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  “Do you and Susan have sex?” she asked. She hadn’t planned to say this; the same moment the question had occurred to her, she’d uttered it.

  “Are you kidding?” Jasper said. “Susan hates me.”

  “Does she still have that boyfriend?”

  “Where’s all this coming from?” Jasper said. “Yes, she and Bob are still together.”

  “I’m feeling confused about what just happened,” Liz said.

  After a beat, Jasper said, “Sorry for not being able to satisfy your insatiable sexual appetite.”

  “This is not about me being sexually insatiable.” Liz sat up, folding her arms over her bare chest. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

  “The other woman is asking if there are other women? Please tell me you see the irony.”

  “Are you?”

  “Liz, what the fuck?”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Jasper was looking up at the ceiling, not at her, and his tone had reverted to being sincere and conciliatory when he said, “You’re really important to me. The conversations we have, the way we talk—there’s no one else I have that with.”

  She had been such a fool, such a preposterous, unmitigated idiot; how could she have been this foolish?

  She said, “Who else are you sleeping with?”

  The expression on his face was oddly compassionate as he said, “You really want me to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fiona.”

  “The editorial assistant?”

  He nodded. Liz didn’t know how old Fiona was, but definitely under twenty-five; also, red-haired and gorgeous. All this time, Liz had understood that her relationship with Jasper closely resembled a distasteful cliché; she hadn’t understood that it actually was a separate, equally distasteful cliché.

  “Anyone else?” Liz asked. When she and Jasper made eye contact, he didn’t do anything—he didn’t nod again, or shake his head, or speak. Then he pulled her toward him and she let him; she lay with her face pressed to the warm skin of his shoulder.

  “You’re like my life coach,” he said softly, and she was pretty sure this was his ultimate compliment.

  So many years—her entire adulthood thus far!—wasted on this man. And she was more to blame than he was. Would extricating herself be difficult or not difficult?

  She still thought they might have sex, either later that night or the next morning before he flew back to New York. But they didn’t, and he had to leave for the airport early in order to return his rental car.

  KDB GIVING A speech in Houston on Thurs, Aug 29 to Nat’l Society of Women in Finance, read an unexpected email to Liz from Kathy de Bourgh’s publicist. 20 minutes available after for sit-down interview, assuming mention in your article of speech/organization.

  In theory, Mascara frowned on agreeing to conditions of coverage, but in practice, it happened constantly. Also, twenty minutes with Kathy de Bourgh, modest as it might sound to a nonjournalist, was enough of a coup that it would result in a full profile rather than a few remarks tucked into an article on a different subject. Thus, without checking in with her editor at Mascara, without doing further research on the event, Liz wrote back, I definitely will attend.

  “I KNOW THIS isn’t your cup of tea, so thank you,” Jane said. She and Liz stood in the backyard, beneath the fungus-afflicted sycamore tree.

  “Just, not to sound disrespectful, but we should leave for the airport eight minutes from now,” Liz said.

  Jane had invited Liz to join her as she bid a ceremonial farewell to the Tudor, which Liz superstitiously thought but did not tell Jane increased the likelihood that the prospective buyers wouldn’t like the house after all.

  Jane closed her eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled, then said, “Om.” Liz didn’t close her eyes and wondered if their parents or sisters were watching from a window. “Thank you for sheltering our family all these years,” Jane said. “For keeping us warm in the winter and cool in the summer”—both claims, Liz thought, were rather generous, given the draftiness that kicked in around November and the erratic functionality of the third-floor air-conditioning—“and thank you for being a place where we celebrated holidays and played games and ate delicious meals. Even our challenges here have made our lives richer and deepened our ability to feel. Our family has been very lucky to live somewhere beautiful.”

  At the mention of games, Liz had remembered a specific round of gin rummy she and Mary had played in the eighties, when Liz had gotten a perfect hand and ginned before she drew for the first time; in spite of herself, she felt genuine sadness. But it wouldn’t have been honest to attribute the sadness entirely to the Tudor’s impending sale. It also was attached to her disappointment with Jasper, a disappointment that abruptly and retroactively colored the past: All those years growing up here, she’d unknowingly been headed toward a selfish, dishonest man.

  Jane said “Om” once more and opened her eyes. “Do you want to add anything?”

  Liz shook her head. “I’m okay. I’ll put your suitcase in the car while you say goodbye to everyone.”

  MR. BENNET BID farewell to Jane indoors, but the female members of the family all followed her to the driveway, where Mrs. Bennet continued to offer miscellaneous advice, as if Jane were leaving for her freshman year of college. “Get a little single-serve coffeemaker so you’re not dependent on those ladies in the morning,” she called into Jane’s unrolled window. “They’re only about thirty dollars.”

  “Mom, I don’t drink coffee,” Jane said, and from the driver’s side, Liz said, “We need to go so she doesn’t miss her plane.”

  “I love you all,” Jane said. “And I’m only a phone call away.”

  “A nice hostess gift is a cheese board,” Mrs. Bennet said. “But if you get one that’s bamboo, tell them not to put it in the dishwasher.”

  “Jane won’t be their guest,” Lydia said. “She’ll be their servant.”

  “Bye,” Liz called, but she hadn’t begun accelerating when, entirely audibly, Mrs. Bennet said to Kitty, “I just wish Chip hadn’t gone back to California.”

  As Liz turned out of the driveway, she said to Jane, “Did you decide what you’re doing with your apartment after September first?”

  “I guess if I’m not going back, I should end my lease, but the idea of moving—well, I shouldn’t complain after you and Ham cleaned out the entire basement yesterday. You were heroic, Lizzy.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you saw the storage locker. Ham did his best, but it looks like the town dump.”

  “I have this fantasy of getting rid of almost everything I own and replacing it with minimalist baby gear. Just a car seat, some onesies, and some cloth diapers.”

  “Is there any such thing as minimalist baby gear?” Liz asked as she made a left onto Torrence Parkway. “In other news, I think maybe I’m finished with Jasper.”

  “What happened?”

  “Besides me finally seeing what’s been in front of my face all along?” Liz tried to smile, and without warning, tears came to her eyes.

  “Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said. “I’m sorry.”

  “He was awful at dinner,” Liz said. “Don’t you think?”

  Sympathetically, gently, Jane said, “He was just being himself.”

  THE GRASMOOR, WHICH was located on Madison Road—Liz passed it on her jogs—consisted of two handsome, three-story, cream-colored brick buildings with green awnings. The unit Liz and her parents viewed, which was for sale for $239,000, had three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, two terraces, and a view of the fountain in the courtyard. For the duration of the tour, which was conducted by Shane, Mrs. Bennet wept, a fact that seemed to cause greater consternation for Shane than for Liz or her father.

  “Seriously,” Liz said as the tour concluded, “getting this much space for this amount of money is incredible.”

  “My dear,” Mr. Bennet said, “your coastal affectations are in imminent danger of becoming tedious.”

>   “For comparison, I’d love to show you a unit down the street,” Shane said, and Mrs. Bennet said, “I don’t have the energy.”

  Liz said, “Mom, let’s keep going a little longer.”

  “You have absolutely no idea what this is like for me,” Mrs. Bennet said.

  “Losing a house can be like losing a member of the family,” Shane said. “Am I right, Mrs. Bennet?”

  She looked at him vaguely—Liz had decided against mentioning Shane’s race in advance of his meeting her mother, saying only that he’d been a Seven Hills classmate—then, as if Shane hadn’t spoken, Mrs. Bennet turned back to Liz. “I’m sure you can’t understand now,” Mrs. Bennet said. “But someday you’ll learn what it’s like to be treated with utter callousness by your own children.”

  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?”

  “Apparently, growing up with Title IX gave you quite a sense of self-esteem.”

  “All right, then,” Liz said. “It’s on.” Though they still were fifty yards from Edwards Road, she began sprinting; she was flying up the sidewalk, past the houses and trees, the cars on Observatory Road a peripheral blur. No more than a few seconds had passed when he caught up to her, but they both were running too fast to speak; she simultaneously felt wild and breathless and like she was about to laugh. For a few more seconds, they were neck and neck, until he pulled ahead. She was pushing herself as hard as she could, and, turning onto Edwards, he was only a few feet in front of her, then more than a few, and before long they were separated by half a block. Still, she propelled herself forward; if she was to lose to Darcy, it wouldn’t be by a centimeter more than necessary.

  He was waiting for her at the top of the hill, and she was gratified to see that he was still panting; she slowed down, staggering a little, incapable of speech. She rested both hands atop her head, then removed them and bent at the waist. After a minute, she heard him say, “That was respectable.”

  She raised her torso, shaking her head. “Don’t patronize me.” Her limbs burned, her heart pounded; she was exhausted, possibly nauseated, but also giddy. As they faced each other, there was between them such a profusion of vitality that it was hard to know what to do with it; they kept making eye contact, looking away, and making eye contact again. At last—surely he was thinking something similar and she was simply the one giving voice to the sentiment—she said, “Want to go to your place and have hate sex?”

  Darcy squinted. “Is that a thing?”

  The bravado filling Liz—it wasn’t infinite, it could dissipate quickly. But while it still existed, she said grandly, “Of course it’s a thing.”

  “Is it like fuck buddies?”

  “This isn’t a sociology class. A simple yes or no will do.” She added, “It’s similar, but without the buddy part.”

  “I take it you mean right now.” He didn’t seem flustered or even all that surprised.

  “Yes,” Liz said. “I mean now.” This was h
is last chance to accept the offer, though she didn’t plan to tell him so. But perhaps he sensed the door closing, because he said, “Okay. Sure.”

  CINCINNATI WAS THE city where Liz and sex had made each other’s acquaintance—in a rather festive cliché, she had lost her virginity to her prom date, whose name was Phillip Haley, and she’d subsequently brought home her two college boyfriends for visits, during which surreptitious intra-Tudor romps occurred—but all of that had been quite some time before. And Jasper’s visit had, of course, been unexpectedly fruitless.

  As she followed Darcy through the main entrance of a bland three-story brick building and up to the second floor, she experienced a sense of mischief reminiscent of her youthful encounters. Outside his door, Darcy used the front of one running shoe to pry off the heel of the other, then repeated the gesture in reverse with his socked toes, and Liz did the same. Inside the apartment, nothing hung on the walls, and no rugs covered the hardwood floors. The living room held only a long couch, a flat-screen TV, and a low table with a closed laptop computer on it. He led her to the kitchen, which was small and windowless but looked recently renovated; between the counters and the cabinets, the walls were lined with a pattern of black, white, and green tiles. He filled two glasses with tap water and passed her one. They drank in silence, then he said, “I suppose either we both take showers or neither of us does.”

  Feeling a minor appreciation for his willingness to assume the role of host, she shook her head. “I need to be back at my parents’ house before dinner. I will pee, though. Do you have a condom?”

  He nodded.

  In the modern, clean bathroom, after urinating, Liz washed her hands and splashed water on her face, though more to cool off than establish hygiene. In the bedroom, which contained a king-sized bed covered with a gray cotton spread, a nightstand, and a lamp, Darcy was seated on the floor, still in his shirt and shorts, with one leg stretched out and his torso extended over it. Liz walked to him and held out a hand, and he took it and stood. Uncertainty then presented itself, and no doubt if she had been eighteen, or probably even if she’d been twenty-eight, she’d have looked to him to banish this confusion; but she was thirty-eight, she had orchestrated the encounter, and so she said, “I’m thinking it’s more efficient if we both take off our own clothes. Do you care about getting sweat on your sheets?”