I’m not in a full-blown panic yet, but I’m getting anxious. Children must get lost here all the time, and surely all museums have organized systems for finding them. Still, my maternal reptile brain fires up. My son isn’t in my sight. He’s lost, away from me and in danger of predators...
“Mom! Hey! Over here!”
I whip around and see Heathcliff on the shoulders of a ridiculously handsome British man.
“Here you go, Mum,” the man says, swinging Heathcliff down and into my arms. I hug him hard as he squirms away excitedly.
“There was this room withgiant gold statuesandcreepy artand it was sobig...and...cool...a little scary, and I couldn’t find you, and I only got a little scared, and I tried to stay where I was like you told me to when I was lost but you didn’t come and my eyes watered a little...”
“He was a brave chap when I found him,” the man says, winking at me.
“So we’re all okay now? Happy reunion and all that?” the bored guard asks.
“Yes, fine. You’ve been very helpful,” I snap irritably.
Now that I have Heathcliff, I can’t stop looking at this dashingly beautiful man. There’s something vaguely familiar about him. Did I meet him at a conference?
“August Dansworth,” he says, extending a hand. Tall, with blue eyes, dark hair, and a dimple, August is about my age and sports a jaunty Hugh Grant–like demeanor. I hope Philip can’t see me right now, how my palm sweats as I shake August’s hand. He squeezes mine warmly, and I accidentally happen to notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring.
“Lizzie Wells.” I’m glad I wore my nicest black sundress and cardigan. Nervously, I tighten my grip on my satchel and play with my jet necklace. My mouth dries, and I’m not sure what to do. What did proper widows do with this kind of excitement?
He lingers. He’s wearing a nice tweed suit and looks like the type of dashing college professor I always imagined myself working with in graduate school. Not porky, sexist short men like Bill Rhodes.
“Guess what, Mom? August knows Batman!”
“Guilty,” August says, dimple deepening. “I told him I’m Alfred Pennyworth’s long-lost son and pop in often for tea.”
“Isn’t that thecoolest?”
“The very coolest. Thank you, Mr. Dansworth.”
“August, please. Mr. Dansworth is my father.” He lingers. “Your blood sugar must be ghastly low after that fright. The least you can let me do is take you and Heathcliff to my favorite pub.”
“Oh, I don’t know...”
“They have fabulous sausages and cake.” He smiles at Heathcliff.
“Please,Mama! I want cake!”
Within an hour, I’m squashed into a pub booth too close to August Dansworth as Heathcliff makes paper shapes out of the children’s menu. I’m pretty sure thisisn’tproper Victorian widow behavior, but it also seemed rude to turn down his lunch offer. And it would have disappointed Heathcliff.
“So what brought you to London?”
Grief. Asshat colleagues. Asshat Brad McGregor. An embarrassing public meltdown.
“I’m a writer and professor, so I’ve been here to research a lot. This time, though, Heathcliff and I are just on summer vacation.”
“There is something saucy professor about your style.” He glances over my jet necklace and black clothes. I squirm, self-conscious about my weird widow fashion.
Our drinks arrive. He sips his cider while I put Heathcliff’s straw in his lemonade cup and then he screams at me that he wanted to do it, pulls it out, splashes lemonade on my cheek and does it himself.
I take a long sip of wine.
“What do you write?” August asks.
“It was a young adult book. You might not have heard of it—The Heathcliff Saga.”
“You’re bloody kidding.”
