Chapter 14
“You weren’t kidding!” Sarah says, staring at her phone.
I sit across from her at Monmouth and order a very strong tea as the post-whiskey headache spreads across my temples.
She shows me her screen. It’s August and me. For a selfie, it’s not bad, particularly with the flattering brightening filter.
I’m smiling, looking less tense than usual, my cheeks flushed from the drinks. August looks rakish, dimple showing more with
the filter, one eyebrow raised roguishly.
“God, is that bad?” I groan.
“Not at all! He’s just a notch above you sales-wise—more weeks on the bestseller list. The publicity is marvelous. And look—it
already has over 700 likes!”
She always looks so well put together. The upper-crust British accent only accentuates this. Even after a long flight from
the States, her red hair remains smoothed back in a chic ponytail, her printed blouse tucked French style into her jeans.
Sarah wraps her fingers around her mug, nails manicured with a soft teal polish.
“As you know, we have offers for a film and book sequel. I’m afraid Bella got ahead of herself, but they’re on the table. The actors’ agents have been notified and want them out and about to keep The Heathcliff Saga momentum going. Timing is crucial.”
“Absolutely.”
She leans across the table. “So here’s what I wanted to talk with you about: there are some caveats. You gave Cathy and Heathcliff
their happy ending. They want this one to take place in the next generation. Cathy, Heathcliff, and Linton are immortals thanks
to the moor’s magic, so they’re still young and beautiful, but the stakes are higher. They want Heathcliff and Cathy to break
up again—create some sort of complication. They want intrigue—maybe a war or high-profile murder. This one needs to be darker
but not depressing. You can hammer it out in the proposal. The nonnegotiable, though, is another happy ending.”
I take a long sip of the tea, noting hints of pepper and cardamom in the flavoring. “We’re getting further away from Bronte
territory by the second.”
“But you’ll do it?”
“Of course I’ll do it. The happy ending too.”
She smiles, relieved, as she texts our film agent and publisher.
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
She glances up, arching one carefully waxed eyebrow.
“Of all people, I’m contracted to write happy endings.”
“Oh, Lizzie . . .”
“Sorry, I wasn’t seeking sympathy. It’s just . . .”
Sarah straightens. In her expression, I see whatever Mary Poppins nanny told her to keep a stiff upper lip throughout her
childhood. “You—Lizzie Wells—have more control over your happiness than you think.”
I stare down into my tea, unsure what to think about that one.
“Ooof . . . I have to run,” she says, glancing down at her Apple Watch.
She slings her taupe designer bag over her shoulder as she stands to leave and walks out. Struggling to keep up with her pace, I tell her about how much I’m enjoying the row house and Ms. Fernsby.
“I knew you would. And I’m sure she told you about my half sister, Mabel.”
“Uh . . . maybe?”
Sarah holds the door for me. “Father’s affair was the most open secret on our side of London. Behind closed doors, my parents
argued. But Mum mostly looked the other way, you know—the good politician’s wife avoiding scandal. I put it all together pretty
early on, and I didn’t mind having a girl around my age in the house. Mabel was fun, really. I just thought of her as family.
We played Barbies and popped leftover Christmas crackers in the patio garden after the holidays. Does this all shock you?”
“Not really.”
With all that’s coming out from Philip’s family, how can it? I’m learning some families really like to keep their skeletons
in the closet. Or, as in Sarah’s case, they make the skeletons dance, as the old saying goes.
“I’ll be in touch about the contract when it comes in.” She smiles, kissing my cheek as her Uber pulls up. “And, Lizzie, remember
what I said. I can’t have you not believing in happy endings—especially for yourself.”
As I walk back into the row house, Ian texts me.
Ian: Hey Sis, SOS. Check out Dad’s Match app profile.
Me: Dad’s on Match????
Ian: I suggested it because he kept serial baking lasagnas.
He texts me a screenshot of Dad’s Match page.
For his profile picture, he’s sitting at a desk in his den sporting a gray sweater vest, tortoiseshell glasses perched on
his nose. He’s not smiling, his expression very . . . professor emeritus. In terms of interests, he lists: Neoromantic, American Transcendentalism with a specialization in Emerson. Although I know he’s a caring person, the entire profile gives off Hannibal Lecter vibes.
Me: Yikes! Any sane woman is going to swipe left before he eats her liver. But it’s good that he’s getting out there! What can
we do?
Ian: I’m working with him this evening. I’m telling him to stick to long morning walks as interests. Can’t find a photo of him
smiling, but I did find one of him at a barbecue last year looking not-scary.
I wish Ian luck and tell him to let me know if he needs any input.
I still picture Dad struggling over and over to get the lasagna just right. I’m glad he’s trying to move forward again. But
I know all too well how hard it is. My Victorian widow’s rituals keep me rooted. I wonder what might help Dad.
Lucy yowls loudly from upstairs.
“Oh dear!” Ms. Fernsby exclaims from the kitchen, before storming up the stairs. “You do not dump the cat in the bathwater! Ever! That was naughty! You’ll have your bath tomorrow. Now you’re going straight to bed.”
From the look of the row house, Heathcliff’s been a terror.
LEGO and puzzle pieces cover the parlor floor.
Crayons and superhero coloring books clutter the dining room table.
As I hurry through the kitchen to go upstairs, I see Heathcliff somehow managed to get our British housekeeper to buy him a microwaveable corn dog and potato chips.
The stick and leftover crumbs lie in a pool of ketchup on his plate, and an empty orange soda sits nearby.
On the second floor, I find him wearing his Batman cape and mask and struggling against Ms. Fernsby’s tight grip. A wet Lucy
flies into my bedroom.
“But she works for the Joker!” he shouts as Ms. Fernsby and I wrangle him out of the costume and into his pajamas.
“You’re getting a nice, quiet story tonight, Heathie. You’ve had enough of these superheroes.” She pats her mussed hair, and I tell Ms. Fernsby I’ll finish
putting him to bed. I can’t even begin to imagine what her day’s been like as I’ve been cavorting with a dashing British writer
and my agent.
After Heathcliff brushes his teeth, I read him a nice, boring picture book about a boy and his rabbit where literally nothing
happens. He’s fast asleep before the end. Then I help Ms. Fernsby clean up, putting the ketchup-covered plates in the dishwasher
and picking up every LEGO and crayon. I give Ms. Fernsby the signed copy of Blood Oath.
By the time I head upstairs, she has her feet up in the parlor and a snifter of brandy as she reads the last chapters of Blood Ties.
When I reach my room, I plop into the cushioned chair. Maybe it’s the alcohol waning in my system, but I need to talk to a
friend to wind down. So much exciting stuff has happened in the last several hours. I find myself fighting a random and strange
urge: I want to talk to Henry.
Calling him is a ridiculous idea. I just talked to him last night. Besides, he was more Philip’s friend than my own. But he’s
still a friend. It’s early evening in South Carolina and of everyone I know, Henry is the most predictable. Right now, he’ll
be hanging out in his backyard with Bonnie or in his den daydreaming about his weekend fishing trip. He’s a known world to
me, and I’m craving his stability and warmth.
I pause over the FaceTime button. What will I say? Oh gosh . . . I’ll look stupid. I had qualms when he suggested we hang out. It seemed like a terrible idea. So why does calling him seem like such a good idea now?
Before I can overthink it anymore, I hit FaceTime, and he picks up immediately.
“Ouch!” I exclaim at a spreading purple bruise above his temple.
“Does it look that bad?”
He reddens sheepishly, leaning back on the den couch to press a small pouch of frozen vegetables on the bruise.
“What happened? Did Bonnie sucker punch you?”
“Nah . . . I just got it when I was out.”
“Out doing what?”
“Working out. CrossFit.” But his face deepens to a cranberry red.
I smirk. “You know, you’re a terrible liar. Come on . . . how’d you really get it?”
“Okay . . . okay . . . it’s a yoga injury.” With an endearing grin, he pulls the pouch off. “Ginger always wanted me to join her in yoga class. She used to
complain that I never did anything new with her. She’d been pestering me about it for some time saying that I wasn’t interested in anything other than lawyering,
hunting, and fishing. She bought me a yoga mat last year, but I never even took it out of the package.”
“What was holding you back?” I ask, feeling every bit the hypocrite as I never took those dance lessons.
He shrugs. “Cowardice, maybe. Like what if I pass wind when I’m in downward dog?”
“Everybody does that at least once.”
“Or what if I fall on my butt doing one of those eagle poses? I feel like a dang fool standing there with my knee bent up that way. But I suppose Ginger was right that I am a little set in my ways. Tonight was my first class, and ten minutes in, I pitched forward during some leg-up forward bend.”
I’m laughing at that point, unable to see Henry in yoga leggings, flowing through all those movements.
He grins again. Bonnie comes up, wagging her tail, and he hands her a chewy treat.
“Are you going to go back?” I ask.
“Yeah—I guess so. It can’t get much worse, right?”
“Unless you loudly pass wind during Savasana.”
He grins again. “What’s going on with you?”
I’m still a little giddy from the afternoon with Dansworth, but for reasons I don’t completely understand (or want to admit),