Chapter 18 #2
He takes a sip of coffee and stops walking momentarily to stare at an interesting, red-painted houseboat. I’ve hit a nerve,
and I suspect he’s stalling.
“I suppose so. But I haven’t found it yet. I don’t worry. Didn’t Oscar Wilde say something about not trying to spoil love
by making it last forever?”
“Probably.”
“There you have it. It’s a good creed.”
“But tell me about someone who was really special to you. That one woman you can’t forget.”
“You don’t stop, do you?”
“Never.”
“Alright, well then. There was one, Cressida. I was . . . thirty . . . I think? We met at a writing conference, and everything
happened quickly. I could have seen myself marrying her, but then she made a bad choice that rather broke my heart.”
“She cheated.”
“Yes.”
I’m waiting for him to tell me how it made him feel or if she tried to win him back. But he’s quiet, suddenly interested in
the pavement.
“Before Philip, I had a boyfriend who cheated on me. It’s the worst. He really broke my heart.”
“But you were able to love again.”
“Yes, I suppose I was.”
“You should be bloody proud of that, Elizabeth.”
We’re quiet for a while as we stroll and finish our coffees, and I mull over his love again statement. Does that mean he hasn’t been able to love again after such betrayal? Maybe the cad persona is a means to protect himself.
“So . . .” August says slowly, staring down at the pavement again as we walk and then up at me. His blue eyes are startling
in the sunlight. “I had an event yesterday afternoon for Blood Oath and have an ungodly amount of oysters and champagne at my flat. How about heading over for an early lunch? Champagne at noon?”
He raises an eyebrow. It’s just lunch—a lunch of oysters and champagne with a dashing bachelor, unchaperoned at his flat.
I see him standing beside me in the dark last evening, bare, toned arms under the lights. I remember how he lifted me up into
the air during my solo. Oh . . . of course Queen Victoria wouldn’t do it, but . . . I glance down at my long, black sundress . . .
“That sounds lovely!”
August’s Bedford Gardens flat looks exactly how I would have imagined A.D. Hemmings to live.
A luxury apartment with modernist furniture and odd, pricey-looking sculptures displayed in nooks in walls, and everything
is a testimony to his books’ success. He gives me a quick tour. Framed book covers hang over a pristine mahogany desk in the
study. There’s a guest bedroom and his bedroom, both tastefully decorated. I blush when I peek at his king-size bed, inappropriately
imagining how much excitement happens there.
He continues the tour. Glass coffee tables, comfortable sofas, and a large, theatre-size screen make up the main living room.
August clearly has a decorator and housekeeper as there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. Even the throws are symmetrically
folded at the corners of the couches.
As he rattles about in the kitchen, pulling out platters of oysters and popping a champagne bottle, I walk over to a glass
case filled with first editions in a dozen translations of Blood Oath. With this place and these accomplishments, he must feel proud. He comes across as cavalier. But I wonder suddenly if he’s
happy.
We sit down, and I realize I’m famished. There’s something rather fun and sexy about slurping oysters. The sand on the tongue,
the controlled messiness. All my caution fades as we talk about everything from our books to classes. I find myself describing
my pleasant Midwest childhood, the wavy cornfields, our 1915 farmhouse with glass doorknobs, cozy, cushioned reading nooks,
and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He tells me about his socialite mother, who brunched once with Truman Capote in the mid-’70s.
August remains close to her to this day, always giving her early drafts of his books and skiing in Switzerland with her on
holidays. After two and a half glasses of champagne (shockingly, before 1:00 in the afternoon!) and a shameful number of oysters,
somehow I find myself on the living room couch making out with A.D. Hemmings.
“I’ve wanted to do this from the moment I met you,” he says against my mouth. It’s a cliché remark, straight from the Alec
d’Urberville playbook, and yet—
At first, I try not to think too much about what I’m doing, how I’m breaking a million, zillion widow’s rules. The champagne
and August’s expert kissing help. But as we’re tangled on the couch, intrusive thoughts surface, sort of like Mom’s occasional
dinging texts when Philip and I were trying to be intimate.
The “séance” is still fresh in my head.
What if spirit-Philip can see me?
What if spirit-Mom can see me making out with a British man I barely know after a lunch of champagne and too many oysters?
She’d be asking poignant questions about venereal disease and that sort of thing.
August’s hand slides down the side of my rib cage, his thumb grazing my breast. I melt. My god, I forgot how much fun it is to be touched by someone for the first time.
My senses fire up and then—the scent. August smells amazing, like salty oysters and expensive cologne. But inside I recoil, my chest tightening. He doesn’t smell
like Philip. My body can’t catch up to what my brain is consenting to. Philip smelled like Old Spice soap, and my senses reject
this new man.
Damn biology.
His mouth moves down my neck, and the jet necklace twists, tightening uncomfortably.
“Owww . . .”
“Oh, sorry.” He pulls back a little.
“No, it’s okay.” I quickly unclasp the necklace, and it falls to the floor. Lust is a devil. I’m like my friend Heather, removing
the purity ring in romantically heated moments.
Now I know why I couldn’t have kissed Henry. This first-kiss fire can be too intense. Spirit-Philip, Spirit-Mother, jet necklace,
new scents—a barreling train can’t stop me. I roll sideways, unbuttoning August’s shirt.
Something hard uncomfortably presses against my hip. Well, that’s natural. As I’m almost finished unbuttoning, August rolls
more on top of me.
“Owww!” I scream, pain searing into my hip.
We bolt up alarmed.
I pull the bird urn from my sundress pocket, and tears burn my eyes.
Philip’s ashes injured me while I was fooling around with another man. If that isn’t a screaming sign, I don’t know what is.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I have to go,” I mutter, sitting up, smoothing my hair. I retrieve the jet necklace, fastening it around
my neck. I grab my purse.
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry . . .”
When I get back to the row house, Ms. Fernsby and Heathcliff are cutting out cookie shapes in the kitchen.
“Lizzie?” She looks up, alarmed.
“I’m fine,” I mumble through tears and run upstairs.
I fall onto the bed.
This went further than that moment with Henry.
Who was I back there with August Dansworth?
It’s only been a little over two months since Philip passed, and I almost-kissed his best friend and now I drunk-made-out
with A.D. Hemmings.
And yet . . .
I swallow, acknowledging a hard truth.
Those moments felt so wonderful. As with the dancing last night, I was tenaciously connecting to a part of myself again.
I’m confused.
Sad.
Ashamed as I shed hot tears.
I know what my mother would say if she were here. Shame is a useless emotion.
She always said shame, jealousy, envy, anger did nothing to make us better human beings.
I scan my mind, trying to remember what she said about lust, and I’m drawing a blank.
I don’t look at my phone because I don’t want to see if August tried to contact me.
“Lizzie, dear, are you alright?” Ms. Fernsby asks through the bedroom door.
“I think I just need some sleep.”
“Well . . . let me know if you need anything. Heathie will be fine.”
Holding the bird urn in my hands, I think about the dreams where I’m chasing Philip. He keeps eluding me—in my mind, at the séance—and my longing feels like physical pain.
@BluestockingBadass: Starting @ADHemmings Blood Ties.
Noticing the interchangeable sex and car scene adjectives.
Sleek. Supple. The Bentley’s burgundy paint shines with the same intensity of Penny’s auburn hair.
And Wales’s rolling hills rise and fall as gracefully as Emilia’s breasts. Oh please . . .