Chapter 13
Six Years Earlier
My derriere aches as my meds wear off exactly two hours after giving birth to Heathcliff Ian Wells. I hope the nurse (What
was her name? Kara? Karen?) comes back soon with more painkillers because—ouch.
I’ve been binge-reading Wuthering Heights and the Twilight series, and maybe it’s the drugs, but I’m getting obsessed with the idea of writing my own steamy Victorian teen romance.
Lots of heaving bosoms, passionate kissing in damp Yorkshire caves and windswept moors. I’ll throw a little supernatural into
the mix—maybe even give Cathy a happy ending . . .
“Henry says congratulations,” Philip says after his phone dings.
Philip stands near the hospital room window holding Heathcliff, swaddled tight, the little hospital cap over his head.
It’s our first quiet moment as a family.
Mom and Dad left a little while ago. Mom had counted and recounted Heathcliff’s fingers and toes, checked his neck strength and reflexes, looked him over with her keen nurse eyes.
She drove Kara/Karen nuts asking when the hospital lactation consultant would be available.
Dad held Heathcliff before handing him back to me with care and fear, as if my newborn was a grenade. In old photos, Dad always
looked bewildered by baby Ian and me. He just never knew what to do with babies. He can’t handle one like he can a paper on
American transcendentalists. He knows the procedure there. But there’s no procedure with a squalling, squirming petty-tyrant
newborn. It’s all another reason Mom was such a good match for him. As a nurse, she had been paid to keep babies alive for years.
Ted and Mirabel will be up this afternoon. They didn’t have to fly in like Mom and Dad. They only live an hour and a half
away and yet they’re running late. She called once, congratulating us before growing quiet when Philip told her our newborn’s
name. Then she gave Philip a piece of her mind.
“Why is this such a big fucking deal to her?” I mutter, whimpering as I adjust my rear and put another ice pack between my
legs. “My ass hurts like a mother . . .”
Philip smiles crookedly. “You know, you’re cute when you swear.”
“Ha.”
He pats Heathcliff’s back gently and sits down.
“You know all the hints she dropped about naming him Philip. Mama says every oldest son for the last five generations is named Philip, and I’m squandering that by using a frivolous,
romantic name like Heathcliff. ‘This is Elizabeth’s doing,’ she said.” He rolls his eyes. He’s always been able to take his
mother’s drama tongue-in-cheek.
“Way to welcome her first grandchild to the world.”
He shrugs. “She’ll get over it. But you know her. Everything has to be her way. Her garden, her house, her grandchildren’s
names. She’ll cool off when she’s here holding him, when she sees how perfect he is.”
“Humph. I like the name Heathcliff. And it’s not like we can name him after Dad—Gaylord.” I push the call button: “Can I please have more Vicodin?”
“It’s not time for your next dose,” the nurse says through the intercom.
“It should be.”
“I want to do things differently,” Philip says, a soft expression on his face as he looks down at our son.
“Huh?”
“I mean, Mama always had to dress me up in sailor suits or seersuckers for church. Her routines were always more important
to her than just being my mom. I always wanted a mom who could just eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with me and listen
to me talk about comic books. I wanted her to be more down-to-earth. And Ted—he’s not bad, but he never felt like a real dad,
just a pretty ornament for Mama’s front porch. I want to be a different kind of parent than them, and I want you to help me
live up to it.”
@BellaPatel *coy smile selfie*:
Fingers crossed about some possible good news for Heathcliff Saga fans!?
Sarah: Long London layover tomorrow. Let’s talk! Tea or wine at Monmouth tomorrow late afternoon? 5:00-ish?
Lizzie: Sure, but I might be running a little late. I’m meeting A.D. Hemming for a drink.
Sarah: Lol
Lizzie: No, really, I am.
Sarah texts back a surprised emoji.
Lizzie: Stay tuned—I’ll send you a selfie
Ms. Fernsby nearly drops the chicken she’s brining when I tell her I’m meeting up with August Dansworth (aka A.D. Hemmings)
at the Café Royal.
“Why, of course I’ll watch Heathie for you! You can’t miss an opportunity like this!”
“We’re just talking about writing . . .”
“Ohhh . . . He really threw me with that Blood Oath end reveal that the inspector’s own partner, Emilia Wren, was the murderer. And now I’ll have Blood Ties finished almost any day.” She frowns. “I think the inspector’s going to dump that sweet Penny Bledsoe for some silly tart.
It’s just the way he is. But I can’t even imagine who the Copycat Strangler is in this one! Can you?”
“Not at all!”
“Well, I’m wagering anything it’s the inspector’s half sister. She’s always in the background, and there’s something not quite
right about her. Add to that the inspector is rubbish at reading women.”
She washes her hands and dries them on her apron. “Mark my words, a child will pop up in the next book or two. He can’t go
around tupping all those women without that twist.”
She clips some rosemary pieces over the chicken, and blushes. “Is he really as handsome as he is in the photos?”
“He’s not bad-looking.”
“Well, you have yourself a wonderful time and tell me all the details when you get back. Oh, and here . . .” She runs to the
parlor and pulls Blood Oath off a shelf. “Please ask him to sign it for me. Tell him to write it out to Annabel—A-n-n-a-bel—Fernsby.”
“Do you want to meet him?”
“Oh no, I’d never impose. You go enjoy your date, you lucky girl!”
“It’s not a date . . .”
But she’s distracted by Heathcliff as he clambers down the stairs in a Batman cape, asking her to turn on the television.
A date . . .
My armpits sweat like crazy as I walk toward the Hotel Café Royal entrance.
I suppose I took extra care with my hygiene and appearance. I didn’t eat anything that would make me gassy, and I slathered
on extra deodorant. But I’m still properly wearing all black—black leggings, an attractive black tunic. As an afterthought,
I applied red lipstick before leaving my bedroom—just because as a writer meeting up with another writer, I should look my
best. Right? There are absolutely no expectations here, and this is not a date in the traditional sense.
Intentionally, I carry Philip’s urn in my satchel, and I’m wearing not only the jet locket, but a fingerprint necklace with
Philip’s signature on the back. I’m not sure where the lines are, but I feel like the extra widow symbols will protect me
in the next few hours. Like talismans, all three pieces will remind me how I’m supposed to feel when I’m feeling all the wrong
things.
For some reason, I’m thinking of a grad school friend, Heather. She was blonde, pretty, and from a religiously conservative
background. We went out for coffee after class once, and as we talked about dating, she held out her finger to show me the
wide gold purity ring her parents gave her when she was a teenager. She told me it was her tangible reminder that when she
went out on a date with a man, she wasn’t supposed to have premarital sex or even think lustful thoughts.
Does it work? I asked her.
She giggled. Not really. It kind of burns into my finger when I’m out with a hot guy, so I just stick it in my pocket. Still, I try, right? It’s the gesture.
Are all these widowhood trinkets, fashions, and rituals the same for me? Maybe they simply remind me of how I’m supposed to live even though I wobble and stray?
I walk in and find the place fairly crowded. I tell the hostess I’m meeting someone and give her both names. She nods at Hemmings, and I don’t think I’m imagining a slight blush.
I follow her to some cushioned seating in a lounge area near the bar.
August stands when he sees me, and, oh god, he’s still as handsome as I remember. Maybe even more so.
I sit down across from him, hoping he can’t see how much my hands shake as I set my purse down. It’s a ridiculous thought,
but I wonder if Philip can see me somewhere, see me on this date (?) with another man. I hope he knows I still love him. I
finger the jet necklace, panic rising in my throat.
“What are you thinking about getting?”
“I don’t know. I’ll probably just go with a nice, chilled glass of Pinot Grigio since it’s afternoon and so hot . . .”
“No, I won’t hear of it. You can’t come all the way to England for bloody Pinot Grigio. Let me order for you.”
He calls the server over, asking for two double shots of Irish whiskey.
He leans forward. “This single malt is best to drink neat, and it can get us in a lot of trouble.”
I chuckle, remembering how years ago I once had a double Irish whiskey at a women writers conference at the University of
Virginia. I’d tested the old theory that Emily Dickinson’s poems can be sung to the Gilligan’s Island theme song with a delightful older scholar named Edna.
“How’s your book coming along?” I ask as our drinks arrive, and we both take a sip.
“Ahhh, swimmingly. Really great. I met my deadline on the last one, and it’s full speed ahead on the new one now. As you know from reading Blood Oath, Inspector Hall tups Penny Bledsoe after getting pissed on too much gin. It was a mistake and . . . take care, I’m about
to give you privy writer information . . .” He leans toward me a little, his breath smelling like the pear-and-spice-heavy
whiskey we’re drinking. “If you’ve been reading the sequel, Blood Ties, you see it’s not a great love match. He stays with her for a while before learning that she’s not all that—all fur coat
and no knickers—nothing close to an Irene Adler. But there’s a baby and that will all come to light in Blood Offspring, so stay tuned.”
Ahhh . . . good call, Ms. Fernsby!