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  “Bring them along. How does six-thirty sound?”

  “Six-thirty is great,” Charlotte said.

  “Any food restrictions for either of you?” Darcy asked. “Georgie doesn’t eat meat, so we’ll have vegetarian options.”

  “No restrictions for me,” Liz said, and Charlotte said, “Me, either. What can we bring?”

  “Just yourselves,” Darcy said. “I’ll grill something simple. Liz, if you tell me your number, I’ll text you now, and when you get here tonight, you can text me to open the front gate.”

  She recited the digits, and seconds later, her phone buzzed in her pocket. (After all this time, she had Darcy’s cellphone number! She had Darcy’s number and he had hers, and she felt as giddy as if the cutest boy in seventh grade had slipped a note into her locker.)

  “I’m glad this will work,” Darcy said.

  In a purring tone that made Liz want to slap her friend, Charlotte said, “Darcy, the pleasure is ours.”

  SUCH WERE LIZ’S nerves that when she and Charlotte stopped to buy wine to take to Pemberley that evening, Liz purchased an additional bottle of merlot, which she opened as soon as possible in Charlotte’s kitchen. “It is after five in Cincinnati,” Liz said. “And New York.”

  “Hey,” Charlotte said. “Go for it.”

  “Do you really think he wants to make dinner for a bunch of people, including my aunt and uncle, whom he’s never met, when he has all those guests arriving tomorrow?”

  Charlotte grinned. “That man is completely in love with you,” she said. “I’m sure he’d like nothing better.”

  Liz took a long swallow from the glass she’d poured. “Join me?”

  “Twist my arm,” Charlotte said, and Liz poured a second glass.

  The one advantage of the new dinner plan, Liz thought, was that her complicated feelings about spending the evening with Darcy so overshadowed her complicated feelings about seeing Cousin Willie as to make the latter set of emotions negligible; her rejection of Willie was no longer the one that preoccupied her.

  Liz and Charlotte carried their wineglasses to the front porch of the modest three-bedroom ranch house that Liz knew, because she’d checked online, had cost Willie $1.1 million in 2010. As they sat on Adirondack chairs, the afternoon sky was cerulean with a smattering of cumulus clouds. Palo Alto seemed in this moment an unaffordable yet truly delightful place to live.

  “The problem with your theory of Darcy still being into me,” Liz said, “is that he invited Caroline up for the weekend. And not even with her brother—just by herself.”

  “Caroline is odious. There’s no way she can compete with you.”

  “Well, they were involved in the past. They’ve definitely slept together.”

  “And that distinguishes Caroline from you how?” Charlotte was leering.

  “Did you ever notice in Cincinnati that she was all over him? It’s obvious she wants to get back together.” Liz felt too jittery to remain seated, and she stood. “Is it okay if I take a shower?”

  “Of course. The towels are on the bed.”

  Before entering the house, Liz said, “Sorry for letting this stuff with Darcy hijack my visit. After we get through dinner, we’ll hatch a plan for your life here.”

  “Lizzy, nothing could bring me greater happiness than to have you staying at my house, freaking out about a boy.”

  THEY CARAVANNED BACK to Pemberley: Willie and Charlotte in his Prius, Liz riding with Aunt Margo and Uncle Frank. Willie had greeted Liz by saying in an accusatory tone, “Obviously, a lot has changed since I last saw you,” and Liz had replied, with a sincerity that took her by surprise, “I’m so happy for you and Charlotte.”

  As she rode from Palo Alto to Atherton, Liz offered Aunt Margo updates from Cincinnati: Mr. Bennet’s health, Jane’s breakup with Chip (Liz provided much less detail than she’d given earlier to Charlotte), Lydia’s new beau. Conveniently, describing Ham was helpful in avoiding discussion of the house in which Aunt Margo had grown up being for sale. Shortly, Uncle Frank was turning onto Pemberley Lane; reaching the gates of the estate, he whistled in appreciation. “This must be some friend you’ve made, Lizzy.”

  Hi it’s Liz, Liz texted Darcy. We’re here. A few seconds later, the gates opened.

  In front of the main house, Liz spotted Darcy and a slender young woman who tucked her straight light brown hair behind her ears and kept her head slightly ducked, as if avoiding the glare of the sunset, though the house faced north. When the cars were parked and their occupants discharged, all seven of them stood in the gravel driveway while introductions were made and handshakes exchanged. Darcy wore high-quality flip-flops, khaki pants, and a white oxford cloth shirt rolled up to the elbows and plain save for a monogram on the left breast pocket—FCD V, it said, and Liz knew from looking online that his middle name was Cornelius.

  It was immediately obvious to Liz that Georgie was anorexic. More than a decade in the employ of a women’s magazine had given her an abundance of experience discerning eating disorders, and made her both sympathetic to their challenges and wary of focusing inordinate attention on them; indeed, before the end of her first year at Mascara, she’d privately vowed to cease all conversation about food or exercise with her co-workers, lest she become as obsessive as some of them. She had, of course, broken the vow many times, but she still credited it with helping her retain perspective.

  A few inches shorter than Liz, Georgie couldn’t have topped a hundred pounds; and though she wore a loose linen shirt along with jeans and flats, the line of her jaw and the prominence of her teeth were clues to her extreme thinness. She seemed far more fragile than Liz had anticipated; Kitty and Lydia were downright husky by comparison.

  “We’ll eat at the guesthouse.” Looking among Uncle Frank, Aunt Margo, and Willie, Darcy added, “I’ve already subjected Liz and Charlotte to a tour of the main house today, so I’m inclined to spare the rest of you.”

  Aunt Margo, Liz observed, met this news with disappointment that she quickly concealed, though neither Willie nor Uncle Frank seemed to care. As they all walked past the east wing of the house, Darcy said, “You’ll see that the pool is next to the guesthouse, but I have to apologize for not offering you the chance to swim. We haven’t opened it in a few years.”

  Uncle Frank snapped his fingers, as if let down. “And here I’d stashed a Speedo in my glove compartment, just in case.”

  Everyone chuckled politely at this appetite-spoiling image, and Liz found herself falling into step beside Georgie. “Thank you for having us over on such short notice,” Liz said. “I hope you weren’t alarmed when your brother said five strangers would be joining you for dinner.”

  “Oh, the opposite,” Georgie said. “Fitzy’s talked about you so much, and I think he told you I’m a big Mascara reader.” Quickly, Georgie added, “At the risk of sounding like a dorky fangirl.”

  “Ah, but I love dorky fangirls,” Liz said. “So Darcy—or I guess you just called him Fitzy—he said you’re a graduate student?”

  Georgie nodded. “I’m in the middle of my dissertation, which will probably be read by about eight people total, if I ever manage to finish it. I have to ask you this, even though I’m sure everyone does—do you think Hudson Blaise cheated on Jillian Northcutt?”

  Forsaking her usual guardedness on the topic, Liz said, “Of course he did!”

  “Have you ever interviewed him?” Georgie asked.

  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?”

  “No sooner than I deserve. If you’ll excuse me, I should start grilling.” Had she in fact offended him? He headed inside the guesthouse and emerged a moment later carrying one platter of raw steaks and another of portobello mushrooms and zucchini cut into long strips. Uncle Frank joined him at the grill, and Liz could hear her uncle strike up a conversation about the history of the estate. “It’s no secret that property in Atherton is worth a pretty penny,” Uncle Frank said, and Darcy said affably, “Yes, times have changed since my great-great-grandfather bought this land for twelve dollars an acre.”

  Liz rose, looking for a bathroom. On the other side of the guesthouse’s glass door, she found herself inside a great room with stainless steel kitchen appliances lining one wall. Passing a first bathroom, she walked down a hall, by three bedrooms—two held twin beds, and one contained an unmade king-sized bed, with an open suitcase on the floor beside it—and, beyond the suitcase, an interior bathroom. As she washed her hands afterward in a sink with a pattern of blue peonies painted across the basin and faucet handles, she was struck, as she occasionally was during a third glass of wine, by how cute she looked in the mirror. Sober, she tended, like most women she knew, toward self-criticism. But tipsy, she could admire her own brightly inquisitive eyes, her shiny hair and game smile, as well as the flattering cut of her jeans and the boost offered by the overpriced bra she’d purchased that afternoon. Even in the presence of her weird cousin and corny uncle, the night had taken on a certain enchanted quality that arose from the splendor of the setting, from the crisp air, the candles they relied on as twilight gathered, and above all from Darcy’s solicitousness, which she felt to be directed primarily at her; indeed, she interpreted his attention to all the guests as a personal tribute. But of course she was not certain—she was certain of nothing.

  Whether by her own angling or a more mutual stratagem, Liz ended up next to Darcy for dinner; her aunt was on his other side. Complementing the meat and vegetables Darcy had grilled were a loaf of fresh bread, a salad, and more wine, all of them outstanding, though what food and drink wouldn’t have tasted delicious beneath a starry sky on a late-summer evening?

  “Was your mother a native Californian like your father?” Aunt Margo asked Darcy, and he shook his head.

  “She was a proud Yankee who could never quite believe she’d settled here permanently.” Darcy looked at his sister. “Wouldn’t you say, Georgie?”

  The focus of the table shifting to her seemed to make Georgie self-conscious, but she sounded composed as she said, “Our mom grew up in Boston, and she’d lose her voice yelling at the TV during Red Sox games.”

  “How did your parents meet?” Liz asked.

  Darcy said, “Mom was an undergraduate at Radcliffe when our dad was in medical school. She was only nineteen when Dad proposed, and he assumed she’d drop out of school and move here with him. She refused. He joined a practice in San Francisco, but supposedly he kept proposing to her once a month, writing letters. She finally said yes the day after her graduation.”

  “Your father was a doctor, too?” Aunt Margo said.

  “A general practitioner,” Darcy said. “I think in another life our mom would have been a landscape architect. When I picture her, it’s digging in the gardens here.”

  “I just realized,” Georgie said. “You should all come to our croquet tournament tomorrow.” A silence ensued, and Georgie added, “You don’t need to wear white or anything. It’s informal.”

  “They probably have plans, Georgie,” Darcy said. “Liz, how long are you in town?”

  “Till Sunday night.”

  “I bet we can make it work,” Charlotte said. “Don’t you think, Liz? What time does the tournament start?”

  “Around three,” Georgie said. “I mean, don’t feel obligated if it sounds boring.”

  “Margo and I will take a rain check,” Uncle Frank said. “We’ll be enjoying some R and R on a friend’s boat.”

  “And I need to be at the office,” Willie said. “We’re in crunch time, and I’m lucky to have gotten away for dinner.”

  “Then definitely count Liz and me in,” Charlotte said. “Darcy, I trust you remember from Charades that Liz is a fierce competitor.”

  “I remember it well,” Darcy said.

  A SIXTY-SOMETHING WOMAN named Alberta materialized before dessert to ask if they needed anything, and Darcy complimented her on the excellence of the food, thereby confirming Liz’s impression that he had done little to prepare it. However, it was Darcy himself who loaded the dishwasher, as Liz, Charlotte, and Georgie carried plates into the guesthouse.

  Georgie had just taken a hazelnut torte outside—Liz doubted the young woman would be eating any—and Charlotte followed with a pint of vanilla ice cream, leaving Darcy and Liz inside and trul
y alone together for the first time that evening. As Darcy scrubbed the salad bowl, Liz, who was no more than five feet away, said, “Thank you—” and he turned off the water. “Thank you for everything tonight—” she began again, and, talking over her, he said, “You don’t have to come tomorrow just to humor Georgie. Now that I know how you feel about Caroline Bingley, I—”

  “No, it’s fine.” This time, it was her interrupting him. “I mean, I don’t want to impose if—”

  “You’re more than welcome to join us.”

  Then they just stood there, looking at each other. She wished that kissing him was not impossible. Was kissing him impossible? Surely so, with his sister and her aunt and uncle and cousin and friend on the other side of the glass door. It then seemed that maybe they were going to kiss after all, in spite of the lack of privacy and the confused circumstances, because he stepped toward her, and she stepped toward him. He said, “Since you left Cincinnati—” At that moment, Georgie walked in and said, “Did Alberta leave the serving knife in the main house? Oh, sorry.”

  “It’s right here.” Darcy turned, opened a drawer, and handed the knife to Georgie.

  Both the eye contact and the spell had been broken. And yet Georgie’s apology—it was proof to Liz that a spell had existed; she wasn’t just imagining it.

  She said to Georgie, “I’ve got the dessert plates.” Because Liz didn’t wish to increase Georgie’s discomfort—also because Liz didn’t know what else to do—she followed the other woman out to the patio. A moment later, Darcy emerged after them. It was Aunt Margo who cut the torte.

  Since I left Cincinnati what? Liz thought. Though she wasn’t alone again with Darcy before they departed, her heart had swollen during that encounter in the kitchen, and it did not shrink again until some hours after she had climbed into the guest bed at Willie and Charlotte’s house.