Page 41 of Inventing Mr Darcy

I’m awakened at some ungodly hour (by which I mean sometime before noon) by banging on the outer apartment door. I try to ignore it, but the pounding only grows more insistent. And since there’s no buzzer, the only way to make it stop is to go downstairs.

The minute I toss back my covers, I’m greeted by a blast of cold air, which forces me to scramble for the nearest item of clothing at hand to pull on over my pajamas. Grumbling, I pad down the stairs and fling open the door to find Fisher standing there balancing two cups from the Grind in one ungloved hand so he can knock with the other.

“Did I wake you?” he asks. “I know I agreed to give you time to think, but I—”

I nod toward the cups. “Is one of those for me?”

“Gingerbread latte,” he says, rescuing the bottom cup from the rather precarious-looking stack and holding it out to me. “New for December. Thought it sounded like something you would enjoy.”

I take it from him, draw in a deep breath of spicy steam, and nod. “We’re not having this conversation on the street. Come inside.”

Ordinarily, I would warn him, maybe even apologize for the mess, because being on my own for a week has rendered my apartment an even bigger disaster zone than usual. But he wants real, right? Well, the reality is that new-and-improved Elle’s focus does not extend to matters of housekeeping.

He doesn’t even seem to notice the chaos around him. When he sweeps off his chunky knit hat, his hair is as unruly as I’ve ever seen it. Any temptation to make some smart remark about his needing a haircut dissipates when my gaze shifts to his somber expression, the dark circles under his eyes. He’s clearly had a sleepless night, and I feel both smug and oddly a little guilty to think I’m probably responsible.

“Cold in here,” he remarks, taking a sip of his coffee.

And it is, uncharacteristically so. “Yeah.” I realize the warm, heavy item of clothing I pulled on over my pajamas is his sweatshirt, and I cross my arms over my chest. But he doesn’t seem to have noticed that, either. “So, um, why—?”

He speaks at the same time. “I needed—” I think for just a moment that the next word will be you, but before it leaves his lips, he clips it off, shakes his head, and says instead, “I needed someone to talk to.”

I gesture toward the couch and then hurry to it first to sweep up an armful of debris and transfer it to the ottoman so there’s somewhere for him to sit. Thanks to the tall windows, the light in the living area is brighter than by the door, and now there’s no escaping the fact that he looks like hell. “Are you all right?” I ask.

The fact that he has to think about his answer is more unsettling still.

“I, um … not exactly. Last night, I uh …”

At precisely that moment, I become aware of a noise. Mrs. Merriweather is entering our apartment though the back stairwell. I know it has to be her, because the stairs lead from the back of her shop to an otherwise useless door between our kitchen and bathroom, and she is the only one with a key. And I also know it must be an emergency, because in four years, she’s never once used it.

“Now what?” I mutter, scrambling to my feet again. When it rains, it pours.

The door swings open before I reach it. “Oh, you are here,” Mrs. Merriweather says, looking bewildered. “I did try to call first, dear. Three times.”

I glance around, but of course my phone is in the other room. “Sorry, Mrs. M. I, uh, I guess I didn’t hear it.”

“I thought maybe you’d left for the holidays. That’s why I let myself in,” she explains. “Brr. They say heat rises, but it’s not much warmer up here, is it? There’s a burst pipe in the radiator downstairs. Made quite a mess, and now they’ve had to shut off the water to the building. These old fixtures—the landlord says he can’t get the part to fix it for weeks. Do you have somewhere else you can stay?”

My first thought is my parents’ house in St. Paul, but I’m sure they will have everything winterized, so the pipes don’t freeze while they’re away. As I’m mentally searching for an alternative, Fisher steps up behind me. “She can stay at my place.”

Stunned, I glance back and up at him.

“What about your cat?” Mrs. Merriweather asks, dropping her voice to a whisper on the word cat, as if the landlord might hear it from wherever he is. Surely somewhere warmer than here.

“He’s welcome too,” Fisher says.

“Is this your new boyfriend, dear?” Mrs. Merriweather asks, sizing him up without waiting for my answer. I guess she must like what she sees, because her next words are, “Then that’s all settled. Good. I’ve been worried. Do you want my help getting things sorted?”

“It’s kind of you to offer,” I tell her—though the words are directed at both of them, really. “But I’ll manage.” Mentally, I’m still searching for another place to go.

Once she’s gone out the way she came, I turn to Fisher. “Thank you. But until I’ve had more time to work out how I feel about yesterday’s little revelation, I don’t think us living together in your six-bedroom-but-only-one-bed house is such a good idea.”

“It’ll be fine,” he insists as he drops onto the couch again. “I won’t be there. I’m leaving in an hour, in fact.”

As I approach the place where he’s sitting, I’m struck again by the weariness behind his eyes. “Why? What happened?”

By now, I know this visit has nothing to do with what we discussed last night.

“My, um—” He pauses, then has to press his lips together and swallow before he can continue. “My dad is in the hospital. It’s his heart.”