The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (28 page)

We haven’t seen her since. And hopefully never will.

Please, universe, please say that is the last of the drama I can expect for a while. I could use some normal. I have a prospectus to write, and I would really like to make some serious headway
on it before Charlotte and I hit the road home for (woo-hoo!) Thanksgiving next week.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to leave the building. And I am so ready to go home.

Tomorrow, that is. Charlotte still has some last-minute adjustments to make to the Game of Gourds online trailer for its Thanksgiving release. Ricky has already left the building and fled to the
great northern paradise of Winnipeg, Manitoba, where he will spend the holiday in a country that celebrated their Thanksgiving weeks earlier. But he’s calling every fifteen minutes or so, and
relaying instructions from Ms. De Bourgh about the best font and filter. (Note, the best font and filter were chosen and locked a month ago, but hey, let’s question everything
last-minute.)

Actually, I shouldn’t be too harsh on Ricky. I’ve gotten to know him a lot better over the course of these past two months, and he’s not that bad. He’s . . . he’s
actually pretty nice, in a vaguely disconcerting way. He even offered me a job upon graduation.

“Should you have no other means of supporting yourself, of course,” he clarified. “And it will not be nearly as lucrative as the package you refused and Ms. Lu accepted lo
these many months ago, but your talent would be an asset. Especially at a cut rate.”

Believe it or not, I’ll miss Collins & Collins. The cheesy Halloween and Thanksgiving decorations I put up. The morning meeting and the coffee room. Of course, I’ll miss
Charlotte the most. I am thoroughly convinced I did the right thing in not taking the job, but being at Collins & Collins has been an eye-opening experience. Heck, I’ll even miss Ricky
Collins, a little.

But I won’t miss Ricky enough to go along with his plan to force Charlotte to stay here through Thanksgiving, just to make certain the Game of Gourds trailer gets uploaded as scheduled.
(First of all, it’s scheduled within the system, so it should go off without a hitch. And secondly, it’s a task that can be monitored from literally any computer
anywhere
.)
Nope, now that Ricky is out of the building and out of the country, I fully intend to whisk Charlotte out the door, tomorrow, for a well-deserved holiday. No matter how many times he calls her and
asks for minuscule changes to the trailer.

It’s going to be turkey, stuffing, and Mrs. Bennet’s southern sweet potato pie. Home, here we come!

“Too . . . much . . . pie . . .”

That was the refrain from all three Bennet sisters, as we lay on the floor of the den, slipping in and out of our Thanksgiving turkey comas. We’d just finished with dishes duty, Dad had
commandeered the living room TV for his annual re-watch of
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
, and Mom was lying down, exhausted from the intense schedule of cooking, serving, and
passive-aggressively questioning her elder daughters about the state of their lives.

“That’s my Jane, looking lovely as ever,” Mom had said as she ladled out more mashed potatoes. “But I’m just so worried about you in Los Angeles! Why, your
car!”

“My car will be fine, Mom,” Jane replied with characteristic patience. “It was parked, and the side-view mirror got knocked off; insurance is taking care of the
repairs.”

“Until then, I am happy to ferry you to and from the train station,” our dad interjected.

“But you are not eating enough in Los Angeles, are you?” Mom had continued. “When girls move away from home they never eat enough. Unless they have a nice boyfriend to take
them out for fancy meals. I don’t suppose you ever ran into Bing in the city?”

Way to be circumspect, Mom.

But Jane handled it well. “No. I’m busy, he’s busy. Can I have more green beans, please?”

“Oh, me, too!” Lydia piped up, and shoved her plate under Mom’s nose.

Mom could never turn down a request for more food.

“What about you, Lizzie?” Mom then said. “How is Charlotte doing at Collins & Collins?”

“She’s doing great, Mom.”

“Oh, so you mean her life
wasn’t
ruined by taking the very generous job offer in her field?” she replied, her voice more tart than cranberry sauce. “That’s
so strange. I could have sworn that’s what you thought would happen to you.”

“It
is
what would have happened to me,” I answered back. “Can I have more green beans, too?”

“Yes, my dear, it seems Charlotte and Lizzie are actually different people,” my dad piped up between mouthfuls of stuffing. “I know you think they might have gotten switched at
the hospital, but I’m afraid Lizzie is ours—she has the Bennet ears.”

My mother sent my father a look that said he wouldn’t be getting any green beans.

“What about Mr. Collins?” she’d asked instead. “Is he still unmarried?”

“He’s
engaged
, Mom.”

As my mother chattered on about how “engaged isn’t the same thing as married,” and “Canadian women have no idea how to keep a man happy” (meanwhile, the entire
nation of Canada might have something to say about that, but I digress), my dad leaned over to me and whispered in my Bennet ear.

“I don’t know if you’re glad to be back, but I’m certainly glad to have you. It brings the relative amount of silly back down to tolerable levels.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me—it also swings her attention away from me to you.”

Even in the midst of my self-absorption (the Darcy thing was practically ringing in my ears all through dinner; I wanted to shout it at Mom when she started in on our love lives), I had noticed
that Mom and Dad have relaxed a bit in our absence. Dad mentioned going to bridge at the club again. Mom winked at him while she served the cranberry sauce. And she wasn’t forced to skimp on
the turkey.

Seriously, it was a thirty-pound turkey.

As we were clearing the table, and Mom was having her well-deserved glass of wine and putting her feet up—she would be snoozing in minutes—I pulled Dad aside.

“So . . . how have things been?” I asked him.

“I think you’ll find we’ve been chugging along without you, my dear—although I do enjoy having you back.”

Maybe it was the fact that I had been away, and I could see things a little clearer with distance. Maybe it was my recent introduction to direct confrontation via William Darcy, but I decided
not to tiptoe around my father.

“Have you been having any more problems with the bank?”

There, I said it. Bold as brass, like an adult. And my dad looked up from his load of plates like he was realizing I was one for the first time.

“I sometimes wonder if we should have made you so smart and observant.” He shook his head. “Perhaps we would have been better served letting you play video games all day
long.”

“Dad . . .”

“The wolf is no longer at our heels, Lizzie, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It
was
what I was worried about—and had been for a while. But it felt so good to have an actual answer for once that I couldn’t just leave it at that.

“How?” I asked.

My dad began to load the dishwasher. Lydia and Jane were collecting the table linens in the dining room, so I knew I had a little time.

“Did you know we’d almost had the house paid off?” he finally said.

That was surprising, to say the least. “You did? When?”

“Five years ago—before my company downsized. It was either leave and try to find a different job in my fifties, or take a pay cut and hope for the best. I’d never saved for
retirement. The house was going to be our retirement. Since it was almost paid off, your mother and I thought that if we could make it through the next few years, when you girls would be out of the
house, we could simplify then.”

I’d known about my dad’s job, of course, and that having us three still at home long past our move-out dates was a burden. But I was reeling a little bit from hearing my dad talk
about it so bluntly.

“So we took out a new mortgage on the house, freed up some funds, and resigned ourselves to paying for it for a decade or so longer than expected. Then we made the mistake of carrying on
like nothing was different for five years.”

“So . . . over the summer . . .”

“Over this summer we fell a bit behind, and we had to have some conversations with the bank. That’s all.”

“God.” I took a deep breath. “No wonder you got so mad about Mom buying out the grocery store. I can’t believe she remodeled the kitchen, too!”

“Actually, remodeling the kitchen was a stroke of brilliance on your mother’s part. Once it was done we had the house reappraised, and discovered we had more equity in the home
now.”

I was going cross-eyed trying to keep up with all these real estate terms. Adult conversations are tough. “So what does that mean?”

“Basically, that means since the house is worth more, we owe less on it. And it’s kept the bank off our backs.” My dad closed the dishwasher and set it to run.

“Dad, that’s . . . great. You have no idea how great that is to hear. But—it could happen again pretty easily, right? I mean, should you be back playing bridge at the
club?”

“Allow an old man his foibles, Lizzie. I don’t have to justify every expense to you.” He winked at me as he said it, but it was a dismissal in every sense of the word. I just
shook my head. It’s awfully hard teaching old dogs new tricks, and if Mom and Dad hadn’t learned from this close brush with foreclosure, then when would they ever?

“We will muddle through, kiddo. We always do. And one of these days your mother will finally convince me to sell, and we’ll get a smart little condo on the other side of town. Just
big enough for two empty-nesters, and your quibbles about bridge at the club will seem silly.”

“Wait . . .” I said, confused. “
Mom
will convince you? Not the other way around?”

“Well, where on earth would I house my bonsai or train collections in a condo? Not to mention my daughters.” He smiled at me and shook his head. “I want you all to have a home
to come to. It’s not the same without you. And even in spite of your mother’s inquisition, and my sad financial planning, I hope you find coming home worth it.”

So that was pretty much Thanksgiving dinner. Conversations big and small. But as we girls lay on the floor of the den post-dishes, I knew Dad was right: the four-hour drive home with a Men At
Work tape (yes, tape) stuck in the player, and the entire meal’s worth of Mom’s cross-examination and then Dad’s adult talk, had been worth it. Because I was home again.

“But if I never see another slice of turkey again, I’ll die happy,” I moaned.

“Don’t speak too soon—if I know Mom, there will be turkey soup for the next week,” Jane replied, causing both me and Lydia to groan loudly.

“Don’t forget the stuffing,” Lydia whined. “OMG, if our viewers could see us now.”

“You mean
my
viewers?” I slid Lydia a look—although there wasn’t much to it; turning my head took more effort than I was willing to expend.

“No,
ours
—duh. My videos got views, too.”

Oh, yeah. Lydia’s videos. While I was away, she filmed some more of her own, and roped not only Mary but Jane into being on them. Also, her little trip to Los Angeles to visit said Jane?
Mom and Dad were unaware of it until Mom noticed her car was gone. Luckily, Jane called them, and then made Lydia call her professors.

But Lydia didn’t get interrogated at dinner, did she?

“Right. Your videos.”

“You haven’t watched them, have you?” Lydia asked, sitting up.

“I’m going to!” I said. “I’ve just had a lot of stuff going on.”

“They’re two minutes each.”

“Lydia,” Jane cautioned. “You saw how busy I was at work? And I haven’t had time to catch up on Lizzie’s videos. I promise you, Lizzie was working just as
hard.”

A little pool of dread began to form underneath all the food in my stomach. I knew Jane wasn’t caught up on my videos yet, because if she was, we would have talked. But she’s going
to have to be now. And I’m afraid that her heart is going to break all over again when she sees Darcy admit to what he did to her and Bing. And what Caroline said about her? She’ll have
to face the fact that we were completely deceived by Caroline—she was never Jane’s friend. Or mine.

I wonder if I should tell Jane about the contents of the letter. Or will it make any difference to her? Darcy doesn’t exactly apologize for what he did regarding her and Bing. In fact, he
outright defends himself.

That might hurt too much.

“Whatevs,” Lydia was saying, as she dug her phone out of her pocket and began texting. “You should totes watch my videos. The Los Angeles Adventures are particularly awesome. I
got
lots
of views. I made like enough in advertising to get some pretty cool Christmas gifts for certain someones,” she teased.

“That’s so sweet, Lydia,” I began, only to have cold water thrown over me.

“I know, right? I’ve been dying to get Kitty a super-awesome cat condo, so she’ll stop shredding my jeans. It’s not a good look.”

“As the fashion aficionado in the house, I have to agree,” Jane said, smiling at me. Then, as Lydia was distracted with her phone, she said low to me, “You really should watch
her videos.”

“I know,” I replied. “I will. First I’m going to die from overeating, though.”

“OMG!” Lydia bounced up out of her prone position on the floor, staring at her phone. “It’s Harriet—I have to take this!”

As Lydia jumped to her feet and began to jabber, I couldn’t help but feel wistful to have the food coma rebound capacity of a twenty-year-old. And I’m not that much older.

“Who’s Harriet?” I asked Jane.

“One of Lydia’s friends from school this year,” Jane replied. “Lydia’s been doing pretty well in her classes, you know.”