Chapter 7
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
Elizabeth looked around her parents’ living room. Though seemingly half-asleep, her father was mouthing the dialogue mumbled by a drunken Humphrey Bogart. She’d seen “Casablanca” so many times, and her stomach was so full of green-bean casserole, leftover roast beef, and banana cream pie that she could barely move, let alone focus on the screen. No matter how much walking or cross-country skiing she had managed to fit in, three days at home had left her feeling like a mindless blob.
She had the same feeling as Bogart. How, in a city as big and populated as New York, had she managed to crash into somebody who worked at Darcy’s bank?
According to the business card he handed her, the man behind the snowshoes was Robert Fitzwilliam, Senior Investment Analyst, Pemberley Funds. He had expressed bemused shock over her tumble at Patagonia and made a fuss over her spilled Barnes & Noble bag. Unfortunately, Mr. Nosy Pants also had chuckled at the titles he picked up from the floor.
“Manga? A graphic novel?”
“My sister.”
He had said nothing, but had raised his eyebrows when he glimpsed the words “Fifty Shades”… and “Full Service: My Adventures in Hollywood” on the other scattered books. “Oh my.”
She had raised one eyebrow and stared at him. “My aunt and my mother.”
Slightly abashed but still grinning, he had taken a step toward the counter, and bought Elizabeth an earth-friendly canvas Patagonia shopping bag for her book purchases. He’d wanted to buy her a drink too, but he had gracefully accepted her demurrals and pressed his card in her hand. “Call me. Or text. Whenever you’re back, but soon.”
Not a chance. He was cute, but in a taut, almost military way. And he was way too forward in his flirtiness. He reminded her a bit of Charles, with less charm though with the same breezy banter. Sure didn’t seem like a typical buttoned-down banker. Maybe he loosened up around the holidays. He was way too cheery for her, but she thought she might hold onto his card in case anything happened to Jane and Charles. He might be a good rebound guy for her sister. Not that there seemed like there was any danger of needing it.
“I wish Charles was here. He loves this movie,” Jane sighed.
Elizabeth glanced at her sister, so beloved yet so annoyingly schizophrenic over the long holiday. If she wasn’t mooning over missing her boyfriend, she was manic when he called. Quite often, she was taking full advantage of the chance to cook in a large kitchen with more than four feet of counter space, and buzzed about overseeing cookie- and gravy-making.
Katie had abdicated all meat-related responsibilities since announcing after Thanksgiving dinner that she had become a vegetarian. Or maybe a vegan. Now, a month later, she still hadn’t worked it out. So Elizabeth had made her peel extra potatoes and carrots, and throw in another sheet of crescent rolls; if her youngest sister wasn’t going to eat roast beef, she would have to supplement with vegetables and starches.
“Mary Kay Bennet, you will be the death of me!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice cut through the darkened, sleepy living room. “Thomas, remind your daughter that a mud room is for snow and ice and everything else she drags in on those hideous hiking boots.”
Elizabeth watched her muscular, GoreTex-clad sister stride in the room. Mary didn’t take @#$%& from anyone and kept her visits home from grad school to a minimum. “Hey mom, it’s a screen porch, not a mud room. And it’s filled with so much of Katie’s petting zoo that the slush I drag in really shouldn’t be an issue.”
“Leave your sister out of this, she’s doing God’s work,” her mother retorted.
Says the twice-a-year churchgoer, Elizabeth mused, biting back a snort.
The room fell silent when Tom Bennet hit the pause button. “I believe you are referring to the work of Saint Francis of Assisi, my dear. Now,” he continued, leveling an even stare at his wife, “how about we see if we can get through this classic tale of an alien invasion and how it thwarts true love’s arrow, shall we?”
“Dad, we’re watching ‘Casablanca,’” Jane mumbled.
He clicked the play button, prompting his wife to stalk off. “Katharine Ross Bennet! There is dog poop on the porch floor! Get the scooper!”
The next two days proceeded at the usual pace. Mrs. Bennet was happy her eldest daughter was home and carrying with her the blush of love. She had but one worry. “Jane, you won’t hyphenate, will you? It’s just such a mouthful and you have such a beautiful name.”
The four Bennet girls all had looked at one another and rolled their eyes. Jane Seymour Bennet-Bingley sounds awfully cool to me, Elizabeth thought.
***
“Lizzy, you have to come!” Jane stood in the bedroom, her arms crossed and her voice that potent combination of whining, cajoling and seriousness that usually won an argument. She was not about to let her little sister off the hook on New Year’s Eve.
Elizabeth, sitting in the middle of the bed, necklaces and bracelets strewn about her, kept her head bent. “Janey, I promised to work the hotline. You know how tough the holidays are for people, and New Year’s Eve is the worst.”
Silence. And then Elizabeth heard it, the soft but insistent tapping of her sister’s slipper-clad foot. She looked up.
“Lizzy, you’ll say the exact same thing on Valentine’s Day. And Mother’s Day,” Jane chided. “I know you want to help, but you don’t need to be there all night.
“Come for a few hours, then go help.”
Elizabeth’s eyes swept over her sister, resplendent in a sparkly, deep green dress. She held out her hand. “Here, wear the onyx earrings and necklace. A bit of drama.”
“You are my drama, Elizabeth Bennet. Now get off that bed and get dressed. I know for a fact that you signed up for the 11 till 3 a.m. shift.” Jane took the jewelry and turned to the mirror. “I do read the kitchen calendar, you know. Now go pull out that silvery dress. I’ll find you some jewelry.”
Sigh. At least she didn’t start in on…
“You’ll never meet anyone if you burrow away in your office all the time. All your patients did fine while we were gone.”
Unlike your Mr. Elliot…. Jane had had a slew of voicemails from her thrice-weekly patient while they had been in Meryton, disgruntled by her absence and the imposition of a fill-in physical therapist.
As it turned out, sprucing herself up to rub elbows with a bunch of equally stylish New Yorkers was a pretty good idea. Elizabeth was finding amusement everywhere she looked in Charles’ loft, which was as fabulous and whimsical as the man himself. The walls were covered with vintage movie posters and old commercial advertising art. Tin toys perched on tables below sparkly festive lights. The furniture was leather and chrome. The food was plentiful, the drinks were flowing, and although Elizabeth limited herself to only one cup of Charles’ bubbly festive punch, she was having a good time without the need for bottled spirits. So much the better to see how the other half lives, she thought. And they live pretty well.
She found herself in conversation with a couple of good-looking men, but Paul, the sports agent, exuded an overload of smarminess, and Mark, the account executive, talked a little too fast and made pop culture references she didn’t recognize. Seriously, `80s sitcom lunchboxes? I wish Charlotte was here to do running commentary. Elizabeth had declined an invitation to the celebration her best friend was planning with Willa and a big crowd in Tribeca, citing the traffic logistics of getting to the hotline center in Columbus Circle. Partying at Charles’ Upper West Side loft wouldn’t require traversing the nightmare that was Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Now, the last of her foamy drink still in hand and free of chatty men and fetching women in tiny dresses, she was studying the titles of Charles’ vast DVD collection. The slim bookcases were nearly full.
“You know,” said a quiet, deep voice behind her. “they’re obsolete. Charles has Hulu, Netflix and Apple TV. I bet he’d give you a good deal if you want to buy any titles.”
Elizabeth whirled to her left, spilling a bit of her punch. Sweater Boy wears sweater vests too? Seriously?
“Hello,” she said in response to his unusual greeting. A small smile emerged and erased Darcy’s standard brooding mien.
“What makes you think I still have a DVD player?” Elizabeth asked.
William Darcy stood before her, his mouth moving but no words coming out. He held a drink in one hand while the other was performing some kind of torturous origami on a napkin.
“Are we playing charades? I’ll go with `Finding Nemo,’” Elizabeth said.
Darcy glanced at the wall of DVDs and then back to her. He smiled sheepishly. “Georgie’s right. I’d never make it at stand-up.”
Elizabeth eyed him, her eyes drawn to a wet spot on his vest. Crap! Is that foam? My drink! I splashed his freaking sweater.
“Well, if you want, Jane could probably check to see if you have a functioning funny bone.” OK, walk away. He’ll never know I did it.
His smile grew wider. “Ah, right. Did she discover her talents in physical therapy through her success in playing Operation?”
“Maybe. Did you figure out your talents in banking by playing Connect Four?”
The sheepish smile returned. “Sure, if banking was just stacking money in even rows.” His eyes grew serious. “But there’s a lot more involved.”
“Ah, big and important stuff?” Insufferable man.
Darcy nodded solemnly. “Stuff.”
“Ah, now that’s a serious banker word.” Shut up and clean his sweater.
Nodding quickly, Elizabeth set down her glass, reached out and pulled the napkin out of his hand. She unfolded it and began dabbing the foam off the vest. Geez, how big is his sweater budget? I bet Caroline would have licked it off. She avoided looking at him as she made her apologies.
“Elizabeth, it’s okay. It’s just a little bit. I hadn’t noticed.”
She looked up at him. “It’s cashmere. But I think I can save it.” She felt like an idiot and took a step back.
“So, Charles has a great place here. It’s really different from yours. Young and fun.” She cringed. Make that a really big idiot. Now I insult him?
Darcy nodded and swept his eyes around the big, open space. “True. It’s very him, a perfect bachelor pad. I like hanging out here.”
He turned back to gaze at her. He has the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re almost black. Elizabeth leaned her shoulder against the bookcase. “Well, your place is spectacular. And you have books,” she added, gesturing at the DVDs. “And those never go out of style.”
“Or become obsolete,” he replied.
They spent the next few minutes discussing the New York Times’ annual best books list. She expressed surprised to learn how many books he had read in the past year.
“Not so much the last month or two,” Darcy replied. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pen and began clicking the end as he spoke. Click. “But when Georgie…when she was in the hospital last spring and then came home and couldn’t go out easily, we both read a lot. Caught up on movies.” Click.
“She couldn’t go back to school?”
He shook his head. Click. “She had a home tutor. Her school is very much a vertical New York building. Staircases and rather small elevators that don’t reach every floor.” Click.
“No ramps?”
“Not then.” Click. “There are now.”
Elizabeth was on the verge of either grabbing away the stupid pen or asking for the details of that enigmatic answer when she felt her phone buzzing.
“Excuse me a second.” She pulled out her phone and looked at the screen.
"Can you get here ASAP? One of the volunteers showed up drunk and another one is late."
She texted back a confirmation and looked up. “Sorry. I have to go.”
He looked confused, maybe a little disappointed. “Another party to go to?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “Yeah, something like that. I have to go change and find a cab to Columbus Circle.” She began to walk past him. “Jane put my bag in Charles’ bedroom. Do you know where it is?”
He led her down a short hallway to a gray and black bedroom. She combed through the coats on the bed and found her bag and jacket. Her eyes alit on the brightest thing in the room. “Charles has a Rietveld chair?”
She looked at him closely. “Did you make that one too?”
Darcy nodded. Was he blushing?
“He wouldn’t stop talking about mine, so he came out to my workshop and we made this one together. Georgie painted it.” His eyes were boring through her. “We finished it just before Christmas.”
“You have a workshop in your apartment? I know it’s big, but….”
“Er, no. At my, at our house.”
Which is somewhere else, some sprawling estate. Okaaay.
Much to her relief, the bathroom door opened and a sloppily drunken man wandered out. “Darcy! Talk to me, man! The Fed has gone bonkers. What the hell is going on with interest rates?”
Ha! Stuff!
Elizabeth slipped into the bathroom, relieved to escape her visit to Money World. She and her sisters had never gone hungry or wanted for anything they needed, but they never had everything they desired, either. No $39 Barbie cars for their dolls, or $400 Barbie jeeps for them. No Sweet 16 parties or new cars. But they were comfortable. It was when they had left the family home that financial reality has kicked in and tuition payments and student loans and work-study programs had become the hub of their educational wheel. Investment banking had made sense then; she was good at math and making money as a byproduct of her skill with numbers had seemed like a great idea. She had earned herself a scholarship or two and had risen quickly to the top of her class, earning the esteem of her professors and the eye of Wall Street recruiters. Tonight, that constant refrain kicked in again. What was I thinking?
She heard the men’s voices fade away and some high-pitched chatter begin.
“Caroline, who was that woman with William?”
Elizabeth froze. She pulled her turtleneck down over her head and thrust her arms through the sleeves. And she waited.
“Oh my god, you saw her?” Though she’d spent only one other evening with Caroline, those affected nasally tones were unmistakable.
“She’s just some tattooed hospice worker stalking him.”
You bloody cow!
There was a gasp, then a giggle from the unknown partygoer. “That man just can’t get a break, can he?”
Enraged, Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath. She buttoned her jeans, shoved her feet into her Uggs, and picked up her bag.
The doorknob rattled. “Hurry up in there! We have an emergency!”
Elizabeth yanked the door open and glared at a garishly clad Caroline and her friend. Aquamarine and liquid gold spandex?
“Really, Caroline? An emergency? I don’t think this `hospice worker’ can help you with that fashion disaster.” She stalked past the shocked women and turned around. “By the way, Caro, I’m so glad your brother and my sister are dating.”
Slamming the bedroom door behind her, Elizabeth turned and bumped into a startled Will Darcy. “Did you hear that?” she demanded.
He nodded, grimacing. “She--, Caroline has never been good at—.”
“Sharing? Competing? Running with scissors?” She paused and took a breath. “Sorry, I have to go.”
“Wait. My car is here, I’ll take you.”
“Really? But it’s only 10. On New Year’s Eve.”
“Trust me, I’ve had enough.” He looked at her and saw the hesitation in her eyes. “You’ll never get a cab. Everybody is heading to Times Square.”
She started to protest. Being in a car with him on New Year’s Eve was a bad idea.
“All right.” Wrinkling her forehead, she gazed up at him. “But, if we’re seen…Are you worried about gossip? Or paparazzi?”
His eyes flashed and then narrowed. He put his hand on her arm. “No one here is going to talk. I’ll leave now. You say your goodbyes. I’ll be in the blue Mercedes at the front entrance.”
Twenty minutes later she walked through the front doors at the Columbus Circle Samaritan Center. Of course. Of course, his car has a driver who drives it. So we can sit in the back seat and look out the windows and say nothing. Well, he did check to make sure I had a ride home later.
She couldn’t figure him out. He’s hot and cold. I hear he’s a cold fish, then I hear he’s hot and creepy.
She sighed and punched the elevator button.
I need to talk to Jane. And Charlotte.
As she walked into the solemn but busy call room, she glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. She hadn’t asked if he was heading home or somewhere else. Not all of us get a kiss at midnight. But with him, you never know.
~~*~~*~~
William Darcy was too methodical to lose things. Every board game in his apartment had all its parts, every sock was paired with its mate, every book was on the shelf in alphabetical order by author’s last name. Not everyone was so careful. He looked at the red leather pump on the coffee table. He’d found it on the floormat of his car when he got home an hour earlier. Three-inch heels. How do women walk in those things?
Sinking back into the leather sofa, Will leaned his head back and rested a glass of scotch on his knee. His mind drifted back over the past few hours. How did he get to this point? A week of holiday activities with their small family, including a very long three days with his Aunt Catherine, Anne, Robin and the Fitzwilliams in Connecticut, and a 20-minute conversation and a short car ride with Elizabeth Bennet was all he could think about.
Christmas morning had been fun. The “Fifty Shades of Gray” trilogy his Aunt Catherine had received from “Santa” prompted furious embarrassment from the spindly 60-something; after she and the book had both vacated the room, Robin had told the rest of the family that he was inspired to buy it after he had bumped into a hottie who’d bought it “for her aunt.” He cocked an eyebrow and leered at Will. “Or so she said….”
They’d gone snowshoeing and sledding. He and Robin played a little hockey on the pond. His uncle beat them all at poker. And the high point of the holiday season, aside from all the laughter he heard from Georgie, was 20 minutes spent talking about books with a woman who made fun of him? No. The high point was talking to a beautiful woman who looked amazing in a silvery black dress and who cleaned off his sweater. What was it with her and his sweaters? He smiled. Cashmere Girl.
Kashmir. He leaned over and picked up the remote control for his iPod speakers. The heavy strains of Led Zeppelin soon pulsed through the room. I need to take her the shoe. When was she getting off duty? She had said she didn’t need a ride. Seemed like she had someone picking her up.
Darcy rubbed his eyes and yawned. He had been glad to find out she wasn’t heading to another New Year’s Eve party. Ruefully, he realized he was caring a little more about the welfare of Charles’ girlfriend’s sister than he should be. She thought he had a stupid job, and probably thought he was a stuffed shirt, but she wasn’t hostile to him anymore. Not like that first night. Or the second. Hmmm, they didn’t play well together in restaurants, but they seemed okay other places. If a couple of nice smiles counted. He’d wanted to hold her wrist tonight and look closely at her tattoo; it wasn’t like one he’d ever seen before. It was delicate, almost beautiful. When their friend said they all had the tattoo, but some of them had more, did she mean Elizabeth? Or Jane? He could ask Charles. No, bad idea.
It felt liberating to crank up music and enjoy the solitude. Georgie was with Anne and some friends at the DeBourgh’s Palm Beach spread. It was the first real trip she’d taken since the accident, and from her earlier call, the plane ride had gone just fine. By April, she’d be ready for the eight-hour flight to Hawaii, and maybe even the surfing lessons Robin had promised. A spring break trip would be a great way to celebrate the arrival of all those anticipated college acceptance letters and mull her decision. Georgie hadn’t applied for early decision at her dream schools; she wanted to include her fall transcripts now that she was back in school full-time. He didn’t even know the names of her dream schools. “Outside of the city,” was her cryptic description of those mysterious institutions.
Women are so secretive. Darcy looked at Elizabeth’s shoe. Her feet are so small. I have to get it to her. He closed his eyes and slipped into sleep.
When he woke in the wee hours, the shoe was on the floor. Blearily, he looked at his watch. Three a.m. He got up and stumbled down the hall to his bedroom.
New Year’s Day dawned brightly. Darcy woke up late, at 9. Coffee sounded really good, so he readied the machine and checked his phone for messages. He’d half expected one from Elizabeth about her shoe, until he realized they had never exchanged numbers. There was one from Charles, hollering Happy New Year and expressing regret Darcy had left early. “Lizzy left too? Were you with her? Me and Jane are going skating today! I love her, Darce…”
He rolled his eyes. He started to text Charles to get Elizabeth’s number, but decided to leave his message to a terse, "Have fun, call if you can." Charles was notorious for misplacing things, and from previous experience, Will knew Caroline might be checking his calls and messages.
After coffee and a granola bar, he got ready for a run around the Central Park reservoir. The crisp air pushed thoughts of the previous night out of his head and kept his mind focused on the path ahead.
A couple of hours later, Robin arrived with six-packs of Grolsch and Stella Artois beer and a hearty appetite for whatever dishes Mrs. Reynolds had prepared for the two men.
Robin filled him in on his morning conversation with Georgie. “I woke them up! Can you believe it? Those giddy girls were still in bed at 11 a.m.!”
Images of Georgie’s best angry face cross his mind, and Darcy shook his head in mild admonishment. His cousin, two inches shorter and never holding still, looked past him at the kitchen table. “That doesn’t look like food. Are you working?”
Darcy quickly strode over to the table and folded up his paperwork. He was relieved he’d put Elizabeth’s shoe in his briefcase, where it was safe from his cousin’s radar.
“Blueprints? Another chair? Some mystery gift for Georgie?”
Darcy smiled. “Something like that.”
“Strangest hobby. You need to find something else to do with your hands.” Robin rolled his eyes and pulled open the refrigerator doors. “So what do we have here? White chicken chili…beef tamale casserole…pulled pork…? Wow. Get that in the crockpot.” He pulled out the plastic container and whirled around. “You do have a crockpot, right?”
As the food simmered, they watched the first football game of the day and Robin chattered on about his upcoming climbing trip to Malta. Will’s mindset was more work-focused. Other than Christmas day itself, over the holiday week, he’d spent at least two or three hours a day on the phone to Zurich and London, looking over due diligence files on pending mergers deals, and comparing profit and loss statements. A couple of the proposed deals concerned him.
“I want to talk to you tomorrow about Delteon,” he told Robin. “I have some questions and some numbers I need to clarify. How many copper mines can one battery conglomerate buy?”
Robin launched into an arcane and detailed explanation of the deal, which ended only when Darcy raised his hand and begged for a reprieve until they could meet in the office in the next day.
It wasn’t until both men were on a second plate of food and a second (or third) beer that Robin asked his low-key cousin about his New Year’s Eve. “I heard from Georgie that you were home early. What’s up?”
Will told him about the evening, which led to more questions and gradually—and not quite unwillingly—he related the entire tale of Elizabeth Bennet and how he had met her.
“This is the girl, the one that the papers caught you with in November?”
“Yes.”
“You like this girl. Buy her dinner. Take her home. Let off some steam.”
A coughing fit halted Darcy’s response.
“Take a drink, Darce. And don’t get all bent of shape. It’s been a long time for you.”
There are five tines on a fork, Will noticed. When did someone decide five instead of six? Did they test for stabbing strength or mouth-fit?
“Earth to Darcy.”
He looked up and stared at the TV screen. God, I hate the Cowboys. C’mon Jets.
“It’s not like that,” he replied. “She’s Charles girlfriend’s sister and it’s pretty complicated.” Darcy looked back down at his fork.
“But you like her. She might like you.” Robin lowered his voice, speaking in a serious tone. “Will, does she know about you? About that, that woman? All the crap that was published?”
His eyes closed. He didn’t want to think about this, let alone talk about it. “Um, some of it, probably. I don’t know.” Like that’s a conversation I’m likely to start.
“Well, she doesn’t sound like the kind of woman to read tabloids or watch TMZ or that crap. But after that picture of the two of you on Page Six of the Post? You might want to talk to her about it.”
I know I need to talk to her. Stifling a rueful chuckle, Will commented, “Good to know that it only takes three beers for my allergic-to-commitment cousin to turn into a therapist.
“And just so you know, I apologized for being a jerk at that dinner,” he added.
Strangely intuitive to his cousin’s discomfort, Robin pulled another beer out of the ice bucket, popped the top and handed it to his cousin. “Hey, thanks to Bingley and her sister, you’re already spending time together…. Something will happen.” He grabbed another beer for himself. “And if she knows about the crap you went through, she’ll feel sympathetic. You might get lucky.”
The roar from the TV drew their attention. “Dammit, seriously? Another interception?” Robin yelled. “I hate the Cowboys."
“God, Robin. How pathetic do you think I am?”
“Chill out, Darce. Think about it.” Robin pointed his bottle at Will. “Your life is straight out of Dickens. Rich orphan raising his sister, building his own furniture, failing at relationships and getting screwed over by his girlfriend, and denigrated in the press.”
Robin paused and smiled impishly at his stunned cousin. “Yup, sounds like perfect fodder for a social worker to fix up into the perfect boyfriend.”
God, I am that pathetic.
“Don’t worry, Darce.” Robin tapped his half-empty bottle against his cousin’s nearly full one. “I have great expectations for you.”
~~*~~*~~
After Jane’s return home--again with sore ankles--from ice skating with Charles at Rockefeller Center, the sisters snuggled on the couch. A veritable feast of finger foods sat before them, the plates slowly emptying over the hours as they clicked away the first day of the year. It was “marathon day” on every channel.
Elizabeth successfully fought off Jane’s insistence on watching a third episode of “Sex in the City,” but had to cede to her pleading and sit through a Tori Spelling movie on Lifetime.
When it ended—and Elizabeth was a bit embarrassed to admit that some trash was fun—she got up to clear a few plates and use the bathroom. “Jane, don’t touch that remote! It’s my pick! I’ll be right back!”
“I’m just playing while you’re gone, Lizzy.”
When she emerged from the bathroom, she heard a familiar announcer’s voice. “Next on our countdown of New York’s Top Sex Scandals of the year, it’s Number 7: Socialite Cheats on Hot Banker and Tells All!” By the time Elizabeth walked into the living room. Jane had turned down the volume and was watching the story unfold, a look of horrified disgust on her face. Elizabeth quietly walked over and sat down next to her. “…and he was just a big stiff. Always on his computer, probably watching porn because he never wanted the real thing.”
Elizabeth grabbed the remote and clicked off the television. She didn’t move, just bit her lip and stared at the black screen.
Jane sank into the sofa, a trembling sigh emerging before she blurted out, “Vultures.”
Elizabeth’s head spun around. “Jane?”
“His girlfriend cheats on him and then she goes out and spreads these lies and everybody talks about him and laughs about it.”
Jane turned to face Elizabeth. She looked like she might cry. “Do you know why PTs and doctors and dentists and hairdressers put out all those gossip rags and tabloids? Because people relate to that crap about movie stars and reality bozos. We can make small talk about it.”
All Elizabeth could picture was Darcy smiling at his sister, or insisting he’d drive her to the call center, or staring at her while she climbed out of his car.
“Your patients talk about him?”
Jane, the strawberry-blonde vision of all that sweet and light, gave Elizabeth a piercing look. “Of course. He’s Mr. Wall Street. All the better to tear down the one-percenters and make fun of them.”
Elizabeth blanched. “The rich aren’t like you and me,” she whispered.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
Elizabeth looked around her parents’ living room. Though seemingly half-asleep, her father was mouthing the dialogue mumbled by a drunken Humphrey Bogart. She’d seen “Casablanca” so many times, and her stomach was so full of green-bean casserole, leftover roast beef, and banana cream pie that she could barely move, let alone focus on the screen. No matter how much walking or cross-country skiing she had managed to fit in, three days at home had left her feeling like a mindless blob.
She had the same feeling as Bogart. How, in a city as big and populated as New York, had she managed to crash into somebody who worked at Darcy’s bank?
According to the business card he handed her, the man behind the snowshoes was Robert Fitzwilliam, Senior Investment Analyst, Pemberley Funds. He had expressed bemused shock over her tumble at Patagonia and made a fuss over her spilled Barnes & Noble bag. Unfortunately, Mr. Nosy Pants also had chuckled at the titles he picked up from the floor.
“Manga? A graphic novel?”
“My sister.”
He had said nothing, but had raised his eyebrows when he glimpsed the words “Fifty Shades”… and “Full Service: My Adventures in Hollywood” on the other scattered books. “Oh my.”
She had raised one eyebrow and stared at him. “My aunt and my mother.”
Slightly abashed but still grinning, he had taken a step toward the counter, and bought Elizabeth an earth-friendly canvas Patagonia shopping bag for her book purchases. He’d wanted to buy her a drink too, but he had gracefully accepted her demurrals and pressed his card in her hand. “Call me. Or text. Whenever you’re back, but soon.”
Not a chance. He was cute, but in a taut, almost military way. And he was way too forward in his flirtiness. He reminded her a bit of Charles, with less charm though with the same breezy banter. Sure didn’t seem like a typical buttoned-down banker. Maybe he loosened up around the holidays. He was way too cheery for her, but she thought she might hold onto his card in case anything happened to Jane and Charles. He might be a good rebound guy for her sister. Not that there seemed like there was any danger of needing it.
“I wish Charles was here. He loves this movie,” Jane sighed.
Elizabeth glanced at her sister, so beloved yet so annoyingly schizophrenic over the long holiday. If she wasn’t mooning over missing her boyfriend, she was manic when he called. Quite often, she was taking full advantage of the chance to cook in a large kitchen with more than four feet of counter space, and buzzed about overseeing cookie- and gravy-making.
Katie had abdicated all meat-related responsibilities since announcing after Thanksgiving dinner that she had become a vegetarian. Or maybe a vegan. Now, a month later, she still hadn’t worked it out. So Elizabeth had made her peel extra potatoes and carrots, and throw in another sheet of crescent rolls; if her youngest sister wasn’t going to eat roast beef, she would have to supplement with vegetables and starches.
“Mary Kay Bennet, you will be the death of me!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice cut through the darkened, sleepy living room. “Thomas, remind your daughter that a mud room is for snow and ice and everything else she drags in on those hideous hiking boots.”
Elizabeth watched her muscular, GoreTex-clad sister stride in the room. Mary didn’t take @#$%& from anyone and kept her visits home from grad school to a minimum. “Hey mom, it’s a screen porch, not a mud room. And it’s filled with so much of Katie’s petting zoo that the slush I drag in really shouldn’t be an issue.”
“Leave your sister out of this, she’s doing God’s work,” her mother retorted.
Says the twice-a-year churchgoer, Elizabeth mused, biting back a snort.
The room fell silent when Tom Bennet hit the pause button. “I believe you are referring to the work of Saint Francis of Assisi, my dear. Now,” he continued, leveling an even stare at his wife, “how about we see if we can get through this classic tale of an alien invasion and how it thwarts true love’s arrow, shall we?”
“Dad, we’re watching ‘Casablanca,’” Jane mumbled.
He clicked the play button, prompting his wife to stalk off. “Katharine Ross Bennet! There is dog poop on the porch floor! Get the scooper!”
The next two days proceeded at the usual pace. Mrs. Bennet was happy her eldest daughter was home and carrying with her the blush of love. She had but one worry. “Jane, you won’t hyphenate, will you? It’s just such a mouthful and you have such a beautiful name.”
The four Bennet girls all had looked at one another and rolled their eyes. Jane Seymour Bennet-Bingley sounds awfully cool to me, Elizabeth thought.
***
“Lizzy, you have to come!” Jane stood in the bedroom, her arms crossed and her voice that potent combination of whining, cajoling and seriousness that usually won an argument. She was not about to let her little sister off the hook on New Year’s Eve.
Elizabeth, sitting in the middle of the bed, necklaces and bracelets strewn about her, kept her head bent. “Janey, I promised to work the hotline. You know how tough the holidays are for people, and New Year’s Eve is the worst.”
Silence. And then Elizabeth heard it, the soft but insistent tapping of her sister’s slipper-clad foot. She looked up.
“Lizzy, you’ll say the exact same thing on Valentine’s Day. And Mother’s Day,” Jane chided. “I know you want to help, but you don’t need to be there all night.
“Come for a few hours, then go help.”
Elizabeth’s eyes swept over her sister, resplendent in a sparkly, deep green dress. She held out her hand. “Here, wear the onyx earrings and necklace. A bit of drama.”
“You are my drama, Elizabeth Bennet. Now get off that bed and get dressed. I know for a fact that you signed up for the 11 till 3 a.m. shift.” Jane took the jewelry and turned to the mirror. “I do read the kitchen calendar, you know. Now go pull out that silvery dress. I’ll find you some jewelry.”
Sigh. At least she didn’t start in on…
“You’ll never meet anyone if you burrow away in your office all the time. All your patients did fine while we were gone.”
Unlike your Mr. Elliot…. Jane had had a slew of voicemails from her thrice-weekly patient while they had been in Meryton, disgruntled by her absence and the imposition of a fill-in physical therapist.
As it turned out, sprucing herself up to rub elbows with a bunch of equally stylish New Yorkers was a pretty good idea. Elizabeth was finding amusement everywhere she looked in Charles’ loft, which was as fabulous and whimsical as the man himself. The walls were covered with vintage movie posters and old commercial advertising art. Tin toys perched on tables below sparkly festive lights. The furniture was leather and chrome. The food was plentiful, the drinks were flowing, and although Elizabeth limited herself to only one cup of Charles’ bubbly festive punch, she was having a good time without the need for bottled spirits. So much the better to see how the other half lives, she thought. And they live pretty well.
She found herself in conversation with a couple of good-looking men, but Paul, the sports agent, exuded an overload of smarminess, and Mark, the account executive, talked a little too fast and made pop culture references she didn’t recognize. Seriously, `80s sitcom lunchboxes? I wish Charlotte was here to do running commentary. Elizabeth had declined an invitation to the celebration her best friend was planning with Willa and a big crowd in Tribeca, citing the traffic logistics of getting to the hotline center in Columbus Circle. Partying at Charles’ Upper West Side loft wouldn’t require traversing the nightmare that was Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Now, the last of her foamy drink still in hand and free of chatty men and fetching women in tiny dresses, she was studying the titles of Charles’ vast DVD collection. The slim bookcases were nearly full.
“You know,” said a quiet, deep voice behind her. “they’re obsolete. Charles has Hulu, Netflix and Apple TV. I bet he’d give you a good deal if you want to buy any titles.”
Elizabeth whirled to her left, spilling a bit of her punch. Sweater Boy wears sweater vests too? Seriously?
“Hello,” she said in response to his unusual greeting. A small smile emerged and erased Darcy’s standard brooding mien.
“What makes you think I still have a DVD player?” Elizabeth asked.
William Darcy stood before her, his mouth moving but no words coming out. He held a drink in one hand while the other was performing some kind of torturous origami on a napkin.
“Are we playing charades? I’ll go with `Finding Nemo,’” Elizabeth said.
Darcy glanced at the wall of DVDs and then back to her. He smiled sheepishly. “Georgie’s right. I’d never make it at stand-up.”
Elizabeth eyed him, her eyes drawn to a wet spot on his vest. Crap! Is that foam? My drink! I splashed his freaking sweater.
“Well, if you want, Jane could probably check to see if you have a functioning funny bone.” OK, walk away. He’ll never know I did it.
His smile grew wider. “Ah, right. Did she discover her talents in physical therapy through her success in playing Operation?”
“Maybe. Did you figure out your talents in banking by playing Connect Four?”
The sheepish smile returned. “Sure, if banking was just stacking money in even rows.” His eyes grew serious. “But there’s a lot more involved.”
“Ah, big and important stuff?” Insufferable man.
Darcy nodded solemnly. “Stuff.”
“Ah, now that’s a serious banker word.” Shut up and clean his sweater.
Nodding quickly, Elizabeth set down her glass, reached out and pulled the napkin out of his hand. She unfolded it and began dabbing the foam off the vest. Geez, how big is his sweater budget? I bet Caroline would have licked it off. She avoided looking at him as she made her apologies.
“Elizabeth, it’s okay. It’s just a little bit. I hadn’t noticed.”
She looked up at him. “It’s cashmere. But I think I can save it.” She felt like an idiot and took a step back.
“So, Charles has a great place here. It’s really different from yours. Young and fun.” She cringed. Make that a really big idiot. Now I insult him?
Darcy nodded and swept his eyes around the big, open space. “True. It’s very him, a perfect bachelor pad. I like hanging out here.”
He turned back to gaze at her. He has the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re almost black. Elizabeth leaned her shoulder against the bookcase. “Well, your place is spectacular. And you have books,” she added, gesturing at the DVDs. “And those never go out of style.”
“Or become obsolete,” he replied.
They spent the next few minutes discussing the New York Times’ annual best books list. She expressed surprised to learn how many books he had read in the past year.
“Not so much the last month or two,” Darcy replied. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pen and began clicking the end as he spoke. Click. “But when Georgie…when she was in the hospital last spring and then came home and couldn’t go out easily, we both read a lot. Caught up on movies.” Click.
“She couldn’t go back to school?”
He shook his head. Click. “She had a home tutor. Her school is very much a vertical New York building. Staircases and rather small elevators that don’t reach every floor.” Click.
“No ramps?”
“Not then.” Click. “There are now.”
Elizabeth was on the verge of either grabbing away the stupid pen or asking for the details of that enigmatic answer when she felt her phone buzzing.
“Excuse me a second.” She pulled out her phone and looked at the screen.
"Can you get here ASAP? One of the volunteers showed up drunk and another one is late."
She texted back a confirmation and looked up. “Sorry. I have to go.”
He looked confused, maybe a little disappointed. “Another party to go to?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “Yeah, something like that. I have to go change and find a cab to Columbus Circle.” She began to walk past him. “Jane put my bag in Charles’ bedroom. Do you know where it is?”
He led her down a short hallway to a gray and black bedroom. She combed through the coats on the bed and found her bag and jacket. Her eyes alit on the brightest thing in the room. “Charles has a Rietveld chair?”
She looked at him closely. “Did you make that one too?”
Darcy nodded. Was he blushing?
“He wouldn’t stop talking about mine, so he came out to my workshop and we made this one together. Georgie painted it.” His eyes were boring through her. “We finished it just before Christmas.”
“You have a workshop in your apartment? I know it’s big, but….”
“Er, no. At my, at our house.”
Which is somewhere else, some sprawling estate. Okaaay.
Much to her relief, the bathroom door opened and a sloppily drunken man wandered out. “Darcy! Talk to me, man! The Fed has gone bonkers. What the hell is going on with interest rates?”
Ha! Stuff!
Elizabeth slipped into the bathroom, relieved to escape her visit to Money World. She and her sisters had never gone hungry or wanted for anything they needed, but they never had everything they desired, either. No $39 Barbie cars for their dolls, or $400 Barbie jeeps for them. No Sweet 16 parties or new cars. But they were comfortable. It was when they had left the family home that financial reality has kicked in and tuition payments and student loans and work-study programs had become the hub of their educational wheel. Investment banking had made sense then; she was good at math and making money as a byproduct of her skill with numbers had seemed like a great idea. She had earned herself a scholarship or two and had risen quickly to the top of her class, earning the esteem of her professors and the eye of Wall Street recruiters. Tonight, that constant refrain kicked in again. What was I thinking?
She heard the men’s voices fade away and some high-pitched chatter begin.
“Caroline, who was that woman with William?”
Elizabeth froze. She pulled her turtleneck down over her head and thrust her arms through the sleeves. And she waited.
“Oh my god, you saw her?” Though she’d spent only one other evening with Caroline, those affected nasally tones were unmistakable.
“She’s just some tattooed hospice worker stalking him.”
You bloody cow!
There was a gasp, then a giggle from the unknown partygoer. “That man just can’t get a break, can he?”
Enraged, Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath. She buttoned her jeans, shoved her feet into her Uggs, and picked up her bag.
The doorknob rattled. “Hurry up in there! We have an emergency!”
Elizabeth yanked the door open and glared at a garishly clad Caroline and her friend. Aquamarine and liquid gold spandex?
“Really, Caroline? An emergency? I don’t think this `hospice worker’ can help you with that fashion disaster.” She stalked past the shocked women and turned around. “By the way, Caro, I’m so glad your brother and my sister are dating.”
Slamming the bedroom door behind her, Elizabeth turned and bumped into a startled Will Darcy. “Did you hear that?” she demanded.
He nodded, grimacing. “She--, Caroline has never been good at—.”
“Sharing? Competing? Running with scissors?” She paused and took a breath. “Sorry, I have to go.”
“Wait. My car is here, I’ll take you.”
“Really? But it’s only 10. On New Year’s Eve.”
“Trust me, I’ve had enough.” He looked at her and saw the hesitation in her eyes. “You’ll never get a cab. Everybody is heading to Times Square.”
She started to protest. Being in a car with him on New Year’s Eve was a bad idea.
“All right.” Wrinkling her forehead, she gazed up at him. “But, if we’re seen…Are you worried about gossip? Or paparazzi?”
His eyes flashed and then narrowed. He put his hand on her arm. “No one here is going to talk. I’ll leave now. You say your goodbyes. I’ll be in the blue Mercedes at the front entrance.”
Twenty minutes later she walked through the front doors at the Columbus Circle Samaritan Center. Of course. Of course, his car has a driver who drives it. So we can sit in the back seat and look out the windows and say nothing. Well, he did check to make sure I had a ride home later.
She couldn’t figure him out. He’s hot and cold. I hear he’s a cold fish, then I hear he’s hot and creepy.
She sighed and punched the elevator button.
I need to talk to Jane. And Charlotte.
As she walked into the solemn but busy call room, she glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. She hadn’t asked if he was heading home or somewhere else. Not all of us get a kiss at midnight. But with him, you never know.
~~*~~*~~
William Darcy was too methodical to lose things. Every board game in his apartment had all its parts, every sock was paired with its mate, every book was on the shelf in alphabetical order by author’s last name. Not everyone was so careful. He looked at the red leather pump on the coffee table. He’d found it on the floormat of his car when he got home an hour earlier. Three-inch heels. How do women walk in those things?
Sinking back into the leather sofa, Will leaned his head back and rested a glass of scotch on his knee. His mind drifted back over the past few hours. How did he get to this point? A week of holiday activities with their small family, including a very long three days with his Aunt Catherine, Anne, Robin and the Fitzwilliams in Connecticut, and a 20-minute conversation and a short car ride with Elizabeth Bennet was all he could think about.
Christmas morning had been fun. The “Fifty Shades of Gray” trilogy his Aunt Catherine had received from “Santa” prompted furious embarrassment from the spindly 60-something; after she and the book had both vacated the room, Robin had told the rest of the family that he was inspired to buy it after he had bumped into a hottie who’d bought it “for her aunt.” He cocked an eyebrow and leered at Will. “Or so she said….”
They’d gone snowshoeing and sledding. He and Robin played a little hockey on the pond. His uncle beat them all at poker. And the high point of the holiday season, aside from all the laughter he heard from Georgie, was 20 minutes spent talking about books with a woman who made fun of him? No. The high point was talking to a beautiful woman who looked amazing in a silvery black dress and who cleaned off his sweater. What was it with her and his sweaters? He smiled. Cashmere Girl.
Kashmir. He leaned over and picked up the remote control for his iPod speakers. The heavy strains of Led Zeppelin soon pulsed through the room. I need to take her the shoe. When was she getting off duty? She had said she didn’t need a ride. Seemed like she had someone picking her up.
Darcy rubbed his eyes and yawned. He had been glad to find out she wasn’t heading to another New Year’s Eve party. Ruefully, he realized he was caring a little more about the welfare of Charles’ girlfriend’s sister than he should be. She thought he had a stupid job, and probably thought he was a stuffed shirt, but she wasn’t hostile to him anymore. Not like that first night. Or the second. Hmmm, they didn’t play well together in restaurants, but they seemed okay other places. If a couple of nice smiles counted. He’d wanted to hold her wrist tonight and look closely at her tattoo; it wasn’t like one he’d ever seen before. It was delicate, almost beautiful. When their friend said they all had the tattoo, but some of them had more, did she mean Elizabeth? Or Jane? He could ask Charles. No, bad idea.
It felt liberating to crank up music and enjoy the solitude. Georgie was with Anne and some friends at the DeBourgh’s Palm Beach spread. It was the first real trip she’d taken since the accident, and from her earlier call, the plane ride had gone just fine. By April, she’d be ready for the eight-hour flight to Hawaii, and maybe even the surfing lessons Robin had promised. A spring break trip would be a great way to celebrate the arrival of all those anticipated college acceptance letters and mull her decision. Georgie hadn’t applied for early decision at her dream schools; she wanted to include her fall transcripts now that she was back in school full-time. He didn’t even know the names of her dream schools. “Outside of the city,” was her cryptic description of those mysterious institutions.
Women are so secretive. Darcy looked at Elizabeth’s shoe. Her feet are so small. I have to get it to her. He closed his eyes and slipped into sleep.
When he woke in the wee hours, the shoe was on the floor. Blearily, he looked at his watch. Three a.m. He got up and stumbled down the hall to his bedroom.
New Year’s Day dawned brightly. Darcy woke up late, at 9. Coffee sounded really good, so he readied the machine and checked his phone for messages. He’d half expected one from Elizabeth about her shoe, until he realized they had never exchanged numbers. There was one from Charles, hollering Happy New Year and expressing regret Darcy had left early. “Lizzy left too? Were you with her? Me and Jane are going skating today! I love her, Darce…”
He rolled his eyes. He started to text Charles to get Elizabeth’s number, but decided to leave his message to a terse, "Have fun, call if you can." Charles was notorious for misplacing things, and from previous experience, Will knew Caroline might be checking his calls and messages.
After coffee and a granola bar, he got ready for a run around the Central Park reservoir. The crisp air pushed thoughts of the previous night out of his head and kept his mind focused on the path ahead.
A couple of hours later, Robin arrived with six-packs of Grolsch and Stella Artois beer and a hearty appetite for whatever dishes Mrs. Reynolds had prepared for the two men.
Robin filled him in on his morning conversation with Georgie. “I woke them up! Can you believe it? Those giddy girls were still in bed at 11 a.m.!”
Images of Georgie’s best angry face cross his mind, and Darcy shook his head in mild admonishment. His cousin, two inches shorter and never holding still, looked past him at the kitchen table. “That doesn’t look like food. Are you working?”
Darcy quickly strode over to the table and folded up his paperwork. He was relieved he’d put Elizabeth’s shoe in his briefcase, where it was safe from his cousin’s radar.
“Blueprints? Another chair? Some mystery gift for Georgie?”
Darcy smiled. “Something like that.”
“Strangest hobby. You need to find something else to do with your hands.” Robin rolled his eyes and pulled open the refrigerator doors. “So what do we have here? White chicken chili…beef tamale casserole…pulled pork…? Wow. Get that in the crockpot.” He pulled out the plastic container and whirled around. “You do have a crockpot, right?”
As the food simmered, they watched the first football game of the day and Robin chattered on about his upcoming climbing trip to Malta. Will’s mindset was more work-focused. Other than Christmas day itself, over the holiday week, he’d spent at least two or three hours a day on the phone to Zurich and London, looking over due diligence files on pending mergers deals, and comparing profit and loss statements. A couple of the proposed deals concerned him.
“I want to talk to you tomorrow about Delteon,” he told Robin. “I have some questions and some numbers I need to clarify. How many copper mines can one battery conglomerate buy?”
Robin launched into an arcane and detailed explanation of the deal, which ended only when Darcy raised his hand and begged for a reprieve until they could meet in the office in the next day.
It wasn’t until both men were on a second plate of food and a second (or third) beer that Robin asked his low-key cousin about his New Year’s Eve. “I heard from Georgie that you were home early. What’s up?”
Will told him about the evening, which led to more questions and gradually—and not quite unwillingly—he related the entire tale of Elizabeth Bennet and how he had met her.
“This is the girl, the one that the papers caught you with in November?”
“Yes.”
“You like this girl. Buy her dinner. Take her home. Let off some steam.”
A coughing fit halted Darcy’s response.
“Take a drink, Darce. And don’t get all bent of shape. It’s been a long time for you.”
There are five tines on a fork, Will noticed. When did someone decide five instead of six? Did they test for stabbing strength or mouth-fit?
“Earth to Darcy.”
He looked up and stared at the TV screen. God, I hate the Cowboys. C’mon Jets.
“It’s not like that,” he replied. “She’s Charles girlfriend’s sister and it’s pretty complicated.” Darcy looked back down at his fork.
“But you like her. She might like you.” Robin lowered his voice, speaking in a serious tone. “Will, does she know about you? About that, that woman? All the crap that was published?”
His eyes closed. He didn’t want to think about this, let alone talk about it. “Um, some of it, probably. I don’t know.” Like that’s a conversation I’m likely to start.
“Well, she doesn’t sound like the kind of woman to read tabloids or watch TMZ or that crap. But after that picture of the two of you on Page Six of the Post? You might want to talk to her about it.”
I know I need to talk to her. Stifling a rueful chuckle, Will commented, “Good to know that it only takes three beers for my allergic-to-commitment cousin to turn into a therapist.
“And just so you know, I apologized for being a jerk at that dinner,” he added.
Strangely intuitive to his cousin’s discomfort, Robin pulled another beer out of the ice bucket, popped the top and handed it to his cousin. “Hey, thanks to Bingley and her sister, you’re already spending time together…. Something will happen.” He grabbed another beer for himself. “And if she knows about the crap you went through, she’ll feel sympathetic. You might get lucky.”
The roar from the TV drew their attention. “Dammit, seriously? Another interception?” Robin yelled. “I hate the Cowboys."
“God, Robin. How pathetic do you think I am?”
“Chill out, Darce. Think about it.” Robin pointed his bottle at Will. “Your life is straight out of Dickens. Rich orphan raising his sister, building his own furniture, failing at relationships and getting screwed over by his girlfriend, and denigrated in the press.”
Robin paused and smiled impishly at his stunned cousin. “Yup, sounds like perfect fodder for a social worker to fix up into the perfect boyfriend.”
God, I am that pathetic.
“Don’t worry, Darce.” Robin tapped his half-empty bottle against his cousin’s nearly full one. “I have great expectations for you.”
~~*~~*~~
After Jane’s return home--again with sore ankles--from ice skating with Charles at Rockefeller Center, the sisters snuggled on the couch. A veritable feast of finger foods sat before them, the plates slowly emptying over the hours as they clicked away the first day of the year. It was “marathon day” on every channel.
Elizabeth successfully fought off Jane’s insistence on watching a third episode of “Sex in the City,” but had to cede to her pleading and sit through a Tori Spelling movie on Lifetime.
When it ended—and Elizabeth was a bit embarrassed to admit that some trash was fun—she got up to clear a few plates and use the bathroom. “Jane, don’t touch that remote! It’s my pick! I’ll be right back!”
“I’m just playing while you’re gone, Lizzy.”
When she emerged from the bathroom, she heard a familiar announcer’s voice. “Next on our countdown of New York’s Top Sex Scandals of the year, it’s Number 7: Socialite Cheats on Hot Banker and Tells All!” By the time Elizabeth walked into the living room. Jane had turned down the volume and was watching the story unfold, a look of horrified disgust on her face. Elizabeth quietly walked over and sat down next to her. “…and he was just a big stiff. Always on his computer, probably watching porn because he never wanted the real thing.”
Elizabeth grabbed the remote and clicked off the television. She didn’t move, just bit her lip and stared at the black screen.
Jane sank into the sofa, a trembling sigh emerging before she blurted out, “Vultures.”
Elizabeth’s head spun around. “Jane?”
“His girlfriend cheats on him and then she goes out and spreads these lies and everybody talks about him and laughs about it.”
Jane turned to face Elizabeth. She looked like she might cry. “Do you know why PTs and doctors and dentists and hairdressers put out all those gossip rags and tabloids? Because people relate to that crap about movie stars and reality bozos. We can make small talk about it.”
All Elizabeth could picture was Darcy smiling at his sister, or insisting he’d drive her to the call center, or staring at her while she climbed out of his car.
“Your patients talk about him?”
Jane, the strawberry-blonde vision of all that sweet and light, gave Elizabeth a piercing look. “Of course. He’s Mr. Wall Street. All the better to tear down the one-percenters and make fun of them.”
Elizabeth blanched. “The rich aren’t like you and me,” she whispered.