“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.”
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.
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.”