.”
Carl leans against the back of the sofa and lays his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Miss Sunshine over here can’t see beyond the nose of her handsome new man.”
“And can you blame her? It’s a remarkably handsome nose,” Lucy says. “One rarely sees a nose more handsome. Don’t you agree, Darcy?”
Darcy nods. “As far as appendages go, it’s quite perfect, as is the face it’s attached to. But he smiles too much.”
“Excuse me?” Bingley asks, her jaw almost dropping at this observation.
“He smiles too much,” her friend says again.
Finding the observation entirely childish, Bingley responds in kind and sticks out her tongue.
“She’s right,” insists Carl, who, in his never-ending quest to earn Darcy’s favor, rushes to validate her statement. The more he agrees with her, the more likely she is to agree with him, and eventually they’ll make their way to the altar in agreeable cordiality. Although the plan has yet to deliver results after several years, Carl remains optimistic. “Every time I looked over, he had a wide grin on his face. But I liked him. He follows soccer. He knew the name of every starting player for Tottenham.”
“And he has a good grasp on finance,” Hurst adds. “He had some surprising insights on how Basel III will affect international markets.”
“I appreciate your approval,” Bingley says sardonically to her brothers, “even if Darcy withholds hers.”
“You have mine, as well,” Lucy says, “and I think you should make your move immediately. A straight man who wears a tuxedo that well is a hot commodity in this city.”
Bingley dimples and leans against the sofa cushions. “I was thinking of sending him clam chowder from the Summer Shack, because, you know, he sent me all those lovely foods from Queens. Or is that pushy?”
“You slut,” Darcy says mildly.
“No, it’s good,” Lucy says. “Putting a condom in with the chowder—that’s slutty.”
Hurst rustles the paper he’s reading. “Really, Lucy, you must stop talking about my sister and condoms in the same breath. This is the third time in a week.”
His wife smiles. “You want her to be safe, don’t you?”
As much as Bingley appreciates her sister-in-law’s feedback, it’s Darcy’s opinion she values the most, and she turns to her friend. “Truly, what do you think?”
Darcy lifts the coffeepot and fills her mug with the rich, steaming brew. “There’s no harm in having a little fun. Send the chowder,” she says, causing her friend to squeal with delight and leap to her feet. “But don’t do it now. I’ve reserved a court for ten, and it’s already nine thirty.”
Bingley wrinkles her brow consideringly. “Are you sure we can’t push tennis back twenty minutes while I make some calls? If I want the chowder to arrive today, I don’t have any time to lose.”
“Absolutely not,” Darcy says with a firm shake of her head. With the renovations on Pemberley hitting an unexpected snag—damn those nineteenth-century water pipes!—she’s in New York sooner than she’d planned, and business matters that had been back-burnered while she was in London are suddenly front and center. Although she’s not involved in the day-to-day management of the family business, she’s required as a shareholder to attend several meetings a year and to vote on an ongoing slate of business issues. In addition to Fitzwilliam’s and her own properties, she
oversees half a dozen initiatives to alleviate poverty around the world. Every day isn’t jam-packed with appointments and obligations like they are for her real-estate-tycoon cousins, but many days are—and today in particular. “I have a meeting with my lawyer at eleven-thirty. If you throw enough money at them, the Shack will have the chowder here by noon. You can figure it out with Mitzy in the car. Now go change.”
“All right,” Bingley says, throwing the rest of the Danish into her mouth before running off.
Carl watches his sister disappear up the stairs and sits next to Darcy. “Thank you for taking her away. She’s been intolerably chipper all morning.”
Knowing how easily her friend falls in and out of love, Darcy shrugs. “It’ll pass.”
“I suppose,” Carl says, “but how often will we have to visit that crumbling eyesore before it does? How many times will we have to meet with that awful man he works for? Have you ever heard so much nonsensical blather in your life? And the way he looked at Bingley—and you, for that matter—with such an avaricious gleam in his eye. It was as if he were taking a bath in your money.”
Darcy both smiles and shudders at the image Carl’s description calls forth. She knows a proper museum would never suffer a fool like that, and the fact that the Longbourn does counts against it and its other employees. They must all be cut from the same cloth, she thinks, even Bennet Bethle.
“I googled them,” Carl announces. “I got enough information from John to look them up. His father is a litigation lawyer specializing in personal injury. His firm has a garish website announcing how much money they’ve won in settlements for their clients. He’s currently running an ad to scare up more plaintiffs in a class action suit related to mesothelioma and asbestos. Classic ambulance chasing. And get this: One of the uncles is a used-car dealer. He’s fairly successful, with several locations in Illinois and Indiana, but still: used cars.” He shakes his head with wonder.
Darcy nods absently as Carl continues to report on his findings—“The mother teaches a comp lit course on nineteenth-century pornography at a small college in Michigan”—but finding it oddly difficult to listen to him, she excuses herself to change into her tennis whites. She already knows Bennet Bethle is unsuitable and doesn’t require a catalog of his shortcomings to confirm it. He’s nothing to her anyway.
Nothing at all.
And yet, as Darcy climbs the stairs to her room, she can’t help picturing his fine brown eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
The arrival of the clam chowder changes everything. Before the messenger knocked lightly on the door to deliver the insulated foam package, Meryton had been content to rest on his laurels, reviewing the triumphs of the previous evening in glorious detail.
Bingley: “Such a delightful young lady.”
Bingley and John: “Her eyes lit up the moment I introduced him. The spark of interest—I always know it when I see it.”
Bingley and John again: “Every time I looked over, the two of them were dancing. She didn’t dance with anyone else for so long or so often, although once I spotted her dancing with Mrs. Long’s son. However, that was to ‘Moon River,’ which, as you know, is an inordinately short song.”
Bingley and John some more: “What a gracious departure! I do believe she kissed him twice, once on each cheek, European-style, and only shook hands with Mrs. Long’s son.”
Darcy: “Horrid.”
But the moment Meryton discovers that the package is from Bingley, he sets his sights on the future. “You must strike while the iron is hot, my boy. There’s no time to lose. Call her right now and thank her for the present and suggest a meeting to discuss her work on our committee. Don’t mention a specific dollar figure yet. Let’s gauge her interest before settling on an amount to solicit.”
“Naturally, I’ll thank her right away,” John says as he removes several dozen packing peanuts and two frozen gel packs.
Lydon picks up the note card, which his brother had dropped on the desk. “It’s not rugelach.” He tilts his head and furrows his brow as if deciphering a great mystery. “What does that mean?”
Amused by Bingley’s piquant sense of humor and the eagerness on John’s face, Bennet snags the card from Lydon’s hand and tells him it’s none of his business.
“Au contraire, mon frère,” Lydon says with a smug grin. “I work here. This is a work establishment, wherein we work—a fact I’ve been reminded of a hundred times, even though last night John was allowed to dance, an activity expressly forbidden to me, a worker in this work establishment. Instead, I was forced to stand by the entrance watching for gate crashers, of which there were none. Zilch. Zero. It was so boring, I actually started begging neighbors who were passing by to come in. There were no takers, by the way. You guys should do more community outreach.”
Meryton listens to just enough of Lydon’s speech to gain further respect for the boy’s work ethic—he’s a worker indeed!—but his attention is quickly diverted by the contents of the box.
“Clam chowder,” he marvels as John extracts two quarts of creamy New England clam chowder. “What can it mean? Is it code? Is Ms. Bingston trying to tell us something?”
Bennet examines the label on one of the containers and says, “I believe she’s thanking him for the basket of homegrown treats with a homegrown treat of her own. It’s from a little shop in Boston.”
John stares bemusedly at the package, a quizzical furl between his brows, and then he stands up. “I have to thank her.”
For a moment, Bennet thinks John intends to walk over to the Netherfield to express his gratitude in person, but then he realizes he’s merely going into the storage closet to make the call in private. Accustomed to the tight workspace, the brothers easily conduct museum business well within earshot of each other, and that John feels compelled to speak with Bingley in private strikes him as an interesting development.
While Meryton draws up an equation to figure out how much money Bingley should donate for the Diamond Gold Circle Advisory Board position—a mathematical formula as complex as the algorithm for breeding cattle—Lydon grabs one of the soup containers and opens the top drawer of John’s desk.
“What are you doing?” Bennet asks.
“Having lunch,” Lydon says, removing a clipboard to get a better look at the drawer’s contents. A moment later, he holds a spoon aloft triumphantly. “It’s after two, right? I’m allowed to eat.” In the bottom drawer, he finds a red melamine bowl.
Bennet puts the quarts of chowder back into the box they arrived in and places the package on top of the file cabinet. Lydon eyes his brother sullenly. The soup is a work dividend, he argues, i.e., the product of John’s efforts on behalf of the museum the night before. “The spoils of our toils,” he adds with an impish grin. “The perks of our works.”
Although Bennet doesn’t doubt that John would happily share the chowder, he thinks he should have the opportunity to offer. “I have a sandwich if you’re really hungry.”
“What kind?”
“Egg salad.”
Lydon scrunches his nose. “Uh, no. The only thing worse is tuna fish. I’ll check out the café downstairs. Tell John not to finish the soup while I’m gone.”
Given that his brother’s lunch breaks are typically two hours long, Bennet thinks it’s highly unlikely there will be soup left when he gets back. But all he says is, “You got it.”
Before Lydon leaves, however, John steps out of the closet and gently closes the door. “I’m going to go over there now,” he says with a hesitant smile. “To the Netherfield. Bingley would like to hear more about the committee. She asked me to bring information.”
As the director of individual giving, John has a packet of neatly organized, professionally laid-out brochures and fact sheets with color pie charts and graphs, and he quickly pulls one of these from his middle drawer. Meryton, convinced that too much is never enough, runs to the row of file cabinets and pulls together a stack of all their exhibit catalogs and floor plans fr
om the last ten—no, fifteen—years. He hands them to John, who pretends to put them into his briefcase but dumps them into the garbage can under his desk as soon as his boss looks away. Then he catches Bennet’s eye and says, “Later, can you…?”
John trails off suggestively, but his brother knows exactly what he means and promises to take care of it. Oblivious to the byplay, Meryton insists on including five years’ worth of invitations, both to gala events and exhibition openings, and rummages haphazardly through the file cabinets.
Although John’s packet already contains a thoughtful selection of invitations, as well as program guides and the collection’s quarterly magazine, he accepts the new stack from Meryton and thanks the executive director for his diligence. Then he tosses them into the trash bin with the others and winks at Bennet.
By the time John leaves fifteen minutes later for Netherfield on the Park, half the contents of the file cabinets are under his desk, Meryton is glowing with excitement, and Lydon, having accurately assessed the level of distraction getting his brother out the door would provide, is finishing his second bowl of chowder. The empty container is next to the microwave.
Annoyed, Bennet waits for Meryton to return to his office and holds out the garbage can filled with assorted publications. “Refile these.”
“Seriously, bro?” Lydon asks, his tone caught between disbelief and disappointment. “That’s your retribution? Making me file the trash? Doesn’t that strike you as a little petty?”
“It’s not trash. John had nowhere else to put it,” Bennet explains.
“Nowhere else?” Lydon repeats doubtfully, as he looks at the wall of file cabinets.
“Never mind. Just file everything.”
Recognizing his brother’s stubborn tone, he says, “Sure. After I finish lunch.”
Bennet takes the remaining quart of clam chowder and stashes it in his desk drawer with the frozen gel packs it came with. “You’re done with lunch.”