Page 32 of Old Money

“ I don’t understand,” says Jamie, holding the paper. “It came with the wedding invitation?”

“No,” I hiss. “They were both in the mailbox, but the invite was mailed. This was just left .”

“On the same day as the wedding invitation.”

“Maybe?! Or maybe the person left it this morning, and just stuck it in with yesterday’s mail.”

“Which had the wedding invitation in it.”

“Jamie!” I shut the office door firmly. “Please stop saying ‘wedding invitation.’ That’s a whole other whatever—I can’t even think about that yet. I’m still on the unmarked note.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t think it is ‘a whole other whatever,’ ” he says simply. “I think it’s pretty obvious, this came from Patrick too. Maybe not him personally, but you know—on his behalf.”

I shake my head. It doesn’t feel like him. I think about Jeremy’s email—him saying it didn’t seem like the Yateses’ style, making overt threats. Then again, Jeremy also said most people don’t get two warnings. I guess I’m the exception.

***

After reading the note, I ran back into the house and packed my things.

I called Jamie and said I’d be late, and he’d understand when I got there.

I called Jules and said something had come up and I was really sorry but I couldn’t babysit tonight.

I told her it was a work emergency, and I’d be staying in the village tonight, possibly longer.

Jules was more alarmed by my urgency, brushing my apologies aside and asking if everything was all right—could she help?

I felt monstrous. I told her no, and not to worry—I would explain later.

I tucked the note into my tote bag and left the rest of the mail on the kitchen island, the wedding invite included.

I drove across the village and checked in at the Alcott Inn, a chintzy bed-and-breakfast near the train station.

It’s overpriced, designed for weekend tourists who want to stay somewhere “authentic”—which is to say it has no air-conditioning.

But it’s the only place that had a room available immediately.

***

“If you don’t think this is Patrick, who do you think it is?” Jamie asks.

“I don’t know. I’m thinking Alex Chapman, but I don’t know.”

“Chapman? Why would—”

“I don’t know.”

“Right.” Jamie looks up, appraising me. “Look, you got out of the house. That’s what matters. Let’s just get through the day and think. Deal?”

Weary, I nod.

“We can compare notes later,” says Jamie. He sits forward. “By the way, I’ve got another idea about getting into the archive. I’ll explain at the Martha.”

I shake my head.

“Let’s take a night off from the Martha.”

Jamie looks deflated.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I don’t have room in my head for another idea.”

This is true, but it’s not the real reason. The real reason is I’m scared. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder. I don’t know who left that note in the mailbox, but they’ve won this round.

I spend the afternoon in Mr. Brody’s office, trying and failing to lose myself in the mindless admin work.

I feel his icy glare on me the whole time, and the feeling stays with me even when I leave the room.

In the gallery, in the powder room, in the staff lot after work—I can’t shake the itchy sense of being watched.

I drive straight back to the Alcott Inn, desperate for my little room with its lockable door.

But there’s someone waiting for me there too.

“Alice, my God,” says a voice as I turn onto the landing.

I stop in my tracks, gasping aloud.

“Oh!” she says. “I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

It’s Jules. It’s just Jules.

“You’re wound up tighter than he is.” She pulls me into a bracing hug. “The two of you, I swear. Your lives would be so much easier if you just learned to say ‘something’s wrong.’ ”

“Something’s wrong,” I say into her shoulder, numb and flat-out exhausted. “Come in.”

The Alcott’s rooms are color-themed—like the ballrooms at the club, but the effect is far less subtle here. My room is wallpapered in a crimson floral print, the floor is layered with faded burgundy rugs and the four-poster bed sits at the bleeding center of it all, topped with a scarlet canopy.

“I don’t even want to ask what they’re charging for this room,” says Jules, looking around.

She’s dressed in bike shorts and a boxy blue T-shirt that might be one of Theo’s.

My first thought is she must have pretended to go to the gym to come see me.

But then I see her ruddy cheeks and the water bottle in her bag and remember that Jules is a grown woman who doesn’t sneak around and lie to everyone. That’s my thing.

“How’d you know I was here anyway?”

I flop down into one of the overstuffed armchairs in the little seating area beside the windows. I reach over and crank open the nearest one, letting in a muggy breeze.

“Well, I saw my old car parked out front this morning. So that was my first clue.” She cranks open the other window. “My office is two streets down.”

“God,” I mutter. “Small town.”

“Small village. As they say.”

I shut my eyes and prop an elbow on the chair, dropping my head heavily against my hand. Maybe I’m not being paranoid. Maybe everyone in the village can see me.

“I’m sorry about leaving like that,” I say. “And shit, I’m so sorry about your anniversary.”

Jules sits across from me and takes a long drink from her water bottle.

“Don’t be,” she exhales. “I was not up for putting on heels and going out tonight anyway. And neither was Theo. He’s probably passed out on the couch right now, while the boys tear the house apart.”

“Or watch Dirty Dancing on YouTube.”

She gives me a closed-lip grin.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m here. Theo told me about the argument.”

I shut my eyes—I don’t have room in my brain for this either.

Jules sits forward in her chair.

“I didn’t press him for details, and I won’t press you. I’ve got two brothers and a sister, okay? Someone’s always furious about something; it’s called having a family. But Alice, believe me, he feels awful.”

“Oh,” I say, in a toneless voice. “Really?”

“Awful,” she repeats. “He came home, and he’s like, ‘Where’s Alice?’ I said, ‘Well, honey, she called me and said she was leaving this morning. Any idea why she didn’t call you ?’ And he just fell apart.”

This raises my eyebrows.

“Oh yeah.” She nods, continuing in a sad-Theo voice. “ ‘We argued. I was a jerk, I overreacted.’ I said, ‘Okay, so call her!’ But he just—you know.”

She shakes her head and sits back.

“Look, it’s no excuse. But things ramped up fast this summer. Campaigning has become a full-time job—a second full-time job. And between us, I think he thought it would be easier.”

I snort. I bet he did. Theo who blew through the SATs like a word jumble.

“Still.” I fiddle with a loose thread on the arm of the chair. “I think it’s best I’m out of the house.”

Jules stands with a breezy smile, pulling her bag onto her shoulder.

“Well, honey, you’re wrong.”

“No, like you said, it’s a busy summer. It’s not a good time for visitors, and I—”

She lifts a hand, refusing my rebuttal.

“Nope, sorry, don’t peddle your WASP bullshit here. If you need a breather, fine . But you don’t stay in a hotel in your hometown. You stay with your family and have a fight, and then guess what? You get over it.”

She waves me onto my feet, and I stand, sighing like a child as she scolds me like one. She takes me by the shoulders.

“You know if this were any other moment in time, he’d be the one here saying this, right?”

She gives me a little jostle. And something comes loose.

“I saw the wedding invitation.”

I say it to the floor, scared to see her face.

“Oh God, that nonsense,” Jules says, scoffing. “Talk about WASP bullshit.”

I wait, confused. Jules looks back with an astonished half smile.

“It’s because of Theo. Because he’s running for office. It’s one of those ridiculous, old-school courtesy things.”

I stare through her, trying to do the math.

“Whit Yates is a senator. Theo’s running for Congress. Local-politician hat-tipping, blah blah blah—just what they do around here. I thought you knew all that stuff.”

“But it came from Susannah’s parents,” I reply, though even as I say it, I realize I’m almost certainly wrong.

“Right, that’s tradition too,” Jules says, folding her arms. “ ‘Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So invite you to the wedding of their daughter.’ The bride’s family traditionally pays for the wedding too, but I gather that’s not the case here.

I don’t know the Joyces, but I’m guessing they’re not in a position throw a black-tie reception at the club. ”

My stomach sours at the thought of it. I bet Susannah’s parents would have loved to throw a wedding for their only child. A modest one, yes, with a cake from the bakeshop and Susannah in her mom’s old dress. I wonder if the Yateses even asked before they booked the club.

“So,” I say slowly. “You’re going to decline?”

Jules’s eyes pop.

“Me? I’m not even dealing with it. It’s on Theo to figure out how to say no—while still tipping his hat back or whatever. It’s a lousy position to be in, but he’s the one who wanted to go into politics. Is that why you left? Because of the invite?”

“No,” I say, meeting her eye. So there’s one truthful thing I’ve told her.

“ Good . And maybe you do need a breather. But talk to your brother, all right? Let him apologize. I mean it, this is not the year for dramatic silences. You two can do it your way on the next fight. This time I’m butting in for the greater good.”

“Deal,” I say, my voice dry.

She pulls me in for one last hug—the solid, whole-armed kind that disarms me every time, and makes me want to ask her where she learned it. She lets me go and I open the door for her, leaning heavily against the frame.

“Will we see you next week?” Jules asks in the hall. “I know you don’t really celebrate. I just thought you might want to be together this year.”

I frown, not understanding. “The fundraiser?”

“The Fourth, Alice. Next Wednesday is the Fourth.”

“ Oh .” I shake my head, sputtering. “No, of course, I just—I forgot what day it was.”

“Time flies,” Jules says, a sad smile.

“Yup. And the fundraiser’s Tuesday. I didn’t forget forget.”

“No pressure,” she says. “For the fundraiser or the Fourth. Just—keep in touch, okay?”

“Of course. Absolutely.”

“And get some sleep.”

I close the door at last and step out of my work shoes, kicking the oxfords into the little closet without bothering to unlace them.

I turn on the shower to warm up while I undress.

Even the sound of it makes me smile with drowsy relief.

I reach back to unzip my skirt, instinctively patting my pockets before remembering I don’t have any.

A soft rattle comes from across the room. I look over at my bag, slumped on the floor against the frilly armchair. My phone vibrates inside of it again.

It can wait. If it’s Theo, if it’s Jamie—it can all wait. I step into the bathroom, the calming rush of water blotting out all other sound.

Three restless minutes later I emerge, clean but unrelaxed, and hurry across the room in a towel, my hair dripping all over the rug. I fish my phone out and there they are again—a row of stars where a phone number should be. And beneath it, another row. And another, and another, and another.

And then the phone rings again. This time, I answer.