Chapter 18
After a very good night’s sleep, I wake up feeling refreshed. If it weren’t for the used makeup remover wipes all over the
bathroom countertop, my sore muscles, and the ostrich fan on my nightstand, I would have thought I dreamed last night. But
I didn’t, and I remember every remarkable detail from my time at Fin de Siècle. Tyler, the dancers, the audience. I tapped
into a part of myself I’ve left dormant for twenty years, and now I know why Philip gently nudged me over and over to dance
again.
After taking a long Epson salt bath for my muscles, I walk downstairs, pour a cup of coffee and sort through my mail at the
kitchen island. Heathcliff sits beside me eating one of Ms. Fernsby’s perfectly rolled chocolate crepes. Ms. Fernsby had been
asleep when I got back, but she told me she’d leave her phone on in case I needed her. This morning, she had a gardening club
meeting, so it’s just me and Heathcliff and the crepes.
I sign the film rights and then the book contract and put them back in the mail.
(I’m still loving my no-email policy.) Then I pour another mug of coffee and take a bite of crepe.
Ms. Fernsby’s crepes are not only meticulously shaped, like something on the cover of a Great British Baking Show cookbook, but the subtle flavors of cognac, coffee, and chocolate blend deliciously in the whipped filling.
“I miss Uncle Ian and Grandpa,” Heathcliff says, chocolate staining his upper lip and the front of his pajamas. “When can
we see them?”
I picture Dad, alone in his den eating Twinkies and struggling miserably through the Match app.
“This fall. Maybe Thanksgiving?”
“Sure,” he says, licking his fork one more time and then running to the parlor to watch cartoons.
Suddenly, I’m longing to be with Dad, to support him now as he’s supported me. I’d test bake a thousand lasagnas with him
just to try to get one as perfect as Mom’s.
I make a mental note to check in with him later this afternoon.
I open a letter from my department chair, Patrick, admiring the vintage stationery page, a raised Edgar Allan Poe silhouette
at the top. I smile into my coffee mug and take another bite of crepe, wondering how Patrick handled Brad McGregor in my Jane
Austen seminar.
Dear Lizzie,
I hope you are well. I know you’re not checking email and Willoughby’s perpetual dumpster fire is the last thing you want
to hear about. But this is just too good . . .
Someone put xeroxed erotic love letters between Evie Caldwell and Bill Rhodes in everyone’s mailboxes. They were sleeping
together sometime in the mid-eighties and addressed each other as Cupid and Psyche. The affair ended badly, and because both
have the maturity of eight-year-olds, they’ve hated each other to this day. All hell’s expected to break loose at the first
fall faculty meeting. Bring popcorn.
And sorry . . . you MIGHT hear from Sandra. She thought we should tell you about Rhodes’s interview with the paper. I told
her not to bother you with it, but she might have sent it anyway. Don’t worry—he’s just jealous. Admin knows they’d be crazy
to get rid of you.
In other news, Brad McGregor is still a gaping asshole.
All the best,
Patrick
He could have texted me, but these letters are much more satisfying. No jarring message dings, no stimulating screens. I can merely mull over business and friendship gossip from this sunlit kitchen without distraction
Smiling, I make my way to the last of my letters, finding one from Sandra. Ah. This must be the interview. I’m wildly curious
about what Bill Rhodes has to say about me. I pour another cup of coffee and open it.
She includes a brief note wishing me well and telling me she hopes I’m enjoying myself. Then: Patrick disagrees, but I thought you should know what this wretched man is up to. Don’t worry. We all have your back in the
English department.
A neatly cut article from the local paper shows Bill Rhodes sitting in his office at Willoughby College. A large, framed print
of Voltaire looms on the wall behind him, emphasizing his short stature. His dark-framed readers stand out on his round face,
and he scowls, arms crossed across his chest. Overall, he looks like a crankier, academic version of Wallace Shawn in The Princess Bride. But instead of the charming Sicilian robes, he sports trousers and an ill-fitting sweater vest. I remember all the reasons
I dislike the man.
Is Local Professor and Bestselling Author Receiving Preferential Treatment?
Twentysomething journalist and former Miss South Carolina Mackaylee Hillsdale conducted the interview. Over my coffee, I roll
my eyes. Ambitious, she’s clearly working at the local paper as she claws her way to one of the national news shows. She loves
trying to crack open local scandals. Dysfunction at Willoughby would be right up her alley.
Mackaylee: Dr. Bill Rhodes, distinguished professor of philosophy at Willoughby College, is here to talk about what seems to be an increasingly
concerning issue for students and faculty—the untouchable position of bestselling author and English professor Dr. Elizabeth
Wells. Dr. Rhodes, would you like to tell us, in a nutshell, what’s going on?
Bill Rhodes: Well, it’s quite simple. Dr. Wells has displayed increasingly bizarre behavior on campus and hasn’t been doing her job.
Mackaylee: She recently lost her husband, right?
Bill Rhodes: Yes, yes, of course we all felt sorry for her when she lost Peter.
Mackaylee: Do you mean Philip Wells?
Bill Rhodes: Sure, whatever. But she started coming to campus dressed like a nun—full black, black leggings, black blouses, black skirts.
Rumor has it she even carries her husband’s ashes around with her. She’s been skipping meetings, only communicating through
paper letters rather than email, and she went on an unhinged tirade at a student during class. The student was traumatized
by the event. Yet she was never held accountable and instead was given paid leave. It’s my understanding that she’s romping
about in England somewhere on Willoughby’s dime.
Mackaylee: And yet, tuition has gone up 10 percent this past year. Is that correct?
Bill Rhodes: Absolutely. The bottom line, Mackaylee, is that just because Dr. Wells is a bestselling author—of juvenile literature, might I add, and not actual scholarship—the administration sees her as immune from any meaningful responsibilities
or discipline. It’s favoritism, and parents who pay substantial money for their children to attend Willoughby deserve better
from their faculty.
Mackaylee: Wow. So you’re saying that just because she writes lucrative work unconnected to her position, she’s not expected to have the same responsibilities as other hardworking Willoughby faculty?
Bill Rhodes: I am saying that, Mackaylee. And if it were up to me, I would hold professors like Dr. Wells, who write their popular trash
and hide behind New York Times bestseller lists without doing their jobs, accountable. This is an insult to all other responsible faculty working here.
Finally, I would like to add that my latest book, Metaphysical Intellectualism in Neoclassical England, is on shelves now.
Mackaylee includes an addendum noting that she reached out to the administration but received no response. However, when she
contacted Willoughby College’s English department chair, he replied promptly:
Patrick Anderson: I will say that as Dr. Wells’s department chair, I support her to the hilt. Apart from her wildly successful publishing career,
Dr. Wells is an excellent teacher, Bronte scholar, and researcher. Willoughby College is lucky to have her. Dr. Rhodes is
merely speaking from jealousy as sales for his book have been abysmal and the latest academic review deemed it “a real snoozer
with facile and outdated scholarship.”
I smile at Patrick’s loyalty. He was always better than me at the pithy playground retorts in academia. The entire interview
would be comical if it weren’t for the Mirabel situation. Obviously, this article could add to her case that I’m mentally
unfit.
I check in with Henry and ask him if he’s seen it.
He texts back in seconds: Hey! I was just getting ready to text you. I can’t put WH down. But OH MAN—why does everyone swoon over Heathcliff? He can act like a real dickwad on some of these pages. The guy HANGS HIS WIFE’S DOG!!!!
Me: Yeah, we all try to forget that he does that. No one ever said he wasn’t a bastard—just broody and hot. And his and Catherine’s
hearts are one, etc., etc.? But the INTERVIEW—should I be concerned if Mirabel’s lawyer sees it?
Henry: Hell no. They wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. I’m still digging, but I’ll touch base soon about the case. There’s some crazy
stuff in that family!
I’m wildly curious about what he’s finding, but I’m meeting up with August in an hour. I finish my coffee, quietly admitting
to myself that I’m trusting and liking Henry more by the day.
While walking beside August, I remember how much I love summer strolls through Westminster. I’ve been here several times over
the years for research and fun, and it always takes me by surprise, like a window breeze or a whiff of roses.
Under the midmorning sun, the waves of the Thames roll softly. Big Ben chimes over the background noise of cars and buses.
I take a sip of my milky iced coffee with stevia and one pump of vanilla. August has a similar concoction. Philip always drank
his with a splash of soy milk. We rehash the highlights of last evening, both agreeing that although we started out a little
like Johnny and Baby in their infamous awkward first performance, everything went uphill from there. I open up to August a
bit more, reminiscing about Philip, and how he always wanted the two of us to take dance lessons.
“I envy your love,” August says.
“You’ve never been in love?” I ask.
“Well, that’s a million-dollar question.”
“Sorry if it’s too personal. But have you?”