Curtis Sittenfeld - Eligible

“Good question,” Liz said.

“Don’t you think it’s crying out for an article?”

In under two seconds, Liz thought, But I need to write the next “Women Who Dare” as soon as I finish my asking-for-a-raise piece, then thought, But it would be fun and random to report an article in Cincinnati, then thought, And since I’ve barely written about sports, that could be a cool challenge. Growing up, she hadn’t played squash herself but had known kids at Seven Hills who did.

Jasper said, “Mainly, though, it’ll give me an excuse to come out there and bang you in a hotel room that I get to expense. Win-win-win, right?”

“Oh,” Liz said. “Right.” Already it seemed a bit embarrassing that she’d imagined he wanted to assign the piece to her rather than himself.

“Plus I can drop by for one of the famous Bennet family dinners,” Jasper said. “And see your ancestral home.”

Years earlier, Jasper had met Mr. and Mrs. Bennet and an adolescent Kitty and Lydia on a trip they’d made to New York for the lighting of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. To Liz’s alarm, fourteen-year-old Kitty had seemed more interested in finding out from her older sisters how one procured a prescription for the Pill than in seeing the Rockettes; Lydia, who was still comparatively innocent, was focused on acquiring underwear from Bloomingdale’s that said BLOOMIE’S across the back. As had happened often with Jasper over the years, the experience of introducing him to her family at brunch had felt to Liz like an enticing yet unsatisfactory facsimile: Here’s the guy who’s almost my boyfriend. That hadn’t been what she’d said, of course, and to her mother’s prying questions, she’d insisted that Jasper was simply a friend.

On the phone, she said, “Well, you could have dropped in for a family dinner before sending me skanky lingerie.”

“You gotta get over that, Nin,” Jasper said. “Have you ever heard of a kid named Cheng Zhou?”

“No.”

“He’s a prodigy. This eleven-year-old kid of Chinese immigrants who’s racking up insane squash titles.”

“Interesting — I mainly associate the sport with rich white people.”

“See?” Jasper said. “I already know more about your hometown than you do.”

LIZ ENTERED HER father’s study. “Do you think Mom has a shopping addiction?”

“Without question.” From behind his desk, her father’s tone was equanimous.

“I’m not kidding,” Liz said.

“Nor am I.”

“Do you think anything should be done about it?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like having her see a shrink.”

“Do you imagine your mother would consent to such a thing?”

Liz sighed and folded her arms. Years before Jane’s embrace of yoga, had her father quietly achieved some Zen state that buffered him from the disturbances of daily life? Or was it just that he couldn’t be bothered to exert himself, so bored was he by his family members’ shortcomings?

Aunt Margo’s voice became audible from the first floor. “Fred, what happened to the mirror of Mummy’s that used to hang in the dining room?”

“Leave and shut the door behind you,” Mr. Bennet hissed. “Quick. Tell her you don’t know where I am.”

AT THE LAST minute, Jane had asked Chip if Cousin Willie could be included in his dinner party. Willie and Aunt Margo were returning to California the next morning, and Liz suspected that Jane felt guilty for hardly having spent time with him.

Chip lived on the eighth floor of a recently completed building in Oakley, not far from Skyline Chili; its décor, Liz thought upon entry, was so much like that of an upscale airport hotel — geometric-patterned carpet, inoffensive prints hanging from the wall, sleek and not particularly comfortable-looking sofas and chairs — that she wondered if he had rented it furnished.

“Come in, come in,” Chip said as he greeted Liz by kissing her cheek, and there was something downright brother-in-lawish about the gesture. Then he heartily shook Willie’s hand. “Thrilled you could make it,” Chip said to Willie, and Liz liked Chip in this moment the most she ever had. “Can I get you drinks?” Chip said. “Caroline made some of her signature sangria, and don’t be deceived by the sweetness. It’s lethal.”

“Some people say the same about Caroline herself,” Liz murmured to Jane. Noting Jane’s perturbed expression, Liz added, “Sorry.”

In the dining room, a glass table was set for nine — two places shared the head, presumably reflecting the addition of Willie — and from a bar assembled atop a credenza, Caroline was handing drinks to Charlotte Lucas, as well as to Keith, the other new emergency room doctor Liz had met at the Lucases’ barbecue, and to an attractive woman, also black, whom Liz guessed to be Keith’s San Diego — dwelling fiancée. This supposition was confirmed with introductions, during which, through a closed sliding glass door that led to a small concrete balcony, Liz made unexpected and forceful eye contact with Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Darcy’s back was to the street below, his elbows balanced on the balcony railing and a glass of sangria in his right hand. He looked, Liz thought, like a model in a local department store newspaper insert: handsome, yes, but moody in a rather preposterous and unnecessary way. Neither of them smiled, nor did either of them immediately look away. She realized he was on the balcony alone. What a strange man he was.

Something, though she couldn’t have said whether it was a compassionate impulse to rescue a person standing by himself at a party or an urge with a more antagonistic origin, impelled her toward him; she opened the sliding door and stepped outside. The balcony’s only furniture consisted of two slender, black wrought iron chairs.

“Are you enjoying the refreshing summer evening?” she asked. Though it was after seven o’clock, it was still thickly humid. Darcy blinked at her, and she added, “Believe it or not, there’s something I’ve always liked about summer in the Midwest. I even like the sound of the cicadas.”

Darcy took a sip of sangria. “Of course you do.”

“Here’s a nugget about Cincinnati for you,” Liz said. “We produce a weirdly disproportionate number of champion squash players. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” Darcy said. “I did.”

“Really?” She looked at him quizzically.

“I played squash at boarding school.”

Unable to restrain a smirk, Liz said, “Of course you did. What boarding school did you go to?”

“It’s called Exeter.”

With some pique, Liz said, “Yes, I’ve heard of it. And then where’d you go to college?”

After a pause, he said, “I went to college back in the Bay Area.”

“Berkeley? Stanford.”

“Stanford.”

“I’ve never understood why people do that,” Liz said. “Like, ‘I went to college in New Haven,’ or, ‘I went to college in Boston.’ Do you think if you reveal your elite education, I’ll be so intimidated that I’ll faint?”

Darcy shrugged. “It seems less pretentious.”

“It’s more pretentious! You know what? I can handle your Stanford degree. I went to Barnard. And you know what else? I’ve lived for the last twenty years in New York, and so has Jane.”

“Yes, you mentioned that at Charlotte’s,” Darcy said calmly. “During the same conversation when we discussed Mascara sending you to Saudi Arabia, where you wore an abaya and a head scarf.”

His recall was somewhat unsettling. “Oh,” Liz said. “I guess we did talk about it.”

“Perhaps you didn’t realize I was paying attention.”