“Can I hold Daddy now?”
“Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?” I hiss, dropping the urn safely back into my satchel. I feel like a complete weirdo.
By the time Heathcliff and I return to the table, our meals have arrived. I squirt ketchup onto Heathcliff’s sausage to meet his specifications and then squeeze a lemon wedge over my calamari salad.
Heathcliff stabs the little side dish of steamed spinach withhis fork. “Grandma Nora said toalwayseat my vegetables first. She said they’ll make me like Batman.”
“Your grandmum sounds like a wise woman.” He turns to me. “So you’re a widow.” He thoughtfully takes a bite of kidney pie.
“I’m a rather recent one. His name was Philip and we were very close, married fifteen years.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”
“It’s been awful.” I stare into my now-empty wineglass. “We had one of those rare friendship marriages.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“I’ll be alright. This trip was actually much-needed.” I tell him about our adorable town house and housekeeper. “We’re in good hands.”
After a minute, August asks Heathcliff about his favorite superhero, and my son’s ensuing monologue carries us through the remainder of lunch.
When we leave the pub, I thank August, telling him that this really was a lovely treat.
“Will we see you again?” Heathcliff asks pleadingly.
“Heath...”
“Actually, Lizzie, I wouldn’t mind seeing both of you again, or perhaps justyou? Would you fancy a little tour of the area and dinner? Perhaps your lovely Ms. Fernsby could give you a well-deserved night off? I promise, I’m going to do everything possible to get you out of your brilliant mind while you’re here.”
My words won’t work.
“Lizzie?”
“Ummm, yes, sure. Why not?”
“Excellent!” We put one another in our phone contacts.
As Heathcliff and I walk away, I feel like I’m getting the vapors again, kind of lightheaded and trembly. If I had a corset, I’d loosen it to breathe.
9
That afternoon, I sink into a deliciously hot, sudsy bath of floating pink rose petals from Ms. Fernsby’s garden. I listen to a Norah Jones playlist and ruminate over the surreal meeting and pub lunch with August Dansworth. I’m still reeling from his suggestion that we meet up again butwithoutHeathcliff.
Would a meetup qualify as a date? Aromanticdate?
No. My insides roil at the thought.
There’s definitely something about August that smells like trouble. But it would be perfectly fine to meet up as two creativeprofessionalsbrainstorming and networking together. That’s all it is. Sarah would be thrilled to know I’ve cultivated aprofessionalrelationship with the famous A.D. Hemmings.
I massage eucalyptus oil onto my legs. The scent soothes my muscles, sore from walking for half the day. As I start shaving, I wonder when I’ll feel like I’ll be ready to even consider dating again. This is a place I never expected or wanted to be in—Ican’t imagine going out with someone at my age. The thought of sifting through online profiles makes me queasy.
Middle age is a weird time to lose a soulmate. I had the happy Jane Austen ending, but the story was cut short. Even my friends who are still married don’t love their husbands like I loved Philip. I was a lucky duck. Not long before my grandma died five years ago at the ripe old age of ninety-five, I visited her in her nursing home. Her mind had been lost for some time to dementia, and it worsened after Grandpa died the year before. I told her about my recent research trip to England and answered her question three times:Did you have tea with the Queen?(I said yes, because that really would have been so much fun.) Then she settled back, a vague smile on her face. Her rheumy blue eyes looked out the window at shaded bird feeders and the Midwest’s sprawling hostas. I tried to get another bite of pudding into her mouth, but she shook her head faintly, lost in a memory.
“I had a man once.”
“Really, Grandma?” I smiled, leaned forward. She’d married at age twenty-three, and I was hoping for something juicy, a tidbit about a past love before Grandpa.
“Yes. I had a man once.”
