Chapter Fourteen
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Y’all know I am a sucker for a Nicholas Sparks movie. Today, I was thinking about a line from The Lucky One. She was struck by the simple truth that sometimes the most ordinary things could be made extraordinary, simply by doing them with the right people . . . Like a walk in the rain.
“Do you know what I fancy?”
Our sodden coats are hanging from hooks affixed to the foyer wall. Bingley is in the bathroom, blow-drying his golden curls, and Knightley has just finished building a fire in the fireplace. He has finger-combed his wet hair in place, but my hands itch to mess it up, to ruffle it until he looks less serious, until he looks a little dangerous. His damp white button-down is clinging to his chest, revealing chiseled pecs and a sprinkling of dark hairs. He is staring at me with those smoldering hazel eyes and—sweet lawd!—he doesn’t need ruffled hair to be dangerous.
“What do you fancy?”
He smiles, and my breath catches.
“A proper cup of tea.”
“Of course,” I say, my cheeks flushing with embarrassed heat. “You must think I am a rude American, not offering you a drink. I promise my daddy raised me right. Only . . .”
“Only?”
“The electric kettle stopped working this morning, and I don’t know how to light that bl—”
“Blasted stove?”
“I was going to say bleeping stove, but blasted works, too.”
“Come on.” He laughs, grabbing my hand. “I will show you how to light your bleeping stove.”
“You will?”
“Absolutely,” he says, leading me into the kitchen. “What sort of chap would I be if I allowed my favorite American to begin her new life in England without the means to make a proper cuppa?”
He shows me how to light the stove, taking me through the procedure step-by-step. I half pay attention, because in my head a clip of him calling me his favorite American is playing on loop. My favorite American. My favorite American. Knightley Nickerson is the first man who has made me feel like . . . like . . . like I don’t know what. Just all distracted and self-conscious.
“Your turn,” he says, extinguishing the stove and handing me a match. “Think you can manage it?”
I want to muster up some of my sister’s fierceness and audacity. Tara would slant a seriously sassy, seriously sexy look at him and say, Can I manage? A Southern woman is only helpless when her nails are wet, darlin’. Of course I can manage! Now, step your sexy self back because I am fixing to light me a stove.
I am not Tara.
I am tempted to do what I always do when faced with a daunting task: pout my bottom lip, bat my eyelashes, and ask a big, strong man for help. Instead, I take the match and, even though I fumble a step or two, I light that blasted, bleeping stove. I light it like nobody’s business!
“Well done, you!” Knightley cries.
I am so stinking proud of myself I can practically taste it! And you know what? It tastes as fine as a bag of bourbon balls from the Candy Kitchen, as a slice of Tara’s fresh-out-of-the-oven pecan pie. Shoot! It tastes as fine as the salty-sweet golden breading on a piece of Cane’s fried chicken.
I assemble the accoutrements necessary for a proper English tea tray and Knightley carries the tray into the living room.
“Bloody hell!” Bingley emerges from the bathroom, his curls artfully styled again, and collapses on the couch. “Why must I live in a climate that is not conducive to my coiffure? It is only half three and I am knackered from wrestling my curls—twice!” He notices the tea tray and leans forward. “Are these ginger crisps? Mind if I have one?”
I pour tea into three cups and offer the first cup to Knightley, trying not to react as his fingers touch mine. I hand Bingley the second cup and then settle myself in a chair across from the Nickerson men, balancing the delicate saucer on my hand.
“Thanks for the tea, Emma Lee,” Bingley says.
“Don’t thank me,” I say, smiling. “You would be dunking your ginger crisps in tepid tap water if your brother hadn’t shown me how to light that blasted stove.”
“What’s this?” He looks at his brother, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you possessed domestic skills, old bean.”
“This might astonish, Dear Brother, but there are things you don’t know about me.”
“Interesting,” Bingley says, stroking his chin. “I thought I was the only one with secrets.”
The brothers exchange an unreadable look—volumes of unspoken words passing between them in a single glance. Is it my imagination, or did Bingley’s comment seem to carry a deeper message? What secrets are Knightley hiding? I wonder.
“Bingley?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Why do you call your brother old bean?”
Bingley grins. “Well now”—he brushes ginger crumbs from his fingers and leans back, wriggling himself between two down pillows—“that is a story I would be happy to share.”
“Naturally,” Knightley says, rolling his eyes.
“Come now, old bean, you would not deny me the pleasure of sharing an embarrassing story, would you? After all, sharing a revealing story is the best way for people to become better acquainted, and we want to become better acquainted with Emma Lee, don’t we?”
“I would prefer if the story you shared revealed your humiliations.”
“Very well,” Bingley says, crossing his arms. “I will tell Emma Lee the reason I call you old bean, and then you tell her what happened the first time I flew on an airplane, the year we flew to Gstaad for Christmas.”
Knightley clears his throat.
“On second thought”—he shifts in his seat—“perhaps we should limit the stories to one per day. We don’t want to overwhelm the poor girl.”
“Ooo!” I clap my hand on my knee, causing my teacup to rattle against the saucer. A drop of tea splashes onto my knee. “Tell me what happened on your way to Gstaad! Something tells me it is a far more interesting story than the old bean one.”
Truth, y’all? They both sound like interesting stories, but Knightley’s palpable discomfort is rousing my protective, momma hen instincts.
“Right, then,” Bingley says, rubbing his hands together. “It was Knightley’s winter break during his first year at Oxford. This was when he was running with the Devonshire set.”
“Devonshire? As in the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire?”
“Yes.” Bingley looks at me quizzically. “Are you acquainted with the Duke of Devonshire?”
“I have no desire to be acquainted with him. I saw The Duchess.”
Knightley chuckles.
“The Duchess of Devonshire?”
“The Duchess was a movie, starring Keira Knightley and Ralph Fiennes,” Knightley explains. “A biographical drama about Georgiana Cavendish, the fifth Duchess of Devonshire. I believe that is the duchess to which Emma Lee was referring.”
“Did you know the screenplay was an adaptation of a book?”
“Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, by Amanda Foreman. Brilliant book,” Knightley says. “Did you read it?”
Oh, yes, I did! World History 101. My midterm assignment was to write an essay on a notable person from the eighteenth century. I watched The Duchess because I thought I could glean enough pertinent facts to bluff my way through a thousand words, but I was so moved by Georgiana’s loveless marriage and tragic affair with Charles Grey that I went straight to the library and checked out a copy of Amanda Foreman’s book.
“Why, yes,” I say, smiling proudly. “The Duchess of Devonshire’s influence on eighteenth-century British politics and fashion was the subject of one of my college papers. I idolize her. Georgiana is BAE!”
“Ugh,” Bingley says, wrinkling his nose. “For the sake of our rapidly developing friendship, I am going to pretend you did not just utter that wretched slang word. It’s sooo two thousand sixteen.”
I roll my eyes and mouth the word whatever.
Knightley chuckles.
The first notes of Ed Sheeran’s latest love ballad begin playing. I jump up, run over to the foyer, and fish my iPhone out of the pocket of my Burberry. I look at the screen. It’s Lexi. I excuse myself and step into the kitchen.
“Hey, girl,” I say. “What’s up?”
Lexi sniffles.
“Lex?”
“C-C-Cash said he needs a b-b-break,” she sobs.
I sink down onto a kitchen chair, feeling as if the wind has been violently knocked from my lungs.
“A break-break?” I say. “A Ross-and-Rachel break?”
Ross and Rachel, two characters from the television show Friends, took a break from dating each other, with Ross immediately engaging in a drunken hookup with a skank he met in a bar.
“No,” Lexi sniffs. “Not a Ross-and-Rachel break.”
“What kind of a break?”
“He wants to go on a boys only weekend to Pigeon Forge.”
“Pigeon Forge? Where in God’s creation is Pigeon Forge?”
“Tennessee.”
“Tennessee?”
“Right.”
“What is there to do in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee?”
“That’s what I asked!” Lexi does a sad little laugh-cry. “He said he just wants to blow off a little steam with his boys. Do a little fishing, maybe hit a water park.”
“Is that all?” I laugh. “Girl, let the boy have his break.”
“You think?”
“Cash loves you or he wouldn’t have gotten down on one knee and asked you to marry him in front of his momma, your momma, and half of Charleston!”
“You think?”
“Alexandria Armistead!” I adopt my best scolding, Manderleylike voice. “It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is that you know the man you are about to promise to love, honor, and obey forever and ever, amen, loves you as much as you love him!”
“You’re right.”
“No doubts?”
“No doubts.” She takes a deep, jagged breath. “You’re the best, Ems.”
“Yes, I am!”
We laugh.
“How are things there?”
“Great!”
“Are you making friends?”
I lean forward and crane my neck so I can look out into the living room. Knightley and Bingley are chatting quietly.
“I am making friends,” I say, lowering my voice. “In fact, I am entertaining now. A proper afternoon tea party.”
“Who are the girls?”
I cup my hand around my mouth.
“They’re not girls.”
“Boys?” she squeals. “You’re having an afternoon tea party with boys?”
“Proper English boys.”
“Are they cute?”
I look at the back of Knightley’s head, the rectangle of exposed skin between his white shirt collar and dark hairline, and feel that flushed-all-over feeling again.
“One of them is very cute.”
“How cute?”
“Lexi! They’re right here.”
“I don’t care! I need a reading, please. Where does the cute English boy fall on the Disney hero hotness scale?”
Flynn Rider!
“I don’t know, Lexi,” I say, still whispering behind my hand. “I have to go.”
“Uh-uh. Where, Ems? Prince Phillip? Shang? Eric?”
“Eric? Ugh! That chauvinist?”
“Okay, which hero?”
“You’re a nag.”
“Oh my god! He’s a Flynn Rider. Isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “Now hush.”
“Try to snap a selfie with him. I want to see.”
“I am not snapping a selfie with him.”
“You love selfies.”
“I really do have to go now,” I say, raising my voice again. “Listen, Lex, stop worrying about Cash. Let him go on his little weekend. While he’s whooping it up in Pigeon Gorge—”
“—Forge.”
“Grab your girls and hit the spa.”
“Ooo, that sounds like fun, but it would be way more fun if you were here. I miss you, Emma Lee.”
“I miss you, too.”
We say good-bye and disconnect. I walk back into the living room, misty-eyed, a tiny bit homesick, and concerned about Lexi’s insecurity. I sit across from Knightley and force a bright smile.
“Sorry about the interruption.”
“Is there something wrong?” Knightley asks.
“My best friend needed me to talk her down from an emotional ledge.” I retrieve my cup from where I left it on the tray and take a sip of the lukewarm tea. I am not thirsty, but Knightley is staring at me with such concern, like he knows my smile is as fake as Kylie Jenner’s lips, that I want to avert my gaze. A Southern woman doesn’t burden others with her concerns. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes! Bingley, you were about to tell me what Knightley did to earn the nickname old bean.”
“Yes, I was!” Bingley grins like a gargoyle and rubs his hands together. “Knightley went off to Oxford wearing jeans, a Swansea football jersey, and trainers. He returned that first winter break looking like a character from Jeeves and Wooster—”
“Jeeves and Wooster?”
“An old British comedy series starring Hugh Laurie,” Knightley explains. “It was based on the works of P. G. Wodehouse.”
“P. G. Wodehouse,” I repeat. “Of course.”
Of course, I have not heard of P. G. Wodehouse and I have not read her (his?) works. I can only hope Bingley will describe how a Wodehouse character might dress.
“Knightley strolled into the library wearing a Savile Row tweed jacket, a silk ascot tucked into his button-down, and a pipe clenched between his teeth.”
“I have never smoked a pipe,” Knightley protests.
“I remember a pipe.” Bingley sniffs.
“There was no pipe.” Knightley rolls his eyes, and I laugh.
“It pains me to admit this now, but I was obsessed with Assassin’s Creed and spent an inordinate amount of time with a PlayStation controller in my hand, fighting off Crusader attacks on the home base.”
I have a difficult time imagining someone as stylish and energetic as Bingley Nickerson loafing around paying video games.
“Knightley strolled into the library, pipe clenched between his teeth, and declared in a nasal voice, Video games will bloody well rot your brain, Bingley. Reading is a far healthier pursuit for a lad, develops the intellect, and all that.” Bingley is practically snorting with laughter. “Then he thrust a copy of The Inimitable Jeeves in my hands and strolled out of the room.”
“I have never affected a nasally tone,” Knightley says.
“I remember a nasally tone.” Bingley wraps his arm around his middle and leans forward, hooting with laughter. “I borrowed a line from The Inimitable Jeeves and began greeting Knightley by saying, I say, Old Bean, frightfully good to see you. That is how he became old bean.”
I laugh until I remember Isabella telling me her husband passed away the year Knightley went to university. I glance at Knightley. He is smiling at Bingley the same way Manderley smiles at me when I needle her for being too serious. I suddenly wonder if Knightley’s old bean routine was an attempt at being the man of the house, the same way Manderley assumed a maternal role after our momma died. Knightley notices me looking at him. I expect him to be self-conscious, but he shows no signs that he is embarrassed.
“I would be crazy rich if someone had given me a dollar every time my sister Manderley said, Read a book, Emma Lee. Read a book! Read a book! Lawd! It annoyed me something fierce.”
“Right?” Bingley asks.
“Right,” I say. “Only . . .”
“Only?”
“Only, I wish I would have listened to her and read a few of those books. Manderley is the smartest person I know. She is creative and clever, a brilliant conversationalist. She can talk to practically anyone about practically anything.” I look at my teacup. “I imagine you feel the same way about Knightley, don’t you, Bingley?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely,” he says, sarcastically blowing a kiss at his brother. “I am afraid that’s the best you are going to get from me, old bean. Mum said we were to treat Emma Lee like a sister; she did not say we had to adopt her sickeningly sentimental American ways. So, do not expect me to leap up and throw my arms around you.”
“Thank God!” Knightley says, chuckling.
We all laugh.
“Speaking of books.” Knightley snaps his fingers, then walks over to the foyer and retrieves the book he had tucked under his arm from the table near the door. “My mother asked us to bring you this with her compliments.”
Knightley presents the book with a slight bow.
“Thank you.” I accept the heavy volume and trace a finger over the roses and vines embossed in gold and silver on the Tiffany-blue leather cover. Seven Novels of Jane Austen is also embossed on the cover. “Seven novels? Sweet literate lawd have mercy! How long does it take someone to write seven novels? Jane Austen must have died a very old woman, quill in hand, scratching away until her last breath.”
Knightley chuckles.
“Would you believe she was only forty-one when she passed?”
“How saaad.” I open the cover, turn the gilt-edged pages until I arrive at the table of contents, and read the titles. “Should I read them in order, starting with Sense and Sensibility?”
“Mum recommends you begin with Emma.”
“Ugh!” Bingley groans.
“I am curious.” I focus on Bingley, who looks as if he just swallowed the bitter dregs at the bottom of his teacup. “Why don’t you like Jane Austen novels?”
My iPhone chimes, alerting me to a new text, but I ignore it and wait for Bingley’s response.
“I do not find them to be revolutionary masterpieces of literature. When it comes right down to it, they are snarky little romance novels, aren’t they? Don’t get me wrong. I adore snark and romance”—he chuckles and points at his brother—“there’s a name for your next modern retelling of a Jane Austen novel, Snark and Romance. I can see the opening line now: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a wife must be in want of an unjaded heart, free of bitter disillusionment and the accompanying snark. What do you say, old bean? The makings of another best seller?”
Knightley whistles. “You are jaded.”
“I will tell you what I envision”—Bingley continues speaking, as if completely unfazed by Knightley’s criticism—“yet another Sense and Sensibility with zombies, but the creatures only devour married women, thereby liberating men from their marital shackles. I see a whole series. Peevishness and Perversity.”
“Snide and Separation?” Knightley suggests.
“Brilliant!” Bingley laughs. “Followed by Acrimonious Abbey and Misanthropic Park.”
I sit quietly, observing the exchange with a growing sense of sadness and unease. Does Bingley truly equate matrimony with slavery? If so, I am going to have a difficult time finding him his perfect match. What would Patti Stanger do? On second thought, Patti Stanger doesn’t really do forever and ever, amen, love matches, now does she? She does speed dating that results in high-priced booty calls and reality-television-worthy breakups.
I want to raise my hand and say, Um, excuse me. Hopeless romantic and incurable matchmaker here. Would you mind keeping your jaded views hidden, because they look super ugly through my rose-tinted glasses?
“Have you always been this jaded about love, Bingley Nickerson, or did you meet a Juliette Van Der Beck? Did she rip your heart out of your chest and stomp all over it with her red-heeled Louboutins?”
Bingley laughs so hard a single golden curl breaks free from its pomade prison and flops against his forehead.
“Love the obscure reference to a French rom-com and love, love, love the scrummy visual of a woman walking over my heart with a pair of heels designed by the most fabulous shoe designer ever”—he tosses his head back—“and I would love to titillate you with a tragic little tell-all, but, alas, I have no Louboutin-wearing, heart-stomping ghost rattling around in my closet of girlfriends past.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed with disbelief.
“Zero. Zilch. Zippo.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Zhere does not exist”—he sniffs and affects a comical French accent—“zhis girl who, how you say, walk in my heart!”
“Despite the atrocious accent, he is telling the truth,” Knightley says. “My little brother has been far too busy playing the bon vivant to fall in love.”
“Moi?” Bingley gasps. “A bon vivant?”
“Yes, you.”
“I don’t deny I enjoy the sociable and luxurious lifestyle to which I was born and have so fervently endeavored to maintain, but I am not the only Nickerson to live the life of a bon vivant, mon frere. There is a wonderful little psychological theory called projection. Have you heard of it, old bean?” Bingley does not wait for his brother to answer. “What am I asking? Dr. Malcolm Dühring is one of your authors, isn’t he? Your modern-day Freud, on a mission to help the masses unravel the mysteries of their minds, might suggest you practice classic projection in calling me a bon vivant. You, Monsieur Town and Country, are the most bon of the Nickerson vivants.”
“Monsieur Town and Country? Is this another of Knightley’s nicknames?” I ask.
Knightley clears his throat and shoots Bingley a withering, hush-your-mouth look, the sort of look Manderley has shot Tara hundreds of times.
“Town and Country is a lifestyle magazine for the Georgian country house set and the glossy arbiter of London high society, fashion, and culture. It is positively brimmers with articles like, ‘What to Wear to Meet the Queen,’ ‘The Delish Sex Secrets of Britain’s New Establishment, ’ and ‘Why You Should Covet Sir Ian and Lady Tildy’s Sublime Art Collection.’” Bingley grins, and again I am reminded of a gargoyle, a devilishly handsome, wickedly smart gargoyle. “If People and Vogue had a baby, it would resemble Town and Country. Tidbits of juicy gossip and splashy pieces about what it means to live the luxe life.”
“Ooo, fun.” I clap my hands. “Where can I get a copy?”
“I wonder!” Bingley cocks his head to one side, slaps his cheek, and fixes Knightley with a wide-eyed, innocent-as-baby-Jesus expression. “Do you know where Emma Lee might score a copy of Town and Country, perhaps the last winter edition?”
“Bingley writes for Town and Country,” Knightley says, looking at me. “I believe his last piece was something terribly weighty and terribly clever, like ‘Caviar and Cocaine: European Restaurants That Define Decadence, ’ or was it ‘How to Shag like a Thoroughly Modern Aristo’?”
Bingley gasps and presses a hand to his heart.
“Gutted, old bean. Mortally, massively wounded. You make it sound as if I penned a penny-dreadful piece.” Bingley looks at me. “I wrote a retrospective on royal fashion, how the monarchy has wielded fashion to further their personal, political, and philanthropic causes. Kate loved it.”
I sit up so fast I practically lift off my chair.
“Kate Middleton?”
Bingley closes his eyes and shrugs.
“The Duchess of Cambridge reads your articles?”
“We are practically best mates.” Bingley sniffs.
“Shut up!”
Knightley groans and rolls his eyes.
“You are not best mates, not even close.”
“I party with her brother, James,” Bingley says, ignoring his brother. “He might have come up with the idea for Boomf, his marshmallow company, when we were doing shots of Smirnoff Fluffed Marshmallow at Bunga Bunga.”
“What is Bunga Bunga?”
“A pizzeria-cum-karaoke bar in Battersea. Utterly kitsch. Loads of fun. Prince Harry used to hang there, when he was still on the pull. Jennifer Lawrence, Margot Robbie, Harry Styles—”
“Harry Styles?” I squeal again. “I love, love Harry Styles.”
“Me too,” Bingley says. “I will take you to Bunga Bunga. We will eat pizza, do Smirnoff shots, and sing ‘Kiwi’ at the top of our lungs.”
“Are you serious?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely!”
I look at Knightley, beaming, because this, this, is the life I imagined when I pictured myself moving to England. Hobnobbing with British blue bloods. Dinner parties at historic country houses. Popping to London to visit swanky shops and eateries. Sipping tea and chatting about classic literature. Okay, not the chatting about literature bit, but the rest of it. Definitely.
“You will come with us, won’t you?”
“Old bean at Bunga Bunga? Have you completely lost the plot?” Bingley’s explosive laughter startles me, and I nearly drop my teacup. “Can you envision Knightley getting pissed on flavored vodka and belting out ‘It’s Raining Men’?”
“I’ll bet you have a great voice,” I say, smiling a Knightley. “Though I can’t imagine you singing that song.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
Knightley smiles, and I imagine him pulling me into his arms and holding me real tight while he softly sings “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” in my ear. On sultry summer nights, my daddy used to sit in one of the rocking chairs on the veranda at Black Ash, a glass of brandy sweating in his hand, a cigar clenched between his teeth, listening to Otis Redding’s Greatest Hits. I sensed those were the times he was missing my momma something fierce. So, in my young mind, Otis Redding became the soundtrack of lovers, and the mournful “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” the quintessential love ballad.
“You should join us, old bean,” Bingley says, capturing our attention. “Invite Annalise. The editors of Town and Country’s Society pages are right-wing nutters. Wouldn’t they just lose the plot if they were able to snag pictures of publishing titan Knightley Nickerson and supermodel Annalise Whittaker-Smith belting out a duet in some campy club miles from Marylebone?”
My heart suddenly aches, as if someone ripped it out of my chest and impaled it with their six-inch stiletto heel.
“Annalise?” I try to keep my tone casual-like. “Oh, I didn’t know you had a thing going with Hayley’s sister.”
“I don’t.”
“He did.” Bingley looks like the Cheshire cat, all mischievous, glowing eyes and broad, toothy smile. “And I have the back issues of Town and Country to prove it. My brother and Annalise were one of the couples featured in a four-part article entitled ‘London’s Bright Young Things,’ an utterly splashy, slightly trashy piece about the lovely ones that comprise the new aristocracy.”
Knightley glances at his wrist, and I notice he is wearing an antique Cartier watch, the sort that might be passed down from father to son.
“Come, Bingley,” he says, standing. “It is growing late, and we have imposed on Emma Lee enough for today.”
“You haven’t imposed.”
“You heard her,” Bingley says. “We haven’t imposed.”
Knightley gathers our empty teacups and carries the tray back into the kitchen, returning seconds later.
“Mum is expecting us for dinner and it is after six already.” He walks to the foyer and removes his coat from its hook. “That reminds me, my mother wants to know if you fancy joining her for a proper tour of Welldon Abbey tomorrow afternoon, followed by a casual dinner.”
I look at him from beneath an arched brow, remembering the last time Isabella Nickerson invited me to a casual dinner at Welldon Abbey.
“How casual? Little black dress and five-course-meal casual, or jeans, tee, and pop-a-squat-on-the-grass-while-you-eat-leftovers-off-a-paper-plate casual?”
“Good God!” Bingley cries. “Our mum has never popped a squat in her life.”
“Somewhere between caviar and cold cuts.” Knightley laughs. “A humble home-cooked meal shared with Isabella Nickerson and her three charming sons.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .”
“I will be back to pick you up tomorrow afternoon, say around half two?”
“Sounds great.”
“What are leftovers?” Bingley asks, putting a space between the words left and overs.
“Good night, Bingley.”
“Good night, Janeite.”
I wait until Knightley’s car disappears, his headlights fading in the darkness, before grabbing my iPhone and opening my text application.
Text to Hayley Bartlett:
Hey girl! I had loads of fun with you today. Can’t wait for our mango margs and makeup mash-up. What do you say we make it a sleepover and invite Deidre to join us?
Text from Hayley Bartlett:
Deidre Waites?
Text to Hayley Bartlett:
Yes. Miss Isabella told me she spends most of her free time looking after her mother, and I got the feeling she could really go for some girl time.
Text from Hayley Bartlett:
Um. Why not?
Text to Hayley Bartlett:
Yay! This is going to be so much fun. Don’t forget: BYOJ.
Text from Hayley Bartlett:
Bring Your Own Jameson?
Text to Hayley Bartlett:
Jammies, silly!
Next, I text Bingley and ask for Deidre’s cell phone number. His response hits my phone faster than greased lightning.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
The more relevant question would be: Does Deidre Waites own a mobile?
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
I am serious!
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
So am I. In case it escaped your notice, No Date Waites is a spinster. Do I look like the sort of chap who surrounds himself with plain-faced, verbally incontinent spinsters? (Rhetorical question)
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
Harshness looks ugly on you, Bingley Nickerson. It clashes with your fierce Cartier Panthère specs.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
LOL. Well played, Miss Thing. HOAS.
HOAS. Hold on a second. I grab a nail file out of my purse and file my nails while I wait for Bingley’s next text. I wonder if Bingley Nickerson is as jaded and harsh as he presents himself to be, or if it is merely a shtick he has adopted for his career as a lifestyle writer. People have shticks. Olivia Tate, Manderley’s bestie, adopted a Botox and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, dahling, shtick after she moved to Hollywood. Don’t get me wrong, Olivia was always a character, but she upped the volume on her I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille routine once she was surrounded by the plastic fantastic, Manderley’s term for people in the moviemaking industry. Strip away her chakra-clearing sessions, oxygen treatments, caviar hair packs, and twenty-four-karat gold facial masks, and Olivia is just a sweet-hearted, poor girl from Poughkeepsie, trying to make a name for herself in an industry that binges and purges names like a supermodel before Paris Fashion Week. I hope Bingley has a kind heart under his sharp-dressed, sharp-witted, party boy façade.
My iPhone blings. I look at the screen. Bingley has located Deidre’s contact information and texted it, along with a GIF of Taylor Swift in a pair of thick black hipster glasses, sitting in a room brimmers with cats. I thank him for Deidre’s number but ignore the mean GIF.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
Beware! The rapid descent into spinsterhood begins with an invitation to join a Jane Austen book club and ends with Thursday night text sessions with a cat-loving, cozy-knitting, candy-selling virgin. Consider yourself warned.
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
Charitable acts are the finest accessory a lady can add to her wardrobe. I have no intention of descending into cat-cuddling, cozy-knitting spinsterhood. I intend to lift Deidre up.
Sororities have this thing called Big/Little. It’s when an older, more experienced sister (a Big) is paired with a younger new recruit (a Little). The Big acts as a role model to the Little, guiding her through campus and sorority life; guiding her through life, really. Sometimes, a Big has a rush crush. She sees a pledge—a sorority sister wannabe—with the cutest Lily Pulitzer dress, like, ever, or the Little says something superclever about the Kardashians or global warming, and the Big is gone, crushing harder than a preteen. Now, let’s say a Big meets the pledges but doesn’t develop a rush crush. In that case, the Big will interview several Littles. Inevitably, a Big and Little will bond over a shared passion, whether it be Netflix binging, planning theme parties, scrapbooking, or saving the whales one orca at a time. When a Big finds her perfect Little, the rush crush develops into an enduring, lifelong bestie-ship. Roberta Hearst was my Big, and I love her as much as I love my blood sisters. When it came time for me to be a Big, I rush crushed hard. I mean superhard, y’all. I was ready to lock it down, put a Kappa Kappa Gamma ring on it, within minutes of meeting Gemma Duncan, communications major and former allstate dance squad member. I thought Gemma was a mini-me, my perfect sorority sister match. A petite, blond people lover who wanted to make the world a happier place one friendship at a time. The Emma-Gemma union was ill-fated, tragically doomed, because Gemma turned out to be a faithless Little (fill in the blank). I am too much of a lady to go into the details. Last I heard, Gemma Duncan is living in Goose Creek, South Carolina, working as a manager at the Piggly Wiggly on Saint James Avenue. A mutual acquaintance spotted her stumbling out of a bar in the middle of the damn day with some Air Force pilot hot on her heels. Enough said.
Long story short, Gemma Duncan taught me a thing or two about how to choose a Little. The first flush of a rush crush fades mighty fast, so if you don’t pick your partner for the right reasons, you’re going to find yourself half of a miserably unsatisfying union. When choosing a Little, I found it is more important to share values than Netflix watching habits. Hobbies change; character is forever.
What do I know about Deidre Waites? She dropped out of college when her dad died so she could help her mom run the family business, which means she is selfless, a trait I totally admire. She takes care of her invalid mother, which means she is compassionate and nurturing. She wears tights patterned with lollipops, Heidi braids, and iridescent eye shadow, which means she is unafraid of being unique (and in a world of pouty-lipped Kardashian copycats, unique is priceless). She is warm, talkative, creative, clever, and totally puts the quirk in quirky. I don’t know what Deidre binges when she signs in to her Netflix account, or if she even has a Netflix account. I don’t know which One Directioner she favors (naughty Harry, with sweet Niall coming in a photo-finish close second). I don’t know much about Deidre, but I know she has a good heart. That’s why I am confident in my choice of Deidre Waites as my second Little.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
And how, pray tell, do you intend to lift No Mates Waites?
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
Easy-peasy! Deidre Waites is going to be the first person from Northam to benefit from my God-given skills as a matchmaker.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
ROFL
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
Just you watch. By this time next year, you will have to call her Many Dates and Found Her Soul Mate Waites.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
Doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.