Chapter Mrs. Bennet #9
Darcy was a man who didn’t blather; he shot straight, in Mary’s opinion, and if he said he understood, it meant he had given what was about to transpire some thought.
It was a gift that Lizzie had stayed behind to help after Pa’s fall because it had given Mary a chance to tell Lizzie everything—when she could observe for herself Mary’s experience caregiving for their parents.
Lizzie must have imparted every detail to Darcy, because he took time to come into Manhattan to help her.
Mary could see Mr. Collins’s shadow as he walked outside the glass bricks of the conference room wall. If she didn’t know better, she’d think it was Take Your Son to Work Day; the shadow was half the size of what it should have been for a grown man.
“Cousins!” Mr. Collins pushed the conference room door open.
His face fell when he saw Darcy. He was counting on dealing with the Bennet sisters, not their formidable brother-in-law.
Mary, in her wisdom, knew how the world worked, at least when it came to banking, finances, and real estate.
Her father had handled the family finances, and it was his family that owned 10 Jane Street.
She also knew that the agreement between the brothers was fluid.
Mary understood it was the moment to try to scare her wee cousin.
If Collins ever found out that it had been Charlotte’s idea to bring Darcy into the mix around the discussion of the deed of 10 Jane Street, he would have been furious.
The truth was, Mary couldn’t handle this alone.
She was worn down from taking care of her parents, and getting her father settled in rehab.
He was coming home for good that week, and she had spent the time making a bedroom in the back parlor for him.
Mary Bennet was no longer shy about asking for help.
Collins shuffled some files around. He opened one and removed papers, handing them over to Darcy. Darcy pulled his reading glasses from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He put them on his nose and read.
“This is the original deed?” Darcy asked.
“Amended, but yes, the original is part of it.”
“When were the amendments done?”
“Every few years. My cousin came in when he needed help,” Collins explained.
Mary’s face flushed with shame at the idea of her father coming to Collins for help.
The burden of financial worry was one she shared with all of her sisters, excluding, perhaps, Lydia, who moved through the world without a thought about money and seemed to land on her feet no matter her circumstances.
“It is co-owned, Mr. Collins,” Darcy said.
“Through our fathers, who were brothers.” Collins shrugged. “I allowed some borrowing against my cousin’s half,” he explained.
“I see that.”
“I recommend we sell the building to settle the debt and split the sale as described in the deed.”
“May I see?”
Darcy handed Mary the document. She scanned it—she knew the numbers and the freight on the deed in terms of loans because copies of these documents were in the stack on her father’s desk.
“William,” Mary addressed Collins without affect.
“The building, the lot, have increased in value. We have taken care of the building—my father for the last forty-three years. We have lived there. In New York City, there’s a law that says in cases of joint ownership, sale will be determined by the tenant owner. ”
“If the co-owner wants his money, he can force a sale,” Collins said without emotion.
“I understand. But we are living there—my father, my mother, and me.”
“I suppose we can leave the sale open until the death of one or both of your parents,” Collins said.
“I don’t want to move them.” Mary smiled. “Ever.”
“Could you possibly wait to force a sale until such a time?” Darcy asked.
“I suppose,” Mr. Collins said.
“Thank you.” Mary looked around the fancy conference room, with its mahogany table, leather chairs, and expensive map collection on the walls. Mr. Collins had done well with his inheritance. If only her father had done the same.
AN UNLIKELY TURN OF EVENTS
Mary Bennet looked forward to her classes at HB Studios because she was becoming a better writer.
Of course, since she had a meet-cute with Joe Tarantello, she also looked forward to seeing him and continuing their conversation.
But he hadn’t returned to class. Three classes came and went, long enough for Mary to conclude he had a girlfriend elsewhere—or that the theater just didn’t work out for him.
But Mary arrived early for her classes at HB Studios, just in case Joe showed up.
Mary Bennet had so much on her mind she wasn’t even sad.
She let it go. What could she do, anyway?
Mary leaned against the front of the building on Bank Street.
Up the block, students from the acting class checked their phones and smoked.
They were clustered around the giant oak tree that grew toward the sky at a tilt.
Mary’s play was soon to go into the casting process, and she was on the lookout for five women to play her fictional sisters and herself. She squinted at the group and wondered if any of them would audition.
“How are you, Mary?” Donna DeMatteo joined her. She wore a beige cashmere coat thrown over black slacks and a white blouse. A necklace of jade and pearl hung loose to her waist.
“You dress like someone going to Broadway, not a playwright.”
Mrs. DeMatteo threw her head back and laughed. “Sometimes I have business before I teach.”
“What kind of business, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I train women to communicate effectively in business. It’s a little like an acting class, without scenes by Tennessee Williams.”
“That’s so interesting,” Mary said, meaning it.
“A playwright can be a playwright as long as she has other jobs to support the habit.”
“I understand,” Mary said.
“Of all my writing students, I think you do. You get it, Mary Bennet.”
“Thank you. I guess.”
“I’d like to use your play in class today. You know, your Lady de Bourgh prizewinner. If you give me permission.”
“I’d be honored. But why?”
“I love plays about family life. You really crafted a beauty,” Mrs. DeMatteo said.
“I tried to write the truth.”
“The mother character has dementia. Are you dealing with that at home?”
“A little. But my sisters believe that it’s not technically dementia—it’s been our mother’s nature all along.”
“That’s why it feels so real.”
“Thank you.”
“And the loss of the home—when the girls are forced to sell. Is that true?”
“I hope not. But it may become real sooner than we hope.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There are remedies, Mrs. DeMatteo. And I’m hunting every single option down, and hoping for the best.”
“I’m rooting for you. But whatever you do, wherever you go, I hope you keep writing. I’ll see you inside.” Mrs. DeMatteo entered the studio.
Mary looked at the simple sign that meant the world to her. HB Studios. White letters on gray stucco. It was a cathedral to Mary, a place of creativity and bliss. Tears stung Mary’s eyes. She wiped them away quickly.
“Why you crying?” a voice said from behind her.
Mary turned. “Oh, hi, Joe.”
Joe Tarantello looked handsome. He had gotten a haircut. He wore a white button-down shirt and jeans.
“Did you iron that shirt?” Mary asked.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t. I send them out.”
“I figured.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to iron my shirts.” Joe smiled. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Mary said.
“And that’s why you’re crying?”
“It’s so stupid. I hardly know you,” Mary said, fishing for a handkerchief.
“But you do.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You missed me, didn’t you?”
Mary nodded. “I guess I did.”
“And now I’m here. How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“So, no need to cry,” he said.
“I don’t cry because I’m sad. I cry because it’s a small victory to be happy.
I don’t need much. I cried when Lady de Bourgh called me.
I cried when my father didn’t have a stroke.
And I cried when Mrs. DeMatteo said she was going to read from my play.
And yes, Joe, I cried at the sight of seeing you again. ”
“Because I make you happy?”
“I don’t know you well enough to say that,” Mary said. “Please don’t take offense.”
“I came back to class to tell you that I wasn’t going to take this class anymore.
And I thought I could just text you, but that seemed like a cold option.
And then I said, what is it about this girl?
The first time I saw you, I was intrigued.
And it took me a long time to approach you because you were always surrounded by people.
Actors. Other playwrights. And I saw that they wanted to talk to you—to be near you—not that different from what I was feeling.
And then I went on the portal and read your play.
If you ever tried to hide who you are and what you feel, you’d be a failure.
Your play describes something we all experience when we love.
And I had to come back and tell you that. ”
“Well, I’m grateful. Thank you.”
“And I wondered if you could go to dinner with me after class. Nothing fancy. Pizza.”
“I’d like that.”
“We could skip class.” Joe smiled. His straight white teeth and full lips were like the moon, clear and bright. The sun was setting over Greenwich Village. It was just dark enough to see the moon—and him.
“I can’t. Mrs. DeMatteo is using my play in class.”
“So we stay.” Joe took Mary’s hand. “This will be fun.”
Mary’s hand in Joe’s felt right. She didn’t know what to be happier about—her play or Joe Tarantello or the possibilities of what might be. She wiped away a tear and called it a wash.
CHRISTMAS PUNCH
Mary centered the punch bowl on the side table. Slowly, she filled it with a mixture of cranberry juice, seltzer, and fresh orange slices from a crystal pitcher. She placed the glasses on hooks around the top of the bowl. The silver ladle rested on a doily next to the punch.