Page 15 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

Carol Berlinger

Director of Human Resources

Foothills Stoneworks

“WELL, LOOK WHO DECIDED TO grace us with his presence,” Amelia says as I walk into the kitchen of our childhood home. Although it’s not the same kitchen, since it’s been updated. Gone are the dents in the cabinets Amelia and I left, as well as the crack in the tile flooring (also courtesy of me and Amelia). However, the height milestones Sharpied on the wall next to the pantry remain, including Macey’s.

“Zane,” our mom says, looking happy to see me. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

For the last who-knows-how-long, probably since Amelia and I both moved back after college, we’ve been having dinner once a month as a family. Sometimes her boyfriend, Garrett, joins us, and quite often Macey comes with, but today Amelia’s by herself. I’m guessing Macey isn’t here because she’s getting ready for her Pride and Prejudice trip, and who knows where that loser Garrett is, but I’m glad he’s not here.

“Changed my mind,” I say as I walk over to where my mom is stirring mashed potatoes on the stainless-steel, top-of-the-line cooktop and give her a side hug. She leans her head in toward me, and the lavender smell of the shampoo she’s used since I can remember fills me with nostalgia.

I don’t want to tell them that I couldn’t sit in my room for one more minute, overthinking everything. It’s my second day of vacation and I’m no closer to knowing what I want. Not that I expected to figure it out that fast, but I thought maybe I’d have some breakthroughs. Of course, I watched the Cowboys lose last night and have been bed rotting most of today, looking at TikTok, which hasn’t been helping and only proves there are a lot of stupid people out there.

“You look like crap,” Amelia says from her perch at the end of the oversized island, phone in hand.

“Thank you,” I say flatly, and then point to the bird’s nest she has her dark hair pulled up into. “You’re not looking so great yourself.”

She scowls at me, reaching up to adjust her hair, which does nothing.

“Where’s your dumb boyfriend?” I ask my sister.

“He had a work thing,” she says. “And he’s not dumb.”

“Sure.”

“You’re the dumb one.” Amelia glances over to make sure our mom isn’t looking before flipping me off.

“I saw that,” our mom says, still working on her mashed potatoes with her back to us. I still don’t know how she does it, but Beth Porter doesn’t miss a thing.

Some things never change—like Amelia and I bickering, and Mom catching us in the act. But some things do. These days, Amelia and I aren’t just siblings; we’re roommates, sharing a condo neither of us planned to stay in this long.

The rent is cheap, at least. Cheap, as in free. Foothills did all the stonework on the exterior and interior of the upscale complex we currently live in, and part of the deal my dad negotiated was a great rate on a top-level unit. I think my parents wanted it as a temporary place for either of their children to stay when the need came up, rather than us moving back home. I don’t think they intended for both of us to live there for the past two years.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?” Amelia asks as I grab a glass from the cupboard nearest the fridge—where the cups have always been.

I turn toward my mom, who’s sporting a very sheepish grin. Pretty sure my dad told her about my situation, and told her not to tell anyone, but she had to tell Amelia, because my mom is terrible at keeping secrets. Based on Amelia’s question, though, I don’t think she has the full story, which I’m grateful for.

“Yeah,” is all I say.

“Why?” she asks.

I know Amelia, and she’ll pester me until she gets it out of me. But not this time.

“Why what?” I ask, just to be annoying.

“Why are you taking time off? I thought you had a project coming up that you couldn’t miss.”

I lift my shoulder and then let it drop. “Turns out I can.”

“Why?”

I glance over at my mom, who’s busy getting something from the fridge. She gives me a soft, knowing smile, and I give her one back, grateful she isn’t saying the reason for my break out loud. It’s not that I think Amelia would rub it in or use it against me. She’s never wanted any part of running Foothills; she’s always wanted to do her own thing. It’s just that I don’t want to rehash the whole thing right now.

“I’m overworked and needed some time to decompress, that’s all.”

“Okay,” she says, with a casual flick of her shoulders.

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