Page 70 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Not for the first time, it occurs to me that wealthy New Englanders probably don’t envision their only son falling for someone from St. Paul, Minnesota, the ordinary daughter of a paralegal and a teacher. But I don’t care what Fisher’s parents think of me. Much.

My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me, as Elizabeth Bennet says.

Now Mr. Davis is on his feet, though he doesn’t step away from his chair. He looks healthier than he did when I saw him on Christmas, but still frail. He’s wearing a gray and teal designer track suit, the sort of thing that I presume rich people wear in lieu of sweats.

Fisher, in contrast, is wearing crisply pressed khakis and a button-down shirt with a sweater slung over his shoulders. The sweater is almost certainly cashmere, in a deep shade of blue once reserved for royalty. I’m not going to say he doesn’t look good in what amounts to a prep school uniform, because he really, really does. But for the first time, I understand that his t-shirts were yet another small act of rebellion against this world. And I’d feel better if he were wearing one now.

“I’m sorry for barging in like this,” I say to Laura. “I …”

Hours of travel … you’d think I could’ve used a few moments of that time to concoct some excuse, some explanation, for showing up unannounced.

She takes my hand in what I expect will be a limp, delicate grip but is actually surprisingly firm. “It’s no trouble, dear.”

I’m not sure I believe her.

We join Mr. Davis closer to the marble slab fireplace, and he sits down again, his movements slow, almost ginger, which I suppose is understandable, given what he’s been through. I realize for the first time that Fisher is significantly taller than his dad, and the contrast in age and strength makes Mr. Davis look even frailer than he is. “Welcome,” he says—his voice is more powerful than the rest of him, and I’m struck by a fresh wave of nervousness. “This is certainly a surprise.”

The rest of us are still standing when Ada, the woman who answered the door, arrives bearing a tray of sandwiches, fruit, and glass bottles of sparkling water. My stomach gives a traitorous growl.

“Sit,” Laura beckons as she takes the chair opposite her husband, and Ada deposits the tray on a nearby table. I take an automatic step toward the sofa, but Fisher’s still holding my hand, and he seems to be anchored to the spot.

“Actually, Mom, Elle said she has something she wants to tell me. So if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be back in a little bit.”

It’s my turn not to move. “Actually, Fisher,” I say, darting a glance toward him, “I’d like to talk with your dad.”

There’s a murmur of surprise—Fisher’s mom, I think, but maybe Fisher too. “Sit,” Mr. Davis says to me, and this time, it’s less of an invitation, more of an order. Behind his steel-rimmed glasses, his previously dull eyes brighten with curiosity. “You too, Trey. Whatever your … friend has to say to me, I’m sure you can hear too.”

“Yes,” I agree. “I suppose I should’ve said I wanted to talk with you both.”

And then, even though my appetite has fled, I reach for something from the tray, desperate to occupy my hands.

“Mr. Davis, I want to confess something to you. When your son first asked me out on a date, I’d never heard of you or Davis Investment Group.”

A flicker of disbelief crosses his expression, but he doesn’t speak.

“Since then, though, I’ve learned quite a lot. About you, your father, the company you founded, its impact on businesses and communities around the world, the amazing life you’ve built for your family. I can only imagine how proud you must be.”

That compliment earns me the slightest dip of his head.

“In that same time, I’ve gotten to know your son, who is a wonderful man: smart and generous and fiercely protective of the people he loves—including you. But I’m sure you know that. That’s not what I came all this way to say.” I pause to draw a fortifying breath. “As Fisher knows, I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately. But there are a few things even he doesn’t know I’ve read.” When I glance toward him, all I can see is his profile, the thick edge of his glasses, the curve of his dark lashes, the sharp bob of his throat. He doesn’t return my gaze, so I drop my eyes to the piece of fruit in my hands. “Specifically, his undergraduate honors thesis in mathematics. It was pretty intimidating, to be honest. Maybe that’s why he keeps it in a box in his attic. I googled a few terms and phrases,” I say, without revealing that I only thought to do so today, based on what I could remember of what I read all those weeks ago. “But I’m not a math person, so I still don’t really understand much.”

I’m tempted to add that I do understand enough to see that he was still trying desperately to please his father, taking his love of something called graph theory—all those gorgeous curves, as he once told me—and tying it to the more practical work of programming and artificial intelligence. But that’s not my point in bringing it up.

“I know he could explain it to me if I asked, though,” I continue, “because you see, your son is an amazing teacher.”

“Elle,” Fisher cautions quietly, but I charge ahead.

“Did you know that, Mr. Davis?” I ask, looking up at him again. “Did you know it’s his dream to get his doctorate and become a math professor? It sounds so simple … but we both know it’s not. Because long before he began to dream that dream, he made a promise to you.”

Mr. Davis’s dark eyes are fixed on his son. “Is this true, Trey?”

There’s a long moment of ringing silence before Fisher says softly, “Yeah. I never told you, because I couldn’t bear to let you down. But it’s true that”—his hand snakes across the sofa cushion to find mine—“my heart’s somewhere else.”

From my left, where Laura has been tucked listening in silence, comes a noisy gasp. “Absolutely not.”

“Laura.” Mr. Davis’s voice is more than a little weary. “I apologize,” he says to me. “My wife is not herself—she’s been under a great deal of strain, thanks to me.” And then to Fisher he says, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

When Fisher doesn’t answer, his dad looks back at me, as if he knows there must be more. “I know you love your son, Mr. Davis. I love him too. That’s why I came. Because I think we both want his happiness. Which means letting him choose what he’s going to do with his life.”