Liz shook her head. “Although the word on the street is that he’s not big on bathing and smells kind of funky.”
Georgie giggled. “Was Jillian nice?”
“She was nice enough. I think it was such a weird time in her life, and, obviously, she was talking about the breakup not because she wanted to but because she had a movie to promote. I felt bad for her, actually. What’s your dissertation about?”
“Early-twentieth-century French suffragettes and taxation. Fascinating, huh?”
“Georgie, have you seen the corkscrew?” Darcy called from a few yards ahead. They had reached the guesthouse, and he stood by a two-tiered cart that held an array of wine bottles, glasses, and napkins.
Georgie pointed. “On the lower level.”
The pool was covered by a vast green tarp that somehow didn’t compromise the loveliness of the setting. Four matching chaise longues were lined up alongside the pool, and a lushly cushioned couch and chairs sat near the entrance to the guesthouse; on either side of the couch, heat lamps stood sentinel. Two additional heat lamps flanked a long iron table set with green plates and matching green cloth napkins, all so elegantly arranged that Liz had a hunch that someone other than Darcy or Georgie—someone with professional expertise—had organized the display. Beyond the far end of the pool lay a lawn of the most deeply green and perfectly manicured grass Liz had ever seen; the expanse begged to be used, and Liz wished she knew how to do back-flips, or even just a decent cartwheel. A scent that Liz thought of as distinctly Californian—perhaps it was eucalyptus—became perceptible.
Cousin Willie approached Liz and Georgie with two glasses of red wine and said, “Ladies.”
Liz took hers, but Georgie shook her head. “I’ll just have water.”
When everyone had a drink, Darcy held up his glass. “To family and friends.”
Liz’s eyes met his briefly, and then they were clinking glasses, as was everyone else. It was difficult to know how to manage her energy, how to manage herself, in the company of this version of Darcy. She could see, with a sudden and not entirely welcome clarity, that in Cincinnati, she had cultivated her own rancor toward him; she had made rude and provocative remarks, had searched for offense in his responses, and had relished the slights that may or may not have been delivered. Yet in spite of the culminating acrimony during his confession, he had decided to set aside their ill will. His present behavior wasn’t a sarcastic impersonation of good manners; it wasn’t meant to count, technically, as kindness, without containing true warmth; it simply was kindness. He treated his guests, her included, as if he couldn’t imagine a greater pleasure than spending the evening with them, and in doing so he exacerbated Liz’s shame about her past pettiness toward him.
At some point during the larger group conversation, when neither of them was interacting with anyone else, Liz turned to Darcy. “When do your other guests get here?”
“Anywhere from late morning tomorrow to early afternoon. You’re welcome to come back if you’d like. I’m sure Caroline would enjoy seeing you.”
Liz scrutinized Darcy’s face and finally said, “Do you not realize that Caroline Bingley and I can’t stand each other?”
Darcy looked amused. “Since when?”
“Since about thirty seconds after we met. I suppose it’s possible I don’t register with her enough for her to dislike me, but I don’t like her.”
“Do I dare ask why?”
The reason not to criticize Caroline wasn’t that she didn’t deserve criticism, Liz thought; it was that criticizing her would only make Liz look bad. She said, “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m a person who pretends that gossiping shows my anthropological interest in the human condition.” Darcy winced a little, and Liz added, “Too soon?”