Page 51 of Inventing Mr Darcy

And then I remember our earlier conversation, and it occurs to me, there’s more than one way to look good …

I open the rear-facing camera on my phone, uncertain if I have the guts to go through with this, wary of what I’ll see. But my cheeks are pink, still flushed with sleep, and my hair has dried in what can probably pass for tousled waves. I fluff and stack the pillows against the headboard, carefully position myself leaning against them, drape the towel so it barely covers the important bits, and wait for his call.

I answer with a suggestive smile and a flirty wave of my fingers. Fisher’s dark eyes go wide with shock—and not the good kind. Or at least, not entirely.

“Hey, Elle,” he says, a little tightly, and his gaze darts past the camera. “My family is right here waiting to wish you Merry Christmas!”

I drop my phone, snatch up the first item of clothing that comes to hand (Yale sweatshirt, for the win), and reappear on screen a few seconds later, breathless, only half (but not visibly) naked, leaning casually against his bedroom door (which looks, thankfully, like every other door in the house). “Merry Christmas, everyone!” I say brightly.

Fortunately, it’s still just Fisher’s face looking back at me, and I can see he’s now struggling to contain his amusement. “Here’s my mom,” he says as he hands off the phone.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Davis,” I tell her. I suspect her children got their dark hair from her, though hers is now sprinkled with silver.

She looks tired, worn out by the challenges of the past few weeks (and maybe longer), but she smiles gently. “Lovely to meet you, dear. Call me Laura. I understand you’ll be visiting New York for a few days?”

“Yes, I fly in tomorrow.”

“Wonderful—I know my son is looking forward to it. I’m sorry I won’t have the chance to see you in person, but I hope there will be another opportunity?”

My heart is hammering, but I blame the mad dash to make myself quasi-presentable. “Yes, I hope so too.”

“Here’s Gabriela.”

She passes the phone, and the more familiar face of Fisher’s sister fills the screen. “Hey, Elle. Merry Christmas! Nice to see you again.”

“Yes, same. This is a lovely gesture.”

“Well, my brother mentioned you were all alone today, and when he said he was going to call later and try to lift your spirits, I insisted we should all get to say hi. Hi!” She punctuates the greeting with a goofy little wave.

I’m starting to wonder if she’s deliberately trying to disrupt our relationship or just that naïve.

“I’m so glad you did,” I say with the biggest smile I can muster. It’s still stretched taut across my face when the phone returns to Fisher’s hand. “What a delightful surprise!”

“Wasn’t it?” Even in a rather grainy video chat, I can see the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. “I—”

In the background, I hear a man say, “Don’t I get to meet this girl?”

I watch as Fisher’s gaze shutters and he turns toward the voice. “Are you sure you feel up to it, Dad?”

The reply is muffled, but it must have been yes, because the next thing I know, I’m face to face with Fisher Davis, Jr.

He still looks like the picture on the mantel downstairs, just a slightly older and more haggard version, as you’d expect for a man who’s recently undergone heart surgery and a difficult recovery. Plus it seems even extraordinarily wealthy and powerful men in world-class medical facilities are subject to the humiliation of wearing hospital gowns.

It’s immediately obvious where Fisher got his dark eyes and poor eyesight—Mr. Davis’s glasses are silver-rimmed and pushed partway down his nose so he can better see the camera. I find myself wondering whether this man’s eyes ever sparkle with humor and mischief like his son’s.

They certainly aren’t sparkling now.

“So you’re the girl Trey can’t stop talking about,” he says.

I’m so taken aback, I actually blurt out, “Who?”

But of course, Trey is snooty rich people speak for three, as in Fisher Davis the Third. It must be the name his family uses, and for half a second, I wonder whether it’s the name he prefers, though he’s never mentioned it to me. But I know—know—that he introduced himself to me as Fisher, and suddenly I’m furious at the idea he had to come all the way to Grantham, Minnesota even to claim his own name.

“I mean, how are you doing, sir?” I ask, through slightly gritted teeth, trying to make who sound like a slip of the tongue.

“Better,” he says, grudgingly. I pity his nurses.

“That’s wonderful to hear,” I enthuse, my smile so wide now that my cheeks have begun to ache. “I’m so glad. Merry Christmas, Mr. Davis!”