We sit there in silence, listening to the fire crackle and watching the muted partiers in Times Square. I try not to think about Philip’s Christmas gift to me last week—a couple’s dance lesson package at a local studio. He was so proud, so excited to give it to me. He had smiled like Heathcliff in a candy shop when I opened the envelope.
Well, what do you think?he’d asked.
Ummm... sure?I’d responded, clearly not as enthusiastic as he’d hoped. He still kissed me and then began to put batteries in Heathcliff’s remote-controlled Batmobile.
Why am I so resistant? What am I afraid of? I think I’d just feel silly.
Philip would take lessons with me in a heartbeat. But then again—I’m pushing forty, on the wrong side of thirty-five. And withThe Heathcliff Sagamovie just coming out...
I’m just too busy.
6
Henry:Hey, Liz. I know things are pretty darn awkward after the other night. You might not want to talk to me, but we need to talk about Miss Mirabel. Just call or text. How about it?
Lizzie:I’m on my way to London. I’ll call or text when I get there.
Henry:LONDON???
During the plane ride, Heathcliff alternates between sleep and his tablet. With the time change combined with the airport donuts and screens, he’ll be a gremlin by the time we land. Meanwhile, I’m flying throughBlood Oath.Sure, Chadwick Hall is a royal ass, but with his suave moves, fast car, and the lightning-speed plot, it’s pretty hard to put down. As the cabin lights go out for the night, I reluctantly put it away, monitorHeathcliff as he brushes his teeth in the closet-size bathroom, and give him a melatonin gummy.
I settle back in my seat and (perhaps unwisely) think about some of the problems I’m leaving at home.
Philip hadn’t liked talking about his family. Did he have agoodrelationship with his parents? Yes, I suppose he did. I never saw him argue with them. But were theyclose? That’s a different question. He never called TedDad—only Ted. He called MirabelMama. But there was something very formal about their relationship. In fact, there was something very formal about that whole sprawlinghouse—The Azalea Dream.
Bordering the Ashley River, the white clapboard structure with painted black shutters looks like something from the pages ofSouthern Living.Azaleas, daylilies, and bold pink zinnias bloom in the surrounding gardens, while star jasmine wraps up along the tall porch columns. Ted himself always seemed more porch fixture than human, an accessory for Mirabel and her home. With his red bow tie, newspaper, little mint julep, he naps through weekend afternoons on one of Mirabel’s many white wicker rockers. Mirabel tends the gardens herself—her yellow gardening gloves matching the large yellow bow of her sun hat. Everything always looks coordinated and picture-perfect in her world.
Years ago, Mirabel told Philip she’d never really loved Ted, and they weren’t more than roommates. She’d confessed this after an evening of too much Chardonnay with the Methodist Women’s League. He’d been twelve at the time.
“It was weird and confusing,” Philip told me. “I asked her about it the next day, and she said she never said it. But I know what I heard.”
Mirabel fights hard to keep everything perfect. I remember portraits lining the Azalea Dream halls—posed photographs of Philip in perfectly pressed sailor suits and pristine seersuckers,an oil painting of Mirabel as a young debutante. She lies about smoking; what else does she lie about? What did Philip want to tell me so badly on the night of the accident?
Heathcliff snores softly, and I tug his Batman blanket up under his chin.
I put my black satin sleep mask over my eyes and lean my seat back. I haven’t had any weird widow dreams yet, but maybe due to the melatonin and two glasses of airplane Merlot, I slip into one now. It’s nothing too gothic or Brontë-ish. I’m simply following Philip through Mirabel’s big azalea garden at the back of the house. We’re on a meandering path at the peak of spring; fat honeybees buzz lazily among the bright pink petals. Philip wears khakis and a light blue checkered pressed shirt, something he would wear to work when he’s not in court. He walks ahead of me, sunlight glaring on his neatly cut blond hair. The distance between us grows with each step. I can never quite catch up. I call out to him, but he never turns around. The garden melts away to Parliament Square on a sunny morning. Jostling against picture-taking tourists and people on their way to work, I follow him, calling his name, but he never looks back. Again, the distance between us increases until he’s lost in the crowd.
I wake up, a sick feeling of separation and loss spreading through my gut. The cabin lights are still off, but early twilight peeks over the clouds outside my window. We’ll land in London before long, and I’ll take an Uber with Heathcliff to the Bloomsbury row house. We’ll eat whatever delicious meal Sarah’s housekeeper has waiting for us.
Meanwhile, no matter what happens around me or wherever I am, in my heart, I’m always chasing Philip.
Ms. Fernsby stands in the door of the row house, and I almost drop my third Starbucks coffee of the day.
Around sixty, she looks like she stepped out of a Masterpiece Mystery! episode, one of those cozy murder mysteries where she’s the sweet, pink-cheeked hobby-investigator who gets villagers to spill the beans over tea and scones. Gray hair pulled back in a neat knot, she wears a flower-print dress down past her knees with gray tights and loafers. Everything about her is warm and inviting. I want to tell her all my secrets.
“Oh,hullo, dearie,” she coos at Heathcliff, kneeling down and hugging him tightly. He grins dopily. For all his Batman-toughness, he loves to be babied. “You’re a cute one. I’ve heard your tummy doesn’t like cheese and milk, so I’ve been baking you dairy-free treats all morning.”
“And you, luv.” She stands, hugs me tightly now.
God, she evensmellswarm and inviting—like garden roses and baking chocolate. “Sarah told me about your loss. I’m so sorry. I hope you can breathe a bit here.”
She leads us into the house. The front door opens into a sizable parlor with damask curtains, a little fireplace with a cuckoo clock on the mantel, a comfortable vintage love seat and sofa, and polished walnut floors. Except for outlets tucked into the whitewashed wall beams, the room looks unchanged for the past two hundred years.
A large tabby lingers on the sofa.
“Cat!” Heathcliff yells.
The cat hisses and runs from the room. Heathcliff follows in hot pursuit.
