Chapter 10
“Will you look at this?”
Ms. Fernsby sits with the tabloid open at the kitchen island in the morning. She’s sipping coffee, and Heathcliff wolfs down
a giant stack of blueberry pancakes. He mutters good morning as I tousle his blond locks, pour a large mug of coffee, and
peer over Ms. Fernsby’s shoulder.
My Heathcliff Saga actors pose on the red carpet somewhere. From between Everett and Harry, Bella is looking snatched. (At least I think that’s
what all the kids are saying now.) She’s wearing a clingy sequined dress, so short, I’m not sure it covers her rump. The guys
wear brightly colored tuxedos, shirts unbuttoned down their chests. The outfits would look silly on anyone who isn’t young
and ridiculously hot. I hope everything’s alright between them. Hats off to them for keeping their drama private. Not many
young actors can do that.
“This happened last night right here in London!” She looks closer at the image through her reading glasses.
“What were they doing here?” I ask, stacking pancakes onto my plate.
“Why, I thought you’d know! Is there another book in the works?”
I wipe syrup off Heathcliff’s mouth before he runs into the living room to watch cartoons.
I lean forward conspiratorially and smile. “Sarah said there is a potential sequel brewing. Everything is very hush-hush now,
but she said she’ll be in touch soon.”
“Oh my stars! Book or movie?”
“It seems like both!” I say excitedly, slathering butter and syrup on my pancakes.
“How marvelous! As soon as she calls, let me know. There’s so much exciting telly news! Did you see your American actor Brad
Pitt is playing Chadwick Hall in the Blood Oath series? He certainly looks the part, but he’ll need a good accent coach. That Welsh accent isn’t easy to pick up.”
I blush and take a bite of fluffy pancake, a hot blueberry popping in my mouth. I haven’t told Ms. Fernsby yet about meeting
the real A.D. Hemmings. Based on her reading interests, I get the feeling that she loves romance and happy endings, and I’m
uncomfortable with the routes her imagination might take.
My pragmatic late mother would advise changing the subject.
“These pancakes are amazing. What kind of buttermilk do you use?”
That afternoon, I buy sandwiches and lemonade for Heathcliff and me as we wander about Kensington Gardens. The day is sunny
and beautiful, the park grounds crowded with young families and couples lolling about on picnic blankets. We sit on a bench
near the Peter Pan statue to eat our lunch.
“We never did read Peter Pan, did we?” I ask him.
“Who’s Peter Pan?”
“He’s a character in a book, a magical boy from another world who flies and fights pirates.”
“Oh.” He’s unimpressed. His blond brows furrow like when he’s deep in thought.
“Did we fly here to see Daddy? Because we haven’t seen him yet.”
A sick feeling spreads through my gut. I worry that Heathcliff can’t really understand the concept of death. Chloe tried to
talk to him after the funeral, but it’s hard to know how a six-year-old brain thinks. It pains me that he thought we’d see
Philip on this trip.
“No, Heathcliff. We’re not going to see Daddy again. But remember what I told you lives on about Daddy?”
“His love.”
“That’s right.”
I thought my mini-lecture about mummies at the British Museum might have helped Heathcliff understand the finality. Obviously,
it didn’t. I’ve worked with college students for years now, but young children, even my own, bewilder me. Maybe I’m turning
into my sweet but stiff professor-Dad.
“Do you have any more questions about Daddy?”
“No.” He swallows and takes a long swig of lemonade. “I wonder if Daddy can see Batman from where he is.”
“I sure hope so.”
Soon Heathcliff starts playing ball with four other children, and after a few minutes, my phone rings.
“Dad?”
“Hi, Lizzie.”
As I ask him how he’s doing, I hear kitchen appliances rattling, the oven door opening, and a timer beeping. It would be about
11:00 there, so an early lunch?
“I’m trying to bake your mother’s lasagna.”
“Oh . . . how’s it going?”
“I can’t. It’s not going well.”
“Dad, I’m so sorry about Mom.”
“The cheese, the meat layers. They’re uneven. The noodle edges burned.”
We’re quiet. It’s all too heavy for words.
“Do you want me to come home? Because I will, Dad. I’ll fly back if you need me.”
“No, Lizzie. I don’t want to cut your trip short. And Ian stops by often.”
“But I will.”
“I know.”
Through tears, I watch Heathcliff kicking a ball around. I take a deep breath and swallow. “London’s been wonderful so far,
Dad. We went to the British Museum. I told Heathcliff I’d take him to Westminster Abbey tomorrow. Sarah’s row house is adorable,
and she has the kindest housekeeper—Annabel Fernsby. She makes these lavender scones like nobody’s business . . .”
“I’m sorry about Philip, Lizzie.”
I swallow hard. “I know you are, Dad.”
We talk a little longer. His back is feeling better, the physical therapy helping. He’s thinking about teaching a class just
for fun at the university this fall.
“I think I’m going to try to redo this lasagna.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“I think I can get it right this time.”
We say goodbye, and the grief—losing Mom, losing Philip, seeing Dad lost like this—sinks like an uncomfortable stone in my
chest.
“I’m ready to go back now!” Heathcliff shouts in my ear, jolting me back from my thoughts.
He waves goodbye to the other children and starts chattering about his playtime.
“Mama, they have names I’ve never heard of—Archie and Matilda. And they call cookies ‘biscuits.’ I told them you put gravy
on biscuits, and they laughed at me. But a cookie looks like a cookie and not a biscuit.”
“They think a cookie is a biscuit. We learn these things when we travel.”
He sighs. “Can I watch Batman when we get home?”
“Sure.”
Soon after I turn on a cartoon Batman episode for Heathcliff, Sarah calls.
“We have offers!” she exclaims breathlessly.
I scream, nearly dropping the phone.
“Hey!” Heathcliff barks grouchily. “I can’t hear!”
“Sorry . . .”
I hurry into the kitchen, where Ms. Fernsby is putting together the most amazing cottage pie. She’s sautéing copious amounts
of fresh rosemary and sage from her garden with the chopped leeks. She turns around, wiping her hands on her apron. “Well,
you look excited, luv!”
“You’re on speaker, Sarah,” I say smiling and let her know that it’s just Ms. Fernsby in the room.
“Oh, wonderful!” Sarah says quickly as she greets her old housekeeper warmly. As usual, she sounds like she’s hurrying on
her way to catch a meeting or a flight or an Uber. “So, I’m trying to catch a quick flight to Dublin for a conference, but
it’s all good news. We have an offer on a sequel and film rights.”
Ms. Fernsby claps her hands in the air before pulling me into a tight hug. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it! This calls for some bubbly! I bought this last week just knowing something exciting was coming!” She scurries over to the fridge for the bottle.
“Yes, drink up and celebrate!” Sarah exclaims over the phone. She quickly gives me the basic offer details and tells me we’d
be crazy to turn them down. “But let’s meet as soon as I get back, Lizzie. There are some requests that I want to make sure
you’re okay with before we agree. You’re the creator, and you need to be happy with it all.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Wonderful! My shuttle is here, but more soon, you fabulous author!”
Beaming, Ms. Fernsby pops the cork and pours champagne into two vintage blush-colored coupe glasses. We lightly clink glasses
and take a celebratory sip before I wash my hands and help her with the pie.
By evening, after indulging in a large portion of Ms. Fernsby’s cottage pie, along with steamed vegetables and two glasses
of champagne, I tuck Heathcliff into bed and slip my pajamas on early. The good meal and long Kensington Park playtime must
have made him sleepy because he’s snoring within ten minutes.
I curl up in my bedroom’s sitting area with Lucy to read Blood Ties. I’m deep into the book now, and the suspect’s sister, Penny Bledsoe, stays on as Chadwick Hall’s love interest. But he’s
hot on the heels of the Copycat Strangler, and I’m sensing an Indiana Jones archetype here—during the masculine, adrenaline-fueled
chase, he’s tired of being romantically tied to one woman. So cliché and misogynistic, yet here I am page-turning. Damn you,
August Dansworth.
My phone dings with a screenshot from Chloe of a toy wooden maze with little metal balls that roll around.
Chloe: Hey! Thought I’d send you something more priest-appropriate than trashy book recs and wine? I just can’t stop thinking of you as I’m playing around on this tonight. Remember the importance of labyrinths! Blessings,
friend.
I smile. Chloe loves labyrinths. Last year, for her sabbatical, she studied spiritual mindfulness practices in Tibet, concentrating on monastic
garden patterns and sand labyrinths. Upon coming home, she created one in our church garden. She personally maintains the
boxwood shrub hedges, ensuring weeds and overgrowth don’t mar the overall shape.
When she returned from Tibet, she had told me: It’s about uncertainties. You walk the path, trying to find the center. You have to trust the path. You walk purposely without knowing exactly where you are going. You hit dead ends and twists, but you just
keep moving forward.
Me: Thank you, Chloe. I needed this reminder.
I pause, wondering if I should tell her about Dansworth. Oh, why not?
Me: I met the real A.D. Hemmings yesterday in the British Museum.
Chloe: No way! Are you serious?
Me: Yes! It was surreal.
I linger over the phone, wondering if I should tell her he suggested meeting up again.
I really can’t tell anyone this now. Besides, I likely won’t hear from him again.
As a Victorian widow, I’m supposed to do this in the evenings—curl up and read with a cat on my lap.
I decide to frame it as if it was only a brief fangirl encounter.
@ADHemmings *selfie having a shot with Brad Pitt*:
Just celebrating with Brad Fucking Pitt as we wrap up filming. Sometimes I still pinch myself. #authorlife #goals