Curtis Sittenfeld - Eligible

Liz rose, looking for a bathroom. On the other side of the guesthouse’s glass door, she found herself inside a great room with stainless steel kitchen appliances lining one wall. Passing a first bathroom, she walked down a hall, by three bedrooms — two held twin beds, and one contained an unmade king-sized bed, with an open suitcase on the floor beside it — and, beyond the suitcase, an interior bathroom. As she washed her hands afterward in a sink with a pattern of blue peonies painted across the basin and faucet handles, she was struck, as she occasionally was during a third glass of wine, by how cute she looked in the mirror. Sober, she tended, like most women she knew, toward self-criticism. But tipsy, she could admire her own brightly inquisitive eyes, her shiny hair and game smile, as well as the flattering cut of her jeans and the boost offered by the overpriced bra she’d purchased that afternoon. Even in the presence of her weird cousin and corny uncle, the night had taken on a certain enchanted quality that arose from the splendor of the setting, from the crisp air, the candles they relied on as twilight gathered, and above all from Darcy’s solicitousness, which she felt to be directed primarily at her; indeed, she interpreted his attention to all the guests as a personal tribute. But of course she was not certain — she was certain of nothing.

Whether by her own angling or a more mutual stratagem, Liz ended up next to Darcy for dinner; her aunt was on his other side. Complementing the meat and vegetables Darcy had grilled were a loaf of fresh bread, a salad, and more wine, all of them outstanding, though what food and drink wouldn’t have tasted delicious beneath a starry sky on a late-summer evening?

“Was your mother a native Californian like your father?” Aunt Margo asked Darcy, and he shook his head.

“She was a proud Yankee who could never quite believe she’d settled here permanently.” Darcy looked at his sister. “Wouldn’t you say, Georgie?”

The focus of the table shifting to her seemed to make Georgie self-conscious, but she sounded composed as she said, “Our mom grew up in Boston, and she’d lose her voice yelling at the TV during Red Sox games.”

“How did your parents meet?” Liz asked.

Darcy said, “Mom was an undergraduate at Radcliffe when our dad was in medical school. She was only nineteen when Dad proposed, and he assumed she’d drop out of school and move here with him. She refused. He joined a practice in San Francisco, but supposedly he kept proposing to her once a month, writing letters. She finally said yes the day after her graduation.”

“Your father was a doctor, too?” Aunt Margo said.

“A general practitioner,” Darcy said. “I think in another life our mom would have been a landscape architect. When I picture her, it’s digging in the gardens here.”

“I just realized,” Georgie said. “You should all come to our croquet tournament tomorrow.” A silence ensued, and Georgie added, “You don’t need to wear white or anything. It’s informal.”

“They probably have plans, Georgie,” Darcy said. “Liz, how long are you in town?”

“Till Sunday night.”

“I bet we can make it work,” Charlotte said. “Don’t you think, Liz? What time does the tournament start?”

“Around three,” Georgie said. “I mean, don’t feel obligated if it sounds boring.”

“Margo and I will take a rain check,” Uncle Frank said. “We’ll be enjoying some R and R on a friend’s boat.”

“And I need to be at the office,” Willie said. “We’re in crunch time, and I’m lucky to have gotten away for dinner.”

“Then definitely count Liz and me in,” Charlotte said. “Darcy, I trust you remember from Charades that Liz is a fierce competitor.”

“I remember it well,” Darcy said.

A SIXTY-SOMETHING WOMAN named Alberta materialized before dessert to ask if they needed anything, and Darcy complimented her on the excellence of the food, thereby confirming Liz’s impression that he had done little to prepare it. However, it was Darcy himself who loaded the dishwasher, as Liz, Charlotte, and Georgie carried plates into the guesthouse.

Georgie had just taken a hazelnut torte outside — Liz doubted the young woman would be eating any — and Charlotte followed with a pint of vanilla ice cream, leaving Darcy and Liz inside and truly alone together for the first time that evening. As Darcy scrubbed the salad bowl, Liz, who was no more than five feet away, said, “Thank you—” and he turned off the water. “Thank you for everything tonight—” she began again, and, talking over her, he said, “You don’t have to come tomorrow just to humor Georgie. Now that I know how you feel about Caroline Bingley, I—”

“No, it’s fine.” This time, it was her interrupting him. “I mean, I don’t want to impose if—”

“You’re more than welcome to join us.”

Then they just stood there, looking at each other. She wished that kissing him was not impossible. Was kissing him impossible? Surely so, with his sister and her aunt and uncle and cousin and friend on the other side of the glass door. It then seemed that maybe they were going to kiss after all, in spite of the lack of privacy and the confused circumstances, because he stepped toward her, and she stepped toward him. He said, “Since you left Cincinnati—” At that moment, Georgie walked in and said, “Did Alberta leave the serving knife in the main house? Oh, sorry.”

“It’s right here.” Darcy turned, opened a drawer, and handed the knife to Georgie.

Both the eye contact and the spell had been broken. And yet Georgie’s apology — it was proof to Liz that a spell had existed; she wasn’t just imagining it.

She said to Georgie, “I’ve got the dessert plates.” Because Liz didn’t wish to increase Georgie’s discomfort — also because Liz didn’t know what else to do — she followed the other woman out to the patio. A moment later, Darcy emerged after them. It was Aunt Margo who cut the torte.

Since I left Cincinnati what? Liz thought. Though she wasn’t alone again with Darcy before they departed, her heart had swollen during that encounter in the kitchen, and it did not shrink again until some hours after she had climbed into the guest bed at Willie and Charlotte’s house.

IN CHARLOTTE’S CAR on El Camino Real, returning to Pemberley the following afternoon, Liz pulled down the sun visor and looked at herself in the mirror, which was something she’d already spent a not inconsiderable amount of time doing at Charlotte and Willie’s house, where she’d carefully applied foundation, mascara, and lipstick. In the car, she said, “Is it weird we’re going?”

“Liz, the ST between you and Darcy is threatening to engulf Northern California in a fiery ball. It’s your duty to save us all by having sex.”

“I’m glad this is providing you with so much entertainment.” Liz pulled her lipstick from her purse, applied a fresh coat — one of the many tips she had learned during her years at Mascara was to begin at the center of her lips and move toward the corners — then rubbed her lips together. “For real, though, I hope Caroline doesn’t think we crashed the party.”

“Who cares what Caroline thinks?”

Liz slid the cover across the sun visor mirror and folded the visor back into place. “True. Did you wear earplugs again last night?”

“It was like an angel rocked me to sleep. Thank you for suggesting it.” Charlotte turned off El Camino Real and said in a more serious tone, “I know Willie isn’t dashing like Darcy. But I think he loves me, and I want to make it work.”