What I do know is that my feelings for you are real, and always will be. When you get back to the real world, I hope you will think of me. And when that day comes, please contact me by e-mail, post, telephone, or smoke signals. I’ll have both you and your daughter flown over here in a heartbeat. I’d like to propose a secret correspondence and we can get to know each other better—the old-fashioned way.

I will be waiting.

Sincerely yours,

Henry Wrightman

P.S. Take good care of your mousetrap. I’ve known Alistair since he was a kitten. All the paperwork required for travel is enclosed. And yes, I named him after Alistair Cooke.


“Departures. American Airlines. We’re here,” the cabbie said. He went around to the trunk, or the “boot” as the English called it, and started unloading. Chloe shoved the letter in her bag. The American Airlines logo shone in her face. She slid out of the cab, grabbed her bag, and looked back at the crate.

She handed the cabbie his fare. “And here’s full fare back. Please take that cat back to Dartworth Hall.”

The cabbie looked at her as he lit up another cigarette. “I’m not going back. I’m staying in London tonight.” The smoke made her nauseous.

Rap music rumbled from the inside of the cab, the bass throbbing in her brain. “Then take it back tomorrow. Next week. I don’t care.” She handed him the money, but he pushed it away.

“I don’t like cats.”

Chloe looked around. “How about another cabbie, then?”

Near the curb a couple kissed good-bye. The woman started crying. She stood alone for a minute to watch her man run through the automatic doors to catch his plane.

The cabbie handed the crate to Chloe. “Thank you very much. I’ve got a pickup.” He left her there on the curb, loaded with baggage, meowing crate in hand. And he didn’t even bow.

Alistair turned in his crate and scratched on the door. She lumbered over to a line of cabs. She knocked on every window, but nobody wanted to drive out to the country at this hour. Did these people want to make money or what?

Finally, she gave up. It was time to check in. The overhead announcements, flashing computer screens, ads, and throngs of people dashing around made her queasy. She leaned on the metal stand that marked the end of the long, mazelike check-in line for economy class. Crying children clung to their parents. Some people carried suitcases and cardboard boxes wrapped in duct tape. She glanced over to the business-class check-in. Two men in suits and a woman with a laptop floated to their respective check-in desks.

Her check-in guy didn’t even smile. He just handed the crate back to her. “All animals need to be brought to the international cargo desk.” He did say this with a charming, posh English accent, though. “Four hours ahead of departure.”

Chloe’s passport shook in her hands. “What? But my flight leaves in an hour!”

He gave her a blank stare. The man behind her bumped into her with his rolling carry-on and didn’t even apologize—or stop.

“Can the cat go on the next flight, then?”

No response.

“Without me?”

“I do believe that’s possible.”

An hour later she was in the boarding line, half expecting Henry to burst through the crowd and give it one more shot. But he didn’t.

If she weren’t so hungry, she might’ve thought the empty feeling inside was something like regret. She was so hungry she might’ve even eaten a rabbit with head and furry ears still intact.

“Second row from the back, middle seat,” said the flight attendant on board. She had an American accent.

The person behind Chloe pushed into her. Chloe took her ticket from the flight attendant.

“Um. Just a question. If I’ve changed my mind, can I go back now?”

The flight attendant smiled. “No.” She nudged Chloe along. “Second row from the back, middle seat.”

Chloe wedged herself between a sprawling teenager playing video games on his phone and a pregnant woman breathing heavily and spilling over two seats. A child behind her kicked her seat incessantly. Nobody taught manners anymore. Mental note: buy iPad with earbuds as soon as possible.

She covered herself up in a blanket up to her chin, and decided to rid herself of all vestiges of her English fantasy world. It was over. So over. Still, she hoped Alistair was okay. And Abigail. She couldn’t wait to see her!

Chapter 23

Ten minutes with Abigail and it was as if Chloe had never left.

They quickly settled back into the strong mother-daughter They quickly settled back into the strong mother-daughter team they’d always been and Chloe served up pasta for nights on end. But it took weeks to deprogram Abigail out of the princess mode that Grandma and Grandpa had gotten her into, despite their current lack of cash. Chloe packed away the pink dress-up trunk full of shiny gowns, magic wands, and plastic tiaras for good. She donated the books of fairy tales to Goodwill and put Abigail on a strict diet of nonfiction because she didn’t want to perpetuate the myth of charming princes on horses and happily-ever-after.

“Grandpa still calls me his princess,” Abigail said days later as Chloe brushed her long brown hair for school. “And he said he’s the king.”

Chloe looked at the two of them in the bathroom mirror and pointed with the pink brush for emphasis. “Have I taught you nothing? Remember? They’re not royalty of any kind. And neither are we.”

Abigail frowned and looked down at her new cowboy boots.

“You’re not a princess. You’re a very smart girl who’s going to go to college and live in an apartment and work in a big city. It’s so much better than being a princess.”

Abigail looked up with her long lashes. “So—after I work I’ll meet the prince?”

Chloe sighed. This could take a while. “You might meet a smart man, and if you love him a lot, you might just ask him to marry you. Now come on, it’s time to go to your sleepover.”

Abigail went to a party that happened to have a princess theme and Chloe was having Emma over to watch the grand finale of what ultimately became How to Date Mr. Darcy on cable. Emma said she was bringing “a friend,” which usually meant a blind date for Chloe, and they arrived before she could pour the appletinis and mojitos.

“Hi. I’m Dan.” Dan didn’t bow when he met her. He wore a Cubs hat and brought his own nachos with microwavable orange cheese. “It’s so cool to meet a reality star.”

Chloe shot a look at Emma as soon as she could, but Emma just shrugged. “He’s supernice,” she whispered. “Just give him a chance.”

“What’s for dinner?” Dan asked.

“Salad,” Chloe said.

Every episode of How to Date Mr. Darcy was like nails on a chalkboard for Chloe. She didn’t like seeing and hearing herself on TV, especially her little freak-out over the confiscation of her cell phone that George had allowed to be plastered all over YouTube, the program’s website, everything.

Worse, she saw now how Sebastian charmed his way into every woman’s heart on the show—not just hers. He even seduced one of the chaperones, fifteen years his senior, in the weeks before Chloe joined. If anyone was “accomplished,” it was him.

“You kick ass, Chloe.” Dan ate with his mouth open, and talked with it open, too, so she could see the neon-orange cheese and tortilla chips mashed together in his mouth. “You’re number one!” He’d brought an oversized foam finger and brandished it every time Chloe did something “cool” like leave Sebastian at the altar, dumbfounded.

In this final episode, after Chloe left in the taxicab, George announced that the tallied Accomplishment Points were deemed irrelevant due to unforeseen circumstances. He’d done exit interviews with Grace, Fiona, Mrs. Crescent, and Sebastian. After each interview, the screen went black and a little update paragraph about each person appeared. Grace was back to work at her trading firm and dating a British politician. Fiona had set her wedding date with her fiancé, who had come back ahead of schedule from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Mrs. Crescent’s William had a successful operation and the lump was benign. Sebastian, thanks to the reality show, had accepted the leading role in a show called The Libertine set to be filmed by England’s Independent Television, and, it turned out, was dating one of the milkmaids from How to Date Mr. Darcy. He shouldn’t have even been talking to the milkmaids. Then a photo of Chloe appeared on-screen and dissolved. The white type on the black screen read:

Chloe Parker returned home to Chicago, where she turned

her business around to solvent. The court did move to

modify custody of her daughter, but only granted her ex-

husband custody for one month per summer. And the Na-

tional Trust thanks her for her generous donation to help

restore historic properties throughout England.

The show ended with a short clip about Henry. Chloe sucked down her drink.

“Miss Parker, I know you’re out there watching,” he said into the camera.

Chloe, in her faded blue jeans, propped up her knees and hid her head.

“It was a great pleasure to get to know you and I do hope that you and your daughter consider visiting Dartworth Hall sometime very soon. I quite miss you. You pierce my soul—and all that.”

“Aww,” Emma said.

Dan took a slug of beer and burped. “What was that supposed to mean?”