by Ari Rhoge
“I think I mentioned it after Jane called you, Mom,” I murmured, stuffing one of my paperbacks into a messenger bag — one belonging to Charlotte. “I told you that as soon as Jane left for Florida I would take Charlotte up on her offer for the winter holiday.”
And I had. Between the sleep deprivation and ample caffeine abuse (thank God finals had passed), I had succumbed to that looming California trip with Charlotte and Collins. Yes, Collins. Can you blame me? Philly's winters are bitter — as soon as Charlotte mentioned this tucked away, charming little cottage on Rosings Beach a few hours from San Fran, my ears perked up. Like Scooby's.
I could brave Collins. I had ear plugs, good reads, my iPod, and that beautiful prospect of sleeping in at the hotel and taking long evening walks by the shore. The only thing that was remotely shitty was the lack of Jane. But I knew what we had done was best.
Actually, it was Dad who called Ben Gardiner in the first place after bearing witness to Jane's epic mope-fest. We measured her misery by number of showers a week, as Charlotte had suggested. Once Janey slipped off the hygienic radar, we decided to act. And Uncle Benny, being the charismatic travel-whore that he is, decided to etch Jane into his winter travel plans to spend Christmas at the Gardiner beachfront property in Tampa. Pretty sweet digs.
“You were supposed to spend the holidays with your family, Elizabeth,” Mom finally blurted out, once my explanation was through. “I can't believe you're missing this and you didn't even tell us. I'm almost too angry to be heartbroken.”
“Oh, please don't pull that, Mom,” I said, laughing, watching as Charlotte walked over from the vending machine. “I told you that I probably wouldn't be spending the break back home. I mentioned this back in, like, August. And you're going to have a full house as it is, considering that the Phillipses are coming down from Vermont with their 57 kids.”
“Six kids, Lizzy,” Mom amended.
“Same difference,” I shrugged, smiling at Charlotte as she sat beside me. “Anyway, I got to go. We're boarding soon, so I'll call you when we land, okay? I love you —— try to breathe. Please.”
She grudgingly agreed, and I slid my phone closed with a sigh, hurling it into the messenger bag with no intention to so much as glimpse at it for the next few hours. Charlotte sent me a sympathetic glance, and offered me a pretzel, which I took her up on. “Where's Collins?” I asked.
“Shooting up on these natural, homeopathic herbs for his anxiety,” Charlotte nodded, matter-of-factly. “Y'know, valerian and melatonin. He's a wreck on planes. I've already agreed to give him the aisle seat.”
“What a downer,” I snorted, zipping up my bag. “I guess this means I shouldn't reference any scenes from the movie Cast Away.”
“Please don't,” Charlotte snorted. “For God's sake, be nice. If you give that man a heart attack, I'll never hear the end of it.”
“Notice how your concern lies in taking the blame, and not Collins' health itself?” I grinned at her. “Not that I'm reading into this or anything.”
“Oh, shove it.”
“What are we shoving?” Collins suddenly appeared by Charlotte's side, unfolding his boarding pass gingerly. She pursed her lips, and elbowed me sharply when I started giggling, refusing to respond.
• • •
Two hours into the flight, I realized that there were no prospective “single-serving friends” (as Edward Norton had once eloquently put it). Nobody to chat with, excepting Charlotte, who indulged in about three old issues of Vogue, and Collins who (thankfully) was weaving in and out of sleep. Occasionally he would wake up and sneeze loudly, blaming the germs in the air.
“Should've taken NyQuil — it cures consciousness,” I mumbled. Charlotte rolled her eyes, and sighed, resting her head on my shoulder sleepily. I laughed. “Man, everybody always chooses this shoulder. —— It's Jane's favorite, too.”
“It's kind of comfy,” she smiled. “I might just fall asleep for the next three hours.”
“Who will I talk to, then?” I pouted.
“There's this wonderful thing called sleeping, Lizzy.” Charlotte laughed. “You'd think you'd be interested in it since exams are over. Or did you already spend the weekend in a perpetual coma?”
“The coma thing, definitely,” I sighed, leaning backward. “Well, I slept between cooking for Jane and forcing her out of the house —— which kind of backfired in my face. Movies and lunch at Bertucci's helped. But we went bowling as a pick-me-up afterward, and the people at the alley thought that she was terminally ill, which just about sums that up.”
Charlotte winced. “I'm so glad you shipped that girl to Florida. —— She could do with some sun.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Plus, my aunt and uncle are a riot. It's almost impossible to not crack a smile when they're around. I think you'd have to have no pulse, or something.”
“Jane's a vampire, didn't you know?” she joked, lightly, grinning. Collins nudged her sharply, then, asking if she had any ear plugs because our conversation was 'embarrassingly loud' — at which point I rolled my eyes, and told Collins I had a pair and knew exactly where to shove them.
• • •
Will Darcy felt jittery. Excessively so. There was a variety of possible reasons, half of which he didn't want to explore. Instead, he attempted to blame his frazzled nerves on that impervious combination of airport traffic and two shots of espresso. Yeah, that would do.
Impatiently, Darcy filled the time with checking his Blackberry too often and eyeing the last two messages. One was from his aunt and the other was from Georgy back home. He sighed, and rubbed his face jadedly, missing her already. She seemed to be recovering, though. For that, he was indescribably grateful.
He watched the flood of passengers emerge from the gate, sifting off to respective loved ones or baggage claim. A gaggle of young teenagers rushed past him, laughing obnoxiously. Then a crying child, a weary father, and a wife (or girlfriend) with a murderous glare. An exhausted elderly couple with matching orthopedic shoes, then — Darcy perked up, detesting the weak feeling in the pit of his stomach — there they were.
“I don't really get the appeal of the mile-high club,” Lizzy was already sharing, talking animatedly with Charlotte. Collins was off to the side, miffed at being ignored, but Darcy barely noticed him. He watched Lizzy stretch and collect her bags, shake her hair out from its clip and sweep it back into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face. She seemed both tired and happy — a dichotomy, especially notable in an airport.
Lizzy suddenly met his eye from across the slew of plastic seats and lines boarding to get on to the upcoming flights. Her face registered surprise, and then she regarded him indifferently, and turned to murmur something in Charlotte's ear.
When they finally met up, Darcy opened his mouth, and was immediately interrupted by Collins, who greeted him with excessive politeness, and launched headlong into complaints. “I hate coach. Everything is so awfully cramped.”
Lizzy explained to Darcy, cheerfully, “we forgot to give him NyQuil, and there was some little boy kicking his seat from behind for about three quarters of the entire flight.” At this, she socked Collins lightly in the shoulder, and he stiffened, not the least bit amused.
When they finally wandered over to wait patiently by baggage claim, it just so happened that the group splintered into twos. Charlotte linked hands with her boyfriend, which left Will and Lizzy walking side by side, exchanging very few words for a little while.
“I guess the obvious question,” Lizzy observed, as they followed Charlotte and Collins. “Would have to concern why you're here. Charlotte missed mentioning that along the way.”
“You're staying at my aunt's beach house,” Darcy explained, simply. When Lizzy looked over, he elaborated, “Collins' godmother, Catherine de Bourgh? She's my aunt from my mother's side.”
She balked in disbelief. “Guess this explains why he went stalkerazzi on your ass. You share a mutual relative.”
At this point, they wer
e standing some length away from the conveyor belt. Darcy watched Lizzy cross her arms over her chest and sigh. She was watching two men heave a set of green luggage onto a cart, her dark eyes puzzled. He was distracted for a couple of moments, until she said, “God, it's absolutely suffocating.”
“What is?” he prompted, confused.
She smiled ironically. “It's like the world keeps shrinking, you know? Everybody knows everybody. We're never strangers, when you think about it.”
“That was insightful,” he said, considering it. “And a little insulting, given the circumstances.”
What he expected was a half-hearted apology. What he got instead, he knew he should have foreseen. Lizzy burst out laughing, shoving him lightly. She rolled her eyes, and smirked.
“You're incredibly cheerful for somebody who just flew coach with an obnoxious kid kicking seats behind them,” Darcy observed, watching the luggage rotate. “By the way, which one is yours?”
“Bright red suitcase and a carpet bag,” Lizzy said, pausing thoughtfully. “And that little kid was a sweetheart. His name's John. And it only took one package of M&M's and a stick of Juicy Fruit to bribe him into kicking Collins' seat instead of mine.”
Darcy fought a smile, and shook his head.
“A girl's got to entertain herself somehow,” Lizzy justified, motioning up ahead. “Oh, I see mine. Come on, Darce — let's reel her in.”
• • •
Will Darcy is stalking me.
Okay, so I have this itty-bitty hiccup of a problem called 'jumping to conclusions', but, honestly. I wasn't exactly sure why he was popping back into my life. In fact, if past knowledge serves correctly, there was no reason (besides irony) for him to even reappear. Fate had gone and plucked my housemate, his sister, out of my life and chased my sister's boyfriend, his best friend, across the pond. Either he was purposely tailing me, or the universe has me marked.
So much for The Secret.
Not much had changed within a month and a half with Will Darcy. He looked a little ruffled, possibly ripping off Hugh Laurie's scruffy look. But he's one of those guys that can pull it off, which meant that I couldn't be nasty and call him a hobo, or ask him if he was interested in a bar of soap. This was a shame.
It was strange, though, how effortless it was to keep any snappy insults at bay. There was so much shit I wanted to call him out on, but I was so emotionally drained to even begin. I didn't want to talk about Georgy or Jane. I wanted to bury myself beneath starched white hotel sheets, sleep for 11 hours, wake up impossibly refreshed, and spend the two weeks at the beach, out and away from any trace of Darcy, Collins, or this ominous de Bourgh broad.
“And right here are the orange groves,” Collins said, pointing beyond the windshield of our rental to a patch of land I wasn't interested in. “Mrs. de Bourgh has a gorgeous garden just in the back of the property, actually. The gladioli alone are amazing. And the stone archways were free of charge, because she has connections to some of the most unique landscape artists ——”
I tuned him out awhile. I was digging through my bag, looking for my phone. Of course, I had forgotten to call my mother when we landed. Typical.
“Lizzy, what on earth do you keep in that bag?” Charlotte snorted, leaning over to pick up the pair of Calvin Klein shades that had toppled out.
“Kryptonite,” I muttered, distractedly, trying to organize the junk. I gave up halfway, and texted Mom from Charlotte's phone. “I should call Jane, too. She's paranoid about planes.”
Darcy met my eye briefly through the rear-view mirror, and quickly looked away. And then I realized Jane was going to be one of those things we would think about and never discuss. At least we both acknowledged that the issue was there. It was safe to say that Charlie was restricted territory too. And Georgy. We were racking up quite a list of unmentionables.
Not that I would plan on hanging around Lord Darcy past the time that he would drop us off at the hotel. At this, I smiled, starting to relax. I asked Charlotte for dibs on the shower first, if she didn't mind.
“Lizzy,” she started. “We're going to Mrs. de Bourgh's first. As for rooms… you're on your own, kid. We've got the room next door.”
“Oh. Right.”
Charlotte sighed, watching me. “God, I wish you would've done something new with your hair.” When I looked at her, she laughed. “Don't get me wrong — the messy bun is one of those cute, Lizzy things I wouldn't touch for the world. But Catherine —— Mrs. de Bourgh —— she's a little more polished.”
“Good for her,” I said.
But Collins was already scanning me from over his shoulder, brow wrinkled with obvious distaste.
“One peep out of you and I renew my threat about the ear plugs.” I pointed a finger at him. “Think about it, Billy.”
Collins sighed irritably, and turned back, muttering something along the lines of “I can't believe you're best friends with this woman.” Darcy weaved in and out of traffic smoothly, close-mouthed and back to his proper place of ignoring everything and everyone.
• • •
Catherine de Bourgh's beach house was all glass and sleek, shiny surfaces. It was kind of like being in a museum — you weren't supposed to touch anything, and nearly every item inside was given a brief description and price by the not-so-honorable curator, Billy Collins. As we entered the house, leaving our shoes in the foyer, I got the impression that even in 65-degree weather the place had no warmth to it. There's modern and contemporary design, and then there's just plain iciness. This embodied the latter.
“I really want to use that 'people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones' idiom now, but I can't find an entrance,” I murmured, to Charlotte, pausing hopefully. “Yet.”
Charlotte smirked, and we followed Collins as he led us up ahead, walking quickly, then slowing himself down so he wouldn't appear overeager. Much that would do for his cause. Darcy lingered just behind us, which, I'll be honest, gave me a case of the creeps. I just always had the feeling that he was constantly watching me. I could seriously feel his stare. Just as we rounded the corner of the hall into a living room, I couldn't take it. I whipped around quickly, almost smashing headlong into him. He stumbled back, surprised.
“What was that?” Darcy asked, eyes wide.
“Stop staring at me,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “Seriously, if there's something you object to — my hair, my clothes, whatever — just come right out and say it. I don't care. But you've been doing that since we left the airport.”
“I,” he said, pausing. “I wasn't —”
“Fitzwilliam!”
We both snapped our heads to the right, noticing (to my mild horror) that we had somehow inched into the living room, where three other people were watching us. Two of them were Charlotte and Collins, the latter who seemed stifled and embarrassed at the same time, bottled up like a tea kettle. Charlotte's shoulders were shaking with a silent laugh. And in a leather armchair to the left was a small, thin-lipped woman I instantly gathered to be Catherine de Bourgh. She looked to be in her mid-50s, had killer razor-sharp cheekbones, carefully applied red lipstick, crow's feet around bright-blue eyes, and a contemptuous sneer. By the eyes and expression alone, I think I would've gathered the relation to Darcy even if he hadn't mentioned anything from the get-go.
“Aunt Catherine.” Darcy cleared his throat.
“Aren't you going to introduce us?” she asked, calmly, resting her hands loosely in her lap.
“This is Elizabeth Bennet, Charlotte's best friend.”
“Nice to meet —”
“Come here, please,” she said, coolly. “I can't very well see you from all the way over there.”
I raised an eyebrow at Darcy, but he was already ushering me closer to Catherine. I wondered if she had sight issues. When I stood before her, I kind of felt like a fruit at the super market —— the kind you probe for bruises and weak spots, and chuck back if you're not pleased. And she was giving me a once-over with such careful precision t
hat she had actually unfolded a pair of glasses. “Uhm,” I muttered, folding my arms self-consciously.
“Do you realize —” A young man had suddenly walked in (thankfully drawing the attention). “— That the entire refrigerator is stocked with vegetables and cold diet shakes? Because I wasn't planning on starving here —” He stopped cold his in his tracks, surprised, and his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, shit, sorry. Didn't realize you were back yet, Will.”
“Thank you for that, Richard,” Catherine said, sharply. The other nephew had been located.
He smiled apologetically, and probably found the only unfamiliar face there, extending a hand to me. “Hey, there —— I'm Rich.”
“Lizzy,” I smiled, pretty relieved in finding somebody who at least had the outward appearance of retaining sanity. But something I said caused another little something to flit across his face briefly, and he raised an eyebrow with, “wow, you're Lizzy.”
Before I could say anything, Catherine whipped our attention back with sniffling something about cooling supper, as if holding a separate conversation was physically hurting her. I suddenly realized that she was kind of like an aged version of Carolyn Bingley. Trying to suppress a laugh, I followed the party into the dining room, Rich falling into step beside me.
“Well, you seem refreshingly normal,” he said, pleasantly, linking his hands loosely behind him.
“Why, did somebody suggest otherwise?” I said, laughing.
“No, not at all,” he replied, grinning with a smile that was all dimples. “It's just that in this house, the normal ones are few and far between. I'm pretty happy.”
Charlotte glanced at him over her shoulder quickly, nervous that we might be overheard. To which Rich murmured, “Cath's loaded up on Xanax, Charlotte. I couldn't care less.”
And as far as the Darcy (well, Fitzwilliam) genes went, Rich was dark-haired like most of them. He had brown eyes, too, but I didn't detect that other crippling syndrome that came in the gene pool — y'know, that one of being born with a stick shoved up your ass. He was very cheerful, and conversation kind of came effortlessly. As we took a seat at the table (glass — whoa, shocker) he took a seat beside me, Charlotte at the other end. Darcy sat on the opposite end, to the right of Catherine, Collins — who launched into a long, detailed account of our flight — at her eager left.