“Ooof... I have to run,” she says, glancing down at her Apple Watch.
She slings her taupe designer bag over her shoulder as she stands to leave and walks out. Struggling to keep up with her pace, I tell her about how much I’m enjoying the row house and Ms. Fernsby.
“I knew you would. And I’m sure she told you about my half sister, Mabel.”
“Uh... maybe?”
Sarah holds the door for me. “Father’s affair was the most open secret on our side of London. Behind closed doors, my parents argued. But Mum mostly looked the other way, you know—the good politician’s wife avoiding scandal. I put it all together pretty early on, and I didn’t mind having a girl around my age in the house. Mabel was fun, really. I just thought of her as family. We played Barbies and popped leftover Christmas crackers in the patio garden after the holidays. Does this all shock you?”
“Not really.”
With all that’s coming out from Philip’s family, how can it? I’m learning some families really like to keep their skeletons in the closet. Or, as in Sarah’s case, they make the skeletons dance, as the old saying goes.
“I’ll be in touch about the contract when it comes in.” She smiles, kissing my cheek as her Uber pulls up. “And, Lizzie, remember what I said. I can’t have you not believing in happy endings—especially for yourself.”
As I walk back into the row house, Ian texts me.
Ian:Hey Sis, SOS. Check out Dad’s Match app profile.
Me:Dad’s on Match????
Ian:I suggested it because he kept serial baking lasagnas.
He texts me a screenshot of Dad’s Match page.
For his profile picture, he’s sitting at a desk in his den sporting a gray sweater vest, tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose. He’s not smiling, his expression very... professor emeritus. In terms of interests, he lists:Neoromantic, American Transcendentalism with a specialization in Emerson.Although I know he’s a caring person, the entire profile gives off Hannibal Lecter vibes.
Me:Yikes! Any sane woman is going to swipe left before he eats her liver. But it’s good that he’s getting out there! What can we do?
Ian:I’m working with him this evening. I’m telling him to stick to long morning walks as interests. Can’t find a photo of him smiling, but I did find one of him at a barbecue last year looking not-scary.
I wish Ian luck and tell him to let me know if he needs any input.
I still picture Dad struggling over and over to get the lasagna just right. I’m glad he’s trying to move forward again. But I know all too well how hard it is. My Victorian widow’s rituals keep me rooted. I wonder what might help Dad.
Lucy yowls loudly from upstairs.
“Oh dear!” Ms. Fernsby exclaims from the kitchen, before storming up the stairs. “You donotdump the cat in the bathwater! Ever! That was naughty! You’ll have your bath tomorrow. Now you’re going straight to bed.”
From the look of the row house, Heathcliff’s been a terror. LEGO and puzzle pieces cover the parlor floor. Crayons and superhero coloring books clutter the dining room table. As I hurry through the kitchen to go upstairs, I see Heathcliff somehow managed to get our British housekeeper to buy hima microwaveable corn dog and potato chips. The stick and leftover crumbs lie in a pool of ketchup on his plate, and an empty orange soda sits nearby.
On the second floor, I find him wearing his Batman cape and mask and struggling against Ms. Fernsby’s tight grip. A wet Lucy flies into my bedroom.
“But she works for theJoker!” he shouts as Ms. Fernsby and I wrangle him out of the costume and into his pajamas.
“You’re getting a nice,quietstory tonight, Heathie. You’ve had enough of these superheroes.” She pats her mussed hair, and I tell Ms. Fernsby I’ll finish putting him to bed. I can’t even begin to imagine what her day’s been like as I’ve been cavorting with a dashing British writer and my agent.
After Heathcliff brushes his teeth, I read him a nice, boring picture book about a boy and his rabbit where literally nothing happens. He’s fast asleep before the end. Then I help Ms. Fernsby clean up, putting the ketchup-covered plates in the dishwasher and picking up every LEGO and crayon. I give Ms. Fernsby the signed copy ofBlood Oath.
By the time I head upstairs, she has her feet up in the parlor and a snifter of brandy as she reads the last chapters ofBlood Ties.
When I reach my room, I plop into the cushioned chair. Maybe it’s the alcohol waning in my system, but I need to talk to a friend to wind down. So much exciting stuff has happened in the last several hours. I find myself fighting a random and strange urge:I want to talk to Henry.
Calling him is a ridiculous idea. I just talked to him last night. Besides, he was more Philip’s friend than my own. But he’s still a friend. It’s early evening in South Carolina and of everyone I know, Henry is the most predictable. Right now, he’ll be hanging out in his backyard with Bonnie or in his den daydreaming about his weekend fishing trip. He’s a known world to me, and I’m craving his stability and warmth.
I pause over the FaceTime button. What will I say? Oh gosh... I’ll look stupid. I had qualms when he suggested we hang out. It seemed like a terrible idea. So why does calling him seem like such a good idea now?
Before I can overthink it anymore, I hit FaceTime, and he picks up immediately.
