“Ooh, do you think he will have asked her yet?” Margaret walked on top of a garden wall; her arms splayed like an airplane as she attempted to maintain her balance. She tripped, but a friendly weeping cherry pushed her gently upright so that she didn’t fall.
“Get down from there!” Mary said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“And probably break the wall with your head,” Elinor added for good measure.
Margaret had been asking similar questions all morning, usually with her kissy-kissy face, which Elinor found really annoying. On the fifth or sixth time, Elinor had shared one exasperated look with their mother, and seeing she was in total agreement, they had both marched her annoying kid sister out of the cottage on the pretext of going into town to do a bit of shopping. Margaret was never one to pass up on the chance of a candy bar, and now they were returning home. Marianne said Willoughby would be there at ten, and it was now almost eleven. Surely that was enough time for them to have discussed their business.
The consensus of all was that he intended to bond with her, and all that remained was the blessing of some guardian or relative, assuming incubi cared about such things, which it seemed they did.
So they were all surprised when they got near the front door and Marianne came running out past them, her eyes glistening with tears.
“Wait, what?!” Elinor exclaimed.
“Oh, just leave me alone, will you?” Marianne disappeared behind some trees. Their branches moved as if stirred by a breeze, but there was no breeze; the trees had sensed Marianne’s distress and were calling to her. The replanted Norland Park shrubs were especially upset. For the first time, they shared their feelings with the tall, aloof Maine pines surrounding them. Their different branches reached out to each other and touched in a tender, almost human gesture. Elinor swallowed hard and looked away. Hell, too many feelings….
Margaret was about to go after her, but Elinor caught her in time and shook her head. Whatever was going on, Marianne clearly needed some time alone. “Give her a minute,” she whispered. “Go inside. We’ll find out what happened later.”
Margaret frowned, but she knew better than to go against Elinor, so she stomped into the cottage and was soon heard running upstairs. Margaret’s bedroom door slammed just as Elinor and Mary went inside.
Willoughby was standing in the kitchen. Though not crying himself, he looked upset.
“What’s going on?” Mary asked. “What did you say to my daughter to make her cry?”
“I, um, that is to say, I, er, have to get out of town for a bit.”
“Oh?” Elinor said, desperately trying to keep the cynicism from her voice. “Why’s that?”
“My boss, um, well, he’s given me anoth––I mean, a new assignment.”
“Well, okay,” Elinor said reasonably. “I’m sure Marianne will be happy to wait until you get back.”
“Yes, well, the thing is––that is to say––I’m not exactly sure when that will be. It might be some time, maybe even a year or so. It’s, um, down in the south.”
“Well, that’s a bit sudden,” Mary said. “Still, I’m sure your boss is a reasonable man and will give you a few days to wrap up your affairs here in Maine. And you know, maybe Marianne could come and visit you in a few weeks? As you know, money’s a bit tight, but as they say, where there’s a will, there’s a way. I’m sure something could be worked out. My daughter would be delighted, I’m sure.”
“Yes, well, I see, actually, look––oh this is ridiculous. I’m sorry, I have to go.” And without another word, he pushed past Elinor and made a dash for the door. Before Elinor or Mary had a chance to turn around, the door slammed shut behind him.
“Well, what was all that about?” Mary said, clearly trying to overcome her astonishment.
Sweet Gaia’s mercy, Elinor thought, had Marianne broken away from him and fled as he’d tried to paw her? What if she hadn’t been able to run out of the house? What if they hadn’t returned home when they did? “Beats me,” Elinor said. “I’m sure we’ll find out more from Marianne when she calms down.”
Perhaps it was something in Elinor’s tone, but her mother looked at her suspiciously. “I can tell you’re thinking the worst.”
Elinor shook her head. “I’m trying not to, but Mom, he’s an incubus. Perhaps we should never have encouraged this friendship in the first place. It was only ever going to lead to trouble. We all knew that.”
“Did we?” Mary said bitterly. “Maybe you did, but the rest of us believe in giving people chances. It wouldn’t hurt for you to hope for the best once in a while!”
This time it was her mom’s turn to storm off, and Elinor found herself alone. With a sigh, she wandered over to the kitchen and shaking the tea kettle, she discovered it was empty. As she poured cold water into it, she wondered how much of what Willoughby had said was true. It was a small world these days, and what was the inconvenience of a few miles to people who were genuinely in love? As her mother had just pointed out, Willoughby would be just a plane ride away. And yet her sister had looked inconsolable. Sure, Marianne was a little highly strung at the best of times, but there had to be something more behind this than what met the eye.
Perhaps the two had a little lover’s tiff? If that were the case, then in a few hours or days, all would be well again. But in her heart of hearts, Elinor knew there was more to it than that. Willoughby was leaving, and from the sound of things, he had no intention of coming back. Naturally, Marianne would be upset, but maybe this was a good thing. If she was right, and Willoughby was going to prove to be a total lemon after all, then maybe his leaving would be for the best. Not that Marianne would see that. Not for a while anyway.
Elinor lit the burner under the kettle and stared at the wall. Love. What a crazy business it was. Did anyone ever really understand the ways of it? She sure as hell didn’t, but each to their own. Elinor pulled clean cups from the upper cupboard and pondered such things as she fixed them all a cup of tea. Maybe she would make lemon ricotta cake to cheer everyone up. She realized she could do with a bit of cheering up herself.