Eligible

Chapter 112

RIDING IN A taxi from Houston’s George Bush Intercontinental Airport to her downtown hotel, Liz called Jane’s cellphone. When her sister answered, Liz blurted out, “Jane, I had sex with Darcy four times, and this morning he came to Kitty and Mary’s apartment and said he’s in love with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“I was in my pajamas and didn’t even have a bra on.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What do you think I told him? He’s crazy.”

Jane was quiet before saying, “Maybe he’s not as bad as we thought, if he recognizes how special you are.”

“Actually, he told me I’m not beautiful, I’m not funny, I’m gossipy, and he can’t stand Mom — this is during his declaration of love. But I still don’t think he could imagine any woman, including me, turning down the chance to be his girlfriend.”

“Poor guy.”

“We’re talking about the person who came between you and Chip.”

“But think how infatuated with you he must be to swallow his pride, which we all know he has lots of.”

“Do you remember that conversation you and I had at Chip’s dinner party about how he’d bought a mountain bike for you and you didn’t know if you should accept it? Apparently, Darcy overheard us and took your hesitation about the bike as hesitation about Chip in general.”

“I can understand that.”

“Aren’t you mad? Darcy’s given me grief for eavesdropping, but at least I do it competently.”

“Lizzy, I did have reservations about Chip. I expressed them to you more than once. I liked him a lot, but—” Jane paused. “The whole time I was with Chip, I wasn’t sure that I was pregnant, but I wasn’t sure I wasn’t.”

“I have something weird to tell you about Jasper, too,” Liz said.

“Have you guys been in touch?”

“Not really.” He had sent two more texts, neither of which Liz had answered. The first had been another link — this one to a list of unintentionally funny newspaper headlines — and the second had said, R u ignoring me? “I didn’t know it until recently,” Liz said, “but Jasper got expelled from Stanford a few weeks before he was supposed to graduate. Jasper and Darcy were in the same class, and even though Jasper had never mentioned his expulsion, he did admit that it had happened. But the story he told me and the story Darcy told me only sort of match up. Basically, according to Darcy, Jasper was kicked out for—” Liz hesitated out of concern for the taxi driver, who, if listening, had already learned an unseemly amount about her in a few minutes. But really, there were few ways of accurately describing the act. “For peeing on the desk of his creative writing professor,” she continued. “And the professor was a black woman.”

“He peed?” Jane said. “As in going to the bathroom?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “That kind of pee.”

“On her desk?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “On the desk in her apartment.”

“That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard,” Jane said.

“It’s gross, right? Even if he was twenty-two at the time, and drunk — there’s no way it’s not gross. Darcy also said Jasper never got a degree. Does that mean he’s lied to every employer he’s ever had? It makes it even weirder that he wears that Stanford ring.”

“Does he?” Jane said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s gold. I’ve always thought it looks like what a bond trader from New Jersey would have worn in the 1980s.”

“Did Darcy make up the story about Jasper because he’s jealous?”

“No, I trust Darcy.” The statement felt odd. “But if Jasper peed on his professor’s desk, was he standing? Or did he go in a jar, then pour it out?”

“Oh, Lizzy.”

“And was it spontaneous, like he has to take a leak and thinks, I’ll do it on her desk? Or did he decide ahead of time?”

“Jasper has always seemed like a complicated person.”

“That’s generous.” Out the window of Liz’s taxi, the other lanes of the highway were packed with cars; to her right, the sun was setting and the sky was tinged pink. “Anyway,” she said, “how are you?”

“I’m good,” Jane said. “I met with the doctor today, and she was really nice. Was it sad leaving Cincinnati?”

Liz thought of her final view of the Tudor, when the tenting had been almost complete. The tarps Ken Weinrich’s crew used had yellow and royal blue stripes, not unlike those for a circus, and this had lent a festive yet undignified mood to the proceedings. Then she thought of Darcy standing just outside her sisters’ apartment in his scrubs. “It wasn’t sad exactly,” Liz said, “but it was different from what I’d expected.”

Chapter 113

THOUGH LIZ SOMETIMES went along with the pretense that interviewing celebrities was glamorous, the truth was that she rarely enjoyed it. Arranging the interviews through the celebrity’s publicist and the publicist’s assistant was always onerous, with frequent cancellations or time changes; during the interviews, celebrities often responded to questions using answers they had given before, which meant Liz’s editor wouldn’t want them included; publicists tended to sit in, chaperone-like, on the interviews, thereby dissuading the celebrity from saying anything ostensibly off-topic; and a general air of urgency attended the encounters, as if the celebrities were heads of state managing a nuclear threat rather than, as was usually the case, good-looking people who appeared onscreen in fictitious stories. Additionally, Liz always worried that her digital recorders — with celebrities, she used two — would fail her. These interviews were stressful then, without necessarily being interesting.

At the same time — and Liz had found this assertion to be displeasing to some people who were not famous, such as her own younger sisters — most celebrities were charismatic, intelligent, and warm. Lydia, Kitty, Mary, and indeed much of the general population clearly wished to hear that celebrities were, in person, rude or moronic or not that attractive, but this had rarely been Liz’s experience. Publicists were frequently rude, and celebrities almost never were. Also, the celebrities usually were more beautiful in the flesh, emitting a certain glow that made their fame seem inevitable.

That Kathy de Bourgh, while eighty years old and not a Hollywood starlet, possessed this glow was evident to Liz even from halfway back in the vast hotel ballroom where the National Society of Women in Finance keynote speech occurred. The speech began at one-fifteen in the afternoon, before an audience of two thousand; no more than a dozen of them, by Liz’s calculation, were men. Two large screens on either side of the stage projected Kathy de Bourgh’s image to all corners of the room, and in the first few seconds after Kathy de Bourgh was introduced, Liz noted that she had had Botox, as well as dermal fillers, though after that it was Kathy de Bourgh’s poise and the substance of her speech that Liz focused on. Because Liz had read Revolutions and Rebellions as well as Kathy de Bourgh’s subsequent book of essays and her memoir, much of the advice she dispensed and some of the personal anecdotes she shared were familiar, but her crisp and energetic delivery made everything fresh. Whether citing statistics about the dearth of women in professional leadership roles or recommending the steps individual women could take to command authority, she showed confidence and good humor. Being an icon, it seemed, agreed with her.

At the speech’s conclusion, Liz waited in her chair in the ballroom, as directed to do via a text that morning from Kathy de Bourgh’s publicist, Valerie. After eight minutes, Valerie texted to say Kathy de Bourgh was on a call but Liz would be escorted to the greenroom imminently.

And then, as they had many times already in the last thirty hours, Darcy’s remarks outside her sisters’ apartment came back to her. I’m in love with you. I can’t stop thinking about you. Yes, his confession had contained multiple slights, but those words had flanked them. To recall such declarations was marvelously bothersome, it was vexing and delectable. I’m in love with you. I can’t stop thinking about you. They made her feel as if her heart were releasing lava.

She had planned to blithely leave Darcy behind, but it seemed now that matters between them were unresolved. What it was that needed to be settled, however — what she might convey to him — continued to elude her. Surely it was related to the indifference to his feelings, the defiance even, that she’d demonstrated during their final conversation. If on certain topics he’d shown insensitivity, she’d concluded that his misbehavior had been of a less egregious variety than her own. She also couldn’t help wondering: Was he still in love with her? Had her hostile response immediately nullified his desire? Really, how could it not have?

“Liz?” Approaching from a door near the stage was a young woman in a charcoal pantsuit. “I’m Valerie Wright. Kathy de Bourgh is ready to see you.”

Chapter 114

IN THE GREENROOM, Kathy de Bourgh was eating an arugula salad. She stood to firmly shake Liz’s hand and said, “I apologize for keeping you waiting, but my dog has keratitis and I was touching base with the vet.”

“I’m so sorry,” Liz said. She knew that Kathy de Bourgh was the owner of a Pekingese named Button, though Liz did not mention this knowledge because of the fine line between due diligence and creepiness.

As they sat, Kathy de Bourgh smiled and said, “Now that we’ve both apologized within the first thirty seconds of our conversation about women and power, shall we begin?” While Liz set her two digital recorders on the glass tabletop and turned them on, Kathy de Bourgh added, “You might not know this, but I myself was once a writer for Mascara.”

“Oh, it’s one of our claims to fame,” Liz said. She was reassured that Kathy de Bourgh knew what publication she was being interviewed for; regularly, very famous people didn’t.

“That was roughly fifteen thousand years ago,” Kathy de Bourgh said. “During the Pleistocene epoch.”

Liz said, “Knowing you’d worked for the magazine was the main reason I was excited to get a job there.”

Kathy de Bourgh laughed. “Liz, flattery will get you everywhere.”

As Valerie Wright and two other women whose identities never became clear to Liz sat in chairs against the wall and typed on their smartphones, Liz asked Kathy de Bourgh about feminism’s present and past, about whether its current prominence in popular culture struck her as meaningful or fleeting, about reproductive freedom and equal compensation, race and gender, mentoring, ambition, likability, and whether having it all was a realistic possibility or a phrase that ought to be expurgated from the English language. Usually in interviews, every few minutes the subject would say something articulate or insightful enough that Liz knew she could use it in her article, and she’d feel a little lift, or maybe relief; with Kathy de Bourgh, every sentence of every answer was usable. And the responses weren’t all ones Liz had heard before.

As they reached the end of the allotted twenty minutes, which Liz had high hopes of exceeding, she said, “You didn’t marry until you were sixty-seven years old. Was that due to the difficulty of finding a spouse who would treat you as an equal partner?”

Kathy de Bourgh smiled again. “Are you married?” she asked.

Et tu, Kathy de Bourgh? Liz thought and shook her head. She knew that Kathy de Bourgh’s husband, a renowned architect, had died of an aneurysm only three years after their wedding.

“I considered getting married many times,” Kathy de Bourgh said. “I certainly had my share of suitors. But—” She paused. “How can I describe this?” Liz remained quiet — remaining quiet was the most reliable tool in her interviewing kit — and Kathy de Bourgh said, “With all the men I dated before Benjamin, there was some degree of performance involved. Even when those men and I had a lot of chemistry, or maybe especially then, it was like we were performing our chemistry either for an audience or just for each other. I was engaged once to a very good-looking man”—Indeed, Liz thought, to the attorney general of New York—“but eventually I realized that when I was with him, I was always trying to present the most cheerful, entertaining, attractive version of myself, instead of just being myself. It was a lot of effort, especially over time. Whereas with Benjamin, it never felt like people saw us as a golden couple, and it wasn’t how we saw ourselves. We knew each other for ten years before we became involved. During that time, I gradually realized he was easy to be around and easy to talk to. We once traveled together to China as part of a delegation — not just us, but about twenty people — and even when the bus was late or our luggage got lost, he was very unflappable, very considerate of others. That probably doesn’t sound romantic, does it? It was real, though — we got a clear view of each other. Whereas when I dated other men, whether it was leading protests or attending parties at the White House, there was a fantasy aspect to our time together that I don’t think prepared us for some of the mundane daily struggles life has in store.”

As Kathy de Bourgh took a sip of water, Liz said, “So the lesson is—?”

Kathy de Bourgh set her glass down. “Benjamin was very nurturing, by which I don’t mean that he talked extensively about his feelings. He didn’t. But he looked out for me in a steady, ongoing way, and I hope I did the same for him.”

“Kathy, you have a three o’clock with George Schiff,” Valerie Wright said, standing. “Liz, we need to wrap it up. So glad we could make this happen.”

Ignoring Valerie, Kathy de Bourgh said, “There’s a belief that to take care of someone else, or to let someone else take care of you — that both are inherently unfeminist. I don’t agree. There’s no shame in devoting yourself to another person, as long as he devotes himself to you in return.”

Within thirty seconds, Liz knew, she’d be back on the other side of the greenroom door. She reached for her recorders but didn’t turn them off, in case Kathy de Bourgh was about to share any final pearls of wisdom. Instead, Kathy de Bourgh hugged her, and Liz tried to think who in her life liked her enough that Liz could later make them listen to the barely audible rustle of being embraced by the leader of second-wave feminism. Jane would listen to humor Liz, though she wouldn’t really be interested.

“Be well,” Kathy de Bourgh said.

Chapter 115

“WOW,” JASPER SAID when Liz answered her cellphone. “I’m pleasantly surprised you picked up.”

It was evening, and Liz was lying in her hotel room bed in Houston, watching a mediocre movie she’d seen in the theater in high school and thinking, I’m in love with you. I can’t stop thinking about you.

She said to Jasper, “Did you pee on your writing professor’s desk?”

The silence that followed — it lasted for more time than would have been necessary to express reflexive bewilderment. At last, Jasper said, “I assume Darcy has been putting poison in your ear again.”

“I have a right to know what really happened.”

“If I could go back in time, are there things I’d do differently? Without question.”

“What made you think that was okay?”

“Besides ten beers?” Jasper seemed to be waiting for her to laugh, and when she didn’t, he said, “It was stupid and juvenile. There’s no denying that. But I swear it wasn’t racist. Tricia Randolph could have been blue, green, or polka-dotted, and I would have disliked her just the same.”

Jasper was reminding her of someone, Liz thought, and after a second, she realized it was her mother. She said, “Did you ruin the professor’s computer? You must have.” Jasper said nothing, and Liz added, “I can’t believe you peed on a writer’s computer.”

“Don’t tell me you never did anything dumb when you were twenty-two.”

“I loved you so much.” Liz didn’t raise her voice; she felt more sad than outraged. “From the time we met — I would have done anything for you. I thought you were so smart and cute and funny, and I was so flattered that you respected me and wanted to be friends. But how could you have strung me along all these years? If my excuse is a misguided crush, what’s yours?”

“Nin—” Jasper said, and his pained tone was a reminder that, however he had transgressed, he hadn’t done so entirely callously. His affection for her was not fake; it just was partial. Or perhaps it was fake, he was faking emotion now, and he had a personality disorder; but between these possibilities, she preferred to see him as inadequate rather than clinically diagnosable. “I’m going to do better,” he said. “Starting now, I’m getting my act together. Don’t give up on me.”

“Oh, Jasper,” Liz said. “I already have.”

Chapter 116

SHE HAD BEEN asleep for less than an hour when her cellphone rang again, and the sound of it in the dark, in a hotel room, late at night, was sufficiently unsettling that she answered before even looking at the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t Jasper again.

“I woke you up,” said a female voice. “Sorry. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

It wasn’t Jane; that was the fact Liz was certain of first, but several additional seconds passed before her brain determined who it was.

“Charlotte,” she said. “Hi. It’s fine. I’m awake.”

And then Charlotte Lucas began to sob, and between gulps, she said, “You told me so. You told me, but I moved here anyway, like an idiot.”

“Hold on,” Liz said. “Slow down. Where are you?”

“I’m at the house. His house.”

“You’re not — he isn’t, like, abusive, is he?”

Charlotte sniffled lavishly. “No, he’s not abusive. Willie’s a sweet, self-centered dork.”

“Is he with you right now?”

“He’s at work, where he always is.” Liz could hear Charlotte swallow, and she sounded slightly calmer when she next spoke. “I’m so dumb.”

“Did something happen?”

“I moved to a state where I don’t know anyone,” Charlotte said. “Including my own boyfriend. That’s what happened.”

“But did something specific happen? Have you been feeling this way all along?”

“I got a job offer,” Charlotte said, and Liz said, “That’s great!”

“You’d think. It’s a good job, too, with a data analytics company that expects to triple in size in the next year. I’d had a bunch of interviews, but nothing panned out until I got the offer this afternoon. And somehow it made it all real. I’ve been taking it easy, like going to the gym for an hour and a half in the middle of the day and cooking fancy recipes that we eat at ten o’clock at night. But if I take this job, it means I’m no longer playing house, impersonating a good little 1950s homemaker. I’ll really live out here, long-term, with Willie.”

“Do you not want that?”

“I don’t know what I want!” Charlotte wailed. “Maybe instead of taking the job, I should get pregnant now, and that way, even if Willie and I break up, I’ll still be a mom.”

“I can see how this feels overwhelming,” Liz said, “but I think you’re conflating separate issues.”

“Have I mentioned that Willie snores like a freight train? And I lie there, thinking, Okay, if I’d dated him for two years before we moved in together, like normal people do — or even for six months — I’d have gotten used to this. Or I’d be deeply in love with him and be like, Oh, the endearing foibles of my darling boyfriend. Instead, I feel like I’m a mail-order bride, and he’s an annoying stranger robbing me of sleep.”

“Nobody thinks snoring is endearing,” Liz said. “Does he know he does it?”

“I have no idea!”

“Ask him. If he doesn’t know, he should see a doctor in case he has breathing problems. And aren’t there special pillows you can buy? But the bigger question is whether you want to make it work. If you’d rather get on a plane and go back to Cincinnati, you’re allowed to. I’ll bet Procter would hire you again in a heartbeat.”

“If I pay for your ticket, will you come out here and tell me what to do with my life?”

“Now?”

“Do you have plans for Labor Day weekend? You’re still in Cincinnati, right?”

“I’m in Houston. I interviewed Kathy de Bourgh, who was giving a speech here today, and I was planning to go back to New York in the morning.”

“Kathy de Bourgh — oh my God! Was she awesome?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “She actually was.”

“I know I’m asking a lot,” Charlotte said. “But I just need someone else’s perspective, someone who knows me well. We have a guest room.”

The thought of staying in Willie’s house after their last interaction was not enticing to Liz. But she said, “I’ll look at flights after we get off the phone, but promise me one thing: Go to a drugstore right now and get earplugs. Or sleep in a different room tonight.”

“Earplugs aren’t a bad idea,” Charlotte said.

“Sleep deprivation makes other problems so much worse.”

“You’re right. See how crazy I’ve become? I can’t even manage basic self-care.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself. Just buy some earplugs, relax, and I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Lizzy,” Charlotte said. “I really appreciate this. By the way, if you’re worried about things being awkward with Willie, awkwardness doesn’t register with him.”

“That almost makes me jealous,” Liz said.

“I know,” Charlotte said. “No kidding.”

Chapter 117

WAITING IN THE security line back at Houston’s George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Liz found herself indulging in a pointless and perhaps even masochistic imaginative exercise about what it would be like if Darcy were her boyfriend. Given his job, she would need to move to Cincinnati — a possibility that in theory would have seemed distinctly unappealing if not outright prohibitive but, for the reason in question, struck her as potentially manageable. Indeed, the proximity to her family, were she to establish her own life rather than simply facilitate theirs, might be a boon. She could help her parents settle into a new dwelling, keep a closer eye on their finances, and perhaps develop adult relationships with Mary, Kitty, and Lydia (or maybe that was delusional no matter the circumstances). Convincing Talia to allow her to work permanently from Cincinnati would be a challenge, but presumably a juicy profile of Kathy de Bourgh would put Liz’s editor in a magnanimous mood.

Then, of course, there was the matter of Darcy himself — of sharing his bed not just for fifteen sweaty minutes at a time but for entire nights, of enjoying the confidence that he was glad she was there, which was such an oddly luxurious notion that it made her feel both swoony and heartbroken. The thought of him as the person with whom she partook of ordinary daily activities — eating soup and grilled cheese together for lunch on a winter Saturday, watching TV dramas or political talk shows at night, holding a palm to each other’s forehead or picking up cold medicine when one of them wondered if they were sick — seemed almost inconceivably bizarre. And yet it also filled her with a tender sort of yearning.

If they lived together, she decided as she handed her ticket to the agent at the gate and boarded a plane not to New York but to San Francisco, they’d need to move to a bigger apartment or even a house, so that she could have an office. Though her interest in décor was limited, certainly in comparison to her mother’s, she didn’t think it would hurt to hang a print or two on the walls and acquire a plant.

Except, of course, that none of this would come to pass. Surely she had destroyed any such eventualities by treating him with rash and unrepentant rudeness; surely his attraction to her had been rescinded.

As it happened, she still possessed neither his phone number nor his email nor even his street address; on all the occasions on which she’d visited his apartment, she’d been more preoccupied with impending events than with the numerals by which his building was identified. But in this day and age, it couldn’t be difficult to track him down electronically. She could probably find his email on the University of Cincinnati website. And yet there remained the question of what Liz would say. I’m sorry seemed the most obvious option, but perhaps Hey, how’s it going? was a more casual opener.

Out Liz’s plane window, the mountains of northwest Utah were snow-peaked and lunar, even in August. Too preoccupied to read, Liz scrutinized them at length, but they offered no sagacity. At last, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

Chapter 118

UPON LANDING IN San Francisco, Liz called Ken Weinrich to find out if the fumigation had concluded successfully, and he confirmed that the sulfuryl fluoride levels inside the house had measured at below five parts per million, he had seen no spiders, and his team had removed the tent and fans. Liz then called Mary’s cellphone, though it was difficult to hear Mary over the sound of their mother shouting in the background; apparently, they were back at the Tudor, in the kitchen.

“That food was all perfectly good!” Mrs. Bennet was declaring. “Why, I hadn’t even opened Bev Wattenberg’s peach marmalade!”

“Tell her I’m sure the Wattenbergs will give us more marmalade at Christmas,” Liz said, and Mary said, “There’s no point.”

“The house doesn’t smell weird at all?” Liz asked.

“It doesn’t smell like anything,” Mary said.

“I’ll tell you who won’t appreciate my tins of smoked trout,” Mrs. Bennet was shouting, “and that’s a hobo at a shelter.”

“I have to go,” Mary said.

“Hang in there,” Liz said, and Mary said in a churlish tone, “Thanks for the long-distance pep talk.”

Chapter 119

OUTSIDE THE DELTA terminal at SFO, Charlotte appeared considerably more tranquil than Liz had expected; this tranquillity was reassuring while casting doubt on the necessity of Liz’s presence. But if now they were friends again, then what else mattered?

“Earplugs are the best invention ever,” Charlotte said as she merged into the left lane. “I slept for eleven hours last night.”

“Congratulations.”

“Want to go with me to Nordstrom to buy new work clothes?”

“Does that mean you accepted the job?”

“I called them right before I got in the car to pick you up. I start a week from Labor Day.”

“That’s great, Charlotte. And I’d be honored to go to Nordstrom with you.”

With traffic, it took them almost an hour to reach the Stanford Shopping Center in Palo Alto; they ate lunch at a restaurant before entering the department store.

“Everyone says how casual it is out here, but that’s if you’re a twenty-five-year-old dude,” Charlotte said as she sorted through a rack of plus-size tops.

Inspecting a bra in the adjacent lingerie section, Liz thought, Would he like this or find it cheesy? With a jolt, she realized that the he in question, for the first time in a long while, was not Jasper.

“I’m trying these.” Charlotte held up three hangers, then nodded her chin toward the bra. “Va-va-va-voom.”

“It’s expensive.”

Charlotte looked skeptical. “For a New Yorker?”

Liz held out the price tag, which read $200.

“There’s no better investment than your cleavage.” Charlotte smirked. “I believe they teach that in business school.”

Seventy minutes later, they were in the mall parking lot, walking back toward Charlotte’s car with their respective purchases (Liz could not possibly justify buying the bra, and it was in her bag), when Liz said, “So I broke up with Jasper.”

“Are you bummed or relieved?”

“Somewhere in between. Mostly I feel stupid for not realizing until now how obnoxious he is, when other people have seen it all along.”

“You were really young when you met him,” Charlotte said. “That should give you some exemption.” As she pressed her key to unlock the car, she said, “This morning, Willie made an appointment with an ENT doctor. It turns out he had no idea that he snores. I guess if you’ve never had a girlfriend, no one’s ever told you.”

Whether or not it was completely true, Liz was compelled to say, “For the record, I like Willie. I think he’s a good guy.”

Wryly, but not angrily, Charlotte said, “Which is why you were disgusted when he tried to kiss you?” Liz was on the cusp of saying He’s my cousin, when Charlotte added, “And don’t say it’s because you’re cousins. We both know you’d have been disgusted no matter what. But that’s okay.”

“I just don’t think he and I had chemistry,” Liz said, and Charlotte smiled.

“I hope it’s all right that I invited your aunt and uncle for dinner tonight.”

“Perfect,” Liz said. She had arranged to stay in the Bay Area for three days, then fly to New York on a red-eye. She said to Charlotte, “If you want to take a nap this afternoon, I’m happy to go grocery shopping. Or whatever errands you need — my errand-running muscles have gotten pretty huge this summer.”

They had set their bags in the trunk of the car and climbed into the front seat, and Charlotte said, “It’s not that I haven’t had a bumpy adjustment out here, but I did call you at a low moment last night. Let’s do something fun. Have you ever seen the campus of Stanford?”

“Your life changed a lot all at once,” Liz said. “It would be weird if you didn’t have second thoughts. And, no, I’ve never seen Stanford, although—” How could touring the university make her think of anything except what Jasper had done to his creative writing instructor? “You know what else is around here is Darcy’s family’s estate.”

Charlotte laughed. “His estate? Who is he, the king of England?”

“It’s somewhere in Atherton,” Liz said. “Okay, don’t judge me, but Darcy and I slept together a few times.”

Charlotte made a joyous whoop. “I knew you two were flirting at Chip’s dinner party!”

“That’s right,” Liz said. “You did call that, didn’t you?”

“A few times? If you kept going back for more, I take it the sex was halfway decent.”

“Yes,” Liz said. “You could say so.”

“I don’t suppose you know the address of this estate?”

As Liz pulled out her phone, her heart thudded. She typed Darcy estate Atherton, and a few clicks later, she said, “1813 Pemberley Lane. You’d take Sand Hill Road to El Camino Real.”

In a phonily high voice, Charlotte said, “Um, I think Darcy grew up around here? What, go look at it? Now? Innocent little me? Why, I wouldn’t dream of it!”

Twelve minutes later, Charlotte was making a right from El Camino Real into a residential neighborhood blocked off from the more trafficked throughway by a tall ivy-covered wall. On either side of the entry to the quieter street hung signs that read NO TRESPASSING. RESIDENTS ONLY. “I’d rather not get arrested,” Liz said. “I realize we’re here because of me, but I’ll just put that out there.”

“Is the woman who went alone to Saudi Arabia chickening out?”

“I’m not pretending that I’m not interested,” Liz said. “It’s just that — holy shit, is that it?” A wrought-iron fence that was easily eight feet high enclosed a massive, verdant lawn on which trees and a combination of modern and older sculptures stood at intervals. As Charlotte continued driving, they reached the fence’s gate, which was closed. Beyond it, a long gravel driveway led to a brick mansion that in its grandness and symmetry evoked a southern plantation.

Charlotte pointed through the gate to a larger-than-life bronze statue of a nude male. “You think Darcy posed for that?”

“No one lives in the house,” Liz said. “Darcy’s parents have died, and his sister is a grad student at Stanford. But can you imagine how—” The thought went unexpressed; it was at this moment that a black van with tinted windows approached from the opposite direction and stopped next to them, its driver’s-side window descending. A middle-aged man with a crew cut said in a brisk tone, “Can I help you ladies?”

“We’re friends of the family who owns this place,” Charlotte said. “Friends of Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

The man appraised Charlotte, then Liz. “Is one of you Caroline Bingley?”

This wasn’t what Liz had expected him to ask, and if she’d thought the situation through, she’d never have uttered what she did next. But she did not think it through. Instead, she raised her hand and said, “I am.”

The man’s demeanor became marginally friendlier. He said, “Just a minute.” He held a phone to his ear, but before they could hear him say anything, his window rose. Charlotte turned and whispered excitedly, “We’re on a caper!”

“What’s wrong with me?” Liz said. “Why did I tell him that?”

The tinted window descended again, and the man said, “Fitzwilliam will meet us in front of the main house. Follow me.” By some invisible mechanism, the hulking doors of the gate opened, and the man drove through.

“Let’s get out of here,” Liz said.

“I thought Darcy was in Cincinnati,” Charlotte said.

“So did I.” Panic was quickly overtaking Liz. As Charlotte turned left up the driveway behind the van, Liz said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m not leading that guy on a chase. What if he has a gun?”

“Charlotte, we can’t see Darcy. Stop the car. Let me out.”

“What are you worried about? You and Darcy know each other biblically now.”

“He’ll think we’re stalking him. Charlotte, right before I left Cincinnati, Darcy told me he was in love with me! Except in this completely weird, unfriendly way, and I was really rude back to him, and the whole thing was bizarre.”

Charlotte laughed. “Liz Bennet, you seductress! Is there any man who hasn’t fallen for you this summer? Besides, we are stalking him. Or at least his land.”

In front of the house, though house did not seem an adequate descriptor for the gargantuan structure before them, near the steps leading to an enormous front door was a figure that, even from a distance of twenty yards, Liz could tell was Darcy. She thought of the two of them writhing in the bed in his apartment and felt a multifaceted confusion. Near Darcy, the black van made a U-turn and continued back down the driveway, the way they’d come; Charlotte stopped in front of the steps and without warning automatically lowered Liz’s window. Darcy walked closer to them, and by the time he recoiled — in surprise, Liz hoped, rather than revulsion — he was truly upon them.

“Liz?” He looked shocked.

Charlotte leaned forward and waved. “Hi, Darcy.”

“Charlotte?”

Liz heard Charlotte say, “We were in the area,” and it was impossible not to believe that her friend was relishing this encounter.

“That guy,” Liz said. “Your bodyguard or whatever — he assumed I was Caroline Bingley, but I’m not.”

“No,” Darcy said. “You’re not.” He didn’t, as Liz had feared, seem angry; he still seemed simply puzzled. “I thought you’d gone back to New York.”

“I came to visit Charlotte.”

Darcy glanced at Charlotte. “I understand you’ve become a Californian.”

“Who’d have thunk, huh?” Charlotte said.

“Why are you here?” Liz asked Darcy.

“At my own house, do you mean?” But Darcy sounded warm, not mocking — indeed, he seemed to Liz warmer than he ever had in Cincinnati, though perhaps the difference was less his affect than her perception of it. “Georgie and I hold a Labor Day get-together every year,” he was saying, “or we host it the years I don’t have to work. That’s why Roger confused you with Caroline Bingley. She’s due here tomorrow.”

Liz tried not to demonstrably register this troubling bit of news and instead strove to sound pleasant and breezy. “With Chip?” she asked.

Darcy shook his head. “No, he’s still filming, but a few of our classmates from med school are coming from San Francisco, and some friends of Georgie’s.” Darcy looked between Liz and Charlotte. “As long as you’re here, would you two like to see the house?”

“We’re actually—” Liz began, and Charlotte said, “We’d love to.”

As Charlotte turned off the engine, Darcy said, “I hope Roger wasn’t rude. He’s the caretaker, not my bodyguard, but he can be overzealous because we sometimes get people snooping around the property.”

Chapter 120

FOR ONCE, LIZ wouldn’t have asked, but Charlotte did, in a way that somehow seemed as neutral a question a person might pose about an exhibit in a museum, and Darcy answered in kind: The main house at Pemberley was nineteen thousand square feet and contained twelve bedrooms and seventeen bathrooms; there also was a guesthouse, a caretaker’s cottage, and a currently unused stable.

They entered through the foyer, made a right into a hallway with a high, arched ceiling, made another right, and found themselves in a ballroom, a vast space with a walnut floor, mostly empty save for two spectacular crystal chandeliers, matching marble fireplaces at either end of the room, and a half dozen murals featuring scenes from what Darcy identified as England’s Lake District. He said, “I suspect that my great-great-grandfather thought a veneer of British elegance would distract from his having run away from his home in rural Virginia at the age of thirteen.”

“Rags to riches,” Charlotte said, and Liz said, “So Pemberley has been in your family all this time?”

“Which is why my sister fears that we’ll be letting down all our ancestors by donating it to the National Trust for Historic Preservation, whereas I think the opposite. Neither Georgie nor I will ever have a family big enough to justify this kind of space. Nobody has a family big enough.”

They walked from the ballroom into a trophy room, then an oak-paneled study with an oil painting over the fireplace of a balding, somber man wearing a black tie, a white shirt with an upturned collar, a black waistcoat, a black jacket, and a pocket watch whose gold chain was visible.

“That’s the original Fitzwilliam Darcy, my great-great-grandfather,” Darcy said. “He started building Pemberley in 1915, by which point he’d established himself as a railroad and borax-mining magnate. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying about every fortune being built on a great crime.”

Liz, who had spoken little since entering the house, tried to sound normal as she asked, “Should I pretend to know what borax is?”

“Charlotte, I bet you know from Procter & Gamble.” To Liz, Darcy said, “Sodium borate. A compound that’s in everything from detergent to fiberglass.” They were in the library, where scores of leather-bound books sat on built-in shelves, and an enormous Persian rug covered the floor.

“Are the books fake?” Liz asked. “No offense.”

“They have pages with words on them, if that’s what you’re asking. But yes, I’m sure that even when they were first acquired, they were a bit of an affectation. I once read a copy of Treasure Island I found in here, but we mostly lived upstairs. The whole first floor, as you can see, has a public feel to it, and my mother was very civically involved. She and my father hosted lots of fundraising events.”

“It’s like the White House,” Charlotte said, and Darcy said, “In a way, I suppose.”

From the library, they proceeded through the reception room, which was a sort of mini — living room; the drawing room, which was another sort of mini — living room, this one apparently intended for women to retire to when the men enjoyed their post-dinner cigars and brandy; then the dining room, the butler’s pantry, and the kitchen. In the reception room, Darcy had gestured at the doorway, which was framed by columns and a peaked roof, and said to Liz, “All that trim is known as an aedicule — that’s a good word for a writer, huh?”

Who was this man, this gracious and genial host sharing his time, demonstrating impeccable manners in a context in which he’d have been justified showing the opposite? And how strange it was that he’d grown up in this ludicrous house; truly, it seemed more like the set of a television show about opulence than a home.

The black marble stairwell they ascended was near the trophy room; from the landing, an orchard was visible. On the second floor, the bedrooms all included fireplaces, and most featured televisions from before the flat-screen era. A poster of Larry Bird still hung on the wall of the room that had been Darcy’s, and a CD player with a slot for a cassette tape rested on the small desk. There was to Liz something unexpectedly poignant about these items, as well as about the navy blue comforter smoothed over the bed (how many years had elapsed since he’d slept in it?) and the framed photo of his soccer team in perhaps fourth or fifth grade. But doubt overtook her, and she wondered if her surge of tenderness toward Darcy was gold digging in disguise. She didn’t consciously yearn to be the mistress of a place like Pemberley, but the wealth it implied was astonishing indeed.

Darcy led them back downstairs and outside. Behind the house, in a fruit and vegetable garden off the kitchen, they sampled one small, ripe tomato each before proceeding through a walled garden; then a sunken garden; then a rose garden; and finally a descending series of terraces, on the lowest of which a reflecting pool shimmered in the midafternoon sun. This wasn’t the swimming pool, Darcy explained, though he led them there next. The swimming pool had been added in the 1940s, and adjacent to it was the guesthouse where Darcy told them he and some of his visitors would sleep during the weekend.

As the tour wound down, Liz wished to say something that conveyed her appreciation for his kindness while leading it, a kindness all the more remarkable in light of their last interaction in Cincinnati. What she said, as the three of them approached Charlotte’s car without reentering the main house, was “Thanks for showing us around.”

Darcy looked at her, and she looked at him, and if not for Charlotte, Liz wondered what sentiments either of them might express. “Of course,” he said. “It’s funny, both of us being out here this weekend.” He stepped forward and kissed Charlotte’s cheek. “My knowledge of the area is dated, but if you need any pointers, be in touch.”

“Will do,” Charlotte said.

“Goodbye, Liz,” Darcy said, and when he leaned in to kiss her cheek, she resisted the impulse to cling to him; in an instant, the kiss was finished.

What was there to do but climb into Charlotte’s car? Liz did so, and as Charlotte started the engine, Liz felt she might cry. On the other side of the window, Darcy’s expression was pensive. As the car pulled away, Liz gave him a small and miserable wave.

“Okay, that was nuts,” Charlotte said. “That was totally, completely—”

“Wait, he’s saying something. Stop.” In her side-view mirror, Liz could see Darcy jogging after them from twenty feet back.

Charlotte braked, and Liz opened her window.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier,” Darcy said, and he was only the slightest bit breathless. “You two should come here for dinner tonight. And Willie, too, obviously. Given what a fan of yours my sister is, Liz, she’d be thrilled to meet you.”

“Oh—” Liz turned to Charlotte, then turned back to Darcy. “We’re supposed to have dinner with my aunt and uncle, Willie’s parents. I mean, thank you but—”

“Bring them along. How does six-thirty sound?”

“Six-thirty is great,” Charlotte said.

“Any food restrictions for either of you?” Darcy asked. “Georgie doesn’t eat meat, so we’ll have vegetarian options.”

“No restrictions for me,” Liz said, and Charlotte said, “Me, either. What can we bring?”

“Just yourselves,” Darcy said. “I’ll grill something simple. Liz, if you tell me your number, I’ll text you now, and when you get here tonight, you can text me to open the front gate.”

She recited the digits, and seconds later, her phone buzzed in her pocket. (After all this time, she had Darcy’s cellphone number! She had Darcy’s number and he had hers, and she felt as giddy as if the cutest boy in seventh grade had slipped a note into her locker.)

“I’m glad this will work,” Darcy said.

In a purring tone that made Liz want to slap her friend, Charlotte said, “Darcy, the pleasure is ours.”

Chapter 121

SUCH WERE LIZ’S nerves that when she and Charlotte stopped to buy wine to take to Pemberley that evening, Liz purchased an additional bottle of merlot, which she opened as soon as possible in Charlotte’s kitchen. “It is after five in Cincinnati,” Liz said. “And New York.”

“Hey,” Charlotte said. “Go for it.”

“Do you really think he wants to make dinner for a bunch of people, including my aunt and uncle, whom he’s never met, when he has all those guests arriving tomorrow?”

Charlotte grinned. “That man is completely in love with you,” she said. “I’m sure he’d like nothing better.”

Liz took a long swallow from the glass she’d poured. “Join me?”

“Twist my arm,” Charlotte said, and Liz poured a second glass.

The one advantage of the new dinner plan, Liz thought, was that her complicated feelings about spending the evening with Darcy so overshadowed her complicated feelings about seeing Cousin Willie as to make the latter set of emotions negligible; her rejection of Willie was no longer the one that preoccupied her.

Liz and Charlotte carried their wineglasses to the front porch of the modest three-bedroom ranch house that Liz knew, because she’d checked online, had cost Willie $1.1 million in 2010. As they sat on Adirondack chairs, the afternoon sky was cerulean with a smattering of cumulus clouds. Palo Alto seemed in this moment an unaffordable yet truly delightful place to live.

“The problem with your theory of Darcy still being into me,” Liz said, “is that he invited Caroline up for the weekend. And not even with her brother — just by herself.”

“Caroline is odious. There’s no way she can compete with you.”

“Well, they were involved in the past. They’ve definitely slept together.”

“And that distinguishes Caroline from you how?” Charlotte was leering.

“Did you ever notice in Cincinnati that she was all over him? It’s obvious she wants to get back together.” Liz felt too jittery to remain seated, and she stood. “Is it okay if I take a shower?”

“Of course. The towels are on the bed.”

Before entering the house, Liz said, “Sorry for letting this stuff with Darcy hijack my visit. After we get through dinner, we’ll hatch a plan for your life here.”

“Lizzy, nothing could bring me greater happiness than to have you staying at my house, freaking out about a boy.”

Chapter 122

THEY CARAVANNED BACK to Pemberley: Willie and Charlotte in his Prius, Liz riding with Aunt Margo and Uncle Frank. Willie had greeted Liz by saying in an accusatory tone, “Obviously, a lot has changed since I last saw you,” and Liz had replied, with a sincerity that took her by surprise, “I’m so happy for you and Charlotte.”

As she rode from Palo Alto to Atherton, Liz offered Aunt Margo updates from Cincinnati: Mr. Bennet’s health, Jane’s breakup with Chip (Liz provided much less detail than she’d given earlier to Charlotte), Lydia’s new beau. Conveniently, describing Ham was helpful in avoiding discussion of the house in which Aunt Margo had grown up being for sale. Shortly, Uncle Frank was turning onto Pemberley Lane; reaching the gates of the estate, he whistled in appreciation. “This must be some friend you’ve made, Lizzy.”

Hi it’s Liz, Liz texted Darcy. We’re here. A few seconds later, the gates opened.

In front of the main house, Liz spotted Darcy and a slender young woman who tucked her straight light brown hair behind her ears and kept her head slightly ducked, as if avoiding the glare of the sunset, though the house faced north. When the cars were parked and their occupants discharged, all seven of them stood in the gravel driveway while introductions were made and handshakes exchanged. Darcy wore high-quality flip-flops, khaki pants, and a white oxford cloth shirt rolled up to the elbows and plain save for a monogram on the left breast pocket—FCD V, it said, and Liz knew from looking online that his middle name was Cornelius.

It was immediately obvious to Liz that Georgie was anorexic. More than a decade in the employ of a women’s magazine had given her an abundance of experience discerning eating disorders, and made her both sympathetic to their challenges and wary of focusing inordinate attention on them; indeed, before the end of her first year at Mascara, she’d privately vowed to cease all conversation about food or exercise with her co-workers, lest she become as obsessive as some of them. She had, of course, broken the vow many times, but she still credited it with helping her retain perspective.

A few inches shorter than Liz, Georgie couldn’t have topped a hundred pounds; and though she wore a loose linen shirt along with jeans and flats, the line of her jaw and the prominence of her teeth were clues to her extreme thinness. She seemed far more fragile than Liz had anticipated; Kitty and Lydia were downright husky by comparison.

“We’ll eat at the guesthouse.” Looking among Uncle Frank, Aunt Margo, and Willie, Darcy added, “I’ve already subjected Liz and Charlotte to a tour of the main house today, so I’m inclined to spare the rest of you.”

Aunt Margo, Liz observed, met this news with disappointment that she quickly concealed, though neither Willie nor Uncle Frank seemed to care. As they all walked past the east wing of the house, Darcy said, “You’ll see that the pool is next to the guesthouse, but I have to apologize for not offering you the chance to swim. We haven’t opened it in a few years.”

Uncle Frank snapped his fingers, as if let down. “And here I’d stashed a Speedo in my glove compartment, just in case.”

Everyone chuckled politely at this appetite-spoiling image, and Liz found herself falling into step beside Georgie. “Thank you for having us over on such short notice,” Liz said. “I hope you weren’t alarmed when your brother said five strangers would be joining you for dinner.”

“Oh, the opposite,” Georgie said. “Fitzy’s talked about you so much, and I think he told you I’m a big Mascara reader.” Quickly, Georgie added, “At the risk of sounding like a dorky fangirl.”

“Ah, but I love dorky fangirls,” Liz said. “So Darcy — or I guess you just called him Fitzy — he said you’re a graduate student?”

Georgie nodded. “I’m in the middle of my dissertation, which will probably be read by about eight people total, if I ever manage to finish it. I have to ask you this, even though I’m sure everyone does — do you think Hudson Blaise cheated on Jillian Northcutt?”

Forsaking her usual guardedness on the topic, Liz said, “Of course he did!”

“Have you ever interviewed him?” Georgie asked.

Liz shook her head. “Although the word on the street is that he’s not big on bathing and smells kind of funky.”

Georgie giggled. “Was Jillian nice?”

“She was nice enough. I think it was such a weird time in her life, and, obviously, she was talking about the breakup not because she wanted to but because she had a movie to promote. I felt bad for her, actually. What’s your dissertation about?”

“Early-twentieth-century French suffragettes and taxation. Fascinating, huh?”

“Georgie, have you seen the corkscrew?” Darcy called from a few yards ahead. They had reached the guesthouse, and he stood by a two-tiered cart that held an array of wine bottles, glasses, and napkins.

Georgie pointed. “On the lower level.”

The pool was covered by a vast green tarp that somehow didn’t compromise the loveliness of the setting. Four matching chaise longues were lined up alongside the pool, and a lushly cushioned couch and chairs sat near the entrance to the guesthouse; on either side of the couch, heat lamps stood sentinel. Two additional heat lamps flanked a long iron table set with green plates and matching green cloth napkins, all so elegantly arranged that Liz had a hunch that someone other than Darcy or Georgie — someone with professional expertise — had organized the display. Beyond the far end of the pool lay a lawn of the most deeply green and perfectly manicured grass Liz had ever seen; the expanse begged to be used, and Liz wished she knew how to do back-flips, or even just a decent cartwheel. A scent that Liz thought of as distinctly Californian — perhaps it was eucalyptus — became perceptible.

Cousin Willie approached Liz and Georgie with two glasses of red wine and said, “Ladies.”

Liz took hers, but Georgie shook her head. “I’ll just have water.”

When everyone had a drink, Darcy held up his glass. “To family and friends.”

Liz’s eyes met his briefly, and then they were clinking glasses, as was everyone else. It was difficult to know how to manage her energy, how to manage herself, in the company of this version of Darcy. She could see, with a sudden and not entirely welcome clarity, that in Cincinnati, she had cultivated her own rancor toward him; she had made rude and provocative remarks, had searched for offense in his responses, and had relished the slights that may or may not have been delivered. Yet in spite of the culminating acrimony during his confession, he had decided to set aside their ill will. His present behavior wasn’t a sarcastic impersonation of good manners; it wasn’t meant to count, technically, as kindness, without containing true warmth; it simply was kindness. He treated his guests, her included, as if he couldn’t imagine a greater pleasure than spending the evening with them, and in doing so he exacerbated Liz’s shame about her past pettiness toward him.

At some point during the larger group conversation, when neither of them was interacting with anyone else, Liz turned to Darcy. “When do your other guests get here?”

“Anywhere from late morning tomorrow to early afternoon. You’re welcome to come back if you’d like. I’m sure Caroline would enjoy seeing you.”

Liz scrutinized Darcy’s face and finally said, “Do you not realize that Caroline Bingley and I can’t stand each other?”

Darcy looked amused. “Since when?”

“Since about thirty seconds after we met. I suppose it’s possible I don’t register with her enough for her to dislike me, but I don’t like her.”

“Do I dare ask why?”

The reason not to criticize Caroline wasn’t that she didn’t deserve criticism, Liz thought; it was that criticizing her would only make Liz look bad. She said, “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m a person who pretends that gossiping shows my anthropological interest in the human condition.” Darcy winced a little, and Liz added, “Too soon?”

“No sooner than I deserve. If you’ll excuse me, I should start grilling.” Had she in fact offended him? He headed inside the guesthouse and emerged a moment later carrying one platter of raw steaks and another of portobello mushrooms and zucchini cut into long strips. Uncle Frank joined him at the grill, and Liz could hear her uncle strike up a conversation about the history of the estate. “It’s no secret that property in Atherton is worth a pretty penny,” Uncle Frank said, and Darcy said affably, “Yes, times have changed since my great-great-grandfather bought this land for twelve dollars an acre.”

Liz rose, looking for a bathroom. On the other side of the guesthouse’s glass door, she found herself inside a great room with stainless steel kitchen appliances lining one wall. Passing a first bathroom, she walked down a hall, by three bedrooms — two held twin beds, and one contained an unmade king-sized bed, with an open suitcase on the floor beside it — and, beyond the suitcase, an interior bathroom. As she washed her hands afterward in a sink with a pattern of blue peonies painted across the basin and faucet handles, she was struck, as she occasionally was during a third glass of wine, by how cute she looked in the mirror. Sober, she tended, like most women she knew, toward self-criticism. But tipsy, she could admire her own brightly inquisitive eyes, her shiny hair and game smile, as well as the flattering cut of her jeans and the boost offered by the overpriced bra she’d purchased that afternoon. Even in the presence of her weird cousin and corny uncle, the night had taken on a certain enchanted quality that arose from the splendor of the setting, from the crisp air, the candles they relied on as twilight gathered, and above all from Darcy’s solicitousness, which she felt to be directed primarily at her; indeed, she interpreted his attention to all the guests as a personal tribute. But of course she was not certain — she was certain of nothing.

Whether by her own angling or a more mutual stratagem, Liz ended up next to Darcy for dinner; her aunt was on his other side. Complementing the meat and vegetables Darcy had grilled were a loaf of fresh bread, a salad, and more wine, all of them outstanding, though what food and drink wouldn’t have tasted delicious beneath a starry sky on a late-summer evening?

“Was your mother a native Californian like your father?” Aunt Margo asked Darcy, and he shook his head.

“She was a proud Yankee who could never quite believe she’d settled here permanently.” Darcy looked at his sister. “Wouldn’t you say, Georgie?”

The focus of the table shifting to her seemed to make Georgie self-conscious, but she sounded composed as she said, “Our mom grew up in Boston, and she’d lose her voice yelling at the TV during Red Sox games.”

“How did your parents meet?” Liz asked.

Darcy said, “Mom was an undergraduate at Radcliffe when our dad was in medical school. She was only nineteen when Dad proposed, and he assumed she’d drop out of school and move here with him. She refused. He joined a practice in San Francisco, but supposedly he kept proposing to her once a month, writing letters. She finally said yes the day after her graduation.”

“Your father was a doctor, too?” Aunt Margo said.

“A general practitioner,” Darcy said. “I think in another life our mom would have been a landscape architect. When I picture her, it’s digging in the gardens here.”

“I just realized,” Georgie said. “You should all come to our croquet tournament tomorrow.” A silence ensued, and Georgie added, “You don’t need to wear white or anything. It’s informal.”

“They probably have plans, Georgie,” Darcy said. “Liz, how long are you in town?”

“Till Sunday night.”

“I bet we can make it work,” Charlotte said. “Don’t you think, Liz? What time does the tournament start?”

“Around three,” Georgie said. “I mean, don’t feel obligated if it sounds boring.”

“Margo and I will take a rain check,” Uncle Frank said. “We’ll be enjoying some R and R on a friend’s boat.”

“And I need to be at the office,” Willie said. “We’re in crunch time, and I’m lucky to have gotten away for dinner.”

“Then definitely count Liz and me in,” Charlotte said. “Darcy, I trust you remember from Charades that Liz is a fierce competitor.”

“I remember it well,” Darcy said.

Chapter 123

A SIXTY-SOMETHING WOMAN named Alberta materialized before dessert to ask if they needed anything, and Darcy complimented her on the excellence of the food, thereby confirming Liz’s impression that he had done little to prepare it. However, it was Darcy himself who loaded the dishwasher, as Liz, Charlotte, and Georgie carried plates into the guesthouse.

Georgie had just taken a hazelnut torte outside — Liz doubted the young woman would be eating any — and Charlotte followed with a pint of vanilla ice cream, leaving Darcy and Liz inside and truly alone together for the first time that evening. As Darcy scrubbed the salad bowl, Liz, who was no more than five feet away, said, “Thank you—” and he turned off the water. “Thank you for everything tonight—” she began again, and, talking over her, he said, “You don’t have to come tomorrow just to humor Georgie. Now that I know how you feel about Caroline Bingley, I—”

“No, it’s fine.” This time, it was her interrupting him. “I mean, I don’t want to impose if—”

“You’re more than welcome to join us.”

Then they just stood there, looking at each other. She wished that kissing him was not impossible. Was kissing him impossible? Surely so, with his sister and her aunt and uncle and cousin and friend on the other side of the glass door. It then seemed that maybe they were going to kiss after all, in spite of the lack of privacy and the confused circumstances, because he stepped toward her, and she stepped toward him. He said, “Since you left Cincinnati—” At that moment, Georgie walked in and said, “Did Alberta leave the serving knife in the main house? Oh, sorry.”

“It’s right here.” Darcy turned, opened a drawer, and handed the knife to Georgie.

Both the eye contact and the spell had been broken. And yet Georgie’s apology — it was proof to Liz that a spell had existed; she wasn’t just imagining it.

She said to Georgie, “I’ve got the dessert plates.” Because Liz didn’t wish to increase Georgie’s discomfort — also because Liz didn’t know what else to do — she followed the other woman out to the patio. A moment later, Darcy emerged after them. It was Aunt Margo who cut the torte.

Since I left Cincinnati what? Liz thought. Though she wasn’t alone again with Darcy before they departed, her heart had swollen during that encounter in the kitchen, and it did not shrink again until some hours after she had climbed into the guest bed at Willie and Charlotte’s house.

Chapter 124

IN CHARLOTTE’S CAR on El Camino Real, returning to Pemberley the following afternoon, Liz pulled down the sun visor and looked at herself in the mirror, which was something she’d already spent a not inconsiderable amount of time doing at Charlotte and Willie’s house, where she’d carefully applied foundation, mascara, and lipstick. In the car, she said, “Is it weird we’re going?”

“Liz, the ST between you and Darcy is threatening to engulf Northern California in a fiery ball. It’s your duty to save us all by having sex.”

“I’m glad this is providing you with so much entertainment.” Liz pulled her lipstick from her purse, applied a fresh coat — one of the many tips she had learned during her years at Mascara was to begin at the center of her lips and move toward the corners — then rubbed her lips together. “For real, though, I hope Caroline doesn’t think we crashed the party.”

“Who cares what Caroline thinks?”

Liz slid the cover across the sun visor mirror and folded the visor back into place. “True. Did you wear earplugs again last night?”

“It was like an angel rocked me to sleep. Thank you for suggesting it.” Charlotte turned off El Camino Real and said in a more serious tone, “I know Willie isn’t dashing like Darcy. But I think he loves me, and I want to make it work.”

“I’m sure he loves you.”

“It’s weird,” Charlotte said, “because if your dad hadn’t had a heart attack, you and Jane wouldn’t have come back to Cincinnati this summer, and if you hadn’t come back to Cincinnati, Willie wouldn’t have visited with Margo, and I’d never have met him. Sometimes it amazes me how much these defining parts of our lives hinge on chance.”

“I know. I think about that all the time.”

They both were quiet, and the fence of Pemberley came into view. “Are you on the Pill?” Charlotte asked. “Because we can turn around and go buy a condom.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Liz said.

Chapter 125

“WHAT A COINCIDENCE that you happen to be in town the same weekend Darcy is here,” Caroline said to Liz by way of greeting. They stood on the lawn near the covered pool, where the croquet equipment had already been set out: the wickets inserted into the grass, the mallets and balls waiting in tidy rows. Along one side of the pool, a buffet lunch still looked vibrant, despite the fact that it was midafternoon: various sandwiches and salads, enormous cookies, lemonade, iced tea, beer, and white wine. Surveying the scene, Liz had the somewhat troubling thought that she was starting to understand Darcy’s unfavorable view of Cincinnati; it would be difficult for any place to compete with these lush gardens, blue skies, and magnificent spreads of food.

“I’m visiting Charlotte,” Liz said to Caroline. “You may have heard that she’s dating my cousin Willie.”

“I guess beauty really is in the eye of the beholder,” Caroline said.

Liz was fairly sure Charlotte didn’t overhear the insult, because she was being introduced to the half dozen other guests, but the remark seemed too rude to simply let stand. “Is it my cousin or my oldest friend that you’re implying is ugly?” Liz asked.

Caroline shrugged. “Take your pick. When two people like that get together, I never know if I should be happy for them or just pray they don’t reproduce.”

You’re awful, Liz thought. You’re even worse than I remember.

“Speaking of which,” Caroline said, “has Jane reached the swollen-ankles-and-stretch-marks stage yet?”

Liz smiled as warmly as she could manage. “You know how some pregnant women just give off a glow the whole time? Jane’s been blessed.” Before Caroline could respond, Liz added, “I hear Chip’s still shooting the Eligible reunion. Is Holly the alligator wrestler part of it? Or it’s Gabrielle who has the Celtic cross tattoo on her tongue, right? It always seemed like she and Chip had a lot of chemistry.” Liz beamed at Caroline. “Either one would be so fun for you to have as a sister-in-law.”

Chapter 126

UPON THEIR ARRIVAL, Charlotte and Liz had been welcomed by Darcy in a gracious but not especially fraught way (Liz was almost disappointed by how not fraught) and introduced to the other guests, all of whose names Liz promptly forgot: an anesthesiologist and his lawyer wife, a seemingly single male radiologist, a nephrologist (male) married to an architect (also male), plus two Stanford history PhDs, both slender young men whom Liz suspected, based on their posture and inflections around Darcy’s sister, to be in love with Georgie.

Though Liz’s initial interactions with Darcy were subdued and matter-of-fact, as the afternoon progressed and the croquet began — they were playing two separate games simultaneously, both of them the so-called cutthroat version, in which it was everyone for him- or herself, rather than teams — Liz felt there to be an ever-increasing charge between herself and her host. She was at all times acutely conscious of how far he stood from her, of his absence if he stepped away — to bring out additional bottles of wine from the guesthouse, say, or to greet the final arrival, a dermatologist, at the front gate — and whom he was talking with. Periodically, it was she who was speaking to him, always in an undramatic fashion. They weren’t playing in the same game, but the two courts had been set up on adjacent stretches of grass, and they were sometimes near each other; they’d comment on a shot someone had taken or on the pleasantness of the weather, and while such topics felt faintly ridiculous, so, presumably, would anything else.

When Liz knocked her ball out of bounds, Darcy materialized as she was placing it the prescribed distance from the boundary. “I always have this fantasy of discovering some new skill,” she said. “But apparently it’s not croquet.”

Darcy squinted. “Are you wearing makeup?”

Instinctively, Liz brought a hand to one cheek. “Does it look weird?”

“I guess I’m not used to you in it,” Darcy said, and, more defensively than she meant to, Liz said, “It is something women often put on their faces.”

Without speaking, Darcy patted her right shoulder, as if comforting her; instead, the contact was unsettling, but in a good way.

Eventually, Alberta drove up in a golf cart to clear away the used plates and utensils. Liz had by that point consumed two and a half glasses of wine, three bites of a turkey sandwich, and half a cookie; she was too nervous to eat more. It was Darcy who’d won the first game, and Charlotte the second. Caroline said to Liz, “I take it you’re not much of an athlete.”

Though Liz had mocked her own croquet skills with Darcy, she couldn’t permit such a slight from Caroline. “Well, I run twenty-five miles a week,” she said. “And for my job I’ve tried pretty much every fitness trend out there. But I suppose I’m not athletic besides that.”

The two women looked at each other with barely disguised antipathy, and Caroline said, “You leave town tomorrow, right?”

“Is my presence thwarting plans that you had?”

Caroline took a step closer to Liz and lowered her voice. “Just so you know, I see right through you. Your whole laid-back vibe — I can tell it’s bullshit.”

“Coming from you, I think that might be a compliment.”

As Liz finished her third glass of wine, impatience, regret, and tipsiness collected within her. Oh, to get a do-over for that braless, unprepared morning at her sisters’ apartment! To be granted just one more run up Madison Road with Darcy, only the two of them and no one else, and then to decamp for his apartment, this time with the awareness that he didn’t see the encounter as purely transactional — to know that he liked her! But did he still like her, here, today? How long did the sex hormones to which he’d attributed his love linger in the bloodstream?

A short while later, Liz heard herself telling Georgie, as one of Georgie’s suitors listened in, “Your brother mentioned that you guys might sell or donate this property at some point. And I hope this isn’t too forward, but I want to tell you about something my older sister did. My parents are selling the house they’ve lived in for a long time, so my sister, who’s a yoga instructor, held, like, a ritual farewell where she talked about some of the things we’d done at the house and what she’d miss. And even though I was skeptical, I think it’s helped me. Oh, and it only took five minutes.”

Georgie looked both interested and confused. She said, “Did someone come and do it for you, or did she do it herself?”

“No, she did it. I can ask if she was following a script or just winging it.”

“If you want to learn about moving superstitions, you should talk to my Chinese grandma,” Georgie’s suitor said. He was still talking when suddenly Darcy was beside Liz; he touched her arm just above the elbow, and again, she felt she might swoon. Instead, in an impossibly normal voice, she said, “Hi.”

As Georgie and her suitor continued their conversation, Darcy said, “I wonder if you’re free to get breakfast tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Liz said. “Sure.”

“It would have to be early, because there’s a group hike planned. Of course, you and Charlotte are welcome to join that, too.”

Aware that her friend would probably contradict the statement, Liz said, “I need to give Charlotte some undivided attention, since she’s the reason I’m in California, but breakfast sounds great.”

“Is eight A.M. uncivilized?”

“It’s perfect.”

“If you text me Charlotte’s address, I’ll pick you up.”

So he felt it, too. Or he felt, at least, something. He wanted to be alone with her, even if, judging from his calmness, he didn’t want it as much as she wanted to be alone with him. She yearned to fling her body against his, to smash her face into his shirt, kiss his neck and face, and take him away to where she didn’t have to share him.

Blandly, she said, “Charlotte and Willie live in Palo Alto. Their house is really close to here.”

Chapter 127

“MY BROTHER,” GEORGIE whispered, and she gripped Liz’s wrist. It was dusk, and Liz and Charlotte would be leaving momentarily, though Charlotte and the nephrologist were caught up in a heated discussion about earthquakes. “I think he likes you,” Georgie continued, still whispering. Liz’s buzz had worn off, but she wondered if the other woman was drunk; if so, Liz was surprised, given the caloric content of alcohol. “Seriously,” Georgie said. “And it’s perfect, because I’ve always been scared he’ll end up with Caroline Bingley, and she sucks.”

Yes, Georgie was definitely drunk, which did not mean she wasn’t to be trusted. In the fading light, Liz regarded the younger woman. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you,” she said. “Caroline does suck.”

“Do you like Fitzy?”

Liz hesitated only briefly. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“As in like him?”

Liz smiled. “I knew what you meant, and the answer is still yes.”

Georgie pulled her phone from her pocket. “Give me your number, and next time I’m in New York, you and Jillian Northcutt and I should have coffee.”

“Here.” Liz reached for the phone and typed the numbers in herself. She wondered if Georgie would recall their conversation in the morning and, if she did, whether she’d repeat it to her brother.

Passing back the phone, Liz said, “I can’t speak for Jillian Northcutt, but I’d be delighted to see you anytime.”

Chapter 128

HE PICKED HER up on time, in a gray SUV with California license plates; the morning was sunny again but still cool, and Liz had slept even less the previous night than the night before that. Around four A.M., she had decided there was nothing to do but ask him for another chance. As geographically inconvenient and temperamentally implausible as a relationship between them seemed, she wanted it; she wanted it desperately, and she needed to know if he did, too.

Riding to the restaurant he’d selected — the Palo Alto Creamery, though the food was, of course, irrelevant — she felt them inhabiting some simulacrum of coupledom that was both torturous and enticing. His right hand resting on the gear shift near her left knee, his forearm with its brown hair, the almost imperceptible scent of whatever male shampoo or soap or aftershave he used — she could barely stand it. His handsomeness this early in the day was devastating and unmanageable, and so she reverted to small talk. She inquired whether everyone else in the house had been asleep when he’d left, and Darcy confirmed that they had; she asked if a late night had ensued after her and Charlotte’s departure, and he again answered in the affirmative; she noted that he must be exhausted, and he said he was accustomed to sleep deprivation.

Turning onto Emerson Street, Darcy said, “Georgie thinks you’re great.”

“Oh, it’s mutual,” Liz said. “She’s charming.”

“I wish you and my mom could have met. You would have gotten a kick out of each other.”

Liz’s heart squeezed. “I wish I could have met her, too. She sounds very cool.”

Darcy glanced across the front seat. “Seeing Georgie — did she look different from how you pictured? Or maybe you didn’t picture her a particular way.”

A certain giddiness drained out of Liz, which was okay; giddiness was, after all, difficult to sustain. Carefully, she said, “She’s very thin, obviously. Is that what you mean?”

“She’s been in and out of different treatment centers, which, as far as I can tell, do nothing.” Darcy sighed. “But I still wonder if she should go back. She’s lost weight again since I last saw her.”

“I have a colleague who did a program in North Carolina that really seemed to help, I think at Duke. Has Georgie ever tried that one?”

“Duke doesn’t sound familiar. She’s been to places in Southern California and Arizona.” Darcy smiled sadly. “The one outside San Diego, I think the reason she agreed to check in was that a bunch of celebrities have been patients there, but her stint was celebrity-free. It must have been the off-season.”

“I know eating disorders are really hard,” Liz said. “I’m sorry.”

“I worry that her life is on hold,” Darcy said. “And I worry about her heart and kidneys.”

He was pulling into a parking space — how inevitable things seemed, how close to him Liz felt — when her phone buzzed with an incoming text. If not for her father’s heart attack, she might not have looked at the phone; she might simply have gone into the restaurant and ordered scrambled eggs that she would barely have eaten. Instead, she did look. Before she read the message, she saw the name of the text’s sender, and she said, “Speaking of sisters, this is from Mary.” Then she said, “Oh my God.”

“Is everything all right?” Darcy asked, but for the first time in two days, Darcy was not foremost in her mind; something else had abruptly pushed him aside, and his voice was background noise.

Lydia & Ham eloped to Chicago, Mary’s text read. Turns out Ham transgender/born female!!!!!! M & D freaking out can u come home?

Chapter 129

“IS EVERYTHING ALL right?” Darcy asked again.

“Lydia — my youngest sister — I guess she just eloped with her boyfriend. And also — wow.” Rapidly, Liz typed, For real? Not a joke? Mary hadn’t yet responded when Liz sent an additional text: ????

Ham being transgender — it seemed impossible. And Lydia had known? But, Liz thought, he had a goatee!

A few seconds later, Mary’s response appeared: Not a joke. Shortly there followed: And Lydia always accused ME of being gay! And then: Dad and Kitty driving to Chicago now, mom losing her shit. When can u get here?

Liz looked at Darcy, who had parked, turned off the ignition, and was watching her with concern. “Sorry,” Liz said. “I just — I didn’t see this coming. I should talk to Mary. Do you want to get a table and I’ll meet you inside?”

Darcy passed her the keys, and as he climbed from the car, Liz was already calling her sister.

“You’re sure that Ham is transgender?” Liz said when Mary answered. “And you’re sure they eloped? This isn’t some prank Lydia’s pulling?”

“They — Ham — came out to Mom and Dad last night, and it didn’t go well. This morning, there was a note on the kitchen table from Lydia saying they’re getting married.”

“Does he have a fake penis?” Later, Liz would be relieved that it was only Mary to whom she’d posed this prurient question.

“How should I know?” Mary said. “But Mom is acting crazy. I can’t deal with her.”

“What are Dad and Kitty planning to do in Chicago? Do they think they can stop the marriage?”

“Lydia and Ham can’t do it today because courthouses are closed on Sunday. Then tomorrow is Labor Day. Plus, I checked online and they’ll have to wait a day to use their marriage license, unless they already had one before they left, which I doubt. Basically, I don’t see how they can make it official until Wednesday at the earliest.”

“I’m not in New York,” Liz said. “I’m in California. Are you at your apartment or the house?”

“The house, and Mom just popped a bunch of Valium that I think expired ten years ago.”

“Hold on.” Liz lowered her phone and began typing, searching for flights to Cincinnati; the earliest option she could plausibly make left San Francisco at 11:40 A.M., entailed a layover in Atlanta, and would deliver her to Cincinnati at 9:28 P.M. The cost of this decidedly indirect journey would be $887, which she was pretty sure would deplete the last of her once-respectable-seeming savings.

“I’ll go to the airport as soon as I can and text you from there,” Liz said.

“It’s so typical of Lydia to make us deal with her shit.”

“I like Ham, though,” Liz said. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t care about Ham,” Mary said. “I have a paper due next week.”

Chapter 130

INSIDE THE CREAMERY, Liz spotted Darcy in a booth — a large plastic menu lay open in front of him — and again she was gripped by an awareness of the parallel universe in which they could function as an ordinary couple. This only made it more difficult to say, as she approached the table, “I’m so sorry, but I need to go. Could you — I’m sorry to ask this — could you take me back to Charlotte’s to get my stuff, then give me a ride to the airport?”

“What’s wrong?”

“The person Lydia eloped with — her boyfriend — he’s transgender. I guess my parents are really upset.”

Darcy didn’t seem shocked, and Liz was reminded of his general disapproval of her family. That the Bennets would find themselves in further turmoil appeared to be no more or less than he expected. He said, “You want me to take you to the airport now?”

“I just think — it sounds like I’m needed at home.”

“Why?”

It was a surprisingly difficult question to answer. Haltingly, Liz said, “This isn’t the kind of news my parents will respond to well, especially my mom.”

“Isn’t that their problem? It doesn’t seem like Lydia or her boyfriend did anything wrong.” Darcy’s abruptly condescending tone reminded Liz of when they’d first met.

“Do I think my parents will figure out a way to deal with this if I’m not there?” Liz said. “Of course.” She could hear her voice turn wobbly as she said, “But you know what? I didn’t really involve myself with stuff at home for twenty years, and during that time, a lot of things went off the rails.”

“You think getting on a plane will retroactively assuage your guilt?”

“I’m not trying to convince you I’m right,” Liz said. “I just want to know if you’ll take me to the airport or if I should call a cab.”

Darcy shut his menu. “Fine.” But in the same gesture with which he agreed to help her, some goodwill between them officially dissolved; their ST was no longer a fireball threatening to engulf Northern California.

“You won’t be dining with us today?” a waiter said as they walked toward the front of the restaurant, and Darcy said brusquely, “No.”

“Another time,” Liz added with fake brightness.

Back in the car, Darcy was quiet, and so was she. It occurred to her to ask him to simply go straight to the airport, and to have Charlotte send on her belongings, except that Liz didn’t wish to risk separation from the digital recorders she’d used to interview Kathy de Bourgh.

She hadn’t realized she’d been rehearsing concise explanations of the situation to offer Charlotte and Cousin Willie until she entered the house and found their bedroom door still closed. Liz stuffed her clothes and toiletries into her suitcase and her digital recorders and notebook into her purse and was wondering if she should at least leave a note for her hosts when, passing again by their closed door, she heard female gasps that were unmistakably sexual in nature. She hurried out.

Darcy had never turned off the engine, and after her suitcase was stowed in the backseat, even before she’d fastened her seatbelt, he began driving again. After a prolonged silence, she said, “If you’d told me Lydia had eloped with a cowboy she’d just met in a bar, or with the Bengals’ quarterback, sure. But this — I don’t know, I’ve never seen her as having a lot of sympathy for people outside the mainstream.”

Darcy said nothing.

“I wonder if my mom even knows what transgender means,” Liz added. “I guess she does now.”

Perhaps ten more minutes passed in silence, and Liz said, “Ham’s on the short side for a guy, but — I never would have guessed. He has a goatee, and he’s very muscular.”

“I’m sure he’s on a testosterone regimen.” Darcy spoke curtly.

“Have you ever had transgender patients?”

“Yes, but not because they were transgender. For that, they’d see an endocrinologist.”

The traffic on the 101 was light — it still was just eight-thirty on the Sunday morning of Labor Day weekend — and Darcy drove in a middle lane. Despite the urgency she felt, sadness billowed in Liz at the first sign for the airport. She could hear the uncertainty in her own voice as she said, “I’m not sure how long I’ll be in Cincinnati, but when do you get back?”

“Tuesday morning, but I go straight to work.”

“Well, depending on how long I’m in town, maybe I can make this up to you.”

Again, he said nothing, and when he pulled up in front of the terminal, she said, “Don’t get out. It’s faster if I just grab my stuff.”

He complied, and after she’d retrieved her suitcase from the backseat, she waved. “Thank you, Darcy.”

She’d been afraid he wouldn’t get out anyway, that he wouldn’t try to hug or kiss her, and that was why she’d told him to stay seated — because she hadn’t wanted his nonembrace to be the last thing that happened before she boarded a cross-country flight.

Chapter 131

MR. BENNET HAD found the note from Lydia upon entering the kitchen of the Tudor that morning: By the time you read this, Ham and I will be on our way to Chicago to get married. Don’t try calling because we’re not taking our phones. If you make me choose between you and Ham, I pick Ham! from Lydia THE BRIDE.

As had occurred to Liz, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bennet had been familiar with the term transgender before the previous evening, and having it jointly defined by Lydia and Ham, over cocktails in the living room, had not brought forth the best in them. Why, as Mrs. Bennet told Liz upon her arrival home, she had never heard of such a thing! How strange and disgusting that Ham was really a woman, and what could Lydia be thinking to get involved with someone so obviously unbalanced? Though Mr. Bennet had received the news with slightly greater equanimity, he had hardly been a paragon of respect, saying cheerfully to Ham, “If only you’d been born a century ago, you could have been one of Barnum’s bearded ladies.”

Lydia and Ham hadn’t, during that conversation, been seeking Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s approval for their marriage; indeed, there had been no discussion of marriage. Their decision to elope, Mary explained to Liz, seemed to have arisen in reaction to the lack of acceptance or grace with which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had greeted Ham’s disclosure.

Also prior to Liz’s return home, Mrs. Bennet had called their longtime lawyer and friend, Landon Reynolds, who’d explained that turning to the police would serve no purpose. Eloping wasn’t a violation of the law, and there was nothing to suggest that Ham had taken Lydia to Chicago against her will. While the illegality of same-sex marriage in both Ohio and Illinois could potentially render Lydia and Ham’s union void were Ham deemed female, seeking an annulment on Lydia’s behalf, given that she was well over the age of consent, would be complicated and costly; and in any case, it seemed likely that the gender listed on Ham’s driver’s license, if not his birth certificate, was male. His best advice, Mr. Reynolds told Mrs. Bennet, was to buy a bottle of champagne and wait for the newlyweds to return.

Yet so insistent was Mrs. Bennet that twenty minutes later, at her urging, Kitty and Mr. Bennet had begun the almost five-hour drive to Chicago with what Mrs. Bennet chose to believe was the goal of either preventing the couple’s nuptials or, if it was too late, of separating them and transporting Lydia back to Cincinnati alone. Mary, in the meantime, had been tasked with calling Chicago hotels to check for reservations under Bennet or Ryan, a search that by late Sunday night remained fruitless.

Shortly after Mr. Bennet and Kitty’s departure, Mrs. Bennet had swallowed the expired Valium and retired to bed, and this was where, at ten-thirty P.M., Liz found her. The older woman was weeping with a vigor that appeared unsustainable, yet the voluminous scattering of tissues across the bed, nightstand, and nearby rug suggested that she had been at it for some time; indeed, of the four tissue boxes sitting atop the mattress, two were empty, one was half-empty, and one was as yet unopened but clearly waiting to be deployed. Mrs. Bennet herself was surrounded by flotsam that included a cordless phone, two remote controls (when Liz entered the room, the television was showing an infomercial for a spray-on sealant), a partially consumed three-ounce chocolate bar, a king-sized package of Cheetos reduced to orange crumbs, and a preponderance of throw pillows; on the nightstand were a lowball glass and a bottle of gin. Mary, who had opened the front door of the Tudor and led Liz to their mother’s lair, now stood just inside the room with her arms folded. Liz approached the bed and sat, setting her hand on her mother’s arm. “Hi, Mom.”

Mrs. Bennet shook her head, her cheeks florid and damp. “She’s so pretty,” she said in a mournful voice. “I don’t know why a pretty girl would go and do such a terrible thing.”

“I really think Ham is a good person,” Liz said. “Remember how he helped me clean out our basement?”

“Are there people like this in New York?”

“There are transgender people everywhere,” Liz said. “And there have been throughout history.”

Both in the San Francisco airport and then on her layover in Atlanta, Liz had via her smartphone learned about the kathoey in Southeast Asia and the salzikrum of the ancient Middle East. Also, she now knew to refer to it as a gender reassignment rather than a sex change, she knew that Ham might well not have had “bottom” surgery (based on her own observations, she strongly suspected he’d had top), and, in any case, she knew to be embarrassed for having asked Mary if Ham had a fake penis; it was, apparently, no less rude to speculate about the genitals of a transgender person than about those of a person who was nontransgender, or cisgender.

As far as she was aware, Liz had, prior to meeting Ham, regularly interacted with only one transgender person, a sixty-something woman who was a copy editor at the magazine where Liz and Jasper had been fact-checkers. Surely, if Liz had learned that anybody in her social circle in New York had eloped with someone transgender, she’d have greeted the news with support; she might even have felt that self-congratulatory pride that heterosexual white people are known to experience due to proximate diversity. So why, she decided, should her feelings be any different for Ham? Especially now that she understood and could disregard the slight evasiveness he’d shown the time Liz had asked about his upbringing in Seattle, or Kitty’s taunting implication that Liz was ignorant of Ham’s true character. Which she didn’t believe she had been, Liz thought. In the air over the wheat fields of Kansas, Liz had concluded that if a Cincinnatian could reinvent herself as a New Yorker, if a child who kept a diary and liked to read could ultimately declare that she was a professional writer, then why was gender not also mutable and elective? The enduring mystery of Ham, really, was how he managed to stand Lydia’s company and how he now planned to do so for a lifetime.

“Five of you,” Mrs. Bennet said, and a fresh wave of tears released themselves. “How is it there are five of you and not one can find a nice, normal, rich man to settle down with?”

“Mom, we’re healthy,” Liz said. “We aren’t drug addicts. Things could be so much worse. And with Dad having been in the hospital, doesn’t it put something like this in perspective?”

“Does Ham get up in the morning and say, ‘Today I’ll wear a dress. No, trousers! No, a dress!’ ”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a guy all the time, Mom. Just think of him like you did before you knew he used to be female.” Used to be female—Liz had a hunch such a phrase ought not to be uttered by her newly enlightened self, though she’d check online.

“Mom, you should go to sleep,” Mary said.

“I’m waiting to hear from your father,” Mrs. Bennet said, and Mary said, “He and Kitty are probably going to sleep now, too.”

Mrs. Bennet glared between her daughters. “How selfish you all are,” she said. “Doing what you like without regard to how it reflects on our family name.”

“Okay, I’m done here,” Mary said, and Liz stood, too.

“Mary’s right, Mom,” Liz said. “You should sleep.”

Chapter 132

IN THE HALL outside their mother’s room, Mary said, “I guess all these years, Lydia has been projecting her secret same-sex attraction onto me.”

Liz looked at Mary. “Do you really think that?”

“She has no idea how mean people can be because usually she’s the mean one.” The pleasure in Mary’s voice was undisguised. “Living her whole life as this skinny, cutesy blonde — well, she’s about to learn.”

“I don’t think most people who meet Ham have any idea he’s transgender,” Liz said. “Although it also doesn’t seem like either of them is trying to hide it.”

“Exactly,” Mary said. “Because Lydia doesn’t know any better. And trust me, this is the kind of gossip that spreads like wildfire.”

“Lydia and Ham are living their truth,” Liz said. “More power to them.”

Chapter 133

IT WAS DISPLEASING and confusing to be back in her childhood bedroom again so soon after leaving, and especially after its fumigation with chemicals whose ostensible harmlessness Liz was not entirely convinced of. Though she’d been away from Cincinnati for only four nights, Liz also felt a strange envy for the version of herself who had formerly inhabited this room and had, however unwittingly, enchanted Darcy. The net result of her time in California, she feared, had been to decrease his affections. Though moments had seemed promising, something between them had come loose when she’d canceled breakfast and asked him to drive her to the airport.

She thought of texting him to say she’d made it safely back and wished he’d asked her to when he’d dropped her off. But what if, at this very moment, he and Caroline Bingley were sharing a laugh, standing close to each other, with Caroline looking bitchily gorgeous in an expensive frock?

The timing of it all was dreadful yet somehow unsurprising — that on the cusp of finally having an honest conversation with Darcy, an interruption would come from her family, and with the whiff of scandal attached. It was in Liz’s opinion a mistake to see symbolism in one’s own life, but still, the necessity of her abrupt departure from California felt almost punitive; she wondered if she was being karmically reprimanded for her previous treatment of Darcy.

Sleep overtook her eventually. But even then, woven throughout the night’s dreams, her remorse did not abate.

Chapter 134

WHEN LIZ ENTERED her mother’s bedroom in the morning after a run and a shower, it was nearly nine o’clock and her mother was on the phone.

“You should check again,” Mrs. Bennet was saying. “They might have gotten there right after you left.”

It was difficult for Liz to envision her father and Kitty in Chicago. Were they driving up and down Michigan Avenue or wandering on foot around Navy Pier and Grant Park? Were they loitering by the closed courthouse or entering restaurants, showing photos of Ham and Lydia from the screen of Kitty’s phone? Or were they simply, as seemed most likely, in a hotel room, watching television?

“For God’s sake, Fred, you need to find her,” Mrs. Bennet said. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night.” A few seconds passed before Liz realized that the phone call had ended and her mother’s most recent remark was directed at her.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Liz said.

“What’s it called when they slip pills into girls’ drinks?” Mrs. Bennet said. “They do it at fraternity parties. I wonder if that’s how Ham got her to Chicago.”

“Mom, I’m sure he didn’t give her roofies.”

“Here’s a question for you: Which locker room does Ham use when he swims? Because no one at the Cincinnati Country Club would want to change into their bathing suit around a person like that.”

“Ham can put on a bathing suit at home,” Liz said. “There are ways around it. But I bet he uses the men’s locker room. Just think of him as a man, Mom.”

“Lydia will never be able to have babies.” Mrs. Bennet scowled at Liz. “And at the rate you’re going, neither will you.”

“Lydia and Ham can adopt. Or”—it was impossible not to think of Jane—“there are other options.”

Mrs. Bennet shook her head. “When people adopt, God only knows what’s in those genes.”

“God only knows what’s in any of our genes,” Liz said, and Mrs. Bennet drew herself up into a haughty posture.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Your father and I both come from very distinguished families.”

Chapter 135

“STILL NO WORD from Lydia?” Jane said.

Liz had brought her laptop and phone to the backyard and was sitting in an ancient patio chair with flaking paint. She said, “Since they didn’t take their cellphones, I assume they’re not planning to be in touch until they get back to Cincinnati.”

What Jane did then was surprising: She laughed. “Lizzy,” Jane said. “Of course Lydia took her phone. She’d sooner lose a limb.”

As soon as Jane said it, Liz realized her sister was correct. “Wow,” she said. “I’m an idiot.”

“I feel like I should be there,” Jane said. “But Mom would take one look at me and know, and this doesn’t seem like the right time for her to find out.”

“You don’t need to come home. Mom’s driving me crazy and Mary’s MIA, but I don’t know what there would be for you to do.”

“It sounds silly, but I keep picturing Ham’s goatee.”

“He must take testosterone,” Liz said, and thought of Darcy.

“What I wonder is,” Jane said, “if Ham was choosing from all the male names in the world, why did he pick Ham? I know it’s short for Hamilton, but that’s still kind of odd. Do you know what his name was when he was female?”

“No,” Liz said.

“I wish I knew him better,” Jane said. “I guess now I’ll get to.”

“I shouldn’t even tell you this,” Liz said, “but there were new unopened Horchow boxes in the front hall when I got home last night, and there’s a bunch of raw steak in the refrigerator. Oh, and doughnuts on the counter. Apparently, Mom and Dad are very receptive to our concerns about their physical and financial well-being.”

“All we can do is encourage them when they make good choices,” Jane said. “We can’t micromanage their behavior. So, Lizzy, I think I felt the baby kick.”

“Wait, really?”

“It was this flutter that didn’t come from my own body.”

“That’s so exciting.”

“I know.” Then Jane said, “Promise to call me the minute you hear anything from Chicago.”

Chapter 136

ALTHOUGH SHE KNEW she was supposed to be concerned about Lydia, Liz felt more preoccupied with whether she’d hear from Darcy. As she had previously planned to do, he was taking a red-eye, though having seen Pemberley, she suspected he’d be flying first-class. As Labor Day proceeded in a decidedly un-Labor-Day-ish fashion — Mrs. Bennet continued to weep and brood in her bedroom, Mary hadn’t yet come to the Tudor, and Liz wasn’t sure whether to resent Mary for staying away or be relieved by her absence — Liz imagined Darcy’s activities. He wouldn’t, presumably, leave for the San Francisco airport until around midnight in Cincinnati, so she pictured him packing his suitcase in the Pemberley guesthouse, perhaps going for a run or playing Scrabble with Georgie. (Liz had no idea if Darcy and Georgie played Scrabble.) Had Caroline Bingley returned yet to Los Angeles? Liz certainly hoped so.

Intermittently, her mother would summon her to unhappily speculate about Ham, sometimes from a new angle and sometimes from angles previously explored just a short time earlier. Otherwise, Liz busied herself with tidying the Tudor, as well as with aggressive sniffing in cabinets and the corners of rooms for lingering traces of sulfuryl fluoride, Ken Weinrich’s reassurances notwithstanding.

While she wished that her impatience as she waited to hear from Darcy would cancel out her impatience as she waited to hear from Lydia, the opposite proved true; doubly restless, Liz kept experiencing phantom buzzes in her pocket, incoming texts that turned out not to exist. She began composing in her head the pseudo-off-the-cuff missive she’d send when Darcy returned to Cincinnati: Hey there, wondering if you’re free to get coffee/dinner/whatever before I go back to New York? Having already changed her plane reservations twice since leaving Cincinnati for Houston, she no longer had a ticket to New York, but she figured the implication of urgency couldn’t hurt.

In the early afternoon, Liz was driving home from the Smoothie King in Hyde Park Plaza when her phone buzzed with a real and actual text; it was not, however, from Darcy or Lydia. It was from Georgie.

Liz, the text read, it was SO great to meet you. I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline and now I feel very awkward about the conversation you and I had. I really wish I’d bitten my tongue. I can’t wait to read your article about Kathy de Bourgh and I hope we cross paths again soon!

Liz’s heartbeat sped up unpleasantly, and continued to do so as she read the text a second time, searching for the part where Georgie specified what Liz might have heard about Darcy and Caroline. Really, though, was specification necessary? Still, it was shocking that exactly what Liz had feared might happen had happened. Hadn’t she been devoting enough anxious attention to this eventuality to preclude it? Had discussing the subject with Charlotte not been a sufficient method of warding it off?

There was nothing to do but change clothes and go for another run. Although thirty-two ounces of pureed raspberry and mango were sloshing in her stomach, she couldn’t just sit inside the Tudor, knowing that Darcy and Caroline were together. (How could they be together? Was it possible that Liz had imagined all the fraught energy between herself and Darcy in Atherton, his solicitousness, that moment when they’d almost kissed? Had he invited her to breakfast to tell her that he and Caroline were a couple? To officially retract his affection and establish a more friendly and informal mode, should he and Liz encounter each other in the future?)

Her hands shook as she tied her sneakers. In the second-floor hall, she called, “Mom, I’m going for a run” and left without either waiting for a response or taking a key. Once outside again, she didn’t bother stretching in the driveway but simply sprinted off.

For half a mile, adrenaline and bewilderment spurred her on, and her pace was far faster than usual. But sorrow and smoothie gas soon triumphed; she decreased her speed, and tears welled in her eyes. She had been prepared to admit her mistakes to Darcy, to make amends and humble herself. Now Caroline had robbed her of the opportunity, and even worse, Darcy had let Caroline do so.

As Liz reached Madison Road, tears fell down her cheeks, and an undeniable cramp took hold on the right side of her abdomen. And then she was sobbing, she was full-on heaving, in the middle of the day, on a busy street, and instead of making a right, she crossed Torrence Parkway, took a seat on a public bench, and gave in to a combination of regret and sadness that caused her to gasp and shake. She hunched over, her elbows pressed against her thighs, her hands covering her face, and tears and mucus cascaded down as she wept and wept and wept. After an indeterminate amount of time, a tentative voice said, “Honey?” Liz looked up.

It was a slim, middle-aged black woman who also appeared to be exercising; she wore sturdy white walking shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt featuring the University of Cincinnati Bearcat. “Are you okay, honey?”

Liz ran her palm upward over her nostrils. “I’m heartbroken,” she said, because it seemed the most succinct way of conveying the facts.

“Oh, honey.” The woman shook her head. “Aren’t we all?”

Chapter 137

I KNOW U have your phone, Liz typed in a text to Lydia. I’m not telling u not to marry ham but why don’t u reach out to m & d and tell them you’re fine?

No reply was immediately forthcoming. Although she suspected it would achieve little, Liz also looked up the number for Ham’s gym and left a message.

She was lying in bed in the dark when, she was almost certain, Darcy’s plane took off from San Francisco; there was only one direct red-eye from SFO to Cincinnati. She no longer was waiting to hear from him, but the desolation inflicted by Georgie’s text had scarcely decreased. This new development had to be more than just a few stolen, wine-facilitated kisses between Darcy and Caroline, didn’t it? Or else Georgie wouldn’t have referred to them in such an official way. They, too, wouldn’t have eloped, would they? The thought was truly sickening.

During the many years of romantic torment meted out by Jasper Wick, Liz had routinely cried herself to sleep. But that had been a while ago, and the nocturnal weeping Liz was gripped by in her childhood bed in the Tudor didn’t have a recent precedent; it was almost — almost — unfamiliar.

Chapter 138

SEVENTY-TWO HOURS PASSED before Liz received acknowledgment of the text she’d sent Lydia, and when it came, Lydia’s response contained no words. It was a photo of herself and Ham standing in front of a white wall, a round blue Cook County seal partially visible behind them. Ham was dapper in a button-down shirt and sport coat, a red rose on his lapel, and Lydia was unforgivably young and stunning in a sleeveless white dress; behind her right ear was tucked a red rose that matched Ham’s. Together, the two held out a light blue piece of paper covered with writing too small for Liz to decipher, except that at the top, in capital letters, it said CERTIFICATION OF MARRIAGE. They both were beaming.

Congratulations! Liz texted back. U guys look great! And then: When u coming home???

Again, there was no answer.

Chapter 139

MR. BENNET AND Kitty returned to Cincinnati on Thursday evening, four days after they’d departed and just a few hours after Liz had received the photograph from Lydia; her father and sister had never encountered the newlyweds.

Mrs. Bennet was, as usual, in her bed — the demands of the Women’s League luncheon, pressing as they were, had been set aside all week in order for her to devote herself full-time to her shame and distress — and Mr. Bennet and Kitty entered the room to deliver a report devoid of news to her, Liz, and Mary.

“Did you really find out nothing in all that time?” Mrs. Bennet asked her husband.

“I learned that it costs forty-seven dollars a day to park a car at the Hilton.” Mr. Bennet seemed extremely weary. “Anything else, Kitty?”

“The Bean is cool.”

“I always knew there was something off about Ham,” Mrs. Bennet said. “He had a funny look in his eyes, and I didn’t trust him.”

“They’re probably on their honeymoon by now,” Mary said with malicious delight.

“Kitty, what do you think?” Liz said. Surely, if Liz had been in touch with Lydia, Kitty had, too. But Kitty merely shrugged.

“We should hire a detective,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Fred, remember when the Hoessles were getting divorced and Marilyn hired someone to follow Buddy?”

“Actually,” Liz said, “I’ve heard from Lydia.”

“You didn’t think to tell us?” Mr. Bennet said.

“It wasn’t very long ago, and she didn’t say anything. It’s a picture.” Liz tapped on the message icon on her phone’s screen, then on the photo itself: Ham and Lydia in their dressy clothes, holding their marriage certificate, looking jubilant. She showed it to her father first, and his expression seemed to be one of muted amusement.

Kitty said, “Wow, she looks fierce,” and Mary said, “Then I guess it’s a done deal.”

When finally Liz brought the phone to her mother, Mrs. Bennet peered at it with pursed lips and burst once more into tears. “If that’s how Lydia wants it, then fine,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Fine. But I’ll have nothing more to do with either of them.”

Chapter 140

LIZ FOUND HER father in his study. She said, “You know when we were talking about if Mary’s gay and you said people can do what they want as long as they don’t practice it in the street and frighten the horses?”

Mr. Bennet sighed. “It appears your youngest sister is doing everything in her power to call my bluff.”

“I realize that being transgender seems weird to you,” Liz said. “But the world has changed a lot.”

“Indeed.”

“I don’t want us to be one of those families that has a huge rift and doesn’t speak to each other. Do you?”

“What would you have me do?”

“Help Mom get past this. When Lydia and Ham are back in Cincinnati, invite them over for dinner like normal. Or, I don’t know, give them a waffle iron. They didn’t get married to spite you guys. They’re in love.”

Mr. Bennet smiled wryly. “I suppose they are,” he said. “But that’s a condition that’s acute, not chronic.”

Chapter 141

“WHEN DID YOU know?” Liz asked Kitty. They were in Kitty’s car on their way to pick up dinner from Bangkok Bistro. “Did you know as soon as you guys started doing CrossFit?”

“Basically.”

“So it’s not like Lydia was flirting with the gym owner, then found out he was transgender. She knew all along?”

“It’s the kind of thing people talk about. It’s also, like, Ham is insanely strong. He can do fifty pull-ups in a minute, which is amazing, and when you consider that he was born a girl—” Clearly, Liz thought, Kitty didn’t share her concern about using politically incorrect language. Kitty added, “If anything, Ham being trans made Lydia more intrigued.”

“I wonder if she’ll become an activist for LGBT causes now,” Liz said, and Kitty laughed.

“That isn’t how she sees herself at all, or how she sees him. She definitely thinks of him as a guy, and she’s into the whole chivalry thing. Well, it does sound like his firsthand knowledge of women’s bodies is a bonus with sex.”

“Ugh.” Liz put up a hand, her palm to Kitty, and Kitty laughed again.

“You’re such a prude.”

“I’m not a prude,” Liz said. “Good for them. But I don’t need to hear about it.”

“Then why are you asking me all these questions?”

Chapter 142

LYDIA’S TEXT ARRIVED in midmorning the next day, sent as a group message to Jane, Liz, Mary, and Kitty: Were coming back tonite having a party can u guys get some alcohol

Another text followed: At our place around 9

And then a third: No champagne too sugary but tequila/hard cider not the cheap kinds

An explosion of sororal texts ensued.

From Kitty: Congrats!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

From Jane: I wish I could be there, congratulations!

From Mary: Are you enjoying being a lesbian?

From Liz: I think it’s important for you to reach out to M & D

From Kitty: Their acting bonkers

From Liz: Also tell Ham I look forward to having him as a brother in law

From Mary: “Brother” in law

From Lydia: Mary trust me ham is more masculine than 99 % of dudes out there

From Lydia: M & D can think whatever they want

From Lydia: We use a 9 inch dildo Mary u should try it some time maybe u wouldn’t be so fucking grumpy

From Lydia: Isn’t it funny I’m the youngest but the 1st to get married???

Chapter 143

THE REMARKS THAT had previously echoed in Liz’s head—I’m in love with you, I can’t stop thinking about you—had been replaced. As she stood in the shower rinsing shampoo from her hair, as she ate a turkey sandwich, as she drove to Hyde Park Wine & Spirits and compliantly purchased noncheap tequila and hard cider, and then to Joseph-Beth Booksellers, where she acquired a paperback titled Transgender 101: A Simple Guide to a Complex Issue, the line that echoed instead was I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline. Driving along Edwards Road, she thought, I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline. I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline. I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline.

Back in her room, Liz looked online and found the location and meeting times of a support group for family members of transgender individuals. She then found the names of three family therapists, copied down the information by hand, folded the piece of paper, inserted it into an envelope on which she wrote Mom & Dad, and attached the envelope to Transgender 101 with a rubber band. Finally, when she could think of no other gestures to convince herself she was a dutiful daughter and sister, Liz booked a ticket on a flight to New York for the following morning.

Chapter 144

LYDIA WORE A short yellow sundress and flats, and she did seem filled with a newlywed bliss Liz had never really believed existed. By way of greeting, the bride held out her left hand to Kitty and Liz (Mary had decided not to attend the party), and an enormous emerald-cut diamond ring atop a diamond-encrusted wedding band caught the light. “We got them at Tiffany’s on the Magnificent Mile,” Lydia said. “They cost twenty thousand dollars altogether.”

“They’re pretty,” Liz said.

“Did Ham pay in cash?” Kitty asked.

Ham approached then, and though Liz detected in him an underlying wariness as they both leaned in to hug, he, too, seemed genuinely happy. “Congratulations,” Liz said. “Welcome to the family.”

“I realize this didn’t play out in the ideal way,” Ham said. “But I hope you know, Liz and Kitty, that I intend to honor and care for your sister.”

His earnestness was both touching and embarrassing; also, Liz was aware of scrutinizing his goatee in a way she hadn’t in the past. She murmured, “Of course.”

“I plan to keep trying with your parents,” he said. “I think it’s best to let them have some space for now, but I’m not giving up.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Liz said, and then a tall, red-haired woman she’d never met embraced Ham and, in doing so, interrupted the conversation.

About three dozen other guests — visibly athletic men and women in their twenties, thirties, and forties, plus a smattering of preppy young women who were childhood friends of Lydia’s — milled about. Ham’s house was a narrow and immaculate five-story dwelling in Mount Adams with a granite-filled kitchen and a roof deck. Setting her tequila and cider on the dining room table, where a bar had been assembled — there were, in fact, some bottles of champagne, one of which Liz poured from for herself — Liz was accosted by Jenny Teetelbaum, Lydia’s best friend from Seven Hills. At a normal volume, Jenny said, “Isn’t it crazy about Ham? I would never have guessed.” In the hope of setting an example, Liz lowered her own voice. “I’m excited for them,” she said.

“I hear your parents are freaking out,” Jenny said. “Which is so understandable.”

“Are you still teaching kindergarten?” Liz asked.

After hearing in detail about the whimsies of five-year-olds, Liz found herself in the living room, at the edge of a conversation about whether clean and jerks or burpee pull-ups were the single best CrossFit exercise, when Ham tapped a fork against his glass. He stood in front of the fireplace, Lydia beside him. “Thank you all for joining us tonight,” he said, and this remark alone prompted clapping and hoots. “I just want to say, on behalf of Lydia and me, we’re thrilled to have you celebrating with us, and we appreciate your support as we enter the next stage of our lives together. And I want to say to Lydia, baby, thank you for making me the happiest guy alive!” They turned their faces to kiss, and the cheering that ensued was positively uproarious. When the embrace ended, Lydia raised both her arms above her head like an Olympic skier who’d completed a victorious run. “Turn on the music!” she cried out, and Liz couldn’t tell if the first dance that followed, to Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” was planned or impromptu. That Lydia and Ham were in love seemed beyond doubt.

A few minutes later, while Lydia was dancing with Jenny Teetelbaum, Liz tapped her sister on the shoulder. “I’m headed out,” she said. “Congratulations again.”

Lydia’s expression was scornful. “It’s not even eleven!”

“I’m going back to New York in the morning. Lydia, I really hope you’ll get in touch with Mom and Dad.”

“Don’t nag me at our party.”

“They might be old and weird and narrow-minded, but they’re the only parents you have.”

“Oh my God, can you even stop for one second?” Lydia reached for Liz’s hand, grasped it, and began twirling under their linked arms. “Have you completely forgotten how to enjoy yourself?” Lydia asked, and Liz thought, Maybe.

She stepped in and hugged her loathsome, charming younger sister. “Keep me posted,” she said.

Chapter 145

OUTSIDE, LIZ WALKED briskly to her father’s car and was just a few feet from it when she heard her name. She turned to see Ham jogging after her.

“You slipped out without giving me a chance to say thanks again for coming tonight. Really.”

“Thanks for including me,” Liz said automatically, and then they both were quiet, and Liz wondered if they would continue to be part of each other’s lives for decades to come — if Ham and Lydia would stay married.

“I hope you don’t feel”—Ham paused—“I guess, ah, misled.”

“I don’t care that you’re transgender,” Liz said. “And even if I did, I realize you don’t need my approval. But it’ll be a huge bummer if Lydia becomes permanently estranged from our parents.”

“No one wants her to have a good relationship with them more than I do,” Ham said. “I didn’t plan to — she was the one who had the idea of eloping. I could have said no, obviously, but what if I did and your parents succeeded in turning her against me? I couldn’t risk losing the love of my life.”

To be adored as deeply and inexplicably as Ham adored Lydia — would she herself, Liz wondered, ever experience it?

“I decided the best strategy was to tie the knot now, then spend as long as it takes convincing your mom and dad I’m a good guy,” Ham was saying. “That’s still my aim, and I welcome your advice.”

“So the other stuff you’ve told me,” Liz said, “or your bio on your website — I’d understand if it’s not, but is it all true? Were you in the army, and did you grow up in Seattle?”

“It’s definitely all true,” Ham said. “I was commissioned into the Signal Corps as a female and I had a different name, but yes.”

Liz sighed. “Do you think the storage locker with all the stuff from my parents’ basement is infested with spiders?”

“That crossed my mind. I can check. Liz, I know that Lydia can be hard on you, but your opinion matters a lot to both of us. I’m really happy we have your blessing, and I promise I’ll make things right with your parents.”

“I believe you,” Liz said. “Now go inside. You’re missing your own party.” As Ham stepped forward to hug her once more, she said, “Lydia’s lucky she found you.”

Chapter 146

LIZ’S PLANE LANDED at JFK shortly after eleven A.M., and as it taxied toward the gate, she switched the setting on her phone out of airplane mode. Immediately, three texts popped onto her screen, one of which was from her editor, Talia, a second from Jane, and a third that read, It’s Darcy. Hope things are okay with your family. Can I buy you a drink this weekend?

Her heart stretched and contracted. Why now? Of course now! I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline, Liz thought, and the idea of sitting in a bar listening to him describe his renewed romance made her glad she’d left Cincinnati.

She was ready — more than ready — to once again inhabit her life in New York. So it hadn’t worked out with Darcy; she was thirty-eight, and it hadn’t worked out with plenty of guys. Actually I’m back in NY, she typed hastily. Looks like we’re ships passing in the night. Take care. Then she hit Send, and within a few minutes, she was off the plane and hurrying through the terminal, buoyed, however temporarily, by the relief of resolution.