“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.”
“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.”
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.