William didn't return to LA on Tuesday morning. His friend had driven himself back Monday morning rather than Sunday as planned, and William wondered if Charles and Jane Sweet had hooked up that quickly—that would have been fast, even for his actor friend. Caroline had taken Amanda back as Mandy had work.
But William decided to brave staying at his aunt's house. It was large enough that he didn't worry about imposing, though he was subject to any rules which Aunt Catherine saw fit to impose (and which were never the same, visit to visit). He holed up in Uncle Lewis' study, working on notes to send to the writer about changes to the script for Bella Montaña after having looked at potential locations.
But he was distracted with a reflection on his family's history. He thought about his Grandfather splitting up the property, and of his Uncle Clifford and his mother's willingness to sell out—and then frittering the money away. Once Grandpa Harold was gone, there had been nothing but a slow bleed of the remaining land, what was left of the Pemberley property.
Grandpa had wanted to preserve some land and the original home, but the heirs had bickered over Grandpa's last little bit of property. While they had been able to sell off the majority of the land, there was still a small piece left. However, thirty acres was nothing when the nineteenth-century property had measured tens of thousands. But the original Fitzwilliam home was still there, run-down and without tenants. It needed a lot of money for conservation and preservation.
Neither Anne nor Ryan seemed as attached to Pemberley House as he, though they shared ownership. It sat neglected and was just barely maintained. None of them wanted to lease it, though it was unlikely that it would receive a going-rate rent as it lacked modern conveniences and was too far from LA. But if William made it truly big in Hollywood, he wanted to restore Pemberley.
Catherine was subjecting Anne to a slow bleed of what was Deburg property. William worried about his cousin's long-term-prospects. (He also felt protective towards Ryan, though Ryan, perhaps, didn't need it as much). But maybe protection was just another word for love. Could the cousins rally together when the children of the previous generation could only squabble?
"We've bounced a lot of names around," Anne began. The two of them sat in Lewis' study. She had dropped by to see what William was doing and stayed when he had asked about the land sale and the commercial developer's plans. "It's that plot west of Field Avenue, so I thought we should call the whole development 'Netherfield.'"
"Netherfield?" he repeated, "alright, I guess. But the 'nether' part makes me think of the afterlife somehow."
"You overthink. I imagine expansive fields covered with golden daffodils or spotted with sheep just over the next horizon," Anne explained.
"So, the commercial park is going to be called Netherfield or the whole piece of land?"
"All of it," she answered. "Netherfield Estates will be the housing area, and Netherfield Tech Park is what we'll call the commercial area."
"Isn't Catherine going to freak that there's no 'Deburg' name in either of them? That's been her bread and butter whenever land's been sold before," he remarked, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, and attempting to ascertain her feelings about this project.
"Yeah—it's why Merton has two golf courses, including the Lewis Deburg Golf Course!" Anne laughed. She seemed more amused than anything.
"Look, Anne. Are you and Aunt Catherine so hurting for money that you need this sale? It's just that I hate for us to lose any more land, Fitzwilliam land."
She didn't answer but began tidying papers. "It seems to me, William, that it isn't Fitzwilliam land anymore. It's Deburg land, and I can do what I want with it so long as Mom agrees."
He set up straighter at the rebuke. It was true. The land was under her control; it wasn't his or even jointly his. It belonged to nostalgia to ever believe he influenced what could be done with it. The Pemberley estate was fifty or sixty years gone, despite the small plot that held Pemberley House. William's best bet to recreate it would be to write about his family's struggles. It gave him new ideas about the direction for Bella Montaña.
After working for hours on the next series for CinemaReady, he pulled out the documents about this land sale. William didn't like it. He didn't like that he came from a family which couldn't manage money. It made him wonder if he was the same? He had a person with a head for business who managed the finances for his company. But if he was left on his own, would he do any better than his mother, aunt, or uncle in managing money? He wasn't sure. He was certainly motivated to do better.
Ryan lamented that he was poor and blamed his father. Anne appeared motivated to at least attempt to put money back into the local economy even if she was myopic about putting some money away for herself. He wondered how his cousins felt about their grandfather, or even about their parents, as it had been a joint effort to ruin the family's fortunes by selling the land. Perhaps they weren't bothered as much as William was about the Pemberley property being split up.
Lizabeth was five minutes late opening the office on Wednesday morning.
"You look tired," Doug remarked.
"That damned kitten is a bundle of energy," she sighed. "I don't think I slept more than an hour and a half at a time."
"Sounds like having a baby," he replied. She knew Doug had two daughters.
"Do they ever settle down and sleep through the night?" she asked, yawning.
"No. I don't think I've gotten a good night's sleep since becoming a father," he quipped as he sat down at the computer terminal.
Lizabeth groaned. Perhaps it had been an impulsive decision to keep the kitten. "Aren't cats supposed to sleep sixteen hours a day? Why was she up all night—or what felt like all night?" she quipped.
It was a busy morning, but a repeat of the day before, with people wanting to see the kitten that had been rescued from the wall. She wondered if she could bring the cat to work with her, and considered asking the Judge. But Troy Metcalfe was quite distracted, because of his wife. Lizabeth was so new at this job that she wasn't quite sure whether such a request would put her on his bad side and give her a sort of black mark on her working record.
At lunch, she stretched her legs and walked around the downtown area after grabbing a quick bite. She was making a loop of the city block when a woman in a convertible drove by; the top was down. It was cold enough that Lizabeth stopped to watch and wondered that the woman wasn't freezing. She looked stylish, movie-star stylish, with a chiffon scarf tied around her head and sunglasses on her nose as the breeze whipped at the ends of the scarf. The woman looked young, and Lizabeth noted two men across the street staring just as transfixed as she.
A group of suits passed Lizabeth as she rounded the last block to turn back towards the recording office, and she caught words about technology park and infrastructure and ROI. None of it made much sense to her since she had never worked in business before, though Ed was a businessman. He had never actually explained what he did day to day. Mostly he had assured Lizabeth that he was rich. At least the city was a bustling place, right?
The afternoon was oddly busy, which suited her. She had to shoo a couple away who came in too late to get through the marriage license process and locked up. But for once, she looked forward to going home since she had her orange bundle of energy waiting for her. The two of them played, though Kitty was still young enough that she would stop suddenly and decide a nap was imperative. Lizabeth didn't mind as she used the opportunity to put items in the dishwasher and thought about going to bed early.
She heard the sound of her text notification and hunted for her phone. It was from Edgar.
Have you thought more about my offer?
That was it. He still hadn't bothered to call her as a follow-up but was only texting her about his marriage proposal. She ignored the message, turned her phone on silent, and headed to her bedroom to find a romance novel.
Only once during their Thursday lunch did Charlene bring up Liza talking to Mary. Charlene had other things to discuss; she had met someone.
"It was at the Walmart on Tuesday night," her friend explained. "We were just sort of there, without purpose, and began talking in the frozen food aisle."
"Frozen foods? You met someone in the frozen food aisle?" Lizabeth hoped that she didn't sound as unkind as the words did when they stumbled out. But as flushed as Charlene's cheeks were, the meeting didn't sound romantic. Not according to any romance novel she had ever read. No one met in the frozen food section.
"We're both single and cook for one." Charlene defended. "He was talkative. He's an adjunct professor at the junior college, so he has to be smart, right?"
"Yes, I guess so," Lizabeth agreed. "So, you're going to see him again?"
Her friend's cheeks blushed again. "Yeah. We plan to meet on Friday at that little diner on the north-west side of town. Split the bill, but have dinner and talk." Lizabeth thought about all the Friday dinners she had shared with Edgar. Not once had she ever paid or shared the cost. Was she spoiled? What were her ideas of romance or relationships?
"I think that's great," she said enthusiastically. "You should call me and tell me how it went, either way, on Saturday."
"If it goes badly, I'm not sure I'll want to fess up," Charlene admitted. "Maybe we can plan to have lunch or dinner on Monday, and I'll be willing to talk by then, either way." They made plans for another Monday dinner before Lizabeth remembered that there was a civil ceremony, and she had to rush back to make sure the office and the Judge were ready.
Kate Lyn Jenkinson showed up with Daniel Wilcox five minutes after she reopened the office. The couple brought friends as witnesses, so once she determined that the Judge was ready, Lizabeth sent the four of them into his chambers.
That made her recall that she had meant to talk to the Judge about the odd number of fictitious business statements with 'mining' in the title. But as the couple was leaving, Troy Metcalfe told her he had to leave because of some family business at home. Lizabeth carried on with the rest of Thursday on her own.
She decided to follow Charlene's advice and seek out Mary that evening. Her cat responsibilities meant she had to go home first to ensure that 'Kitty' (the still-unnamed kitten) hadn't ruined her house and was fed before going to the hotel bar.
Lizabeth changed her clothes, because it was evening, and because it made her feel better. She also needed to change because, after playing with the kitten, her work clothes were covered with orange fur. She reasoned that she might as well throw on something nice, even if there was no Edgar waiting to meet her.
Whenever she had frequented the hotel bar before, it had been right after work, and there hadn't been many people then. It was far more crowded now, even those people who worked 'late' were showing up for drinks as they loosened ties or kicked off heels. Mary Abel was at her piano, playing in her absent-minded way. She seemed to have a hand on the pulse of the mood around her.
Lizabeth first went up to the bar to get a drink, intending to get a glass of wine, her staple. Joe, the bartender, informed her that they had a specialty cocktail that evening, the SloJo. She hadn't heard of it, but he winked at her, and she agreed to try it, before going to sit with her friend.
Mary finished her song, stopping to look at her audience before asking Lizabeth. "How's your week been?"
"Exciting," Lizabeth giggled. She was already four or five sips into her drink, and it was very sweet. It probably masked a high alcohol content.
"I read about the kitten," Mary remarked.
"Yeah, everybody wants to hear about her. People are still coming by wanting to see her as if I'm going to bring her to work!"
"How are you doing with the 'being single' thing?" Mary asked. She started playing again, one of those little tunes without end.
Lizabeth spared a thought for the fact that Mary could play without looking down at her hands, something she was never able to do. "Ed's texted me, but not called," she answered. "But it's over. We both want vastly different things from the relationship. He wanted marriage, and I just wanted someone to date. I don't see that we can go on."
"That doesn't sound definitive—like you've called it off for sure," Mary observed.
Had she? Lizabeth wondered. Had she not been firm with Ed? She'd been more annoyed that he kept texting her at the end of every day. Texts which she hadn't responded to. But had she stated in specific terms that she considered it over between them and that she didn't want him back? Why were women responsible for such things, but men never? Perhaps she should have responded.
"Maybe I have been wishy-washy," she agreed.
"I think he encourages that," Mary asserted. "So don't blame yourself for thinking that you haven't cut the cord properly. He's annoying that way."
"Gee, thanks, saying that my ex is annoying!" Lizabeth cried, suddenly frustrated with her friend.
"What planet are you from? Girlfriends are allowed to bash ex-boyfriends together."
"Are they?" she asked, turning a little pale with honest surprise. "Did I miss that day in school?"
"I think you missed a couple of days in school," said Mary.
"Huh," Lizabeth sighed. "I believe I missed a lot of lessons from the school of life and still have many to learn."
"We all get there," her friend responded, as she continued to play her mindless and unending tune. Apparently, Mary thought that they weren't yet done speaking. "So, you think it's over, and yet you say Edgar texts you every night?" Lizabeth nodded. "So you believe he thinks it isn't over?" Mary reasoned.
"Yes," Lizabeth agreed.
"What if I told you he was here with another woman last night, in the bar. Late last night?"
Lizabeth felt as if she suddenly had tunnel vision as her gut cramped up. It was like the symptoms of a migraine (or so someone had once described). "Edgar was here with someone else?" her voice was soft and barely audible. Mary nodded. "Maybe it was someone from work? When we were at the country club, there was a businesswoman from that software company. Maybe he was just meeting a business contact?" she suggested.
"No." It was a very definite no from Mary.
"You're telling me he thinks it's over too," she reasoned. Her stomach rumbled then; she hadn't eaten. She went to take a big swig of her drink and realized that the glass was empty.
"That's not what I am saying," Mary continued. "I'm saying he was here with a blond, and they had their hands all over each other; their lips too. And yet you're telling me that he's texting you about an answer to his marriage proposal."
"I need another drink," she cried.
"That might be a good idea," said Mary, who motioned to Joe to bring one over.
"Why would he do that?"
"Because he's not worth your time. He's not worth it, Lizabeth," Mary asserted.
Her stomach cramped up again. "Huh," she sighed.
"I'm not one to normally express an opinion, but just dump him for sure," said Mary.
"But maybe he's sad." Lizabeth felt confused about the whole thing with Edgar. There had been a sort of power and high with dumping him and keeping him at bay about the marriage proposal. But had she been wishing to go back to dating him? She had so little experience and didn't quite know what to do. "Maybe he was just feeling hurt?" she suggested.
Mary played a chord, not a pleasant one, then took her hands off the keyboard to stare straight into Lizabeth's eyes. "Honey, listen to me. This is probably the thirty-seventh time I've seen Edgar Stone in here with other women since I've met you."
Lizabeth's eyes went wide just as Joe set the drink down in front of her. She grabbed a hold of it and downed half of it before she looked back at her friend. "He's been seeing other women?"
"He's been sleeping with other women the whole time you've dated," Mary answered.
She stared open-mouthed at her friend, numb and bewildered then started crying. "Why didn't anybody say anything?" She couldn't process such things as a betrayal.
"It's a difficult thing to navigate as a friend," Mary explained. Those hands began to play another tune, "to point out what a crappy boyfriend your friend is seeing. Often, with friendships, it works just to be supportive and be there for someone rather than always giving them advice or telling them what to do."
Lizabeth grabbed her drink and downed the other half. She was numb and wanted to hold off the emotions that pushed for admittance, but she considered Mary's words. She understood the concept expressed at some level, even if she was still processing it on another—Ed had been dating other women while he had been seeing her.
All her life, she had continuously been told what to do. It was unique to have someone who valued her and let her decide for herself what to do. Even if she was floundering, and couldn't quite tell Ed 'no' for sure, her friends had been supportive. Neither Mary nor Jane nor Charlene had told her to dump him. They had left that decision to Lizabeth.
"He really is a bastard," Mary emphasized. "But maybe you like bastards?"
"I think I need another drink."
Mary nodded her head and another SloJo appeared in front of them. Lizabeth was surprised that she wasn't more emotional or thrown by the revelation. There was probably time for that later.
"How is it…that my first real, long-term relationship…has gone so terribly wrong?" she asked, though it was a rhetorical question. Mary kept playing.
Neither spoke for a while, and the music was sufficient to fill the silence. Lizabeth looked out at the room to spy on the other people who had come to drink and socialize. It was a different crowd than the posh places she was used to.
"We all need to start somewhere. I'm just sorry that your somewhere was so crappy," offered Mary. "But it doesn't mean that the next guy you date will be so awful." She gave a little half-smile.
"I can't consider dating anyone ever again," Lizabeth declared, feeling overwhelmed suddenly. She put a hand up to her head and thought about the three drinks she had just downed. "I believe I need something to eat."
A bowl of finger food appeared, followed by a menu. "On the house," Mary declared. "Order an appetizer; they come quicker."
"Okay," Lizabeth agreed. She selected a plate of assorted appetizers before she looked again at her drink. "The whole time?" she asked, sneaking a glance at her friend. "The whole time Edgar and I were dating; he had women in here?"
"Yes," Mary answered. Every time that she responded to a question from Lizabeth, she changed the tune to match Lizabeth's mood.
"You know we only saw each other on Friday nights," she murmured.
"I know," said Mary.
"So how often was he here?" she asked.
"Two or three times a week," the lounge lizard queen answered, playing the sound-track to Lizabeth's misery.
"Did he have women with him all the time?" She dared to ask.
"Not every night, but at least once a week," said Mary.
She took a swig of her drink, put it down, and reached up to run her fingers through her hair. A lock got caught on the back of the seat, and she tugged it free before letting her fingers flow through to the tips. "How did I not know?"
"He played on your inexperience. He's also manipulative." Mary played another chord and stopped to pour herself a glass of water.
Her food arrived, and Lizabeth picked at it, not tasting anything. "I've taken up so much of your time," she said mournfully. She was surprised that she wasn't as grieved or upset by this news as she supposed she should be. It would probably hit her more tomorrow. She needed to tell Edgar Stone, III to go jump in a lake and to return the ring. She needed to be definitive and assertive.
"You need to take a taxi home," Mary cautioned.
"I'm fine!" Lizabeth protested.
"I don't think you drink much, and you've had too many SloJos," Mary pointed out.
"Maybe I'll stay and sober up." Lizabeth looked down and noticed that her drink was empty. She grabbed her plate. "I'll sit in one of the comfy chairs and brood. I appreciate you being honest—and being a friend."
"You're welcome," Mary replied. She drank a few more sips of water then began to play again.
Lizabeth found that she was unsteady on her feet as she made her way with her appetizer plate to a two-seater. She wondered why she had insisted on wearing heels; she wasn't used to wearing them. Looking over at the bar, somehow Joe knew what she needed and sent over a glass of water with the waitress.
She brooded as she sat with her nibbles, her glass of water, and Mary's admonishment to sober up. How had Lizabeth gotten to this point in life? She had dated a man that cheated on her yet proposed marriage? She was perceived as the type of woman that he desired as a wife? Was she malleable? Biddable—was that how men viewed her? Was this all her parents' fault for keeping her under their thumb, insisting that she live at home for college and graduate school?
Or did Lizabeth need to look at herself and realize that she should have put her foot down? She should have decided that she had a responsibility to leave home. In a way, she had enjoyed being a sheltered hot-house flower—being a privileged princess. She hadn't wanted for anything, having her parents pay for college while she watched friends work two jobs and still go to school full time.
Lizabeth admitted that she hadn't wanted to push herself. She couldn't decide on a focus in grad school and had been happy to accept this tailor-made job when half her school friends were still looking for work. Up until now, she had merely been a participant in her life and not a decision-maker. She hadn't taken charge but now was determined to change. In her alcohol-muzzy brain, she vowed that when she was sober, she would take steps, make better choices, and take charge.
That's when it hit her: Edgar had been sleeping with other women the whole fucking time they had been dating. He had probably left her last Saturday night and gone out to find someone to have sex with. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she signaled for the waitress to bring her another drink.
"I think you've had enough," said the woman.
"I'm taking a taxi!" she cried defiantly.
"Alright then," the waitress answered, a little reluctantly and brought back another SloJo.
She got a hand mirror out of her purse, a tissue, and dabbed at her mascara. When she looked up, she saw William Darcy across the room, looking at her. He would probably be just as unpleasant a man to date as Edgar, she thought. Thoughts of Ed made the tears fall again, and she reached with her fingertips to wipe at the tears in her eyes as she stared at him.
A/N: my college kids are home safe. I home everyone is doing well sheltering at home.
