Author Note: What's up everyone! So, took a little longer than two weeks to get this chapter done because I had my wisdom teeth taken out recently, was drugged up, and did not feel like doing much. In regard to the story, I'm going to change the setting to 1980 because I don't want to write about the Vietnam War, and based on his age Darcy will be eligible for the draft if the story is set in the 1970's.

Please let me know if I mention anything that wouldn't be around in the 1980's; I'm a late 90's baby so I'm trying to do as much research as possible. Thanks so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows. As a novice writer, they mean the world to me.

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Chapter 3: Darcy

I place the print in the tray of developer and begin to gently rock it back and forth. I have been in the dark room for the past few hours trying to develop my most recent film roll. I have been thinking about how I will tell a story through my pictures, and I still do not know the best way to find interesting subjects for my photos. My parents might have some friends worth documenting, but I don't know if I am ready to reveal this side project to my parents yet. I want to figure out what story I want to tell through my pictures. I have toyed with the idea of doing a history of the town – interviewing townsfolk young and old and looking at the progression of the town through the eyes of its inhabitants. Unfortunately, I am not the best conversationalist (some might argue that I'm actually the worst). The notion of interviewing a stranger makes me want to break out in hives. I have so much still to figure out, and my parents, the doers that they are, will take over the project and mold it in their creative image if I am not 100% sure of the direction I want to go. I definitely need to have a more solid plan. The sound of liquid splashing on the table jars me from my reverie, and I turn to the woman standing beside me violently shaking the tray of developer.

"Like you're gently rocking a baby to sleep, not like you're performing the Heimlich on it."

Sophia, the only girl friend that I have, stops her violent motions and with an air of exasperation looks up at me. "Sorry, William. I'm just so heated right now. Ugh, I just don't know what to do. He's grown so distant lately, and I fear that he's being unfaithful. Just the other night, I asked him why he was coming home so late, and he had the nerve to get mad at me for asking. He completely turned the conversation around and somehow, I went to bed that night feeling guilty for asking. Can you believe it? And then this morning…"

I listen silently as Sophia fills me in on all of the sordid details of her train wreck marriage. I love Sophia, but I warned her in the beginning that her marriage was destined for heartbreak and betrayal. She was so caught up in the novelty of the romance and whispers of sweet-nothings that she did not heed my advice and against common sense, married one of the dodgiest degenerates to ever walk the face of the earth. I try to be a supportive friend when I can but despite my best intentions, my words of encouragement come out judgmental and rude (her words not mine). Since I cannot offer advice on the matter without causing tears to spring to Sophia's eyes and sending her into a state of immense self-loathing, I half-heartedly listen to the new developments in the tedious saga whenever she feels the need to vent to me.

"So, what do you think I should do?" Sophia has stopped shaking the tray and instead has her arms hanging limply at her sides as she awaits my profound response.

"Yep, he is the absolute worst." I carefully pick up the photo I am working on and slide it into the stop bath.

"What? That's not an answer. William, are you even listening to me?"

"Of course, I heard every word." I drain the tub again and place the photo in a tray of fixer fluid.

Sophia sighs heavily and softly places a hand on my left shoulder. "Will, I… I really don't know what to do. I need your brutal honesty right now."

I pick up the photo with a pair of tongs and inspect it under white light before hanging it on the drying line. I turn to Sophia and give her my full attention. "My advice is still the same. Leave him. Don't make excuses for him. Don't rationalize staying with him. I promise you that he will continue to hurt you and continue to abuse you. Your husband is not a good man. You owe him nothing and you have no children with him. You're not pregnant, right?"

"No."

"Okay then."

"But Will, it's not that simple. I –"

"No, Sophia, it is that simple." I turn to face her again tired of this purportless discussion. "You said brutal honesty so here it is. Wake up and move on. There's nothing more to discuss." I take the paper in her developer tray out and move it to a tub of fixer. It has been developing for way too long, but I still want to see how the photo turns out. Sophia stands beside me fighting an inner battle. I pay her no mind. We have been in this situation a thousand times and it always ends up the same way – her back with her husband making ridiculous excuses for his mistreatment of her.

As I am hanging the second photo on the line Sophia utters a simple word with powerful implications, "Ok."

I am momentarily frozen as I take a moment to register what she has just said. I turn to her and a slow grin spreads across my face when I realize that I heard her correctly. I was expecting another rant about how I am not understanding enough or criticism of my advice validity because I lack relationship experience. The last thing I was expecting was a statement of acquiescence. "Ok?"

Sophia meets my gaze. Tears begin to collect in the corners of her eyes. Her auburn curls bounce up and down as she vigorously nods her head. "You're right. You've always been right. I need to leave now. Will you help me?"

"Of course," I say. Declaring the short phrase with enough conviction to assure her that there was never a need to ask. That I will always be there for her. "Of course I'll help you."

Sophia pulls me into a tight hug. With the red-light casting looming shadows on the walls, I let her cry out her pain on my shoulder.

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The intensity of this Tuesday has me aching for the respite of the weekend. I pause briefly to stretch my arms and move my neck from side to side. From meeting with the executives to discuss upcoming movie releases to convincing investors that their money is being well spent, I have been running all over the building checking in with everyone, fixing small crises, and trying my best not to crumble under the standards of perfection I force myself to abide by.

My family's film production company Pemberley Productions produces science fiction and westerns almost exclusively. Our films are larger than life. In them, we test the boundaries of human imagination. With the introduction of Computer-Generated Imaging in the last decade, our movies have reached new levels of extravagance. We can now make our aliens beam away and our heroes shoot lasers from their guns. We have enjoyed a lot of success with our large-scale, special effects movies, but I want to make the jump into more realistic films. I want to branch out into dramas, movies grounded in the current reality instead of the distant future. I explain all of this to my father during our weekly meeting.

"Change is good." My father twists the cap off of his favorite bottle of Scotch and pulls out two glasses. He fills them both halfway, drops a couple of ice cubes in each, hands me one glass, and sits down with the other. "We have to stay ahead of the game if we want to beat out the competition. I'm so tired of seeing Disney everywhere. You know, I talked to Cardon Walker, and he said Tokyo Disneyland will be open next year. Tokyo! Couldn't just be content to stay in America." My father drowns his drink in one gulp and gets up to pour himself another one. "They've basically dominated the family film market, so we've gotta dominate every other market."

"Okay, I was thinking of more... heartfelt movies. Coming of age movies, films that make you think. I want to do more realistic movies, with heart and soul, movies that have a message," I pause to take a sip from my glass. "Of course, these movies won't make as much as our over-the-top fantasy films, so to bankroll these smaller projects, I think we should expand into the romance genre. Love sells. We could do romantic comedies, historical romances, romantic thrillers… people love a good love story so let's put a twist on it and make it fresh. Won't be too big budget, just have to pay the actors, find a good playwright and director, splurge on some good music. A lot of our current actors and actresses have a lot of star appeal and their starring in a romantic drama could bring in a ton at the box office. For example, Charlie was voted hottest something or another, so he would be perfect as the lead in a romance. We'll drum up some press about him and his co-star dating, and I promise the theatre will be packed on opening night!" I am so excited; I can see the prospects now.

My father takes a long swig from his second glass of scotch before asking, "How is my boy Charlie? I haven't seen him in a while. He staying out of trouble? Invite him over for the next Sunday brunch."

My father sees Charlie as a second son. He and I went to prep school together and became fast friends. Charlie appreciated my wisdom and advice, and I appreciated his non-imposing company. Charlie accepted my reserved nature but was always there to make sure I did not have a nervous breakdown when my need for perfection got the best of me, and I appreciated him for it. When his parents died in a car crash some years ago plunging him into a self-destructive spiral, I lent myself as his shoulder to cry on, and my father took him under his wing teaching him about the business in hopes that Charlie might become a producer someday. Every Saturday, Charlie and I would follow father around the studio watching him negotiate and oversee. I was fascinated by the directors and Charlie was fascinated by the actors; his favorites being Al Pacino and Harrison Ford. Right now, he uses his overflowing charisma and dashing good looks to charm his way into the hearts of every woman and man who watches his wild westerns and galaxy benders.

"But you're going to need a new marketing team if you want to branch out. You can't release dramas with a science fiction team and expect the public to bite. That's like expecting Star Trek and getting Gone with the Wind instead. Our audience would be so confused. Maybe you should release the movies under a different division. Don't even use the Pemberley name. You're also going to need some new directors and writers. I love our guys, but they're not well-suited for anything that doesn't involve copious amounts of shooting and explosions."

"I can do that."

"Also, with marketing, you'll want to see which stories are popular amongst the ladies – your target audience. Maybe ask your friend Sophia or better yet, your mother. She'll definitely know what's popular amongst the ladies in the town."

"Oh, that reminds me, I have to see mother today." I jump up from my seat and head towards the door. Time always seems to fly when I meet with my father. Right now, my father is acting as a face for the company instead of fulfilling an actual working role. The day to day running of the company rests on my shoulders. Despite having full control of the company, I still like to run things by my father first; and I know that he appreciates being kept in the loop.

My father glances at me over the top of his empty glass. The ice cubes have begun to melt and condensation droplets race down the side of the cup. "I heard that you were short with her last time you both talked."

"Who did you hear that from?" My mother always has nothing but compliments to give when talking about me to other people, especially my father.

"Just because I walked out of the dining room before things got heated, does not mean I was out of hearing distance. I knew that your mother's hinting about grandchildren might turn into a bit of an argument between you two, and I definitely did not want to be dragged in but," my father pauses and a slow grin spreads across his rough face, "free entertainment is free entertainment."

My father is the Humphrey Boggart to my mother's Lauren Bacall. Both timeless beauties aging gracefully. Their looks and manners exude old Hollywood, early Hollywood. My father is ruggedly handsome with a commandeering personality and shrewd mind perfectly suited to running a multi-million-dollar corporation. My mother is all elegance and dainty features with an endless capacity to care for others and the ability to problem solve the toughest of situations. I am constantly fighting to live up to the examples of perfection set before me by my parents. Every day I pray that I do not end up disappointing them.

I let out a heavy sigh as I think back to the scene this past Sunday. "Yeah, that's why I have to visit her. I have to go and apologize. I was harsh."

"Your mother is… persistent. She means well, but the problem-solver in her sometimes creates problems where there are none." My father comes over to where I am standing by the door and places a firm hand on my shoulder. "She loves you. Very much. I do too. We could not bear to lose you. If anything happens to you, I don't…" My father chokes on his next words. I save him the trouble of having to explain away the inevitable tears that will come if he finishes his sentence.

I pull him into an embrace and whisper, "I know.

The drive back to my childhood home is somber. My father wants to give my mother and me some time alone, so he elects to stay at the office a little longer. I personally think that he wants to enjoy a few more glasses of scotch in the solitude of his office before retiring for the night. I think about what I want to say to my mother when I see her. I meant to call her Sunday afternoon and apologize, but I got lost in the excitement of my new project and then the grind of work consumed all of my attention as soon as the work week began.

My mother is keen on my marrying because she thinks that it will keep me settled and close to her. Which, in all honesty, is accurate. I cannot imagine starting a family anywhere besides our little town of Healdsburg, Virginia. I have always dreamed of building a house on my family estate and living there with my wife, our three maybe four children, and our Labrador retriever. My mother does not want to drive more than an hour to see her grandchildren, so a house nearby will be a must. She has been through a lot of loss in her lifetime, so it is no wonder she wants to keep me close.

If you ask me how many people are in my family, I will reply three – my father, my mother, and I. If you ask my mother, she will say eight – my father, me, her and the five children she lost. Three miscarriages, One baby who died in her arms, and One little girl with beautiful blue eyes who did not make it to her third birthday.

I took my first breath on March 12, 1957, after a relatively smooth pregnancy and uncomplicated labor and delivery. I was average weight and height, hit the normal milestones, and contracted the usual types of infancy illnesses. Nothing about my birth predicted the struggle my mother would have with the rest of her pregnancies.

When I was five, my parents came into my playroom and sat down with me. My father picked me up and flew me high above his head. I giggled joyously as he flew me around like an airplane. My mother, so graceful and beautiful with her lips painted red and her brown curls perfectly coiffed, took me from my father's outstretched arms and sat me down on her lap. She snuggled my head with hers and placed a kiss on my forehead.

"Guess what, William? We have a surprise for you."

I looked at both my parents with excitement expecting the train set I had seen in the toy store a few days ago and eagerly pointed out to my parents. I wriggled around searching behind their backs for the surprise.

"You are going to be a big brother!"

"A brother?" I asked confused still searching for the box that housed my new train.

"That's right, bud," my father smiled, ruffling my hair, "In a few months, you are going to have a new brother or sister to love."

"Inside of my stomach, there is a baby growing inside. He or she will be really small at first but will grow big just like you. And don't you worry. We will still love you just as much as we do now. We might have to pay more attention to this little one, but you will still be our little man."

"We want you to look out for your brother and make sure that he–"

"Or sister," my mother interrupted.

"Right," my father chuckled, "Look out for him or her. Make sure nobody messes with them and teach them the ropes, alright?"

I am still confused as to why this is supposed to be exciting news, but I reply, "Alright." After a moment I ask, "Since I'm going to be a big brother, can I get a new train set? The baby can have my old one, so I'll need a new one."

"Haha! Thinking like a businessman already, I like it. Yeah, bud, we can go to the toy store this weekend."

I smile down at my mother's stomach. I take back my previous statement. This baby is exciting news.

As the days turn into weeks, I can sense a change at Darcy manor. The staff smiles at each other more as if they are all in on some huge secret. Nobody pays as much attention to me, so I am able to stay up past my bedtime and eat more sweets at dinnertime. One time, I spent all day playing outside instead of attending lessons and nobody scolded me. I guess this baby is a really big deal.

Suddenly, the good cheer was replaced by darkness and gloom. I got scolded more often for little things like not picking up my toys or staying outside a little too long. My father did not pick me up and play airplane with me, and my mother did not read me a bedtime story for three weeks. I checked the post religiously awaiting the arrival of the baby, but nothing showed up. When I asked my mom when the baby would be delivered, she turned away from me and started to cry; and then my mother picked me up and held me close while she sobbed. She told me that there would not be a baby anymore and that I would not be a big brother right now. I was sad because my mother was sad, but I told her that we could buy another one when we go to the store. She laughed through her tears, and I smiled.

I heard mentions of a baby two more times after that, but no baby ever showed up and there were two more instances of intense gloom that came over the house. Four years after I was falsely told that I would be a big brother, I noticed my mother's stomach growing larger, and I noticed that she was tired more often. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me that she was pregnant again. She did not say it with the same joy as the first time she told me, but there was still hope in her eyes. Every care and precaution was taken for my mother. A maid accompanied her everywhere, and she was not allowed to overexert herself. She was given special "pregnancy" meals and she spent most of her time in her room. The doctor visited weekly, sometimes twice a week.

Weeks from my tenth birthday, I finally became a big brother. I remember how everybody cooed over my little brother Michael when he was placed in my mother's arms. She held him reverently and stared into his shrunken face. I thought he was quite ugly and didn't look human at all, but I was happy that my mother seemed so happy. My father reached over to stroke the baby's head when suddenly, in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, he turned blue and stopped breathing.

My mother thrust him at the doctor and screamed, "What's wrong? What do I do? Tell

me! Help me!"

The doctor rushed to my mother and grabbed the baby from her shaking hands. I stared in horror as the pinkish gray skin of my new little brother turned blue and his face scrunched up in anguish. I remained quiet, watching from the corner as the doctor and nurse fussed over the little human. My mother was in hysterics and my father was simultaneously attempting to calm her down and yell at the doctors to fix little Michael.

"What's wrong with him? He was fine a few seconds ago." My father yelled at the frantic doctor and nurses.

My mother was wailing. "I'm cursed. It's my fault. I killed him! I killed my baby!"

I stood watching confused, terrified, stricken by the scene playing out in front of me. I made no noise and no movement as the doctor told my parents that the baby suddenly died due to cessation of breathing. They think that his heart was not fully developed and that he was not pumping blood at a capacity to support life outside of the womb. I don't know if my parents heard any of that over my mother's weeping and my father's attempts to calm her.

"Do you want to hold your baby?" Neither of my parents paid the doctor any mind as he held the blue baby out to them. Unsure of what to do, the doctor and nurses looked amongst themselves. Compelled by a force outside of myself, I stepped forward and held out my arms.

"I'd like to hold him." My voice shook a little as everybody turned towards me.

"Oh, bud. I didn't realize you were still here. You shouldn't have to see this." My father reached out trying to grab my arm and pull me away from the commotion.

"No," I stated as I moved out of his reach. "He was my little brother even if just for a second. I'd like to say goodbye."

The doctor looked at my father for approval before placing the baby carefully in my arms. "Make sure to support him."

He was cold. Almost ice cold. His eyes were wide but there was nothing behind them. I could not bear to look into his eyes, so I reached up and pulled his eyelids closed before I whispered my sendoff. "I guess I'll never get to teach you how to play catch or beat dad at goldfish." I hear my father chuckle beside me. "I'm sorry you'll never get to hear one of mom's bedtime stories or try one of Betsy's amazing muffins or feel the summer sun on the back of your head. But for the time you were here, I hope it was special. It was special for me cause I got to be a big brother for a little while." My mother's wailing has subsided to sobs as everybody in the room listens to my farewell. "Goodbye, Michael, I'll miss you."

I turn back to my parents and hold the baby out to them. My mother takes the bundle from my hands, and I feel cold when my arms are emptied. She embraces the baby as my father pulls me into an embrace. "Well said, bud. I know your little brother appreciated it."

The doctor and nurses left my family, so we could grieve together. We stayed together all night, huddled over little Michael.

When my mother found out that she was pregnant for the sixth time, she showed no emotion. She did not tell anybody outside of my father and I, and she went about her life as usual. She did not decorate the nursery or think up names or ask me if I wanted a little sister or a little brother. She did none of those things because she could not allow herself to be crushed again from misplaced hope. When Grace was born without any complications and with minimal pain, my mother refused to hold her until the doctor confirmed that she was completely healthy. They listened to her little heart and checked her little lungs. My mother refused to get attached to a baby that might die in her arms as Michael had. When her health had been confirmed, my mother held Grace in her arms and cried for a long time. Finally, she passed the little girl to my father who held her for a few moments before placing her in my trembling arms. I looked into her face enthralled by the tiny human in front of me. She had the deepest blue eyes and tufts of wispy blonde hair on her soft head. She was fussing a little, probably smothered by all of the blankets wrapped around her. I stared at her for a long time unable to fathom that I was holding such a tiny human - one that was alive. The moment I set my eyes on her, I fell in love. I had such a deep desire to protect this little infant from any emotional or physical harm that might come her way. My mother was still crying when I placed Grace back in her arms.

"My sweet, sweet baby girl," she whispered, "My sweet, sweet baby girl."

I looked up from my chair and saw my father wiping at his eyes.

Although my mother loved Grace with all of her heart, she did not allow herself to hope that Grace would make it through infancy; but when she defied all odds and made it to her second birthday surpassing every milestone – walking at 9 months, talking in sentences just before 2 years of age, smiling, laughing, bringing joy to everyone around her – my mother finally let out the breath she had been holding since the pregnancy was confirmed. When Grace died of pneumonia days before her third birthday the gloom that fell over the Darcy house was palpable. I couldn't be in the house for too long or the grief would suffocate me. Days after the doctor had pronounced my sister dead and offered his condolences, my mother stayed in the nursery holding my sister's cold hands unable to muster the strength to shed a single tear.

November 2, 1970, marked the worst day of my mother's life. Her miracle child had been snatched away from her. After that, my mother had a hysterectomy to prevent the possibility of conceiving again and devoted all of her maternal energy to me which was both a blessing and a curse. I love my mom. She is an amazing woman who gives amazing advice but losing so many children has made her fearful of losing me. She gets anxious when she senses me pulling away. Our relationship was very strained when I went off to college. She expected me to call to check in twice a day – once when I woke up and once before I went to bed. The amount of time I spent glued to the floor phone, fielding questions from my mother about how much sleep I was getting and how hard classes were, made the other boys in my dorm house think I had a devoted sweetheart waiting for me at home.

Moving out of my parents' house after graduating college was another stressor on our relationship, alleviated by my assurance of living not more than a twenty-minute drive away. I also am required to have brunch with my parents every Sunday and check in with my mother every so often. As we look into expanding Pemberley Productions and maybe setting up offices in other cities, my mother has become worried that I will move away indefinitely.

I unlock the front door and push my way in. The house is eerily quiet, so my mother must have retired to her sitting room. I make my way to the back of the house, careful not to make too much noise. I do not want to get into any lengthy conversations with the staff about what supplies the house needs or what I will like for the dinner I have no intentions of staying for.

The door to the sitting room is slightly ajar, but I knock and wait for the "It's open!" before I make my way to the couch on which my mother is lounging. The blinds are drawn casting an eerie shadow everywhere that is not illuminated by the artificial light streaming down from the overhead chandelier. The soft notes of Bing Crosby's rendition of La Vie En Rose float through the air. My mother is perched on the chaise with her back to the armrest and her feet tucked under her midnight blue day dress. Her heels are neatly seated at the foot of the couch. Her lips are painted red and her black beauty mark is a little higher on her cheek than usual. Post it notes are overflowing from the large dog-eared book sitting on her lap. She is checking over the book of designs for her newest collection of couture clothing.

"William, darling, come look at this and tell me what you think."

"Mother, you know I don't know anything about women's fashion." I roll my eyes good-naturedly as I sink into a chair close to the chaise my mother is currently occupying.

She closes her book and looks up at me with her warm brown eyes. "When you were younger, I used to ask you to point to your favorite design of the collection and whatever you chose ended up being my finale piece. Do you remember?"

I nod smiling, "I remember. You would let me rifle through the pages and make suggestions. They were always such stupid suggestions like make the models wear alien antennas or have them walk with no shoes."

My mother returns my smile and leans over to place a hand on my cheek. "I'm sorry about being so pushy at brunch on Sunday. I was overstepping. You know me. When I see a problem, I rush to fix it." She looks down at her lap. "Sometimes I try to fix things that aren't broken. I just care about you so much. I want to make sure that you're settled with a family of your own before I pass on."

I roll my eyes again. "Mom, you're only in your forties. You're not dying anytime soon."

"You're right. I have no need to worry, but… life is short and who knows what cards will be dealt us next." My mother closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Once she opens her eyes she says, "If you're happy, I'm happy. I promise not to talk about marriage, courting, or eligible young ladies unless you bring it up first. But, fair warning, if you do bring it up, I will make a big deal about it and meddle, meddle, meddle."

"Fair enough," I concede with a smile.

My mother looks up at the ticking clock hanging overhead and her eyes grow wide. "Is it already so late? I've been here by myself for hours." She conceals a yawn behind her right hand and brings her legs from underneath her. "I think it's time for me to retire for the night. I am completely exhausted." She perks up excitedly. "I've been working on plans for a home décor line. Clothes don't interest me as they once did. It's time to branch out. Once the collection for this season is finalized, I'm going to devote my full attention to pieces for the home. I am thinking of starting with a line of convenient but stylish dinnerware." My mother looks at me with unabashed excitement before continuing, "I just love the design and concept phase of a collection. Coming up with ideas is tiring but oh so much fun."

My mother slips her heels back on and stands to leave but does not head directly for the door when she has her heels back on. She stands in front of me and looks directly into my eyes before stating, "They weren't stupid suggestions. I have always and will always value your input." My mother flips to the back of her book, pulls out a photo, and hands it to me. Before I have time to take in the picture she has already walked out of the sitting room and is on her way up the stairs. The black and white photo is a little blurry, but in it I can distinctly see a younger version of my mother smiling widely at the camera exhilarated as a tall, barefoot woman stands next to her wearing the shimmery silver dress I remember declaring "a winner" many years ago.