I jumped up, took the phone from her and clicked it off. “This seems bad. What happened?”
“I’m not sure.”
I shook my head, my pulse racing in my veins. “What aren’t you sure of, Di? Was it a family member? Is someone in the hospital?”
“It was Alex.”
“Oh,” I said, but I thought, Screw that jerk. He had me worried for nothing.
“He wants to ‘do lunch’ with me this week.”
“What? After all this time? Why?”
“Because he misses me, or so he says. And he just wants to get together and talk.”
I wasn’t sure what emotion Di wanted me to feel at this news. Happy for her? Nervous on her behalf? But what I did feel was anger. Fury, in fact. What made that idiot think he could waltz back into my sister’s life now, when she was finally kind of happy again, and just pick up their conversation where they’d left off? Sure, she’d been the one to leave him, but why hadn’t he tried harder all those years ago? Why hadn’t he fought to get her back?
“Are you going?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice betraying just how mystified she was by her own decision.
Then I remembered something. “I didn’t hear you say much to him, Di, so maybe I missed it, but did you tell him you were pregnant?”
She shook her head.
“Hmm. That’s probably going to surprise him. You might want to call him back and mention — ”
“He already knows.”
My jaw dropped and I had to instruct it to shut again. A moment later I managed to say, “He does?”
“Yeah. He saw me in the parking lot when he drove by Baby Utopia last weekend. “He — he asked me if I was okay, and he said he wants to hear all about the pregnancy and stuff when we have lunch.”
“Umm…” I couldn’t think of anything to say beyond this. What were Alex’s darker motives? I didn’t know. Did it have to do with some possessive, territorial thing a man channeled when he knew “his woman” had moved on?
As my sister stood still, the gears in her mind doubtless spinning faster to assimilate this late development, Jane offered her company in Di’s place.
Why must Mr. Evans’s motives be ominous? Jane inquired. Might he not simply wish to enjoy the liveliness of your sister’s company once more?
I snorted — internally, of course. He’s a GUY, I told Jane. His motives are to get laid, to be waited on or to find some alternate entertainment in post-football season. In that order. Real life doesn’t provide women with many Mr. Darcy types.
Your Mr. Farthington III had some elements of Darcy, Jane said.
Keyword: “Elements,” I retorted. Dammit. She always defended Tim to some extent, but I was pretty sure it was only because he’d gotten me that Peacock Edition of her book. Tim had Bingley manners and a Darcy family, it’s true. But he sure didn’t have Darcy’s strength of character or Bingley’s determination to commit to a woman in marriage —
Or your heart, Ellie. He did not have your heart either, Jane said. You did not give your soul to that man any more than he gave his to you.
This was not entirely untrue, but I really hadn’t planned on confessing it. It may well have been the reason why my breakup with Tim, while painful, wasn’t as ultimately devastating as it’d been with Andrei…or with Sam. Anyway, we’re not talking about Tim, we’re talking about Alex, I insisted.
Exactly, Jane said. They are two different men. Perhaps you ought not to judge one by the faults of the other. Most particularly when some blame with the former belongs to you.
I shrugged. Maybe I’d been a tiny bit emotionally, oh, careful with Tim, but he still refused to make a commitment to me. And he used the I-don’t-want-a-kid thing as an excuse, which was despicable.
Might you consider that your very detachment, which you term “carefulness,” may have added to young Mr. Farthington’s indecision?
What? So, you’re saying I should’ve acted more affectionately than I felt, especially at the end when I suspected he was lying to me? C’mon, Jane, I’m no Charlotte Lucas. Dammit. She was making me out to sound almost as mercenary as the Pride and Prejudice character who married odious Mr. Collins for a life of relative comfort. I didn’t appreciate the comparison.
True. But you DID wish to secure him. And you must admit that your desire for marriage was, perhaps, stronger than your desire for the man himself.
I don’t want to get married just to get married, I said, even though the loneliness was so strong sometimes and the temptation to settle overpowering. I want to be head-over-high-heels in love.
Then you will need to open your heart again to welcome that love, Ellie. When your relationship with Mr. Farthington ended, you opened your heart to the pain, but you have not, as yet, opened it to the possibility of joy.
I really hated it when Jane was right. “Okay,” I whispered aloud.
“What’s okay?” Di asked, her complexion still wan, but it looked like she’d recovered somewhat.
I’d nearly forgotten she was still standing there, but I said, “Us. We’re going to be okay. And if Alex does anything to upset you or the baby, Gregory and I will hunt down the creep and dislocate every one of his fingers. Slowly.”
She threw a pair of baby booties at me. “Glad to know you care, sis. And I might just take you up on that.”
Di didn’t share with me a detailed account of the luncheon with her ex-husband but, since she didn’t seem to want him lynched, it couldn’t have been too bad. If she was happy, I was happy.
Later that week I went out baby-shower shopping. And, no, not for my sister or for my cousin. It seemed every other female colleague I knew in the school district was going to have her first or third or fifth baby that summer and, since many of the showers were hosted in the school library, I was invited to them all.
As I sifted through racks filled with infant-sized sailor suits, jean skirts and sports jerseys, a voice from high school called out to me.
“Oh, my gosh — Ellie?”
I looked up, squealed and ran to give my old best friend a hug. “Terrie! What are you doing here? I thought you guys lived down in Texas now. You home for a visit?”
She grimaced and rocked the double stroller back and forth, where her four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter sat jabbering at each other. “Not exactly,” she said. Then, lowering her voice, “John and I got divorced in February.”
My heart clenched. “Oh, Terrie, I’m so sorry.”
Matt, her high-school love, had broken up with her after a year of college, and she’d eventually married a guy she met in grad school. I remembered going to her and John’s wedding — it’d been about eight years ago.
Terrie nodded. “Yeah, it sucks. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it’d been awhile since we’d talked and there’s only so much you can say in a Christmas card.”
“You don’t have to explain. It must’ve been a hard time.”
She gazed at her two talkative children then looked at me. “Still is. There was no way we could keep the house in Dallas, so the kids and I moved in with my parents for a while, just until I can get back on my feet.”
“What are you hoping to do?”
She sighed. “Don’t know yet. My teaching certificate is current in Texas, but not in Illinois, and I don’t know where it would be best for us to live. I do know I want to be back in the Midwest. I have full custody, so John can just fly up here when he wants to see the kids. I’m sick of being so far away from my side of the family.”
“We’ll have to get together then,” I said, making sure I conveyed the heartfelt sincerity of the offer as I scribbled down my cell-phone number and directions to my townhouse. “I don’t live that far away, Terrie, and good friendships are forever. You know that, right?”
She grinned. “Yeah. I know that.”
In the midst of a harsh Illinois winter, like, oh, when my relationship with Tim had been on its last legs, it sometimes felt as if summer would never come.
But it actually did.
Every year.
A tentative spring, complete with its frigid puddles of melted mush, would finally give way to a hot, mosquito-infested June, followed by an equally oppressive July and August. And consequently, I, an autumn-lover to the bone, was left to contemplate how to spend this noisy, sticky, backyard-barbeque-laden time between school years.
That particular summer I opted for something different. A trip. Overseas.
I think I’ll go to the Lakes, I told Jane, scanning the “Adventures in the United Kingdom” travel itineraries I’d downloaded off the Internet. All I need is a passport, my Visa card and you as my personal tour guide. What do you say?
Why do you wish to visit England? Jane inquired, using a sharp tone of voice.
Aside from an overwhelming desire to connect with my British heritage and honor my English ancestors? I laughed. Because of you, of course. I want to see all of your old haunts. Steventon. Oxford. Bath. Southampton. London. Chawton. The whole of Hampshire. And — I held up my local library’s copy of Guide to Great Britain, then said, from what I’ve been reading, there’s even a miniature drawing of you, sketched by your sister Cassandra, no less, in London’s Portrait Gallery. Gotta see that.
Hmm.
What? You don’t want to go?
I can go anytime, she replied tartly. The matter in question is whether I wish to go with YOU.
Oooh. Touché. I knew by now to laugh at her when she got like this. She tended to become a bit peevish if she suspected her privacy might be violated. Jane had a love-hate relationship with the whole fame thing.
And furthermore, she said, the Lakes are in Cumbria, which is a rather hardy distance from my own Hampshire, even with modern transport. You ought to consult a map before undertaking any grand travel schemes.
Noted, I said, reopening the guidebook. But you still haven’t answered my question. Do you want to come with me and be a part of the journey, or will you just hang around in a corner of my mind and maintain a stony silence?
There was a long pause. Why do you wish to go, Ellie? Apart from your newly professed interest in British culture, that is, and your surprisingly fervent curiosity about my life. What is the real reason for this venture?
The real reason. Oh, hell.
I took a deep breath. It’s kind of like this. I’m getting the message from the Universe that I’m out of synch with things. Important things. I want a soul mate for a husband. I want a baby or two. I want a sense of contentment in my life. And those just aren’t happening. So I figure, the problem is with me. That I’m missing some key component. Or, maybe, it’s there, but I’ve misplaced it for a while, and I need to rediscover it so I’ll be ready if that husband or baby ever comes along.
But why does this self quest require a trip to foreign lands?
Oh, c’mon. You used to walk a lot in Nature and visit seaside resorts. You know what it’s like to be outside, to clear your head, to see new sights. Being in a new place will give me a different perspective on my life.
Jane considered this. Travel does afford opportunities for fresh perceptions, she admitted.
Exactly! And you yourself are always telling me I have to learn to be openhearted again. I want to be that kind of candid, approachable woman. Someone who’s at peace with herself. Who knows her own worth despite past hurts.
A laudable ambition, she said.
Then, if I ever run into the Perfect Guy, at McDonald’s or Target or somewhere, I’ll be — I hesitated, unable to think of quite the right word.
The Perfect Lady? Jane suggested.
I shrugged. Maybe not perfect, I doubt I could manage that, but hopefully less screwed up than I am now. I paused. Is that still a laudable ambition?
She chuckled in her ever-so-slight British manner. Perhaps. You seek to attain Wisdom, which I have always felt to be better than even Wit. In the long run, it will certainly have the laugh on its side.
Well said, as usual. You’ll join me, then?
Yes, Jane replied, her voice unusually thoughtful. I suppose someone must chaperone and, as this involves you, it had best be me.
Chapter 13
The distance is nothing when one has a motive.
— Pride and Prejudice
So, we flew out of Chicago’s O’Hare, en route to England, three weeks after school let out. Jane chattered on about the indignities incurred by modern travelers despite the great advancements in speed. I murmured in agreement, but mostly I studied the Mr. Collins–like guy, down my airplane row, two seats away, and watched as he pestered the woman across the aisle from him. Typical.
There were only so many kinds of men in this world. They could be grouped or regrouped, and recognition of their Male Type could make it easier to contend with their respective deceptions. I’d decided on Seven Types. Jane, too, had laid out her groupings clearly but, as in the world of Pride and Prejudice, she’d done it by name:
There were the Bingleys, like Jason and Tim.
The Collins types, like the obnoxious guy down the row.
Wickhams, like Brent and Sam and about half the guys I’d dated once or twice before I gained the wisdom to avoid them altogether.
Colonel Fitzwilliams, like Dominic, although I had to admit this comparison didn’t entirely ring true. While the Colonel knew he had to marry for material concerns, he wasn’t a blatant user of women like Dominic had been.
Which meant…what? That Dominic was also part Wickham? I considered this for a moment then allowed myself a pass on analyzing him further. Dominic was a strange enough guy to straddle two categories.
But then I thought about Mark. Was he a true Bingley? I cringed trying to stuff him into that box. Time proved he didn’t fit any category with ease and he was, after all, still my good friend, despite the lying-to-me-about-being-gay thing. So, okay, another exception.
But what about Andrei? I sighed. Trying to pigeonhole him always gave me a headache. He wasn’t any easier to classify than Dominic or Mark. Not a Bingley. Not a Wickham, except in his insatiable sex drive. Darcy-like only in bearing, which wasn’t enough to qualify him there, any more than Tim’s family money qualified him as a Darcy.
Damn. Where were the true Darcys? And why didn’t I have one anywhere in my life?
My thoughts returned to Sam because, though he’d behaved abominably in high school, he hadn’t turned out to be quite so contemptible later in life. Could I still rate him as a pure Wickham? I decided, no, I couldn’t, even if Jane could…but where else would he fit?
I squeezed my eyes shut. This wasn’t working, but maybe if I ate some airline peanuts, drank some airline orange juice and thought about it for longer, I’d puzzle it all out.
By the time we’d landed in London’s Heathrow, I’d reached a point of near despair. For years I’d clutched at my well-tooled categories of men like the self-preservation tactics they were, but I was now convinced I’d have to let them go. Eight solid hours of thinking had shown me that such stereotyping was a lie that worked well enough in fiction, but it failed to capture the essence of a real man. None of those guys, upon serious reflection, could be stamped with a quick and easy label.
Jane, who’d decided somewhere over the Atlantic to join in the debate, disagreed.
Perhaps not ALL men are so simple as to be confined to merely one type of disposition, she said. But I do believe astute observation and the employment of rational thinking points toward categorization rather than away from it. One good viewing ought to be sufficient to draw a man’s character, if one is not swayed by personal prejudice.
I considered where, exactly, my personal prejudices might have influenced my perceptions of my ex-boyfriends. I’m not with you on this, I told her. Yeah, I could get a general sense of the temperaments of these men almost immediately, but I’ve been wrong on the details too many times for it to be a simple oversight based on presumption. Humans are complicated, Jane. Really complicated. And I’ve made mistakes because I’ve repe
atedly chosen not to see that.
She laughed. It is more likely a result of the philosophy you persist in holding dear. Romanticism encourages an abandonment of restraint and, as you’ve so often wished to fall in love without regard to rationality, this invites the absurd. Your mistakes in judgment are not due to the complexity of humanity, Ellie. They are due to the lens with which you view love.
You mean, I need to challenge the fairy tale and not the man?
Precisely, she said.
Maybe she was right — she so often was — or maybe she was gravely in the wrong. I no longer knew the truth. But I had voyaged thousands of miles to England for an adventure, and I intended to enjoy it. The time had come for me to open my eyes to new wonders, and to hope my heart would soon follow.
We started by sightseeing through London, then hopping a southwest-bound train to Hampshire county. Jane’s old stomping grounds.
Lovely the way they have preserved it, Jane said of Chawton House, the seventeenth-century red-brick cottage in which she spent her final earthly years.
Yes, I said, wandering around the garden brambles out front and enjoying the sunshine and greenery. Thank goodness for historical societies.
She sighed. Of course the spirit of the building is not the same, for Cassandra is not here. But, alas, she has her own pursuits in the afterlife to attend to…and her own lessons.
You and your sister were really close, weren’t you?
She was my greatest friend and companion, Jane said with feeling.
I nodded. Di and I aren’t quite like that, as you’re well aware, but I’m glad we’ve become closer in recent years. Your encouragement helped. I thought of my sister’s changing body with a grin. I can’t believe she’s going to be a mom in a few months.
Yes, Jane said. She will rely on you this fall, to be sure.
Maybe. Unless she hooks up with another man before I get back. I laughed. With Di there’s always that possibility.
Jane didn’t comment, but I sensed she didn’t believe me. She and her sister had possessed hearts more steadfast in the face of romantic adversity than Di’s or mine.
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