Chapter 20
The next morning, I find August lounging languidly on a bench in front of the Triton fountain. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses,
which add a sexy accent to his scholarly tweed jacket, and holding two iced coffees. He smiles lopsidedly as he hands me mine,
and I’m pleased that it’s perfectly flavored—milky, dash of stevia, one pump vanilla.
“Well, this is awkward,” I mutter, plopping down onto the bench. I had articulated a better conversation in front of the mirror
earlier, but the words elude me now. Better to state the obvious.
“It sure as hell is.” He smiles and there’s the darn dimple. “But the way I see it, there’s nowhere to go but up now, right?
If you want to, at least?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I take a long sip of coffee. The two hours of sleep last night is getting to me. Children around Heathcliff’s
age run around the fountain as their mothers and nannies stare at their phones.
“I’m not here much longer, August.”
“This is the second time you’ve brought that up, and yet again, I’m not sure why that matters. Let’s carpe diem, shall we? I’d like to spend that remaining time with you.”
“More writer bonding?”
He leans a little closer. God. His cologne. “You fascinate me more than as a writer, Elizabeth. I’m intrigued by your eccentricities,
your cute morbid nature, your splendid spontaneous dancing, and your light Southern accent.”
“I’m not Southern.”
“But you have this little lilt every time you say light. You must have picked it up from your Philip. You’ve absorbed the Steel Magnolias vibes.”
My phone dings. Mirabel. I ignore it.
It dings again. I’m not sure why her texts sound more grating than anyone else’s. I shut off the sound.
“Who in the world is trying to text you so persistently, Elizabeth?”
Maybe he’s jealous. For some reason, this delights me. “Just a bad Steel Magnolias vibe. Can we talk about something else?”
“Righto. How about the pervy statue?”
I turn my attention to the twisting naked sea god and bare-breasted bronze mermaids.
“Let’s pretend it’s one of those inkblot tests. What do you see when you look at it?” he asks.
“I see an artist somewhere years ago chiseling away at their physical and mental health to create it.”
“Of course you do, Negative Nelly.”
“What do you see?”
“Rose Haworth. Secondary school, year twelve. She was my first date to permit more than snogging.”
I glance sideways at him. “You’re acting like a cad again.”
“Free spirit, you mean.”
In spite of his rakish facade, I really am grateful to him for introducing me to the Fin de Siècle. August has been good for me. “I liked kissing you yesterday.” I keep my eyes on the statue, hot blush creeping up my neck. “It’s just hard for me.”
“I understand.”
“Next time, I won’t weird out and run away.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He leans forward, kissing me in front of the children, nannies, and naked sea god. It’s a chaste kiss, warm, soft, our mouths
tasting slightly like coffee. It’s very nice, proper even by Victorian standards.
“Can I make us dinner reservations tomorrow evening, 7:00?” he asks against my mouth.
“Uh-huh.”
Still swooning from my morning with August, I get back to the row house early afternoon. After a light lunch of cranberry
chicken salad, Ms. Fernsby asks if she and Mabel can take Heathcliff to the Old Operating Theatre Museum. I readily agree
with them that he would enjoy the ghoulish exhibits and a fake amputation demonstration. Perhaps it will make him less afraid
of shots.
After they leave, just as I’m deciding how to spend the rest of my afternoon, someone knocks on the door.
“Bella?”
Bella Patel stands at the doorstep. But she’s wearing a short blond bob wig under a running hat and round dark sunglasses.
The casual workout leggings and top only accentuate her sleek, toned physique.
She puts a finger over her lips and steps in.
The minute I shut the door, she collapses against it with a long exhale. “Whew! I think I got rid of him!”
“Who? Are you prepping for the next spy movie? You’re the latest Bond girl, right?”
“I wish! No. I’ve just had this fucking aggressive paparazzi guy trailing me all morning! Apparently, I’m so interesting since Everett broke up with me, and I’m with someone else. It’s all been pretty messy and complicated.”
“It wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”
She chuckles. “And I hope you don’t mind me stopping by like this. I’ve wanted to hang out, and it was kind of spur-of-the-moment.
I was going to text you, but you had your phone off, so—I hope you don’t mind—I called Sarah to see where you were staying
in London.”
“Oh, no worries.” I must have forgotten to turn the sound back on after Mirabel’s texts.
“I need some girl time. I’ve been struggling being around the guys for all these events—and then we have a publicity shoot
up north soon. Everything feels so off. I mean, I had no idea Harry’s gay. Did you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, apparently everyone knew but us. It explained so much! I wanted to support him, but my therapist says I still mourned
the relationship I thought we had. Anyway, I rebounded and flew right back into Everett’s arms. But Everett eventually said
it was just too weird acting as my lover on film and then dating me in real life—which I guess is fair. So now, the three
of us pretend like everything’s fine, but you can’t just shut off your heart, right?”
“Right!” I affirm with false cheer, thinking of my own heart’s ups, downs, stumbles, and fuckups these past weeks. Bella doesn’t
know about Philip yet. She’d care, but I don’t feel like looping her into my grief right now.
“I’m on my way to my workout. Would you like to join me?”
I hesitate. I jog and ride my bike. But given her body, I’m sure Bella’s idea of a workout is far different than my own. Then again, I’ve missed her and really want to get caught up.
“Sure! Let me go get changed.”
“Workout” was a misnomer for Bella’s private spin instructor’s torture session. Colin was like a British version of Paul Ryan,
buff and handsome in a dry, anemic way, but coldhearted and fierce, willing to exhaust clients to death before slicing maternity
care and school lunch budgets by late afternoon. Every time I thought it was over, and we would finally slow down, he’d yell,
“Standing climb, now! Come on, no bloody slacking!” In the end, every single muscle in my body screamed in agony. I just wanted to collapse in
a hot bath of Epson salts and eat a pint of ice cream. Irritatingly, the workout seemed to make Bella glow. The excess perspiration
only brought out her beautiful dark eyes. She didn’t even stink. I guess some people are just born goddesses.
Afterward, we head to the luxury gym’s spa, where cool mists of lemongrass-scented sprays shoot out from the shower walls
at our limbs. Then an assistant wraps us in ever-so-soft bamboo-viscose robes, and a masseuse gives us heavenly shoulder massages.
Clearly, this isn’t a typical gym, and I try not to gawk when Tom Hardy in a towel steps out of the sauna room.
Soon, still in our robes, we lounge in heated, plushy chairs as we’re served kale smoothies that taste like what I imagine
Mirabel’s azalea garden trimmings would. Bella takes a long sip, settles back, and asks about Philip.
I avoid eye contact, stirring my thick smoothie with the boba straw. “He passed away a couple months ago.”
She puts her hand over her mouth, setting the smoothie on a table. “That’s awful. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I was going
on and on about my own shit, and you . . . you’ve been dealing with this.”
I shrug.
“Oh, my god—how are you carrying on?”
I glance over, and her eyes are wet with tears.
“It’s kind of why I’m here. I just had to get away from it all.”
She’s quiet for a minute. “God, I loved him. When he visited the set, I didn’t get a chance to talk to him as much as the
guys did. I think they went out to drinks.”
“They did.” I swallow the lump in my throat. I remember Philip beaming when he got back to the hotel room that evening. I’d
been sitting up reading in bed. He collapsed beside me, unfastening the top buttons of his shirt as he adjusted his glasses
and looked up at me. Whoa. If you ever told me one day I’d be on a film set and then doing shots with Everett Dane and Harry Waters, I’d call you
crazy. This was an unbelievable day, Lizzie, and you made it happen. You are AMAZING. And then he’d leaned in, cupped my cheek, and kissed me.
“I lost my mom last year too. It’s all been a lot.”
“I can’t even imagine,” she says, sniffing and wiping her eyes.
We finish the smoothies in silence. As gross as the blended kale tastes, it distracts me.
“We should each get a tattoo,” she says suddenly, handing her empty glass to a nearby assistant.
“Huh?”
“I always get a tattoo when I’m going through a transition or a change. See!”
She points down to her calf, where she has the most beautiful ivy wrap. “I got this just after filming the movie. Everett
and Harry have matching ones on their biceps. They just cover it up with makeup on the set. You’ve been through so much—I’m
here for you. Let’s do something permanent to remember our time together.”
“I don’t know . . .” I’m pretty sure Victorian convicts and sailors sported tattoos, not respectable widows.
“Come on! There’s only one artist I trust in London. He’s fabulous!”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had a tattoo, and I’m pushing forty . . .”
“We can get Wuthering Heights themed tattoos . . .”
I hesitate. Tattoos definitely aren’t in my proper widow’s rule book. But then again, a Bronte-inspired one—that’s a different
story.
This is a hard call.
Soon, I find myself sprawled on a comfortable heated massage table while Vincent, Bella’s London tattoo artist, inks two delicate
heather flowers and an elegant script on my lower back. He just finished Bella’s identical flowers. She chose simply the words
Wuthering Heights for her lettering. I knew the quote I wanted from the minute I walked in the studio door: Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same.