Curtis Sittenfeld - Eligible

THE DEADLINE FOR Liz’s pay-raise article had come and gone, and Liz still hadn’t heard back from Kathy de Bourgh’s publicist; feeling un-Kathy-de-Bourgh-ishly defeated, Liz emailed the article to her editor, Talia.

So sorry the interview didn’t come through, Liz typed. Good news is I have solid quotes from high-ranking woman at IBM. Maybe reconnect w/ de Bourgh in the future?

THE NIGHT BEFORE Jasper’s arrival in Cincinnati, while watching television in the den with Jane, Kitty, and Mrs. Bennet, Liz said during a commercial, “Kitty, will you give me a pedicure?”

Kitty looked at her with confusion. “Why?”

“Because you’re good at it and I need one.” Liz extended her legs and wiggled her toes.

“Fine, but I’m not touching your calluses,” Kitty said.

“It’s a deal,” Liz said.

“The calluses are because you run too much,” Mrs. Bennet said without glancing up from her catalog. “All that jostling is bad for your ovaries, too.”

In Kitty’s bathroom, which was where she and Liz adjourned to, Kitty was thoroughly professional in demeanor as she applied the layers of polish, focused and serious in a way Liz had never seen. Perhaps most impressive of all, Kitty owned pale pink disposable foam toe separators, which she inserted and told Liz to wear for the next forty-five minutes while the polish dried. “I’ve never waited that long in my entire life,” Liz said, and Kitty said, “I put four coats on. Trust me.”

With the separators in, Liz walked on her heels down the hall to Mary’s room and knocked on the door. After a minute, Mary opened it just a few inches, as if concerned about intruders.

“How’s it going?” Liz said.

“What do you want?” Mary asked.

“I’m just coming to say hi.” It was shortly after eleven P.M., and during her pedicure, Liz had heard Mary climb the stairs, apparently returning from wherever she’d been. “Did you have a good night?” Liz asked.

“You’re acting weird,” Mary said.

Trying to maintain a casual tone, Liz said, “Where do you go on Tuesdays, anyway?” Really, the omertà surrounding Mary’s night life made no sense.

“Nowhere,” Mary said.

Warmly, Liz said, “Well, obviously, you go somewhere. ”

“I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The inquiry was going less well than Liz had hoped. “I wasn’t,” she said, which may not have been entirely true. “In fact, I was wondering if it had ever occurred to you to find out what happened to Allen Bausch.”

Mary squinted. “My prom date? That guy was such a loser.”

Switching tacks, Liz said, “Of all the degrees you have, which one do you think you’re most interested in pursuing for a career?”

“I won’t finish this one until December.”

“It’s a master’s in psychology, right?” Liz said, and Mary nodded. “Would you like to be a therapist?” Liz asked. The notion seemed at best ill-advised and at worst harmful to others. To her relief, Mary shook her head.

“I’m studying applied psychology, not clinical.”

“Remind me what people do with applied psychology degrees?”

Mary shrugged. “Employee training. Product testing.”

“You should work for Procter & Gamble!” Liz exclaimed. Seeing that her zeal seemed to repel Mary, Liz added more calmly, “I’m sure Charlotte would be happy to talk with you.” Presumably, Liz thought, her own awkward last encounter with Charlotte wouldn’t make an entreaty from Mary unwelcome. Liz then wondered how Charlotte’s visit to see Cousin Willie had gone.

“Are you asking me this stuff for an article you’re writing?” Mary said, and Liz said, “Can’t I just be interested in your life?”

“Yeah, right.” Mary nodded with her chin toward the floor, where Liz’s toes were five different candy colors on each foot. She said, “That looks ridiculous.”

THE CINCINNATI AIRPORT, while indeed an airport, was not actually in Cincinnati; rather, it was located across the river in Hebron, Kentucky, and this was where Liz picked up Jasper Wick just before noon. He’d texted her after his plane landed, as she was pulling off the highway, and by the time he emerged from the terminal, Liz was waiting by the curb. She climbed from the car to wave, and when Jasper smiled, he looked exceptionally handsome.

His curly blond hair was thinner than it had once been but still abundant enough to be windblown, and his brown eyes remained mirthful. He kissed her on the mouth — this was a bolder display of affection than they partook of in New York and that even in Cincinnati did not feel risk-free — and Liz said, “Welcome to the ’Nati.”

“You didn’t tell me the airport’s a ghost town. I think a tumbleweed just blew by.”

“It used to be a Delta hub, but that was a while ago.” Jasper set his suitcase in the trunk, which Liz closed. Inside the Cadillac, she said, “Should we eat first or just go straight to your hotel?” In case her meaning wasn’t clear, she wiggled her eyebrows exaggeratedly.

“Actually, I need you to drop me at Avis. You know where that is?”

Liz looked at him in confusion. “Why did I pick you up if you’re renting a car?”

“I didn’t know if this was one of those airports where the rentals are a million miles from the terminal. Plus—” He smiled at her. “I wanted to see you.”

“Jasper, I could have been working.”

“I thought we were about to go have a nooner. Don’t be mad, Nin. I didn’t rent the car till yesterday because I didn’t realize how far apart my hotel and the sports mall are.”

Sighing, she started the car and followed the signs to Avis, which was under a mile from the terminal. As Jasper stepped from the car, he said, “I’ll text you my room number when I check in.”

She shook her head. “Let’s just go get lunch. Meet me at the Skyline Chili on Madison Road in Oakley.”

Jasper laughed. “Making me work for it now, huh?” he said. “Okay. I’ll play.”

“BIG NEWS,” JASPER said as the waitress at Skyline set down their dishes of oyster crackers. “I had a drink with Brett Yankowitz yesterday.” This was, Liz knew, a powerful literary agent, though she had never met him. “He digs my book idea about that Idaho fly-fishing family,” Jasper continued. “If he sells it, I’ll take a leave in the spring.”

“Will Sporty let you?” Contrary to the rumors Jasper had previously shared with Liz, no announcement had occurred about the firing of the editor in chief of Dude.

Jasper said, “If they want to keep me, they will. How long you think it’d take me to write a book — three months? Four?”

“Don’t you need to finish the first fifty pages for Yankowitz to sell it?”

“Presumably.”

“So keep track of your average daily word count. I bet you—” At that moment, Liz glanced at a person passing her and Jasper’s table and was startled to make eye contact with Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was approaching from the rear of the restaurant and was no more than three feet away; to pretend she hadn’t noticed him would be preposterous.

“You really are a regular here,” she said, and Darcy said, “I’m a man of my word.”

“Wait a second,” Liz said. “You guys know each other.”

If she hadn’t been aware of Jasper and Darcy’s mutual antipathy, she’d have immediately intuited it; Jasper did not stand to greet his former college classmate. Instead, coolly, Jasper said, “Fitzwilliam Darcy. It’s been a while.”

Equally coolly, Darcy said, “It has.”