Twenty-four hours after their initial coital encounter, she went for another run fully prepared to see him; so prepared, in fact, that she was surprised not to see his imposing figure at Easthill Avenue, then surprised at Observatory Avenue, at Menlo Avenue, at Stettinius Avenue, and by Edwards, she had to admit to herself that the chances of crossing paths with him had grown slim. Really, she had little idea of either his work schedule or his exercise routine.
The question then was how deliberate to be—whether to dispense altogether with pretenses of coincidence, track down his email or phone number, and arrange another meeting using the same specificity she’d employ to make a dentist appointment. The antipathy she and Darcy felt for each other meant the sacrifice of pride such a plan would entail was simultaneously more and less consequential than if they shared mutual fondness and respect.
She returned to the Tudor without either laying eyes on him or coming to a conclusion about what her course of action ought to be; and thus, in more than one way, she was deeply frustrated.
THE NAMES OF the prospective buyers were Jacqueline and Adam Whitman, and they offered the Bennets $915,000 for the Tudor, which offended Mrs. Bennet so keenly that she took to her bed immediately upon hearing the figure. Shane had emailed a scanned copy of the offer to Liz as dinner was concluding, and the amount had left Mrs. Bennet unable even to watch television in the den; she needed to manage her distress from a prone position.
“You’ll end up meeting them somewhere in the middle,” Liz said from the doorway of her mother’s room. “This isn’t the last word.”
“Leave me be,” her mother replied. “You’ve done enough damage.”
AT MR. BENNET’S appointment with his orthopedist, Dr. Facciano said, “You seem to have regained a full range of motion. Any pain?”
“Only the emotional kind, inflicted by my children,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Does that mean he can drive again?” Liz asked.
“I don’t see why not,” Dr. Facciano said.
“Wow,” Liz said. “Aren’t you thrilled, Dad?”
“I am,” Mr. Bennet said. “Because now your last excuse for not returning to New York has been obviated.”
“I’m staying until Mom’s luncheon,” Liz said, and her father rolled his eyes.
He said, “Then for that, you have no one to blame but yourself.”
DURING HER EVENING run, which had replaced her morning run, just before Liz turned from Grandin Road onto Madison Road—which was to say not before she’d begun speculating about whether she’d see Darcy but before she’d reasonably expected that she would—there he was: tall and composed and minimally sweaty, presumably thinking supercilious thoughts but looking so unjustly handsome as he did that all her internal organs lurched a little. His real self, his actual physical body before her, as opposed to the tempting yet irritating idea of him, was somehow a surprise. In as blasé a tone as she could manage, she said, “How are people’s brains today?”
“If I’m seeing them, not good.” He was running in place, waiting for Liz to catch up to him, and when she had, he began running next to her.
She said, “You know how everyone says, ‘It’s not brain surgery’—do you and your colleagues say, ‘This is kind of hard, but, hey, it is brain surgery’?” The look on his face prompted her to add, “Am I the millionth person to ask you that?”
“You aren’t the first.” As they continued north on Madison Road, he added, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that my sister is a fan of yours. It turns out she’s subscribed to Mascara for years, and when I told her I’d met someone who works there, she knew immediately who you were.”
“She must have excellent taste.”
“Georgie is very intelligent. She’s a PhD student in history.”
“Do you dare tell me where she goes to school, or will I faint?”
“I knew you’d say something like that. She’s at Stanford.”
Liz pressed the back of one hand to her forehead. “Get my smelling salts!” She glanced at him—he appeared to be only mildly amused, if that—and said, “Seriously, tell her thank you for me. We at Mascara love our smart readers. Is your sister planning to be a professor?”
“If she can find a job out there. She’s a bit of a homebody.”
“Is she younger than you?”
“Significantly—she’s only twenty-six.”
“And does she literally still live at home? Keep in mind that for once I can’t pass judgment, given my own sisters.”
“My parents are deceased. Georgie lives in—”
“I’m sorry,” Liz interrupted, and rather stiffly, Darcy said, “It’s all right.” As they crossed Bedford Avenue, he added, “My father was older than my mother and passed away when I was in high school and Georgie was three. Our mother passed away five years ago. Georgie went to Stanford for undergrad, too, and she was living on campus at that point, which she still is. But she’s never wanted to give up our parents’ house. I don’t think she goes there when I’m not in town, but she’s very attached to it.”
“Do you want to sell it?”
“It’s on twelve acres, and it’s just sitting there. Someone might as well enjoy it.”