She threw a pair of baby booties at me. “Glad to know you care, sis. And I might just take you up on that.”


Di didn’t share with me a detailed account of the luncheon with her ex-husband but, since she didn’t seem to want him lynched, it couldn’t have been too bad. If she was happy, I was happy.

Later that week I went out baby-shower shopping. And, no, not for my sister or for my cousin. It seemed every other female colleague I knew in the school district was going to have her first or third or fifth baby that summer and, since many of the showers were hosted in the school library, I was invited to them all.

As I sifted through racks filled with infant-sized sailor suits, jean skirts and sports jerseys, a voice from high school called out to me.

“Oh, my gosh — Ellie?”

I looked up, squealed and ran to give my old best friend a hug. “Terrie! What are you doing here? I thought you guys lived down in Texas now. You home for a visit?”

She grimaced and rocked the double stroller back and forth, where her four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter sat jabbering at each other. “Not exactly,” she said. Then, lowering her voice, “John and I got divorced in February.”

My heart clenched. “Oh, Terrie, I’m so sorry.”

Matt, her high-school love, had broken up with her after a year of college, and she’d eventually married a guy she met in grad school. I remembered going to her and John’s wedding — it’d been about eight years ago.

Terrie nodded. “Yeah, it sucks. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it’d been awhile since we’d talked and there’s only so much you can say in a Christmas card.”

“You don’t have to explain. It must’ve been a hard time.”

She gazed at her two talkative children then looked at me. “Still is. There was no way we could keep the house in Dallas, so the kids and I moved in with my parents for a while, just until I can get back on my feet.”

“What are you hoping to do?”

She sighed. “Don’t know yet. My teaching certificate is current in Texas, but not in Illinois, and I don’t know where it would be best for us to live. I do know I want to be back in the Midwest. I have full custody, so John can just fly up here when he wants to see the kids. I’m sick of being so far away from my side of the family.”

“We’ll have to get together then,” I said, making sure I conveyed the heartfelt sincerity of the offer as I scribbled down my cell-phone number and directions to my townhouse. “I don’t live that far away, Terrie, and good friendships are forever. You know that, right?”

She grinned. “Yeah. I know that.”


In the midst of a harsh Illinois winter, like, oh, when my relationship with Tim had been on its last legs, it sometimes felt as if summer would never come.

But it actually did.

Every year.

A tentative spring, complete with its frigid puddles of melted mush, would finally give way to a hot, mosquito-infested June, followed by an equally oppressive July and August. And consequently, I, an autumn-lover to the bone, was left to contemplate how to spend this noisy, sticky, backyard-barbeque-laden time between school years.

That particular summer I opted for something different. A trip. Overseas.

I think I’ll go to the Lakes, I told Jane, scanning the “Adventures in the United Kingdom” travel itineraries I’d downloaded off the Internet. All I need is a passport, my Visa card and you as my personal tour guide. What do you say?

Why do you wish to visit England? Jane inquired, using a sharp tone of voice.

Aside from an overwhelming desire to connect with my British heritage and honor my English ancestors? I laughed. Because of you, of course. I want to see all of your old haunts. Steventon. Oxford. Bath. Southampton. London. Chawton. The whole of Hampshire. And — I held up my local library’s copy of Guide to Great Britain, then said, from what I’ve been reading, there’s even a miniature drawing of you, sketched by your sister Cassandra, no less, in London’s Portrait Gallery. Gotta see that.

Hmm.

What? You don’t want to go?

I can go anytime, she replied tartly. The matter in question is whether I wish to go with YOU.

Oooh. Touché. I knew by now to laugh at her when she got like this. She tended to become a bit peevish if she suspected her privacy might be violated. Jane had a love-hate relationship with the whole fame thing.

And furthermore, she said, the Lakes are in Cumbria, which is a rather hardy distance from my own Hampshire, even with modern transport. You ought to consult a map before undertaking any grand travel schemes.

Noted, I said, reopening the guidebook. But you still haven’t answered my question. Do you want to come with me and be a part of the journey, or will you just hang around in a corner of my mind and maintain a stony silence?

There was a long pause. Why do you wish to go, Ellie? Apart from your newly professed interest in British culture, that is, and your surprisingly fervent curiosity about my life. What is the real reason for this venture?

The real reason. Oh, hell.

I took a deep breath. It’s kind of like this. I’m getting the message from the Universe that I’m out of synch with things. Important things. I want a soul mate for a husband. I want a baby or two. I want a sense of contentment in my life. And those just aren’t happening. So I figure, the problem is with me. That I’m missing some key component. Or, maybe, it’s there, but I’ve misplaced it for a while, and I need to rediscover it so I’ll be ready if that husband or baby ever comes along.

But why does this self quest require a trip to foreign lands?

Oh, c’mon. You used to walk a lot in Nature and visit seaside resorts. You know what it’s like to be outside, to clear your head, to see new sights. Being in a new place will give me a different perspective on my life.

Jane considered this. Travel does afford opportunities for fresh perceptions, she admitted.

Exactly! And you yourself are always telling me I have to learn to be openhearted again. I want to be that kind of candid, approachable woman. Someone who’s at peace with herself. Who knows her own worth despite past hurts.

A laudable ambition, she said.

Then, if I ever run into the Perfect Guy, at McDonald’s or Target or somewhere, I’ll be — I hesitated, unable to think of quite the right word.

The Perfect Lady? Jane suggested.

I shrugged. Maybe not perfect, I doubt I could manage that, but hopefully less screwed up than I am now. I paused. Is that still a laudable ambition?

She chuckled in her ever-so-slight British manner. Perhaps. You seek to attain Wisdom, which I have always felt to be better than even Wit. In the long run, it will certainly have the laugh on its side.

Well said, as usual. You’ll join me, then?

Yes, Jane replied, her voice unusually thoughtful. I suppose someone must chaperone and, as this involves you, it had best be me.

Chapter 13

The distance is nothing when one has a motive.

 — Pride and Prejudice


So, we flew out of Chicago’s O’Hare, en route to England, three weeks after school let out. Jane chattered on about the indignities incurred by modern travelers despite the great advancements in speed. I murmured in agreement, but mostly I studied the Mr. Collins–like guy, down my airplane row, two seats away, and watched as he pestered the woman across the aisle from him. Typical.

There were only so many kinds of men in this world. They could be grouped or regrouped, and recognition of their Male Type could make it easier to contend with their respective deceptions. I’d decided on Seven Types. Jane, too, had laid out her groupings clearly but, as in the world of Pride and Prejudice, she’d done it by name:

There were the Bingleys, like Jason and Tim.

The Collins types, like the obnoxious guy down the row.

Wickhams, like Brent and Sam and about half the guys I’d dated once or twice before I gained the wisdom to avoid them altogether.

Colonel Fitzwilliams, like Dominic, although I had to admit this comparison didn’t entirely ring true. While the Colonel knew he had to marry for material concerns, he wasn’t a blatant user of women like Dominic had been.

Which meant…what? That Dominic was also part Wickham? I considered this for a moment then allowed myself a pass on analyzing him further. Dominic was a strange enough guy to straddle two categories.

But then I thought about Mark. Was he a true Bingley? I cringed trying to stuff him into that box. Time proved he didn’t fit any category with ease and he was, after all, still my good friend, despite the lying-to-me-about-being-gay thing. So, okay, another exception.

But what about Andrei? I sighed. Trying to pigeonhole him always gave me a headache. He wasn’t any easier to classify than Dominic or Mark. Not a Bingley. Not a Wickham, except in his insatiable sex drive. Darcy-like only in bearing, which wasn’t enough to qualify him there, any more than Tim’s family money qualified him as a Darcy.

Damn. Where were the true Darcys? And why didn’t I have one anywhere in my life?

My thoughts returned to Sam because, though he’d behaved abominably in high school, he hadn’t turned out to be quite so contemptible later in life. Could I still rate him as a pure Wickham? I decided, no, I couldn’t, even if Jane could…but where else would he fit?