red hair, he continued to show a fondness for speaking at length about his professional pursuits that was tempered only slightly by his listeners’ inability to follow.
When Liz and Jane entered the living room where their sisters, parents, aunt, and cousin were gathered, Willie appeared to be in mid-monologue. “We get thirty million unique visitors per month,” he was saying, and as Liz made eye contact with her father, who was seated just a few feet from Willie, Mr. Bennet let his eyelids droop. Liz looked away. “If you want to compare that to the competition, it’s not even close,” Willie said. “Jig-Jig gets ten million, maybe twelve. Once the kinks are worked out, we’ll leave everyone else in the dust.”
“I don’t suppose you have cheese and crackers,” Aunt Margo said.
Simultaneously, Mrs. Bennet said, “Mary, put out the Vermont cheddar,” and Lydia said, “The casomorphins in cheese are as addictive as opium.”
In a peevish tone, Mrs. Bennet said, “Everyone has very strong opinions about what we eat these days.”
“Lizzy,” Willie said, “I saw in the airport that they’re still printing dead-tree issues of your magazine.”
“That’s how some people prefer to read,” Liz said. “I realize you’re not one of them.”
Mrs. Bennet said, “Willie, if there’s anything special you’d like to do in Cincinnati, Liz has the most open schedule. Jane is tied up now with her new beau, who’ll be joining us for dinner.” Mrs. Bennet turned to her sister-in-law. “His name is Chip Bingley, and he moved here to work at Christ Hospital. He went to Harvard Medical School.”
“Bingley, did you say?” Willie squinted. “That name sounds familiar.”
With pleasure, Mrs. Bennet said, “It was his great-great-grandfather who started Bingley Manufacturing, which of course has made sinks and such for years and years.”
“And by sinks, Mom means toilets,” Lydia said. “We’re all crossing our fingers that Jane becomes the crapper queen.”
Mildly, Jane said, “Chip and I have only gone out a few times.”
“He’s very serious about you,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Now, does his family still own Bingley Manufacturing or did they sell it?”
“That hasn’t come up,” Jane said.
“If only there were a global computer network where you could find that kind of information,” Willie said, and he chuckled as he pulled out his phone.
Liz said, “Willie, do you watch Eligible? Because Chip was on it a couple years ago.”
“That was just a little silliness,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Just blowing off steam after his residency.”
But Willie looked up from his phone with recognition. “He was the one who cried in the finale!” Willie said. “I knew I’d heard his name.”
“I didn’t know you watch Eligible,” Aunt Margo said to Willie, and Liz said, “Don’t we all? Besides Jane.”
“He was under a lot of pressure.” Jane cleared her throat, then spoke more loudly. “The crying thing—a producer had told him that one of the women was suicidal because he didn’t propose to her, and he felt awful. It’s not like he cries more than the average man.”
It wasn’t so much the content of Jane’s comments as their knowing and protective tone that caught Liz’s attention. Maybe, as improbable as it seemed, Chip Bingley really was Jane’s happy ending. How wonderful this would be, and how deserving Jane was.
Cousin Willie scrolled down the screen of his phone. “In 1986, the Bingley family sold Bingley Manufacturing to multinational industrial company L. M. Clarkson. Doesn’t say for how much, but, Jane, it’s safe to assume your guy has a nice cushion under him if he ever gets sued for malpractice.” Willie glanced up. “Lizzy, I’d love a tour of the city. Margo and I figured out on the plane that I haven’t been here since I was fourteen. All these years, Dad and I were planning to come back when one of you got married.” He spoke warmly, without apparent awareness of the topic’s sensitivity, then added, “According to the Twitter hive, the zoo and the Underground Railroad museum are Cincinnati’s must-see destinations.”
Mr. Bennet said, “Or if you’d like a recommendation, you could ask someone who’s lived here for sixty-four years.”
“Dad, you’ve never been to the Freedom Center,” Kitty said.
“No, but I did used to date Harriet Tubman.”
Liz said, “Dad, I’m taking you to physical therapy tomorrow at nine, right? Then I have to do a phone interview at eleven. But, Willie, I could give you a tour after that. Or, I don’t know, Mary, would you want to?”
“I have too much work.” As Mary shook her head without even feigning regret, Liz was reminded of her theory that, because Mary wasn’t very pretty, she received credit for being intelligent or virtuous in ways that, as far as Liz could discern, her sister was not. In fact, Liz disliked Mary more than she disliked Lydia, and certainly more than Kitty, all of whom, of course, out of obligation and habit, she loved. But if you assumed that accompanying Mary’s supposedly scholarly interests was an open-minded acceptance of others, or that accompanying her homeliness was compassion, you’d be wrong; Mary was proof, Liz had concluded, of how easy it was to be unattractive and unpleasant.
“I have loads of meetings tomorrow for my Women’s League luncheon,” Mrs. Bennet was saying to Aunt Margo and Willie. “The girls will tell you I’ve been working myself to the bone. But we’ll all have dinner at the country club.” She leaned forward, as if to divulge a bit of confidential information, and whispered, “Margo, I’m sure you remember how delicious their Caesar salad is.”
“Is that water damage on the wall?” Aunt Margo stood and crossed the living room. “My God, Fred, you’re lucky the house hasn’t crumbled around you.”
“I’m still hoping it might,” Mr. Bennet replied.
“That happened during a rainstorm last week,” Mrs. Bennet said, and though Liz didn’t consider her mother a particularly faithful adherent to the truth, the fib, occurring in front of no fewer than six people who could have contradicted it, was unusually bold. “But now that you’ve reminded me, Margo,” Mrs. Bennet added cheerfully, “I’ll be sure to call the handyman.”
They ate in the dining room instead of the kitchen. Prior to Willie and Aunt Margo’s arrival, Lydia and Kitty had been tasked with moving boxes from the front hall and the dining room table to Jane’s old room (CrossFit notwithstanding, this was the first time since Liz’s return home that she had seen her youngest sisters exert themselves), and, along with her most elegant china, Mrs. Bennet had put out place cards, presumably to ensure that Chip Bingley sat next to her. He had arrived bearing both a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers, and though a vase of purple hydrangea had already occupied the table’s center, Mrs. Bennet had instructed Liz to whisk them away and display Chip’s arrangement instead, as if he’d interpret the existence of another bouquet as a personal affront.
After
