Page 72 of A Searing Acquaintance
At Elizabeth’s nod, she continued. “I suspect he likely placed a call or two to an old family friend.” She gestured to a photo of a smiling Reggie Jackson. “He mentioned Reggie and Derek are in your book.”
Elizabeth sank further into the chair and nodded. She should have known. She should have put it all together when that call came in asking about marketing opportunities for retired athletes. Mr. Philips had enthusiastically passed it on to her, proudly telling her he had set up a meeting with Reggie Jackson, andthathad led to a meeting with Derek Jeter.
“It isn’t just box seats, is it?” she managed to say. “Your nephew said his mother knew one of the Steinbrenners.”
“Yes, she did. Our family remains friendly with them.”
It was him. It was all him.The younger woman looked up. “I don’t understand why he did this, why he took such a risk of the blackmail becoming known. He would never do anything to hurt his mother.”
Ms. De Bourgh didn’t acknowledge her. “I’ve spoken with theattorneys. The story will go no further; the files will remain closed. No one beyond this small circle—you and I, Richard, Fitzwilliam, and two attorneys—will know. Your name—and my sister’s—will remain pristine. May she rest in peace.”
Elizabeth mustered a sad smile. “From what your nephews have said, your sister was a wonderful person.”
The older woman raised a hand to her chest and gently rubbed her pearls. “She was. But she was human, and she made mistakes.”
“But those mistakes should remain private,” Elizabeth said urgently. “They shouldn’t influence how you see a person or how you remember them.” She blanched as she spoke the words.I couldn’t have figured this out months ago?
She looked up and saw Ms. De Bourgh staring at her almost warmly. “As I said, Ms. Bennet, this knowledge stays within our small circle.”
Elizabeth smiled weakly and nodded her head. “Of course.”
“Your book looks quite interesting. I’ll have to pick up a few copies for my employees. It’s out soon?”
“September.”
“I see.” Ms. De Bourgh stood up and walked to the door. She grasped the doorknob and, pausing, turned around and looked at Elizabeth. “He did this for you. Remember that.”
Elizabeth took a final sip of her iced coffee and tucked her phone back into her purse. Shifting her position on the hard bench, she watched the Saturday crowd stream past her toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Charlotte’s summer cold had blown up into a full-fledged bronchial infection, and she’d just called to cancel their date for the museum’s American wing in favor of antibiotics and Bill’s special cinnamon tea. Elizabeth stretched her arms and looked up at the billowing clouds. She was sorry for Charlotte, but after two days of rain, she recognized it was too beautiful a day to go inside and stare at paintings. New York was rarely lovely in early August, but today was simply gorgeous. She decided to enjoy the sunny, unusually cool summer weather and ignore those darker clouds off to the west. Elizabeth grabbed her sweater, tied it around her waist, and headed down Fifth Avenue.
After strolling into Central Park and joining the ebb and flow ofweekend strollers, it didn’t take her long to notice that, aside from the runners and bikers and a few elderly men talking to themselves, almost everyone was one half of a couple: couples holding hands, couples with their children or dogs, couples sharing ice cream, couples with their arms slung casually around each other’s waists or hands tucked in back pockets.Since when has Central Park become like a high school homecoming dance?She frowned. Her last “date” had been with Asher, whom she’d met two weeks earlier while waiting to see an editor at Dillard & Mather Publishing. She’d been nervous enough—sitting there with her five-chapter sample ofA Cold Decade: Blacklisted in America—to agree to a coffee date where they could compare notes on their respective meetings. Hers had gone very well, and Elizabeth had carried her happy mood into a coffee shop down the street. But after ten minutes of overpriced coffee, she was smart enough to know that, while books about talking cats might be sure bets for the best-seller list, there was no way she could take seriously a man who wrote stories in the voice ofSmoogles, the Grouchy Tabby.
Since when did I stop checking out guys?She pondered that for a second before immediately answering her own question.Since I kissed Fitzwilliam Darcy at Netherfield.
Over the course of the last forty-eight hours, Elizabeth had tried hard not to dwell on her conversation with Catherine De Bourgh. She’d tried even harder not to dwell upon all the mistakes she’d made, careless words she’d spoken, and stupid misapprehensions she’d projected onto the woman’s nephew.He’s a good man. That was the nicest thing she’d ever said about him, and it was utterly inadequate to describe the sum of all things Fitzwilliam Darcy. She wanted to see him. She needed to thank him—to apologize for her stupidity and blindness. He’d done things for her, pulled strings, called in favors…for her. She loved him, and it was too late.
They could be friends. He’d helped her because he felt guilty. She was certain he couldn’t see her as anything more than a friend, not now, not after he’d been trapped in Sylvia’s vise-like grip and seen her own gullibility to a slick-talking blackmailer. How could a man like him—a rich, serious, brilliant, handsome man of the world—even look at her as he once had before he knew the truth? She hated feeling this low. She used to love August, the end of summer and the beginning of back-to-school fever. But that was over. Time to look ahead. The book would be in stores next month. What else could possibly be more important?
Seeing him. Thanking him.
She knew four of the big Ws behind what he’d done for her; she knew the Who, What, When, and Where of it all. But she didn’t know theWhy.Ms. De Bourgh’s theory that he had done itfor herwas too unlikely to even think about. It was impossible to know what to say to him—to just pick up the phone, which she’d done at least a dozen times, and call him.
Elizabeth sighed and stopped at a vendor to buy a soft pretzel. After a few bites, she wrapped up the rest, put it in her bag, and headed toward Strawberry Fields, figuring that would be a good, albeit melancholy, place to mix with tourists and families and hear some nice acoustic sing-alongs. She veered to her right, heading toward the wide expanse of Poet’s Walk, and then she saw him.
Darcy.
There he was, standing in a wrinkled suit in Central Park, unshaven, without a tie, on a Saturday morning. She blushed, angry with herself, when the phrase “walk of shame” popped into her mind. Elizabeth stepped off to the side of the path, away from the ebb and flow, and stared. Darcy didn’t look like his usual well-groomed self, but he looked wonderful. A leather messenger bag was slung over one shoulder, and he was handing a truck to a little boy. She watched him bend over, then fall to one knee as he spoke to the toddler. It looked to be an animated discussion. She could hear snatches of the conversation. “Back hoe…articulated dump truck…Mike Mulligan.”
A voice cried out, “Jeremy! Snack time!”
Darcy rose and walked with the child over to a woman on a park bench. Elizabeth leaned forward and heard his deep voice. “Jeremy knows a lot about trucks…” But before she could learn more, a large group of teenagers ambled past and blocked her view and her hearing.
Finally, the crowd thinned, and Elizabeth saw Darcy walking away from the woman, who was beaming at him. And, she realized, the wench was checking out his backside. The picture of domesticity made her heart clench.
He pulled out his phone, and staring at it, began walking toward her. When he was only a few feet away, she lifted her hand and called his name.
“Hey, Darcy.”
His head shot up, and he stared at her, his face drained of color.
