Chapter Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
Late the next morning, I decide to poke around the parts of the house I haven’t seen.
(Surely he expected that, right? You don’t tell someone she can stay unsupervised at your house for weeks and imagine she won’t snoop a little. I mean, unless you’re Bluebeard or something.)
At the top of the house is a large, slope-ceilinged attic, empty except for some dust and a few cobwebs. It’s the kind of place you’d tuck Christmas decorations and old toys—you know, if you were settled and had a family.
And even though I swear I never formed any expectations around our relationship, never doodled Mrs. Fisher Davis in the margins of a notebook, with little hearts for dots above the I’s, I suddenly catch myself daydreaming about things like marriage and kids and a life I’m not sure I’ll ever have; one I thought I’d largely convinced myself not to want.
Good grief. Am I dealing with the loss of romance by becoming a hopeless romantic?
Is that really why learning the truth of Fisher’s identity and his life outside of Grantham upset me so much?
Did it disrupt some happily-ever-after fantasy I had no business indulging—maybe ever, but particularly not in this Austenless universe, with him?
As I’m backing out of the attic, determined to put some distance between me and those unexpected, unwelcome thoughts, I stumble over a single cardboard box sitting just inside the door. And my first thought is, if that’s all you needed to stash, why would you bother to lug it all the way up here?
Written on the side of the box in block letters, not handwriting I recognize as his, is the word COLLEGE.
I wonder if this single, rather small box contains all the things he saved.
My mom would be overjoyed if I could whittle it down to a dozen boxes and/or get them, in whatever number, out of my parents’ garage.
This box isn’t sealed or taped or folded so the flaps interlock. All I would have to do to open it is lift one little piece of cardboard. That hardly counts as prying, right?
So why do I feel so guilty when I do just that?
The item uppermost is a picture frame. It’s turned face down: one last chance to redeem myself and walk away.
I don’t take it.
I lift the edge of the frame with my fingertips and tilt it toward the light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It’s his diploma: Bachelor of Science in Mathematics. From, yes, Yale. Awarded to Fisher Davis III five years ago.
To my mind, it’s not exactly a crooked path from his undergraduate degree to a career as a Chief Technology Officer.
But now that I have a better understanding of what Fisher is being prepared to inherit, I’m no longer surprised that Mr. Davis insisted on an advanced degree in computer science.
I’m surprised he didn’t insist on his son getting an MBA (like both he and his daughter did).
Then I think of Fisher telling me about his nascent desire to pursue a doctorate in mathematics.
To teach. I remember his explanation of recursion and how all at once the guy I’d tagged as an abysmal communicator became not just fluent, but a poet.
And the sight of his diploma, face down in a box in the attic rather than hanging on a wall somewhere, makes my chest ache.
I poke around beneath it and eventually unearth a paper he wrote, his undergraduate thesis in fact, which sounds to me like something that should have been produced in a physics department.
Or maybe philosophy. The rest of the box is filled with old notebooks, some event programs that obviously mean—or meant—something to him, and a pair of those silk honor cords from graduation.
In short, it’s everything that represents the student he was, the dreams he once dreamed, the last signs and symbols of the person he used to be before he came here.
But to make his dad happy, he tucked his beating heart in a box and stuffed it in the attic, like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe story.
I rescue his diploma, then close the box and leave. I wish I knew some way to make things right for Fisher. The best I can do for now is to prop the diploma on the living-room mantel in front of his family pictures, a petty act of defiance on his behalf. And maybe, just a little, on mine.
After making a second cup of coffee, I grab my laptop and settle in on the couch.
No more fantasizing or wondering or whatever it is that my mind has been up to since last night.
These next few distraction-free weeks will be an excellent opportunity to make serious progress on my dissertation, and I can’t afford to squander them.
I open the file for my current chapter draft and scroll through it.
Unfortunately, though, I still have no patience or enthusiasm for the project.
I catch myself glancing repeatedly toward my phone, wondering when he might call.
Finally, defeated, I open another document just to distract myself until he does.
It’s the one I cheekily called HorridNovel; though frankly, it feels a little grandiose to call it a novel, horrid or otherwise.
As I read through the first few chapters, I amuse myself by making little tweaks here and there, a note for how a scene could be improved.
If I were in the market to improve it. Which I’m not.
When my phone buzzes and I realize I’ve frittered away two hours on this nonsense, I jump guiltily and toss my laptop onto the ottoman like it’s evidence of a crime.
And then I realize it’s not just a text or a BeeSocial notification.
It’s an incoming video chat from Fisher.
I don’t have time to do more than finger-comb my wild hair to rid it of any incriminating cobwebs I might have picked up in the attic before his face fills the screen.
As soon as I see him, I forget to care about my appearance. Partly because I’m disoriented by how sexy he looks with another twenty-four hours’ worth of scruff. Mostly because his eyes make it clear he’s been awake and worrying for every one of those hours.
“How is everything?” I ask. “Do you have any news?” Behind him I catch glimpses of a beige wall and the kind of bland art you find in places like hospital waiting rooms.
“They just took Dad to recovery. The surgeon seemed pleased with how everything went. I would say he sounded cautiously optimistic.”
“Oh, that’s great to hear! How’s your mom holding up?”
“She’s a rock, as always. Gaby’s here too, but she’s …” He lifts one shoulder and his lips quirk. “… A little more frayed around the edges.”
From somewhere off-screen I hear a distant “hey!” of protest, followed by, “Don’t listen to him, Elle.”
Obviously, that has to be his sister’s voice, and my pulse leaps at the realization she knows my name. He’s spoken to her about me—but what did he say?
He turns his head toward her, treating me to a view of his jawline, its sharp angle still visible beneath the shadow of his beard.
“You’re a daddy’s girl, Gabs. I don’t think there’s much point in denying that.
” He’s teasing her, clearly, and I tell myself the fact that he feels able to do so is surely a sign he’s feeling more confident about his father’s prognosis.
Nonetheless, his voice has a slight edge to it that reminds me of the night he told me about his sister’s winery, when I first began to suspect that he and Gaby were navigating their family dynamics using two different maps.
“Hey.” He turns to face me, and as he speaks the background shifts, indicating that he’s moving to a different part of the room.
“Can I call you later? When I know more?” His image is suddenly washed out, as if he’s stepped closer to a window; by its light, I can see more clearly the worry in his eyes.
His voice drops to a near whisper. “I just needed to see your face right now. I hope that’s all right? ”
“Of course,” I tell him. And it is. Even if being needed is a seductive feeling I know I shouldn’t learn to like. “I meant what I said last night: I’m here. Whenever you need me.”
That’s what friends are for, right?
By the time he calls again, I’ve crafted eight pages of Elinor Bishop’s verbal sparring with Lord Driscoll during a country dance, and honestly, I refuse to feel guilty about not even reopening the file containing my dissertation.
My dad is fond of reassuring me it will get done, and he’s always been right up ’til now. Maybe he will be again.
Or maybe this time, I don’t care if he’s wrong.
Professor Pedersen—Julia, that is—often stressed the importance of work–life balance. And this writing makes me happy, in a way I haven’t felt about my work for a long time. It fulfills some need I didn’t even know I had.
Yes, it’s just thinly disguised Pride and Prejudice fan fiction, complete with nods to beloved snippets from the movies: Colin Firth’s wet shirt after he dives into a pond trying to cool his passions; the close-up shot of Matthew MacFadyen’s hand flexing after he helps Keira Knightley as Elizabeth into the carriage.
But it’s also mine, and I love it with my whole heart, just like I love Stan’s pizza—because, despite what Fisher said, really even bad pizza is pretty good.
When I swipe to answer his second video chat of the day, this time I’m ready with my best face—both in the sense of recently brushed hair, and in the sense of prepared to commiserate or comfort or celebrate, as the news requires.
“Dad’s still not fully alert,” he says, “but everyone insists that’s to be expected, nothing to worry about. Nurses tell us they’ll have him up walking tomorrow. Doctors say the surgery was a success and he came through with flying colors.”
I can tell from his voice that he’s not yet convinced they’re telling him the truth.
I want to reassure him, but I have no way of knowing what will happen, and Fisher has never struck me as the kind of person who would appreciate soft peddling. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for all of you,” I tell him instead. “Is there anything at all I can do to help?”