Chapter 4

New York lacks an Oakham Mount and the fields and woods around Netherfield, but between city streets, Central Park and office lobbies, our couple will manage to keep running into each other.

Until 2 o'clock on Friday afternoon, it was business as usual for Elizabeth. She had patients to check on, meetings to suffer through, and reports to write. Filing the paperwork with the city to save the building she worked in was not on Elizabeth's to-do list, but when her boss, Phil Lucas, was caught in a meeting and absented himself from the process, she became the unanimous choice to step up and head across town to City Hall.

Elizabeth slumped in her hard-won seat on the midtown bus and fumed. It wasn't as though she had anything else on her plate. Such as work. She needed to update her case notes and review the files on two teenagers joining her in-patient counseling group on Monday. And then there was all the other stuff—grocery shopping, doing laundry, dating…. As always, Elizabeth would squeeze in the absolutely necessary domestic duties—after all, she needed food and clean underwear. But a social life was always nice too, and she was looking forward to the end of her workweek. Instead, she was bound for a long afternoon of lines, linoleum and lethargy.

She jumped off the bus, climbed the steps and entered City Hall. After passing through the security check, Elizabeth headed for the Department of City Planning. When she reached the gray, airless cavern of cubicles in the basement, she shook her head in disgust. And people think my building is depressing?

It had been love at first sight two years earlier when Elizabeth Bennet, newly licensed clinical social worker, encountered Haven Hospital. The WPA building was a wonder when it was constructed in 1937. Today, it was dwarfed by skyscrapers and modern, boxy high-rises. Yet the contrast made its soft brick and marble exterior even more remarkable. Elizabeth was especially fond of the four limestone sculptures bordering the front steps. The softly rounded sculptures captured children communing with dogs, cats, rabbits and birds, lending a gentle grace to the entryway. Though its beauty shone through to those who cared to look for it, the building itself was in bad shape. Its white marble façade was now gray, its beauty dulled by age, pollution, and pigeon-related debris. The electrical and plumbing systems were antiquated. But a good scrubbing—and about $50 million of renovations and expansion—could bring back the original beauty of what Elizabeth still considered a magical place of healing.

Trying to secure that funding and a promise from the city to save the building from the wrecking ball had brought her to a building that was Haven's polar opposite. Elizabeth shook her head in wonder at the tired gray sameness of the zoning department. There were a few steps required in filing for historical building status. Phil had taken on the glamorous part of the process; after Elizabeth had petitioned the city's Landmarks Preservation Commission to visit the building and pulled up and printed out sheaves of documents on Haven's architectural legacy, Phil had started attending meetings of the city commission. It seemed that cocktail parties were often involved, and that an especially attractive member of the board motivated his attendance.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, bided her time in the underground tombs of New York's most decrepit civic offices, searching out blueprints and microfiche. Today she was getting leg cramps from another long wait. She'd stood on line, read the Times' Style section and scrolled through e-mails.

Ninety minutes and two conversations with bored clerks later, she'd filed her paperwork and headed up to the main elevator bank. The smell of coffee caught her attention and Elizabeth headed over to the kiosk. She'd barely finished ordering when she heard her name called and looked around, wondering at her lack of anonymity here. Her jaw dropped.

"Elizabeth?"

Sweater Boy? She stared up into the dark brown eyes of William Darcy. What the hell was he doing here? And where did he get a suit that fit him so well?

"Oh, hello, ," she replied.

He blinked at her response. "Do you…um, you don't work here on the eighth floor, do you?"

Is he smirking at me? Elizabeth glanced down at the slim briefcase he held in his left hand. Smythson. Seriously good stuff.

"Wow, you remembered," she replied, one eyebrow raised. "No, I work in one of the hundreds of other buildings owned by the city. I'm here on official business."

"Sounds very cloak and dagger," he said quietly. Elizabeth's eyes darted up to read Darcy's expression but his face was impassive. His right hand, two fingers tapping against his thigh, drew her attention. Suddenly he thrust the hand in his pocket and cleared his throat. "Official business?"

"Things needed filing, a volunteer was needed to do it, and when the smoke cleared, I was the only one not sitting on my hands."

He grimaced, looked past her and nodded. Geez, she thought, someone have a problem with eye contact?

"Yes, that sounds familiar."

She looked at him curiously. "You? Aren't you the delegator in chief? When's the last time you had to stand in line holding a number to file paperwork?"

"Everyone has to go to the DMV, Elizabeth."

"True, even those with chauffeurs," she said, slyly. He rolled his eyes at her joke, and she gave him a triumphant smile. "But here you are, and this is not the DMV."

Darcy paused and glanced at the sterile environs' blend of beige, brown and gray metals. It was a 1970s architectural monstrosity. Somewhere behind the false walls and office pods, there was likely some semblance of design integrity. He bit back a comment on the sins of bureaucratic blandness. His dark brown eyes met her green ones and he instead managed a small smile. "No, this building is many things, few of them worthwhile, but it is not the DMV."

Elizabeth nodded. She was staring at his teeth. Wow. He smiles. "So what lures you here, away from all the busy, important work of Wall Street?"

Darcy paused. "There's busy and important work to be done everywhere." He dipped his head. "Have a good day, Elizabeth."

She watched him stride away toward the swinging doors. Right. `This is not the DMV, Elizabeth. Busy and important work everywhere.' Well, thanks for filling me in, Mr. Stodgy and Important.

"Miss, your coffee?" She turned around to take the cup and handed over a $5 bill.

"Oh, the gentleman already took care of it, ma'am."

"The gentleman?"

"Mr. Darcy." The barista smiled and turned to his next customer.

Elizabeth eyed the caramel macchiato, wishing she had the will to toss it out and show that imperious Mr. Darcy what she thought of him. But it smelled awfully good, and, as there were no trashcans in sight, she took a sip and went on her way.

Since the coffee was free, Elizabeth treated herself to a cab ride back to the hospital to clean off her desk, lock her office door, and enjoy a mostly work-free weekend.

She was looking forward to dinner with Jane. Despite sharing an apartment, the sisters had barely seen each other over the past few weeks. Unlike Elizabeth's workday, often starting at 8 a.m. and stretching until 6 p.m., Jane's schedule varied by her appointment book. She might be in her company's physical therapy offices by 7 a.m. and be finished by 3 p.m. on Monday, but start seeing patients the next day at noon and work till nine. For the past few weeks, most if not all of her free hours were dedicated to Charles. But tonight he had a previous commitment, and Jane had left her sister a pink Post-It note on the bathroom mirror: "Margaritas and nachos! My treat!"

Friday night dinner was a ritual they had begun a few years ago when Jane joined her little sister in New York. It had survived boyfriends and dating disasters, job changes, a master's program, and occasional petty arguments, and always proved a good excuse to get out of their cramped apartment on Friday nights. Tonight, Elizabeth thought, would be a wonderful antidote to last Friday night, when she had gone solo to dinner with Charlotte and her "dream woman."

Those two little words had fueled Elizabeth's expectations. She had arrived at her best friend's garden apartment in Queens and found herself in the midst of an art-house romantic comedy. She sat through a delicious dinner of vegetable lasagna and turtle brownies, her head turning back and forth at the banter between the bubbly, newly formed couple.

Today, staring out the cab window, she was still puzzling it out. For Charlotte, Willa Collins was everything her bio on had promised: hot—though she seemed sweaty and damp to Elizabeth; cheerful—in that vacuously airheaded way she and Char always mocked; and smart—though mostly about the actuarial business. Elizabeth had zero interest in learning how long a lifespan the insurance industry calculated for her. Nothing was going to make her give up beer, gummy bears and fried clams. But Willa and Char had hit it off and within three weeks, they were talking co-habitating in Willa's rent-controlled TriBeCa apartment and co-parenting Willa's ferrets. Matching tattoos were not far off, Elizabeth mused. So much for the tattooed trio; Jane and Charlotte seemed to be taken and she was facing a future as a third wheel.

Although she'd been annoyed to be left high and dry as the sole guest at the CharWilla dinner, Elizabeth didn't begrudge her sister's recent cancellations; she was glad Jane had met Charles. His natural ebullience matched perfectly with Jane's glowing happiness. As Jane had recited more times than necessary over the past few weeks, "We both love Nora Ephron movies! He ice skates at Rockefeller Center on New Year's Day! He wants to kiss at the top of the Empire State Building! He was a cheerleader at Dartmouth! And he has the bluest eyes…."

Elizabeth snorted at her own cynicism. Jane deserved the best. Fueled by her macchiato, she jumped out of the cab and bounced up Haven's front steps. As was her custom, she ran her fingers over the statue at the top of the stairs. On the way out, she'd be sure to tap the fourth statue. Her colleagues laughed at her need to "share the love," as Mary King, one of the art therapists, called it. With her clinical training, she knew she was anthropomorphizing cold stones, but Elizabeth didn't care if she looked weird. She simply didn't want anyone left out. Not even 75-year-old statues.

As she headed toward the elevator, she saw Mary with her latest flame. Just as Jane did, Mary attracted men like flies. Both tended toward short-term relationships. Jane dated doctors and friends and relatives of former patients. Mary's weekend clubbing usually paid off in hilarious stories for her coworkers on Monday and a retinue of short-term boyfriends. How she spent her time outside of the hospital didn't seem to affect her professional success and seemed to give her insight into some of Haven's more difficult patients. Of course, Elizabeth thought, everyone focuses differently, and she stayed better focused without male distractions.

"Hey Elizabeth," said the petite blonde. "Have you met George? He works downstairs, on six." Mary squeezed the arm of a tall, tanned blond man and he flashed a bright grin. Wow, score another hot one for Mary.

Elizabeth smiled but before she could speak, her phone chimed with Jane's familiar tone. She took a step back and read the message screen. Within seconds, she rolled her eyes and stifled her disappointment as Jane cancelled, again. Charles desperately wanted her to join him Chez Darcy for game night and Jane was eager for her sister to join the fun. "Please come too, Lizzy? Charles' sisters will be there."

Game night? With a guy who would destroy them all at Monopoly? Elizabeth ran her hand through her dark brown curls and clicked off her phone. "Dammit. Friggin' Darcy."

A soft male voice spoke behind her. "Everything okay, Elizabeth?"

She turned and saw George standing in front of her. Mary was waving as she stepped into the elevator. Elizabeth raised her hand in a half-hearted wave and sighed.

"Mary had to get back to work. I'm George Wickham. It's nice to finally meet you." He gave her a broad smile. "I've seen you in the cafeteria once or twice, but I haven't noticed you at the clubs with Mary and the girls."

Geez, this guy is really handsome, like a surfer. A surfer model. How did I miss seeing him at the salad bar? She dragged her eyes away and glanced at the bulletin board over his shoulder.

"Oh I've been, but the last few weeks have been very busy. And I have this regular Friday night thing with my sister," she added. "Usually."

"Like tonight?" George leaned toward her. "Did I hear you say the name Darcy? The Darcy?"

Elizabeth stared at him. She nodded.

"Well, you have him pegged. `Friggin'' is right. Our families go way back. I could tell you stories."

Elizabeth took a step back.

"It's a long and winding tale. Mary knows." George leaned closer to her. "I hope your sister's not dating him. The papers had it right, you know."

Her eyes widened. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Really? Well, you're Mary's friend, and if you're half as nice as she is, I don't want to see you or your sister get hurt." George smiled at her, his blue eyes flashing. "Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. I'll see you around."

Elizabeth tossed her empty cup in the trash can and punched the elevator button. Crappy coffee, she thought. She felt queasy.

Notes:

WPA: The Works Progress Administration (also known as the Works Project Administration) was the largest and most ambitious of President Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal programs. At its peak in 1938, it employed three million unskilled men, women and youth to carry out public works projects, including the construction of public buildings and roads, and operated large arts, drama and literacy projects. The WPA fed children and distributed food, clothing, and housing. Almost every community in the United States has a park, bridge or school constructed by the agency.

Smythson of Bond Street has been making fine leather goods since 1887.

DMV: The Department of Motor Vehicles, where Americans go to get their drivers' licenses.

Two worlds collide again. He bought her coffee. Is this progress?