Chapter 19
When I wake up, my eyes throb, bone-dry, and a fishy aftertaste from the oysters lingers on my tongue. I need to brush my
teeth. How long did I sleep? It’s dark outside. Street light breaks in through the curtain; Heathcliff must be in bed, as
the house is quiet. I rub my eyes and stare down at my wrinkled long black sundress.
I’m terrified to look at my phone on the nightstand.
On one hand, I’m worried there will be nothing from August—he might have thought I’m a widow-freak, and I’ll never hear from
him again. On the other hand, I’m afraid he actually did message me, and what the hell do I say? It was one awkward exit.
Several messages are on my screen. The first couple are from Mirabel, wanting to talk. She can wait. It also looks like she
tried to call once at 4:00 p.m. London time. Dad tried to call me soon after.
I scroll down. Oh gosh. August did message me right after I left.
August: Buggers, Elizabeth. I didn’t mean to upset you. You are lovely, and, well . . . there was the champagne and the oysters.
And we had such a roaring good time last night. I’m deeply sorry if I hurt you. Please give me a call and let me know how
you’re doing.
There’s one more message from him, from two hours later.
August: Do you bloody hate me?
I wipe my eyes, eyeliner smudges on my hand. I can’t leave him hanging.
No, August. Thank you for a very nice lunch. I’m sorry about the way I left. I was getting confused. Let’s meet up tomorrow.? My day’s free.
He responds immediately. I’m so glad. I’ve been worried about you all day. How about the Triton fountain, Russell Park, at ten o’clock ??
Perfect! I’ll see you then!
Whew. So that fire’s put out for now.
I go ahead and call Dad back. It’s only five o’clock his time.
As soon as he answers, I hear rattling in the kitchen. A timer.
“Dad, are you still baking lasagnas?”
“I’m very close to getting it right.”
Lucy stretches on the bed, her body warm against my side.
A lump rises in my throat. Dad’s serial-baking lasagnas. I freaked out and ran from August’s apartment this afternoon. Is this what grief does to us? Does it just make us obsessive and crazy?
“Maybe you should get out a bit more. Ian says you’re giving a go. Any luck?”
“No. Ian set me up with Beverly—you know, the divorced painter who lives down our street.”
“Beverly Lamott? She’s pretty!”
“She can’t cook.”
“She’s a brilliant painter.”
“I don’t care about that.”
Silence.
“Well, I think about you a lot, Dad. I just know how lonely this can be.”
“It’s very lonely.” Then the fire alarm squeals, piercing my ear even through the phone.
“Sorry, Lizzie. But I have to go. This is the third time I’ve set it off.”
I tell him I love him and hang up, worried.
I stare into the rumpled bedcovers wondering if losing our soulmates weirdly doomed Dad and me. We had such unique love for
our partners and now we’re broken and lost.
No. We have to come out on the other side.
We have to.
I walk downstairs, where Ms. Fernsby sits at the kitchen island browsing through a magazine. She sips tea, gray hair wrapped
up in curlers.
“Gosh . . . what time is it?”
“Ah, not that late, luv. Only 9:00.”
I groan, insisting that she stay seated as I make a cold roast beef sandwich and pour a glass of milk.
As I sit down across from her, she glances up, “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not really. No, wait. I guess, in a way, I do.”
“Then go right ahead.” She takes another sip of her tea.
“Can love ruin us?”
She cocks her head.
“I mean, if we find love, like I had with Philip, and then we lose it, does that make us broken?”
“Don’t let yourself believe such nonsense, Lizzie,” Ms. Fernsby says. She’s peering through her readers at a paparazzi photo
of Bella Patel at a farmers’ market with her new beau. (She and Everett broke up again.) She’s wearing big sunglasses, a T-shirt
and jeans, and yet is still standout gorgeous as she scrutinizes a pint of blueberries.
“Trust me, Lizzie.” Ms. Fernsby holds the magazine out for me. “You wrote such a wonderful love story. You made this beautiful girl a star. If anyone can find their way back, it’s you.”
From Blood Ties:
It was Penny’s need that drove him to the tryst with his optometrist.
One minute, Dr. Griffiths was peering into his eyes with the ophthalmoscope, and then suddenly she was peering into his soul.
And then they were having sex in the examination chair, her short, choppy blond hair bobbing, her sleek legs wrapped around
him. It was all sweat, and perfume, and office vinyl leather.
As he drives home, where pretty, dependable Penny will have dinner ready on the table, her long, sleek red locks as shiny
as his last Bentley model, he wonders if he even has to tell her about the office romp.
Surely, she can’t think what they have is forever.
But she does.
And that’s what worries him.
From The Heathcliff Saga:
Cathy never understands how her desires transform in the cave. She loves Heathcliff. But Linwood—the way he defies mortal
rules, taking the Fae power for himself—stirs her blood.
Inside Penistone Crags, the outside world melts far away from this world of trickling water and moss. Here, delicate ferns
spider out from cracks and crevices, and a sprawling bed of wood sorrel and rose robe spreads at their feet. Linwood spins
the Fae energy into glowing orbs high above them, casting light and shadows all around.
Cathy trembles with need in this place, for the beauty Linwood creates. She should leave. Nelly warned her about coming here.
But now, in his arms, she can’t move.
“Cathy . . .” he murmurs, his breath warm on her cheek.
“You’re a devil for summoning this magic.”
“Perhaps. But you’ll stay here nonetheless,” he whispers into her ear. “Remember, you yourself told me if you die, heaven
will cast you out and the angels will fling you right back here.”
Her chest heaves, heart beating furiously inside her corset.
He kisses her cheek, lips trailing down her throat, and then she melts, knowing in her heart that she’s part devil too. It’s
why she yearns for both these men.