“What a preposterous thing to say! Do I appreciate a bargain? I certainly do.”
“What if I take some stuff over to the Resale Shop?” Liz said. “Just dishes we never use, or maybe the furniture in the basement from Granny. You don’t have to be involved.”
“Granny’s furniture is very valuable. Do you know what you ought to be doing, instead of meddling?”
“This is just a guess, but dating my cousin?”
“I’d like to see you do better than Willie.”
Since Liz’s adolescence, when viewing television commercials that celebrated the ostensibly unconditional love of mothers for their children, or on spotting merchandise in stores that honored this unique bond with poems or effusive declarations—picture frames, magnets, oven mitts—she had felt like a foreign exchange student observing the customs of another country. But if Liz wasn’t close to her mother, neither was she consumed with the maternal resentment she had observed in some friends. Her mother had been adequate—often annoying, far from abusive.
Liz turned off the faucet and shook the water from the cilantro. With as little emotion as possible, she said, “As a reminder, not everyone gets married, and bringing it up all the time won’t increase the chances for any of us. I’m definitely not interested in Willie.”
Mrs. Bennet’s tone was thoughtful rather than intentionally cruel. She said, “You have no idea how lucky you are that someone like him would settle for you.”
JANE USUALLY LEFT for Chip’s apartment after dinner, but that night she joined Liz, Kitty, and their mother to watch television in the den. When Jane entered the room, Mrs. Bennet looked up from the catalog she was paging through and said, “Is Chip working tonight, honey?”
Jane nodded, and even if Liz hadn’t known that Chip’s shift finished at seven, she’d have been able to tell that her sister was lying.
Several minutes later, when Kitty and Mrs. Bennet were discussing whether the throat of the prostitute on the legal drama was likelier to have been slit by her ex-husband or her john, Liz murmured to Jane, “Any word from him?”
Somberly, and also quietly, Jane said, “He just called.”
“And?”
“We’re having dinner the day after tomorrow.”
This plan did not sound promising to Liz—the formality of it, the delay. She said, “Did you tell him how far along you are?”
Jane nodded.
So he was aware the baby wasn’t his, Liz thought. And he wasn’t planning to talk about it with Jane for forty-eight hours.
Jane stayed in the den for no more than twenty minutes and went up to bed before the show’s conclusion; apparently, she was unmotivated to find out that the crime had, as Mrs. Bennet had suspected, been committed by the prostitute’s ex-husband.
IN THE MORNING, when Liz’s phone alarm sounded, Jane said with what Liz suspected was feigned bleariness, “I’m going to skip the run today.” Though for all Liz knew, her sister was in the grip of morning sickness; furthermore, Liz had no idea how far into pregnancy vigorous exercise was recommended.
After using the bathroom and changing, Liz paused in the door of her childhood bedroom and looked at her sister. The curtains still were closed, but sunrise had occurred, and the room was more light than dark. Liz thought of asking if Jane needed anything, but Jane’s breathing was as deep and steady as if she really were asleep again.
LIZ FOUND Mr. Bennet in his study. With his computer screen obscured, as usual, from her view, it struck Liz that she had always given her father the benefit of the doubt, assuming him when in his study to be immersed in matters that were tedious but necessary, his attention to the welfare of the family steadfast and somehow masculine.
She closed the door behind herself and said, “You need to sell the house. I saw online that the Ellebrechts sold theirs for $1.8 million in March. Do you know if they’d renovated their kitchen?”
Mr. Bennet looked at her with amusement. “You’ve been busy.”
“Let’s say you get $1.2 million for this house, which is obviously a very rough guess. You pay off your hospital bills, buy a condo in the three hundred thousand range—I think you can get two to three bedrooms for that in Hyde Park—and you draw up a budget for living expenses and stick to it. Oh, and whatever you think of Obama and his healthcare, you and Mom both need to get insurance through open enrollment, which should start October first.”
“Your mother wouldn’t stand for me selling this house.”
“I don’t see how you have a choice. Do you own your cars or lease them?”
“And what will become of your wastrel sisters?”
“You’re the one who keeps saying they need to leave the nest, and you’re right. There’s no reason for them not to have jobs. How much are the country club’s annual fees?”