A/N: Does anyone listen to the Beatles anymore? Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band had its 50th anniversary this year. I recall watching a documentary about the making of the album, and the editor (George Martin?, Geoff Emerick?) was not happy with the symphonic piece in "A Day in the Life," so he took the tape recording, cut it into pieces, threw them into the air, and let them fall on the ground. Then he taped them back together again to give that oddly whirling sound that is in the middle of that song (I always think I am on a merry-go-round). I feel as if I have done that with P&P, all the elements are there, the Netherfield Ball, Hunsford, Pemberley, they dance, he sends her a letter, etc. but nothing occurs in the correct order. This is a modern setting.

And fair warning that I will probably confuse a number of you as to who my leading man is. He was born Fitzwilliam Mason Darcy, but is having a bit of an identity crisis, so uses Mason as his given name, though he will come to appreciate the name his father gave him. But most everyone in the story refers to him as Mason—except Liz. To keep people straight, the part of his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, is now played by good old Bob. (Everyone always likes Bob, right?)

And finally, my chapter titles are all jazz song titles. This becomes more apparent and important in volume three. Most of the songs are versions sung by Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Ray Charles and Louis Armstrong, but there are other artists' versions as well.

In Memory of Guinness, a good old dog, and my 6:30 a.m. walking buddy.

Volume 1: Finding

Chapter One

"My Monday Date"

Don't forget our Monday date
That you promised me last Tuesday
Don't forget and don't be late
I'll be there on noon-day

Atherton, CA: the most expensive place to live in the United States. If you do not have ten million dollars for a house, you are screwed. The lots in Atherton are not measured by feet but by acreage. The houses are things that would probably be featured in architecture magazines if the owners would let anybody come in and take pictures. But the people who live in Atherton tend to be fiercely private and are not given to display their homes, their possessions and their lives as in other areas of the country. The houses often have seven or eight foot high fences with large gates and security speakers in front at which to gain entry.

Some have iron railings you can peek through if you are walking in the area. It is a lovely town if you are one for exercise, either by foot or bicycle, but it has a maze of streets. Atherton is a town that is impossible to drive straight through, the streets wind back on themselves or are dead ends—none are intuitive. This street layout does not encourage anyone to ever drive through the city; you have to use the perimeter roads. If you wished to drive through as a shortcut, it would take you twice as long to do so because of those confusing roads. It is as if it had been designed deliberately so, to discourage anyone from sneaking through and disturbing its residents. Runners love those streets because they can clock a number of miles and never see another soul. And dog walkers like it, again, because there are fewer cars.

Fitzwilliam Mason Darcy drove off of one of the few main thoroughfares in Atherton, onto a side street then onto his own, remotely clicking the gate open as he pulled into his short driveway. His house had iron railings with short stubby bushes behind them so the house was actually visible from the street. It was not one of the newer houses in the city, one of those mansions (three stories plus basement) which had become so trendy. Still, it rose two stories and filled the lot, long and imposing. It was, perhaps, twenty years old when two-story houses had been sufficient for Atherton and deemed adequate for a successful business man or doctor or lawyer or entrepreneur.

He left his car in the driveway since he would be going out again, but had not even had time to open the car door when his phone sounded, and he pulled it from his jacket pocket. It was a Facetime request from his sister, Georgie.

"I'm home; I'm home," he cried as he answered it.

"Prove it!" were the first words on her lips. He turned the phone around as he opened the car door and showed her the outside of the garage to prove that he was, indeed, home and not at work. He swung the phone again to look at her.

"I wouldn't have believed it. You are not often good with your follow through," she clicked her tongue at him.

"Busy," he said with a bitter and bemused note to his voice. He slammed the car door. "I am busy." He started to walk towards the house. The sound of barking met him as soon as he touched his key to the door. "Your damned dog," he said.

"Don't say that," she pouted then launched into her topic. "I wanted to talk to you because I don't want to come home…for spring break."

"You're not coming home?" he asked, pausing on the doorstep as a tiny dog came rushing at him, barking as she ran circles around his feet. For once the demon spawn of a dog did not distract him, but Mason looked at his sister, attempting to discern more to that statement than she let on. "You're not…quiet Cherie!" he yelled at the dog which did nothing. He walked in to shut the door behind him. "You're not running away again are you?"

Georgie shook her head first before she spoke. "No, I am better able to care for myself, thanks to you. I know it was a foolish thing to change schools because of an unhappy love affair." Those clucking teeth sounded again. "Texas is much farther away from California…and you…and everyone," she said. "But I am not going to keep changing schools every year in college," she sounded like a petulant toddler just then. "But I have some friends…" the voice changed to one of a kid explaining why it was not her fault.

He looked at her with a concerned brother's look.

"Not a man this time, Mason!" Georgie insisted. "A couple of girlfriends. I told you about them, Allison and Katy. Anyways, we just thought we would go to Florida for spring break!" Her smile filled the entire screen then.

"That is what every college student does for spring break. They go wild, and they party, and they drink, and they get into trouble," he growled.

She made another face. "Why should I show any more sense than others of like age? I have, so far, proved myself an idiot," there was a note of disquiet in her voice. "I proved that my freshman year, unhappy love affair and all…but I am learning. I am a sophomore now. I am doing better. I have girlfriends, and we will look out for each other. Plus, I am working at avoiding men."

He had been making his way through the house, throwing his jacket on the bottom step of the stairs before he began making his way up them to his room. "Why couldn't we have talked while I was at work?" he asked.

"Because you would not have given me more than two minutes. I know you, Mason, you are an idiot when it comes to work, even I suffer. You have a short attention span, even when it comes to your family."

"Hello Mason," called a voice.

"Hello Yvonne," he called down to his housekeeper, who was walking through to the front part of the house as he moved up the stairs.

"Alejandra is looking for you," called his housekeeper to him.

"Don't let her!" called Georgie from the phone. "I get ten minutes with you at least!"

"You have your own money, Georgie. You can buy a ticket to go to Florida without my permission," he said.

"But I should like your blessing." It was as if she was a little girl then, asking him to hold her hand when they were out somewhere. He was up in his room, walking towards the bathroom.

"Mason," said a voice; he turned to see his PA standing in the doorway.

"Tell her to go away," said Georgie.

"I am talking to Georgie, I will be with you soon," he said to his assistant who had no sense of personal space, no compunction in following him home if she had business matters still to discuss and would even follow him into his bedroom to find him.

"Very good," replied his PA, and walked out of the room.

"There is a meeting of the SVE tonight. I should change," he told his sister.

"I don't know why you bother. You always wear suits and dress so formally," said Georgie. "I think you should throw on a pair of jeans and go for a walk before you go out to this meeting of Silicon Valley Entrepreneurs. You guys always talk about the same things, all stuffy men and women only interested in lining your pockets."

"We are innovators, Georgie; perhaps you too will join us one day. And it pays for your whimsical trips to Florida."

"Never!" she cried and pulled a face. "When is the last time you ever got any exercise?"

"I go jogging most mornings, if I can fit it in," he said.

"Yeah, on the treadmill," the sarcasm was evident. "Why not go for a walk while the sun is out, so you can tell people you know what it looks like; it is that big bright thing up in the sky...you know sky, that blue stuff over our heads…"

"Georgie, I have to get ready and Alex is waiting for me," he interrupted his sister.

"Promise me you will go for a walk, today!" she frowned at him. "Outside!"

"I promise, even if it is just around the block," he wondered how his evening schedule was looking, and if he had time.

"Excellent! Because it is like, two miles around the block! That will give you some exercise and fresh air." Her grin faded a little, and she smiled sweetly. "You know I love you big brother."

"I love you too, Georgie. And you have my blessing—just use good judgment if you go to Florida for spring break. And keep up the avoiding men thing. Good bye."

"Bye," she said, and the screen went blank.

Alejandra must have been hovering outside his bedroom door because thirty seconds later she appeared with a list of Things To Discuss. In particular, she reminded him to talk to a certain gentleman who was supposed to attend the dinner that evening. The man was doing some alternative energy research into turbine design. Alex had gone so far as to find a picture of him so Mason would have an idea of what he looked like and included a short bio of the man. Then she held her phone down and looked at him.

"I heard Georgie tell you to go for a walk." He eyed her as she continued. "I was just waiting to talk to you about the dinner so I could go back to work. Perhaps you should walk the dogs?"

"Walk the dogs?"

"Yvonne usually does in the late afternoon," she explained, "but she is feeling, you know, quite under the weather today which is expected, given her condition. Maybe take the dogs for a walk. I am sure your own dog would love to go for a walk with you."

"Walk my own dog?" he said.

"Yes," she nodded; apparently she too could do sarcasm.

"What a novel concept," he remarked as dryly as he could. He wondered about being ordered about by his PA who was currently standing in his bedroom and discussing how his personal household should be run.

She looked at him. "Even powerful CEOs do it, sometimes."

He was sure she was hinting at other things, but chose to ignore her. "I will take the dogs for a walk, because I appreciate everything Yvonne does for me," he looked at her uncertainly.

"Good to hear it. Good luck with tonight—and with Mr. Stephens. Are you sure you're okay going stag?"

"Yes," he replied, already anxious to get his dog-walking commitment over so he could get to the next item on his agenda.

He changed into casual pants and threw on a t-shirt, a funny one which Georgie had given him. So long as he was to walk the dogs, he would do it in the manner in which Georgie saw fit.

Jack lay in the family room, which was where the dog principally spent his time these days. He thumped his tail on the floor when Mason walked in.

"Are you ready for a walk, old boy?" he asked. The tail still thumped eagerly, but the dog did not even bother to lift his head in greeting.

Fitzwilliam Mason Darcy had got himself a dog when his father had died seven years ago. It had seemed an appropriate thing to do at the time though Mason considered that taking on the responsibilities of a dog when he had been charged both with the responsibilities of running a company, and being a parent to his underage sister had been an awful lot on his plate at the time, given he also had a semester of college to finish as well.

He had battled forces within the company for control of it; he had to deal with both his grief and that of his sister, and yet he chose to get a dog. He was not sure what had possessed him to think that an Irish wolfhound had been the correct choice for him. Jack seemed to do nothing but sleep. But when Mason had researched the character of the breed, he had read that wolfhounds become attached to both their owners and other dogs they are raised with. He had decided he liked that characteristic. That and the fact that they were described as introverted, intelligent, and reserved in character.

Yvonne was sitting in the kitchen area at the breakfast table, and he thought she looked a little green. But perhaps it was the lighting, or his imagination.

"Alex suggested I take the dogs for a walk," he said. "I must confess I do not know where all the leashes are. Do you want me to take Benny as well?"

She opened her eyes and smiled. "I keep the leashes in the pantry," she replied. "I appreciate you taking them for a walk. I have no energy today. I am quite tired," she said as she yawned.

"I always appreciate everything you do for me," he said in all sincerity. "I'll find the leashes."

They were exactly where she stated. Yvonne was good at keeping track of everything and putting things back where they were meant to be. His house was sometimes a little too pristine, but it was just him, now that Georgie was in college. No teenage sister and her friends invading the place and up to their hijinks. A photographer might come and snap pictures so tidy were the rooms most days, because he was often at work and not at home. He found, with interest, that the minute the leashes made the slightest rattle that both Cherie and Benny, who was Yvonne's dog, came running and yapping, knowing exactly where the leashes were kept and what the rattle at the end of those leashes meant.

Cherie was Georgie's dog. His sister had also chosen to get a dog when they lost their father. She had wanted a small, cute dog, and Mason had hated the damned thing ever since it appeared in the house. The dog did not bark, it yapped. It piddled inside, and it would live forever; he was convinced of that. This cruel little creature hated everything and everybody but Georgie and would live in his house for years more. Small dogs lived forever while large dogs laid down far fewer paw prints on the earth.

Benny was a Chihuahua, a decent-sized one; he was sandy-furred and of a decent disposition. When Mason had hired Yvonne to keep house for him, and to help keep an eye on his young sister, he had been reluctant to admit a third dog into the house. But Benny was well-behaved and intelligent. If Mason had to admit it, he probably preferred his housekeeper's dog to his own or to his sister's.

He carried the leashes back to where Jack lay by the patio door; his tail thumping in greeting, this time Jack, at least, affected to raise his head in greeting.

"Come on Jack, let's go for a walk." Those mournful eyes looked at him as though he had asked his dog to do something reprehensible. He wondered if Jack had rheumatism or arthritis. Mason knew that Irish wolfhounds did not live long. He looked at that gray coat, but the dog had always had a gray coat so it was not as if he could tell if there were gray hairs because he was an old dog.

He wondered how many more years that lanky body would be lying on the family room floor, more as if a carpet than as if a dog. Once upon a time, Jack used to nose open Mason's bedroom door to sleep next to his bed, but Jack no longer climbed the stairs. He slept now in the downstairs bedroom by the study which they often referred to as the guest bedroom.

Mason clipped the leash to Jack's collar and those eyes looked resigned; he curled his legs under him, pulled himself up to stand next to Mason, and poked his nose at Mason's hand; he insisted he receive some love before they left. Cherie ran such circles at his feet; he could hardly get her to calm down enough to get her lead on, but Benny sat waiting. They finally made their way out the front door.

He told them, though it was not as if they understood. "I am just doing this to help out Yvonne and because I promised Georgie; I am in a hurry. We are just going around the block and will come straight home." He was certain that Jack would not mind, and perhaps neither would Cherie (with her short legs), but Benny had been known to wander and neighbors sometimes found him and brought him back home.

When lots are measured in acreage, you do not have a row of houses all lined up together, and walk down past the fronts of them, with them all ponied up together, then round the corner and back around to where you started. You had to know where you were going. Mason knew that the block where his house stood was two miles around if he walked its perimeter. He considered a shorter route as the block on the other side of the road had a street that cut through it, and was only a mile around.

It was slower going than he supposed, though he had his phone in-hand, and he scrolled through emails as Jack walked liked an old grandfather and Cherie walked with quick little steps tugging at her leash. Benny led the way, the leader in all things.

The day was lovely, but it is so often a lovely day in Northern California that one never appreciates it unless it is too cold or it is the odd day of rain, and you recollect how pleasant it was but the day before. He concentrated on reading his emails while walking and found a certain rhythm to it with his eyes on his screen.

He did not truly note the scenery or where he was going until Benny tugged the lead out of Mason's grip and ran away, barking. Mason looked up and saw a woman walking towards him with her own posse of dogs surrounding her. One or two of the dogs began barking as Benny ran at them. She had to have a half dozen dogs, and Mason's eyes trailed over the group, counting. He realized she had five, and he thought 'dog walker.'

He knew that some of his neighbors complained about the people who used the streets for exercise. He watched as the woman stopped while Benny ran over to greet his fellow creatures, all the tails and haunches wiggling in excitement. While the two most sociable dogs in her posse said their hellos to Benny, she deftly leaned down and snagged his leash then she waited for Mason to claim him.

As he walked up, his eyes danced over her, taking in her attire. She was dressed in exercise clothes. She had dark hair and eyes; he wondered if she was not employed by one of the houses or estates in Atherton and added to her income by walking other people's dogs.

"Not paying attention, huh?" she said when he was about ten feet away. "You don't always have to be on your phone. You could just take a walk and enjoy the company of your friends."

He scowled at her. "I had some emails from work to check," he replied, though he was not sure why he was explaining his business to a housekeeper, a maid, a gardener, or a simple dog walker. He looked at her again; she was younger than he had at first assumed. He had imagined a figure like Yvonne, who was in her early thirties. This woman was in her early twenties which surprised him. He wondered again about her being a dog walker, and her reasons for being on the streets of Atherton, but he did not want to be one of those neighbors who complained about the slightest suspicious person in the area, even if suspicious meant 'not one of us.'

"I have never seen you out walking before," she said as she handed him Benny's leash. "Though I believe I have seen that trio before from a distance."

"I am not often home at this time of day. I usually get someone else to walk the dogs," he replied. "I do not imagine all of those are yours," he inclined his chin towards the dogs, some of which sat on their haunches with tongues lolling, others still stood eagerly on their feet. Benny and Cherie were ready to go, but Jack was lying on his side already.

"You are one of those busy men who think they want to own animals, and yet never spend any time with them," her hands came up to her hips, despite the leashes, and her eyes flashed then. He looked at her and wondered that he had not noticed what an enchanting face it was. Her dark eyes gave her face an intelligent expression. Philosopher and performer and Greek oracle all seemed to be wrapped up in their depths.

"They are not all mine," he began.

"You are one of those damned people who cannot be bothered to walk their own dogs," it was definitely an accusation.

"And yet, by all appearances, you are a dog walker," he countered.

"Yes," she agreed.

"So you take advantage of and make a living out of those damned people who cannot be bothered to walk their own dogs. You profit by it," he argued.

"Touché," she said. "They are not all yours?"

"Jack is mine," he said. The thump, thump, thump of a tail indicated which dog was Jack as he responded to his name. "The demon ball of fur is Cherie, who belongs to my sister. She is away at college. The only halfway decent dog among them is Benny. Aren't you Benny?" Benny looked up at him then. "He comes when he calls, is mostly well-behaved, and doesn't piddle in the house," he explained.

"I will grant you a half point for knowing the dog's names and give you a full point for walking them, but I will dock you a full point for being on your cell phone while you walked," she said. He did not understand exactly what the point system was, but she obviously had some system of measurement for dog owners or men or people in general, and sized them up according to their actions.

"I am still only a half a point up then," part of his mouth twitched.

"Yup," she said.

"I am…" and he hesitated in introducing himself for the first time in twenty-five years, "Fitz…"

"Fitz? I am Liz, professional dog walker," she said, "as you pointed out. Though I spend most of my time occupied the way your sister is, as a college student."

"College student?" his confusion that she was not a maid making a few extra dollars could not be helped.

"You seem hesitant to believe I am one," she scowled.

"No, I just assumed you were older, done with college."

"No woman likes to be told she is older. I am considering docking you your half point."

"Do you…" he did not want to ask if she lived in Atherton. There was something about her that made him consider that any college student whose parents owned a house in Atherton did not need to walk dogs for a living. That changed the way he categorized her. At first, he had thought she was one of the multitudes of the rather anonymous people who worked in the houses in Atherton, but if she was a college student, then perhaps she was only using the streets as her venue.

"Do you normally walk the dogs in the late afternoon?" he asked. He realized then that he was delaying his return home. He saw that Cherie was still sitting; Jack was still lying down, and it was only Benny who stood on his paws, ready to set off at any moment. "Though I don't know," he admitted, recalling her admonishment, "when is the appropriate time to walk a dog."

"You should walk them twice a day," she said, "you naughty boy." She said it in a rather saucy voice, almost as if flirting with him. He was not sure if she was or not. Most of the women who flirted with him were far more blatant about it.

"I don't normally walk them in the afternoons," Liz continued. "Most of the people whose dogs I walk do the afternoon shift, so I only walk the pooches in the morning. It is just today, because it was a three-day weekend, that I am walking them at a different time altogether. I engineered to walk them now as so many of my clients were away for the weekend." She looked at the dogs surrounding her, "many of these guys are only getting one walk today, so I meant to make it a good one."

"A three day weekend?" he asked.

"Today is supposed to be a holiday," she frowned. "Are you one of those insufferable people who actually went to work?"

"I'm afraid I am," he said, "that might account for why there were so few people at the office."

"Didn't your boss give you the day off, the prat!" she cried.

"I am the boss," he said.

"Phew," she blew out a breath. "You actually have people who work for you?"

"Yes," he bristled. "We have a floating holiday policy," and again he wondered why he was explaining himself to her.

"As the boss, do you ever take days off?" she asked, looking pointedly at him.

"The boss usually never gets time off," he shook his head.

"You are rather pathetic, aren't you?" she said with a sneer. "I should get back to my walk. I am off schedule."

"I thought you said this was not your normal time," he pointed out.

"Yes, but I like to keep to a certain time frame, and I do have other things to do," she said though not in an offended tone.

"But you normally walk in the mornings," he asked as she pulled on the leashes, and her posse of dogs got to their paws and began prancing around, ready to go.

"Yes," she nodded and took a step away.

"Goodbye Liz," he said

"Goodbye Fitz," she replied, and the two groups passed each other.

He walked down that through-street and thought about her. She seemed prickly, and he wondered about that, wondered why she seemed to take offense at him when they both were merely walking dogs in the late afternoon. He stopped once, and looked down the street, but she had already turned the corner. He could not tell which way she had gone.

Yvonne did not appear to have moved from her place in the kitchen when he returned, unhooked the dogs and replaced the leashes. She did, however, crack open her eyes to watch him.

"Is today a holiday?" he asked her.

"Yes," she replied.

"Why are you working then?" he asked.

"I'm not…well, not working for you. I am hiding from my family by doing laundry. It's a mom thing," she replied and gave him a faint smile. "You also have the only washer and dryer," and then she closed her eyes again.