IN THE EARLY evening, Liz left for a run. It was a muggy day on which rain didn’t seem impossible, and though she certainly hadn’t timed her run in the hope of crossing paths with Fitzwilliam Darcy—their other encounter had happened a bit later—she was oddly unsurprised, on reaching Easthill Avenue, to spot a tall man in navy shorts and a red T-shirt. “I thought you said you run in the morning,” he said by way of greeting, and already, without any discussion, he had reversed direction and was keeping pace alongside her.
“I do,” Liz replied. “Or I used to, with Jane, but now that—actually, I took her to the airport earlier today. She’s gone to stay with friends in the Hudson Valley.”
“That’s a very civilized way to spend the month of August.”
“Oh, really? You think it’s a scenic place to mend a broken heart?”
After a pause, Darcy said, “I get the impression you see Chip as some sort of cad for leaving town, but it’s clear that he and your sister are at very different points in their lives.”
“And you’re the authority?”
“You can’t argue that using a sperm donor is typical behavior for a woman hoping to enter a relationship.”
“I assume you’re aware she got pregnant before she and Chip met. Life doesn’t always happen in the ideal order, but the proof that she wanted to be in a relationship is that she was in one.”
“She seemed to have serious reservations.”
“You hardly know my sister!” Darcy didn’t refute the statement, and Liz added, “So is Caroline Bingley still here or has she gone back to L.A., too?”
“She’s gone back to L.A.”
“Are you devastated?”
Darcy was facing straight ahead as he said, “Why would I be?”
“Aren’t you and Caroline a couple?”
“What’s led you to believe that?”
“Besides my powers of observation?”
“Your faith in those powers is misplaced. Caroline and I dated briefly, when Chip and I were in medical school, but that was years ago.”
“Not that I care, but it’s obvious she still has a thing for you.”
“I wonder if the man she’s seeing in L.A. knows that.”
“Is that what she tells you to make you jealous? And it looks like you’re falling for it, too.”
Darcy seemed amused. “Yet you accuse me of presuming to understand more than I really do.”
As they turned onto Observatory Avenue, Liz said, “Then who’s your love interest? There must be someone.”
“You might not be aware of this, but surgeons work extremely long hours.”
“And enjoy boasting about it, too, I hear. Okay, here’s my guess: a waify, aristocratic investment banker–slash–social worker–slash–ballerina who lives in—I’ll say Boston. Or maybe London. Just not Cincinnati, of course, because we all know about the subpar quality of Cincinnati women.”
“What I said at the Lucases’—and I hope you know that you’re an exceptionally brazen eavesdropper—is that I don’t want to be set up on blind dates at the whims of my supervisors’ wives. That’s hardly putting a moratorium on all Cincinnati women.” As they passed Menlo Avenue, Darcy added, “I rarely date waifs, by the way. Or ballerinas, though the category of waifs would seem to subsume the category of ballerinas. Aristocrats, investment bankers, and social workers I’m all fine with.”
“When you and Caroline dated, why’d you break up?”
“Why does any couple break up? We weren’t compatible.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“No. Have you?”
“No, but here’s the thing,” Liz said. “You’re—pardon the word choice—very eligible. You don’t have to feign modesty, because I’m sure you know it. I personally would never go out with you, but you’re tall, you went to fancy schools, and you’re a doctor. To the general public, which has no idea what a condescending elitist you are, you’re a catch. You could be married if you wanted, or at least have a girlfriend. And don’t give excuses about your schedule, because people make time for what they want to make time for.”
“Are you single right now?”
It was a strange question; just a few days before, she’d have said no. “I am,” she said, “but it’s recent. Anyway, everyone knows it’s completely different for a woman. You could stand on a street corner, announce you want a wife, and be engaged fifteen minutes later. I have to convince people to overlook my rapidly approaching expiration date.” But Liz did not feel, in this moment, like a dusty can of soup on the grocery store shelf; she felt practically gleeful. She was strong and healthy and not pregnant, sweating happily in her tank top and shorts, fleet in her turquoise-and-orange shoes; the gray clouds had dissipated without rain, and beside her was a man who, obnoxious though he might have been, didn’t bore her in the slightest. She said, “When we get to Edwards, want to race up the hill?”
“You know those little dogs who get up in the faces of German shepherds and bark at them?” he said. “That’s what you remind me of.”
“Are you scared you’ll lose?”