Page 19 of Old Money

I arrive at the club fifteen minutes later, parking in the staff lot and doing my hair in the car. I pin it into a smooth French twist and spritz my hairline with hairspray. My hands aren’t shaking; my pulse remains unhurried. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

Yes, I’ve received a fairly threatening anonymous text, from someone who was clearly watching me, and for all I know, still is. I’m scared, sure, but right this minute, I’m relieved. Turns out I made a ripple after all.

“Alice?” Jamie calls, and I lean over, looking through the windshield.

He’s leaning through the staff door, his jaw set and so tense I can see it from here. He waves me over impatiently, and I nod, getting out of the car.

“You didn’t call me back,” he mutters as I step into the boot room.

I start my calm, practiced reply, but he cuts me off.

“Never mind, it’s fine. Listen, Patrick and Susannah are here.”

“What?”

Jamie lifts a finger, shushing me. My voice is loud in the tiny staff entry.

“ Here here?” I whisper, pointing at the floor. “Or Briar’s Green.”

“The club. They’re here for the walk-through. For the wedding. I tried to tell you.”

“The wedding is in August! Aren’t they in Europe?”

“Yeah, no, they were. We were supposed to do this next month with the planners. I guess— I don’t know! She just called this morning and here we fuckin’ are.”

Jamie is clearly on the edge of panic. I’m starting to get there myself.

We speed down the gallery to the break room.

“Where are they now?” I ask, trying to triage.

“They had breakfast at the grill,” Jamie says. “Just finished. His parents are coming too, by the way.”

Right , I think. One of them on horseback .

We reach the lobby and turn into the staff hall behind the reception desk. I quickly dig out my time card and stick it in the mouth of the punch-in clock on the wall, then follow Jamie into the break room.

“Coffee?” he asks. “Have you eaten?”

“Huh? No, thanks, I’m good.”

He goes to the coffee machine anyway, grabbing a paper cup and punching buttons until it clunks to life. His hands, I see, are trembling.

“Hey,” I say. “Jamie, what are you worried about exactly? Is it the walk-through?”

He gives me the coffee I didn’t ask for.

“You’re not going to faint again, right? If you see him?”

Ah, got it. The thing he’s worried about is me.

“No.” I shake my head, smiling—I’m offended, but I get it. “I can handle an awkward run-in, okay?”

Jamie nods, though he’s definitely not buying it.

“How about you stay inside the office for the day, just in case. You can have it all to yourself!”

“Are you serious?”

“If you need the bathroom—”

“I’m not hiding behind your desk all day, dude!”

Jamie huffs and closes his eyes.

“I knew it was a mistake, having you work here,” he mutters. “Of all fucking summers.”

I open my mouth, all remaining anxiety wiped out by righteous outrage. I take a step closer, preparing to let Jamie Burger have it. But then I hear a familiar voice behind me.

“Knock, knock,” she says.

I look over my shoulder. Susannah is standing in the doorway of the break room.

“They said I should just come on...”

She trails off at the sight of my face. Her own face turns a shade whiter, her mouth slackening. Even the coffee machine goes silent.

“Susannah Joyce!” Jamie crows. “Hey!”

He gives her a jovial smile, his panic tucked away in an instant.

“Jamie, hi, I’m so sorry about this,” Susannah answers warmly, the look of dread wiped off her face. “It’s so last-minute, I know—terribly rude.”

She’s dressed like an Easter egg, in a soft blue top tucked into a pencil skirt the color of an eraser. Her lightened hair is even lighter after weeks of Mediterranean sunshine, and still ironed pin straight.

“Oh, quit minding your manners. It’s fine!” Jamie puts down his coffee and goes to her. “Been a while, huh?!” he continues. “I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you in person.”

Susannah glances sideways at me, a nervous laugh escaping at the mention of her engagement. Jamie keeps talking—tossing out chitchatty comments, as if coaching us along: Do you hear how I’m making my voice normal? Why don’t we all try!

“How’ve you been?” Susannah asks him, making an attempt. “How’s the season going?”

“Good! Busy!” He looks at me. “Good thing we’ve got Alice with us this year.”

I watch Susannah’s face closely. Is this news to her?

“Wow. Amazing,” she says in a vacant tone, her eyelids fluttering.

There’s the blink. There’s the terrible liar I know.

“Hi, Susannah,” I say, firm and polite. “Long time.”

“Yeah, gosh,” she says, her words half-inflated, drifting across the room like a week-old balloon. “What’s it been? Three years?”

It’s been over four, but whatever. I’m not interested in playing make-believe nostalgia anyway. Not with her.

“I actually have to dash. I’m due at Mr. Brody’s office.”

“Oh!” Susannah says, visibly relieved as I brush past her through the door and into the dark staff hall. “Well, it was great to see you. We should get coffee sometime.”

I stop, cringing at the floor. Fake plans? We never did that bullshit. It fills me with such aching sadness that I want to sit and weep on the spot. Instead, I turn around and lie politely back to her, because that’s the normal thing to do.

“That would be great.”

***

Mr. Brody greets me from behind his newspaper.

“Good morning, Ms. Wiley. I’d invite you in, but you don’t typically require an invitation.”

I’m never actually “due” at Mr. Brody’s.

I make a point of showing up at random, in the hopes of catching him away from his desk—so I can finally have it.

Thus far, it’s been a wildly unsuccessful tactic.

I always arrive the moment he happens to be taking a break with his paper or catching up on bookkeeping.

I then huddle in the corner with my scanner and laptop, converting his useless papers into useless PDFs, while he sits at his desk, contentedly guarding it like a mother hen.

This morning though, I have a better idea.

“I’d like to finish these menus today,” I tell him, surveying the shelves in question. “Then move on to table seatings.”

“I daresay you won’t have time.”

“Daresay I might, if I devote the day to it.”

Jamie wants me out of sight. What better place to tuck myself away?

Mr. Brody lowers the newspaper, a look of unmasked annoyance on his face.

“I’m afraid not, Ms. Wiley. I’ve allowed this invasion, but I can’t have you loitering all day.”

I shrug.

“The sooner I’m through these, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

He launches into some retort, but I cut him off.

“Anyway, it’s busy upstairs today, what with the walk-through.”

Mr. Brody’s mouth freezes, then shuts.

“The wedding walk-through?” I say. “Patrick and Susannah arrived at nine.”

“At nine o’clock this morning?” Mr. Brody says, springing to his feet.

“Yes, I assumed you knew,” I say, maintaining a tone of mild confusion. “The Yateses should’ve joined by now.”

He folds his newspaper with an exasperated sigh, his decorum slipping in his irritation.

“Strange that I’m the one in need of ‘organizing,’ ” he scoffs, straightening his vest and examining himself in the small mirror beside his desk. “Your old friend Jamie can’t seem to schedule an appointment without informing all relevant parties. Perhaps if he actually wrote things down.”

With that, Mr. Brody storms out to go barge into the walk-through—to which I’m sure he was deliberately not invited.

Alone at last with his desk, I jump into action, pulling out drawers.

I’m being sloppy—he’ll know I was rummaging—but I can’t risk taking time to be careful.

He could come back at any moment, and if he catches me in the act then the club will actually have a good reason to fire me.

The desk is a heavy old oak piece, big as a ship and full of compartments.

I tear through the smaller ones at the top, finding nothing but old golf pencils, paper clips and dust. I lean down and pull out a slightly larger drawer, which is full of blank printer paper, dry and crinkled at the edges.

A pair of voices approach in the hallway, and I freeze.

The conversation passes, and then I hear the distant clunk of the north exit door swinging shut.

I pivot in Brody’s squeaking chair and reach for the largest drawer—my hand pausing as I notice the keyhole at the top.

My heart sinks. I kick myself for being disappointed over something I should have anticipated.

There’s only one key for this lock, I’m sure, and it’s upstairs in Mr. Brody’s pocket.

Just for the hell of it, I reach down and yank the handle.

The drawer flies open with a heavy clang. I clap my hand to my mouth, looking down at the row of leatherbound books, the slim spines face-up in a neat line. No dust on these ones.

I lift one out slowly. My heart beats in my ears as I open it. It’s a diary, and it’s not new. The first entry is dated March 10, 2001.

G.A.’s dinner guests included H.W. and D.T. Charlie informed me of the latter’s late arrival, approximately 8:40 p.m., and I—

I skim the rest of the page: a dry but specific play-by-play of a private dinner party, beginning with cocktails in the bar and ending with cigars in the library, before the guests left shortly before midnight, in various makes and models of cars.

I have no idea whose initials these are, or why their dinner was relevant, let alone their cars.

I flip ahead, scanning the next entry and the one after that.

There has to be something. Whatever’s in these books must have been important enough for Mr. Brody to keep them in his desk for eighteen years. But not important enough to lock?

I hear a rumble from above as someone pushes open one of the heavy ballroom doors.

The walk-through , I think. Can’t they walk a little slower?

Moving quickly now, I check the rest of the diaries.

They’re lined up chronologically, the most recent one from just last year.

I pull them out one at a time, scanning the pages for the dates or initials I need.

F.S. plays tennis with W.Y. in August 2017.

E.I. books the pink room for a two-day meeting in January 2014.

Some of the coded entries are more easily deciphered than others.

I’m briefly alarmed by a 2007 account of an auction attended by a P.C.

and H.C., who arrived with several “SS officers.” It takes a minute before I realize P.C.

is President Clinton, H.C. is Hillary and “SS” stands for Secret Service.

I reach for the last diary, the first page dated 1998.

I flip through, my hopes deflated—no 1999 records in this drawer.

The thought repeats in my mind and I pause, holding the book open.

I lean down, peering at the tidy row of books.

No 1999 records in this drawer . 1998 to 2018 are all accounted for. There’s only one year missing.

The sound of voices upstairs interrupts again. The walk-through must have finished in the pink ballroom—the one at the end of the gallery, beside the basement stairs. I picture the group strolling out together, Liv Yates still dressed in riding boots, discussing table arrangements with Susannah.

I slot the book back in the drawer, shove Brody’s chair back into place and scoot back to the stack of menus near my scanner. I open my laptop, just as the door swings open. It isn’t Mr. Brody though.

He stands there, one hand on the doorknob and the other holding a single sheet of paper.

“Hi?”

Jamie doesn’t answer. He looks at the sheet of paper, then takes a step toward me and holds it out, just far enough for me to see what it is. A cold wave rolls down my body.

Jamie speaks at last.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”