Page 37 of Old Money

“ I wondered if I’d run into you.” She speaks so softly I can barely catch a word over the music.

“Why are you here?”

“Wow. Nice to see you?”

“Likewise,” I deadpan. “What are you doing here?”

Susannah’s shoulders drop and she looks at me wearily.

“I’m not staying, okay? I only have ten minutes. Can you just—I’m too tired to do this tonight.”

The guy on the bar stool beside mine turns at the word tired , and immediately slides off his seat, gesturing for her to take it. I expect her to protest, but she smiles sweetly and accepts the seat.

“Is it going to be like this all summer?” Susannah asks, smoothing the hem of her dress.

“Probably.” I shrug. “I think this is just how it is now.”

“That’s really sad.”

I say nothing. She’s right. Our friendship still aches like a phantom limb. It just never occurred to me that she felt it too.

A server pops up behind the bar, holding a bottle of red wine.

“Refill?”

I hold out my cup automatically.

“You too?” he asks Susannah.

“No,” we both say automatically, surprising the server. “She’s allergic to red,” I add.

Susannah eyes me, perturbed at me for remembering. One sip and she breaks out in silver-dollar hives. Trust me , I think at her. I wish I could forget too .

“Thank you.” Susannah smiles at the server. “Water’s fine.”

He plunks down a sweating jug of ice water, leaving Susannah to fill her cup. She holds the pitcher gently to her temple before pouring. Another thing Susannah can’t tolerate is heat—and it’s considerable in here, between throngs of people and the pizza ovens running full blast.

“Why are you wearing a cardigan?” I ask. “It’s like eighty degrees outside.”

It comes out rude, but not as rude as my real question: Why are you dressed like a Stepford Wife?

“We’re having dinner with his parents. All this wedding chaos. I’m going from here.”

My back straightens and my eyes go to the door.

“He’s not here,” she adds. “Do you really think... ? Never mind. I shouldn’t have come. I wanted to congratulate Theo in person, but whatever. Another time.”

She gulps down the water, ice and all. I look over to a dense cluster in the crowd where Theo stands surrounded, merrily chatting.

“Yeah, I guess you might not get a chance to at the wedding,” I say, and take a pointed sip from my own cup.

“It wasn’t me,” she sighs. “It was my in-laws, okay? He was on their list, not mine. It was a gesture—a professional courtesy.”

“A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

“If I’d known, I’d have given you one!”

“Right.” I nod, still looking across the room. “You’re saying his parents have their own invite list so long that you didn’t even notice my brother was on it.”

“Alice, their list has three former presidents on it.” She reaches for the pitcher of water, refilling her cup. “There are something like four hundred people invited to this wedding—about twenty of whom I actually know.”

Surprise ripples over my surly expression, and I turn to look at her.

“Yeah,” Susannah says, an acerbic tinge to her voice. “And half had already RSVPed.”

She downs the water, clearly wishing it was white wine.

“Sorry?” I ask, catching her odd phrasing. “They had RSVPed?”

Susannah glances at me and does a quick double-take, her face mirroring my confusion.

“Before the dates changed,” she says slowly. “Didn’t Jamie—I called this afternoon. He didn’t tell you?”

“Wait.” I stop her. “Wait. The wedding date?”

“Yes, we had to move it up. Jamie didn’t tell you? I said it was fine if he did.”

“I was off today.” I brush this aside. Jamie’s not the issue. “Moved up to when? And why?”

My heart thrums, my mouth already going dry.

“I’m not supposed to say anything yet, but—” She exhales. “ Vanity Fair wants to cover the wedding. And with their schedule—the photos, the interviews—we had to move everything up by a week.”

She rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

I’m so relieved that I laugh aloud. Not a pregnancy. Just a magazine story.

“So, the wedding’s July twenty-seventh now,” Susannah says, eyeing me, thrown by my sudden laughter. “It’s chaos, like I said. We only just sent the invitations, and now— God, what is so funny?”

I’ve started laughing harder, imagining the mayhem—this wrench thrown into the summer plans of every socialite north of the Mason-Dixon, and three former presidents.

“Nothing,” I wheeze, my eyes watering. “You’re going to put East Hampton into a recession.”

Susannah cracks a small smile.

“All those canceled reservations,” she murmurs woefully. “All those Pilates classes.”

I clap a hand over my mouth, sputtering wine.

“ Easy , Alice.” She glances around with a polite smile. “Everyone will think you’re drunk.”

“Right,” I say. “And everyone knows that never ends well.”

Susannah catches it before I do. Her smile slumps. For a moment we’d slid back into our old rhythm, but now we’re back in reality.

“I didn’t—” I stop, correcting myself. “I’m, um, gonna check the bathroom line.”

I didn’t mean it . That’s what I almost said.

“Alice.” Susannah’s face is stony. “I’d like to get lunch again. Or coffee, or something.”

I don’t answer right away, unsure what to make of this frosty invitation. What is this, another message from Patrick? Some other bomb she’d like to drop over salad?

“Another lunch date, really?” I slide off my stool, suddenly exhausted. “Because the last one went so well? Whatever you have to tell me, I can handle it here. We don’t need to ruin another meal.”

“I guess it does seem ridiculous. It sure feels ridiculous every time I do this.”

Do what? I wait, tipping my head toward her, eyebrows raised.

“I’m just trying to make up, Alice. I’m trying to—be friends again, somehow. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t. I’m just trying . That’s all.”

The band kicks off another bouncy tune—another vaguely familiar melody I can’t quite place, and Susannah takes the cue.

“Forget it, I’ll drop it.” She adjusts her purse strap and flicks her hair back over her shoulder. “I can’t deal with this now anyway. Just—bye.”

“Fine,” I say, stopping her as she turns. “A coffee though.”

Susannah softens the slightest bit.

“And not this week,” I quickly add. “I’m slammed with work.”

I shift on my feet, knowing how phony the excuse sounds—and how futile. Susannah knows what week it is.

“I’m sure you’ll be busy with appointments and dress stuff, and all that. But—”

“Of course,” Susannah says, a strange, sharp pity in her eyes. “I’ll find the time.”

We nod a silent goodbye, and I watch her clip-clop toward the revolving door in her beige kitten heels. The idea of spending the murder anniversary with the murderer’s fiancée is so macabre I could almost laugh again.

And that’s what she is , I remind myself. For now .

***

I really will be busy these next few weeks—just not with my day job.

With the wedding moved up, I’ll have to move faster.

This morning with Alex had felt like a breakthrough.

He’d given me leads; he’d said Patrick was scared—it felt like real progress.

Now it just seems like a hazy conversation I had with a scorned ex-friend (and current employee), who’d willingly lied his way into rehab—or else, was lying to me .

Either way, I still have nothing tangible.

I still need to get my hands on “novel or compelling evidence”—the kind that makes headlines and gets cases reopened. The kind that gets weddings called off.

That part is even more crucial now. Otherwise, the wedding itself is going to make headlines.

Somewhere in Manhattan, there’s a team of magazine editors already earmarking space for it in some thick, glossy fall issue.

The same magazine that published “A Blue-Blooded Killing in Briar’s Green,” not quite twenty years ago.

I wonder if they reached out to the Yateses’ publicity reps, or if it was the other way around.

Patrick’s never given a personal interview, and therefore never had to answer any awkward personal questions.

And people want them more than ever. It’d be a coup for the magazine, getting that exclusive.

But Patrick would get even more. He’d get a whole new story.