My dear readers,

Please enjoy this modern reincarnation of Pride and Prejudice. I hope to honor the great Ms. Austen by uprooting her lovely dramedy and replanting it amongst the vineyards of the pacific northwest wonderland. The result is something oddly biographical for both my sister and myself, as we've always felt like our own reincarnations of the Bennet sisters. I hope you all enjoy being a part of this family as much as we have.

My best,

Pip


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Chapter One

Meet the Bennets

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It is a fact generally agreed upon that being awoken too early on a Saturday is a bitch, especially when a working class girl is dreaming about romantic trysts that reality never sees fit to allow her otherwise.

I'm having a dream that its 1803, and I'm wearing a snug empire waistline, and I'm being kissed in rain.

I know something is decidedly off because of the orchestral music in the background. Music doesn't accompany real life, particularly not a symphonic crescendo that typically swells when two characters finally kiss for the first time.

I grow distracted, realizing I can't see the face of whom I'm playing tongue hockey with. And the music has grown sort of... ugly. It makes one of those popular BWAAAAM sounds, like Hans Zimmer smashing his forehead repeatedly against an organ. You know, the big Hollywood slam that happens in every trailer ever.

My beautiful sage green dress blows in the wind, and even though I must look enticing to some degree to my dream-boyfriend, the kissing somehow stops. At this point I can only pay attention to the never-ending sound.

Its sounding less like background music and more like an alarm that goes off when a big truck is in reverse.

"Ignore that," I say.

"I refuse to order the spinach," says my lover.

Only too true. My dream-boyfriend would be allergic, kindly leaving all the spinach for me.

A shrill truck alarm makes me flinch out of a deep sleep. There's a sound of an engine switching gears, a puff and a whine of hydraulics, and then the alarm repeats.

Beep, beep, beep,

roar,

beep, beep, beep...

I try to ignore my phone buzzing on my nightstand until it grows incessant. I unlock the phone and stare incredulously at the group message my mother is sending to my father and I.

...

Mom - Did you guys see the truck this morning/

Dad - Yes

Mom - Do you know if they rent or sold it?

Dad - Yes

Mom - The new name on the mailbox is Bingley

Dad - Yes

You - You're blowing up my phone pls stop

...

I glance out my window into the gray light of dawn, and see the truck trying to back into the lengthy drive way to the big house. The driver rolls backwards the entire way, nearly hits a tree, pulls forward, and then begins his reverse journey again.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP...

roar...

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP...

He probably has no idea the drive way is a massive circular gravel plaza with a fountain in the middle, and there is no reason for him to try backing in at all.

Either way, I know I won't be able to go back to sleep now.

"Bastards," I whisper quietly, letting the shade fall back against the window with a clatter. I flop back onto my bed, bounce off, and stumble to my closet for a pair of leggings and worn sneakers.

...

Mom - please invite them to the barbecue this wkend

Dad - ?

Mom - the bbq

Dad- ?

Mom - this weekend

Dad - ?

You - mom pls delete me from group message

...

Naturally, someone would move into the big house. It is inevitable. It sits on the prime real estate of wine country, south of Portland, Oregon, where the vineyards outnumber the population and the wine section at the grocery store uses up six aisles and is still expanding.

Someone with a bit of well-earned money would buy the house, and probably inherit the vineyards too. Often, the houses on the properties would be converted into the show room or a wine cellar, or they would build an entirely new, state-of-the-art facility. Just look at Rex Hill Vineyards. Yes, it's a real place, you can look it up. They've had construction going for as long as I can remember. It feels like years. Yes, Rexy, don't think we haven't been watching this construction for months. At this point you are the Willy Wonka of wineries.

After the new owner does their overhaul, then comes the tours and tastings and local music artists that play a nostalgic guitar while well-dressed participators taste their wines and nibble their cheeses. It's a rosy flavor, with a bitter undertow! No, it has a roasted, cherry-warmth vibe, perfect for under-cooked steak! Nay, tis a light, delicate, golden nectar, meant for consuming with a peach dessert.

Sorry, I've done this a lot. There's not much else to do around here on a Saturday. I have to space out my trips back and forth between the coffee shops and the library... otherwise, people may talk.

The Big House (my own Lewisian emphasis here) was real estate ripe for yet another wine connoisseur. Business is booming in the Willamette valley.

...

Mom - OK just got txt from Peggy Long she says he's single

Dad - OK

Mom - super nice she says she met him

Dad - who?

Mom - the new neighbor

Mom - vingley

Mom - vingley

Mom -*bingley

Dad - vingley vingley bingley ;P

You - GUYS

...

In the small town of Meridian, the Big House is just another wealthy mansion located on the outskirts, but we have the privilege of being the closest neighbors. Its located at the end of a long driveway, which makes it look mysterious, with a gated front and massive oak trees shielding the wealth from wanting eyes. There did seem to be a wedding on the grounds once in a while.

I usually don't take my morning walks during the butt-crack of dawn, but the moving truck made sure that I would never return to the same sleep that had a rain-soaked dress, nor the stranger beckoning me to a gazebo on an estate featured in at least twenty-one BBC movies. There was no such gazebo awaiting me, but there's plenty of fresh air and trees.

I shut the back door carefully behind me, and immediately hear the shuffle of my parents in the upstairs master bedroom. They work sort of like dominos - I wake up, and suddenly everyone else springs to life. Which means my mom would be hoping to carry on her chat messages in reality.

I leap off the back porch and aim for the road, but not before my phone buzzes again.

...

Mom - u know when you invite them over take Jane with you

Dad - why

Mom - because

Dad - you go

Mom - no that's weird

Dad - take the whole family and let him have his pick of the litter

Mom - we r not puppies

Dad - nevermind he might like you too so scratch that don't go

Mom - I know I'm attractive xoxo

You - STOP NOW

...

I turn off the road and into the path between our properties. The ground squelches with the sponginess of spring rain from the night before. The birds are tweeting (hashtag, yay worms).

The sun peers over the low Chehalem hills, striped with vineyards and often expelling columns of smoke from burn piles. The air smells so damn good

I turn on my ipod and skip eight songs till I get to something by Hans Zimmer, with plenty of violins and no bwam.

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Dad - OKY FINE

Mom - so can you go and invite him pls? take Jane

Dad - what happened to the hat guy

Mom - he dumped her for that girl we kept seeing at church!111!

Dad - son of a bitch

You - What about me, I'm single

Mom - he's too old for you he's like 32

You - That's 4 yrs older than Jane

And only 6 yrs older than me

Dad - let her marry him if she wants

You - Thanks Dad

Dad - you're my favorit

Dad - not really i dislike you all equally ;) ;) ;)

...

There is so much more I should be explaining right now.

But I can't.

I am not going to give you any context yet, I am just... going to let that rest for a minute.

...

Mom - NO EMOTICONS STOP IT IT FREEZESTHE SCREEN AND JUST

GIVES ME A BUNCH OF EMPTY SQUARES! ITS A FLIP PHONE

REMEMBER

Dad - how can I forget you've had the same phone for the past 15 yrs

Mom - BUY ME A NEW ONE

Dad - you broke every upgrade you've ever gotten

Dad - because there's nothing protecting the screen

Mom - don't you care about your wife having a good phone?

Dad - of course I care, your phone is like your third hand

You - WHAT R YOU DOING TO ME.

I am turning off my phone

if I get kidnapped and die it will be your fault

Mom - LEAVE YOUR PHONE ON OK LOVE YOU SWEETIE SEE YOU SOON xoxox

...

With annoyance, I replace my phone back in my pocket. I could complain more. I could put my foot down about being included in the trivialities of my parents.

But I have no right to complain, and nowhere to put my foot.

I was a college graduate drowning in student debt when I moved back in with my parents as a break-even 24 year old, returning to the nest after I thought I had finally flown away. But it wasn't just moving back in with my parents, which I could pretend was for caring for them in their old age even though they're not really that senile, no matter how much I pretend they are. No, it wasn't just them. I was moving back to a still-full nest.

I rejoined my three young sisters; the seventeen-year-old twins Lydia and Katherine who are going to be seniors in high school next fall, and the ever reclusive Mary, who is carefully navigating freshman year through alternative school. I became the automatic den mother for the three of them. My mom is often out, working part time at a mobile catering service, and my dad is an admissions counselor at the local university, occasionally working as an adjunct in a few classes whose regular professors are on maternity leave.

I come home from my work around five-thirty in the evening, after a full day of sitting in a nondescript, gray cubicle, just shy of setting TPS reports on fire and throwing a red Swingline stapler at the assistant manager's head. I'll sometimes find Dad in his office grading papers and looking over application essays, and he hasn't even noticed that the twins are upstairs watching Pretty Little Liars instead of doing their homework. Sometimes Mom rolls in at nine and asks him if they finished, and he shrugs and says, "I believe I overheard Lizzy straightening them out."

"And what about Mary? Did she stay out of trouble?"

"Oh, Mary's fine. She made some guacamole."

I was the one who made guacamole, and I found Mary sketching pictures while sitting fully clothed in the bathtub. She does things like this a lot. Once I found her dressed in a three-piece suit, a top hat and a fake mustache, lying on her bedroom floor reciting Shakespeare with her eyes shut.

We're not exactly 90s family sitcom material, but we're not exactly getting hauled off to prison for making meth cookies, either. (Can you even put meth in cookies? I wouldn't know.)

Two years later and I am a twenty-six year old still living at home, though considerably lonelier without Jane living here too. I have one major student loan finally paid off, with six more in progress, and my older sister - my best friend - left me to my devices not long ago.

Jane moved out and got an apartment in town with a few wild roommates, and everything is rather empty in her place. We are the closest, each other's greatest confidences and allies. Without her, I feel like there is no one for me to really talk to.

Without me around all the time... well, she has more time for the activities she enjoys. She has a particular fondness for finding bars with swing dances or line dancing, but finds herself shy. She likes big concerts but doesn't like crowds. She makes art pieces in local galleries but doesn't know how to handle compliments. She has a deep, fiery desire to be in the middle of a social circle, but doesn't like to be the center of attention. She likes loud music with surprisingly misogynist content but believes wholeheartedly in chivalry and true love. Loving my sister is loving the paradox. I might be the only one who can claim to understand all her contained, beautiful opposites.

Why is such a catch like this still single, you might wonder? She doesn't really want a boyfriend, she says, she wants to be courted. I have my doubts about what century she thinks she was in.

I reach the far end of our property, a humble seven acres of filbert orchards (hazelnuts to city folks), and watch sunrays filter between their scraggly, low branches, till the dappled light infiltrates the morning shadows. I can see the end of our street curve around the base of the hill, each driveway sticking out like a gravel arm. A little further down the treeline, and I can see a partial wing from the Big House. There are active sounds coming from their property, doors opening, windows slamming, scraping furniture, a radio being adjusted till it reaches a distant and crackling station of pop.

Please don't play it, please don't play it, I think.

I'm all about that bass, 'bout that bass, no trouble...

I turn up my ipod to dangerous levels, and walk along the edge of the orchard, swinging my arms and working my way up to a jog. I hate running, but I do it to show my doctor I'm not a complete loser. The implications still stung from my last visit when they looked at the questionnaire, and finding the answers suspicious, raised their eyebrows over a clipboard.

"Physical activity?"

"Walking from my desk to the water cooler and back."

"No exercise?"

"Not really? Should I start? I can jog. I've never really had to. But I can start."

"What about sexual activity?"

"Unless the water cooler from the water can make me pregnant, no."

"Not sexually active?"

"No...?"

"You know all records are kept confidential."

"Yes."

"And you must answer these questions truthfully to the best of your ability?"

"I know?"

"Sexually active can also be..."

"It's not happening!"

"It?"

"None of it is!"

"...Noted."

I reach the back door of the house within a few minutes, damp with sweat around my scalp and underarms. I push the old, wooden door open and tug at my earbuds until they pop out. Mom and Dad are sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, arguing. Katherine sits between them, looking somewhat pink, and Mary's back end sticks out of the fridge.

"There's my sunshine," says Dad. "Good morning."

"Morning, sweetheart," says Mom.

I take out my cellphone and wiggle it. "MY INBOX IS FULL," I announce, slamming it down on the counter. "You two text like a pair of middle schoolers. I was trying to have a relaxing morning."

"You always complain about being the last one to know anything," Mom replies shrilly. "This is my compromise."

"I miss being the last one to know anything!" I pull my hoodie off and join Mary at the fridge, looking inside for yogurt. "Is Lydia up?"

"She just left to spy on the moving van," Katherine replies unhappily. "I think her plan was to mysteriously sprain her ankle right in their driveway so the new hot neighbor has to rescue her."

"Did you see him?" I ask. "I didn't see anyone."

Katherine shakes her head, letting out a loud cough. "No. But Lydia says he's rich, so he has to be hot."

"There are plenty of wealthy people in the world who are butt-ugly," Dad chides her grimly. "Wealth can affect all kinds of people."

Katherine coughs again, twice as loudly.

"Kitty," Mom says, teeth clenched. "You're driving me up the wall."

Katherine clears her throat. "I don't exactly cough on purpose, you know."

"Try and fake it, perhaps," Dad offers unhelpfully.

"We spent money on your prescribed inhaler for a reason, darling," Mom adds. "I suggest you use it."

Katherine begrudgingly pulls her inhaler out of her pocket and males a particularly loud whistle as she inhales. She has been a lifetime believer (however incorrect) that being the twin with asthma makes her a martyr.

"Your father has refused to invite Mr. Bingley to our Memorial Day weekend barbecue," complains Mom. "Even though it is a perfectly neighborly thing to do. And considering the entire neighborhood is always invited... and THEY always show up... Mr. Bingley is going to feel very left out."

"Invitations are messy things," Dad replies. "You have to trick them into being friendly first. I don't want the guy to think I'm coming onto him."

"No one would think that," Mom answers. "Not from you, anyway."

"You'd be surprised," Dad says.

"You know," I say loftily, "You can alleviate about eighty percent of the stress in your life by not focusing on what you can't control."

"Get off your high horse, Lizzy," Mom rolls her eyes. "When you are my age and you have two single daughters approaching their thirties and not a single grandchild in sight, it gives your life a new mission..."

"Yes, how soon can we expect the grandchildren?" Dad asks me.

Mary finally emerges out of the fridge, holding nothing but a piece of bread. "Never."

"You've been digging in there for thirty minutes," Dad accuses. "What were you doing in there? Writing a novel? Just thinking? Have you come up with any opinions on the matter? We'd like you to weigh in on the topic."

Mary stares at him incredulously. She slowly reaches back into the open fridge door, removes a jar of jam, and slips behind me to the other side of the kitchen.

"While Mary's writing her dissertation on how to be a conversationalist," Dad goes on, shrugging, "Let's come back to the point. The new neighbor that is the greatest thing since Mary's sliced bread."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore!" Mom barks.

"Oh," Dad says disappointingly. "I thought you might want to hear about my meeting him yesterday at work?"

"Wait, what?" Mom slams her hands down on the table. "You met him already?"

"Turns out he was doing a presentation. A guest speaker for John Howell's economics class. He not only bought the Big House, but he runs a successful winery. Have you heard of the Netherfield label?"

"That's him?" I exclaim with surprise. "Their reds are actually pretty good."

Mary makes a mocking sound and pretends her glass of milk is wine. She sniffs and swirls it, and raises one pinky in the air, that, despite being a European thing for tea, seems to have just the right amount of snobbery for wine tasting. She glances at me for a reaction.

Ugh, teenagers. I ignore her. "Most of their vineyards are in Napa, though."

"Oregon Wine Country is the new Napa," Dad says proudly. "People are finally beginning to take notice of that."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you met him already!" Mom can care less about wine.

"It's a small university. I took him to lunch."

"And you were worried about coming onto him?" I laugh.

"Well, exactly, taking him out on a business lunch between classes is one thing, turning up on his front porch the next day and asking him to a barbecue would be one step too far. I mean, I don't want to break the man's heart."

"But he isn't gay," Mom insists.

"How do you know?" Dad asks. "He could be gay."

"But I want him to produce my grandchildren," Mom wails. "And I only have daughters!"

"It won't happen," Mary chimes in gloomily.

"Well, I knew turning up on his front porch would be too intrusive," Dad goes on, "Which is why I invited him to the barbecue yesterday, along with four or five other professors at lunch."

Mom stands abruptly from the table, collecting her dishes. "You have no shame."

Katherine coughs again, with a sly glance at both of our parents.

Dad pats her shoulder. "You may cough as much as you like, sweetheart. We're leaving." He collects his coffee mug and walks it to the sink, rinsing it out and dumping it into the dishwasher. "You'll all meet the new neighbor and his younger sister at the barbecue. And I didn't forget about you, Lizzy," he winked at me. "I invited students from that art history class I subbed. There's a large population of single men there. I don't really know this because they've said as much, I know this because its art history."

"Thanks, Dad," I say slowly, "But I am hoping you remember that a lot of your students are freshman in college. Some of them might have only just turned eighteen. They're a little young for me."

Dad holds his hands out defensively. "I have no poor opinions on cougars. Your mother chased after me when I was 21 and she was 26."

"Cute," Katherine offers. "Age is just a number, after all. But..."

"A five year difference matters between minors and almost thirty-year-olds," Mary interrupts.

("Thanks," I mutter.)

"BUT I don't get why you people don't consider ME once in awhile?" Katherine adds loudly. "I'm going to be eighteen in December. I'm probably closer to the ages of your art students!"

"You are NOT allowed to date a college boy," Mom snaps, wagging her finger. "You are too young and they expect WAY too much of their girlfriends at this age."

Katherine pushes away from the table. "I'm not one of those reality tv shows!" she exclaims.

"Glad to hear it!" Dad beams proudly.

"You certainly act like it," Mom is not so proud. "You know I'll indulge anything I can, and try and let you girls experience life freely, more so than when I was your age with strict parents, but I do draw the line at dating college students. You'd be pregnant or dead within a month."

As sensitive as a toddler, Katherine is just shy of bursting into the tears of unfairness as she flees the room. We hear her stomping up the stairs.

"Don't you think that's a little extreme, Mom?" I say. "Pregnant or dead?"

"Katherine has a very extreme personality," Mom replies. "She needs a lot of exaggeration to keep her behaving properly because she never, ever thinks of the consequences. I just need to give her an idea of worst case scenario. She'd be a nightmare otherwise!"

Mary sighs loudly. Not just any sigh, of course, but the one that is hoping Mom and Dad will melt away and ask her what's wrong and what can they buy her to make her feel better.

"You sound tired," I say. "Want to go outside with me? I'll walk around the property line with you again."

"I dislike sunlight," Mary says drastically. She takes a piece of toast with jam and leaves the kitchen, echoing Katherine's stomps upstairs.

I turn and notice she left jam smears all over the counter. "What a mess!" I exclaim.

"She's testing us, that's what happens when you're fifteen," Mom says with a strained smile.

"Was I ever this hormonal?" I ask, horrified.

"Never," Dad promises, "Female hormones skipped you entirely. You're the closest I've come to raising a boy."

I pause. "Thanks Dad...?"

"Anything for you, baby."

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