“If you don’t mind me asking again, you looked in pretty bad shape when you accepted my call. Is everything ok?”
“Not really.”
“Do you want me to fly out there? If you need me to be with you, I will.”
At his earnest expression, I realize he would. I realize he’d do anything for me.
When did that start?
“Lizzie?”
“You don’t need to do that, Henry. But thank you.”
“I’d do it, Lizzie.”
“I know you would.”
Blocked text from AugustDansworth:
Hello, Elizabeth. I’m sorry about last night. I was ghastly. Call me!
24
The next day, I wake to discover that I really can’t do anything other than scroll through TikTok videos of cute pugs, eat cereal, and watch Batman cartoons with Heathcliff. I can’t stop thinking about Dansworth and the stew of Southern drama waiting for me when I get back to South Carolina. Why couldn’t she come clean with her own adult son? I can only imagine how Philip felt that night he called me to tell me everything. I see her manic in her garden hat with her pistol; I see her leaning out the bathroom window smoking those cigarettes. Amid my annoyance, I feel sorry for her. She must have been eaten up by guilt all these years. She needs to tell the truth and let it all go.
Then there’s August...
With great effort, I try not to dwell on the pain I still feel from last night. I can’t believe I got myself into this situation. I wanted to believe his rakishness was a facade, that the charming smoke and mirrors covered good character. I was naive. Even more shocking: What is happening between me and Philip’sbest friend? Shame seeps through my gut. My feelings are promiscuous and weird. Henry and Philip went fishing together. Had beers together. He’s thelastman I should be attracted to in the wake of my husband’s death—even further down the list from British playboys who ply college students and silly, grief-stricken widows with champagne.
I came to England to reassemble myself after losing Philip. I intentionally created rules to help me navigate my loss. Mourning rituals provided convenient paths for me to follow, comforting boundaries for my pain. But I couldn’t create rules for my heart. Black dresses, jet necklaces, little bird urns aren’t talismans to ward off grief and love. There are some things that I can’t control no matter how improper I believe them to be.
Who am I?
Although I’m on the journey I set out to take, I’m still as fucking lost as I was when I broke down in my seminar class.
“You’re using the wrong colors,” Heathcliff says indignantly. Oops. He’s right. I’m coloring Poison Ivy blue in the coloring book.
“She’s supposed to beGREEN,” he says scornfully, like I’m the world’s most ignorant slut. It’s like he knows I’m a poor excuse for a Victorian widow—a true wid-hoeif there ever was one.
“Now, you be nice to your mum,” Ms. Fernsby says reproachfully as she walks through the room with a large bundle of fresh thyme.
She knows something upsetting happened last evening when I went to meet August, but she’s been giving me space today. She’s been mostly running errands and busying herself with the patio garden.
Heathcliff scowls at both of us before going back to his coloring book.
In the late afternoon, I’m helping Ms. Fernsby with dinner.While she cuts up onions for her chicken gnocchi soup, I knead sourdough bread dough on the kitchen island. Jazz music plays pleasantly from the Alexa on the kitchen counter as we chat. Mabel will be stopping by for dinner, and I’m looking forward to it. Always bright and cheery, she’ll be good company to distract me from my angst.
My phone rings suddenly, and I see it’s Henry. Wiping my floury fingers on a towel, I excuse myself and step outside to the small back patio.
“Hey,” I say, slumping into a wrought iron chair cushioned by a jade garden pillow. Ms. Fernsby’s roses bloom nearby in the late-afternoon sun.
“Hey...”
I wait out a long, awkward pause as he clears his throat. I thought this might be more Mirabel drama, but my stomach sinks a little. That’s not why he called.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he says.
“I’m... sorry.”
