Page 38 of Old Money

T he morning of July Fourth dawns warm and bright and uneventful.

Just how I like it—business as usual. The anniversary is always easier when I can maintain a regular workday routine—no easy feat on a national holiday.

Each mundane task is a soothing respite amid the laid-back revelry around me.

I’m not a fan of unstructured time in general, but on July Fourth, I simply cannot do relaxed.

Invite me to your beach day; I will destroy it.

Jules texts me early, reminding me that I’m invited to join them at home, for a low-key day of board games and Chinese takeout, with The Twilight Zone marathon on in the background.

This is the July Fourth ritual that Mom, Theo and I fell into after Caitlin’s death, and part of me aches to say yes.

But then I think of the note in the mailbox (its tidy folds and chilling brevity: Take care ).

I get to work early, but the club is already decked out in festive bunting, and bustling with party prep. The groundskeeper and his team are setting up space for fireworks, and delivery trucks are clustered at the top of the hill.

“Again, Gail, please allow me to apologize, on behalf of the whole club. If there’s any— Well, no, I’m afraid not.”

Jamie’s talking in his calm-cool-concierge voice, but he is neither calm nor cool. He’s hunched over his keyboard, hair askew, clutching the phone receiver with both hands, like someone negotiating a hostage release.

“Do you need anything?” I whisper. “Lemons?”

I give him a hesitant wave. Jamie waves back quickly, then clenches the hand into a fist and quietly thumps it on the desk.

“ No , Gail, as I said, that is simply not going to work for us.”

He squeezes his eyes shut while the other voice squeaks furiously at him through the phone.

“I’ll go,” I whisper. “You look, um, busy in here.”

Jamie nods, eyes still shut.

“Later?” I add, backing out of the room. “The Martha?”

Jamie keeps nodding. I retreat silently into the hall.

“Wait, Alice—” Jamie says. “Gail, sorry, one moment.”

He covers the mouthpiece. “You okay?”

I shut my eyes. I hate that tone.

“You don’t need another day off?” he adds. “Today, I mean.”

“No,” I declare, perhaps a bit too firmly. “Thank you, really. But I prefer—”

“Yes, Gail, pardon me.” Jamie pivots back to the phone, whacking his sticky keyboard. “No, just holiday mayhem around here. Exactly .”

He waves me off with a big, flapping hand.

I head toward the grill, where they’re test-driving an online reservation system (approved by the board, “with the understanding members are under no obligation to participate, and may continue to make reservations via telephone and fax”).

The first week was a breeze, and today we have the perfect conditions to see how things fare when the clubhouse is full, and the members are tanked.

It’ll be a headache, but I’m up for a headache today.

Tasks! I think, bucking myself up.

I zoom past the lounge at the end of the gallery, stepping sideways as a couple strolls out, arm in arm. One of them gasps, stopping me cold.

It’s them. Patrick and Susannah. They’re not alone either. Patrick’s parents are with them—the whole group in linens and pastels, the women holding sun hats. Susannah blanches, and Whit and Patrick both look resolutely blank. Liv is the only one still smiling—that sparkling, wicked-queen smile.

They really don’t care , I think. Even today they’re here, bright and early .

Patrick clears his throat and turns left, guiding the rest of them away.

“Happy Fourth!” Liv trills as she passes.

I watch them process down the gallery. All around me, the clubhouse is steadily filling up, the members arriving in festive clusters, everyone chatty.

None of them care, I realize. It’s just Fourth of July, nothing more.

It shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t make me want to scream and smash the windows. What the hell did I expect?

I change my mind about bothering the grill team. I’ll bother Mr. Brody instead. Today’s a good day to stay in the basement.

***

“Time for your break, I think,” says Mr. Brody.

I shake my head, not looking up. After scanning all morning, I’ve slipped into a state of pleasant numbness, no thoughts in my head but Scan. Save. Repeat. Even the cacophony of the jam-packed clubhouse is little more than white noise now.

Mr. Brody, on the other hand, is starting to fray at the edges. He was visibly pissed to see me this morning, and we both know he can’t stay here watching me all day. The members are already buzzed, and there are kids running down the gallery—and he hasn’t made one of them cry yet.

“Now, now,” Mr. Brody continues, turning strident. “Best not to skip it. Big day.”

Big anniversary too , I think, still silently scanning. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was getting to you.

“I think you’ll find, Ms. Wiley,” Mr. Brody huffs, “that you are obligated to take a break every—”

The phone on his desk rings with a shattering brrrrill , and he snatches the receiver.

“Yes,” he barks. Another huffing sigh. “Fine, I’m en route. No, you’ll have to discard them. Because it’s lime rounds , not wedges.”

He drops the phone into the cradle with a clang and stands up, tugging at his vest.

“They screwed up the punch, huh?”

“Indeed, they did,” Mr. Brody snips, blowing past me like a storm cloud and through the doorway.

“Whoa,” Jamie says, appearing in it, seconds later. “Hey, did he—”

“Limes. He’s on it,” I answer, robotic, feeding another page into the scanner.

“Thank God.” Jamie rests a hand on his chest. “You doing okay?”

I nod, ignoring the lilt of concern in his tone. I’m in the zone and I want to stay here.

“Alice?” he presses. “Alice, stop.”

“Jamie, I’m fine.” I turn from the screen, annoyed. “I’m—”

“No, stop. Look .” He points to my laptop screen, an open-mouthed smile on his face. “Told you.”

I look back at the computer, skimming the page on the screen. It’s another page from the members rolls—I’ve scanned hundreds by now, and the info never changes. You get one or two new members a year, but even then, it’s all the same names.

“ What? ” I whisper, searching the screen. “What is it, I don’t—”

But then I do. I lift the laptop, squinting at the entry scrawled in Mr. Brody’s tight cursive:

Gordon Fairchild (Vivian Fairchild)—R

10 Little Farm Lane

Ashborough, New York

I stare gaping, first at the address and then the R . That’s a first—but the meaning is obvious. Members almost never resign, as doing so signals one of two things: dire financial circumstances, or a major social gaffe.

“What year is that?” Jamie asks. “Early 2000s?”

I check the ledger’s spine. It’s 2002—the year A Death on the Hudson came out. I turn to show Jamie.

“Bingo.” He nods. “Where is Little Farm Lane though? It rings a bell, but—”

Jamie’s cell phone buzzes in his jacket.

“Shit,” he says, fumbling for it. “Sorry, wedding emergency”

It must be if he’s got his phone out on the floor.

“I’ll catch you up later,” he continues, typing as he talks. “You won’t fucking believe it.”

“Oh. The date?” Jamie looks up, and I nod. “She told me.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he starts to ask the question, interrupted by another buzz from the phone.

“We’ll talk at the Martha,” I remind him. “You’re still leaving at six, right? Jamie?”

He mumbles a vague affirmative, eyes still on the phone. Jamie is technically off once cocktail hour starts—but no one is really off on July Fourth. Someone shouts for him from down the hall—something about straws—and Jamie looks up, jamming the phone back into his pocket.

“Go,” I say, but he’s already going.

I watch him jog down the hall toward the straw emergency, then I turn back to the address on the computer screen.

I know why the street name rings a bell.

Because it’s two streets down from mine—the one where Theo and I grew up.

Jamie would’ve passed it hundreds of times on his way to our place.

Our woodsy nook of Ashborough was small—only a few dozen homes.

And one of them was Gordon Fairchild’s. It’s a rattling discovery, though I’m not sure why.

***

There’s a brief lull in the clubhouse around 4:00 p.m. as the members dash home to change into their black-and-white formal wear. They start streaming back in an hour later, the footsteps above both lighter and sharper now that everyone’s in dress shoes.

I take the staff steps to the main floor and carry on down the dim staff hall. I’ll leave for the Martha soon, but not just yet. I need to see something first.

I push open the heavy staff door to the library—a swing door built into the back of a bookshelf.

The room is reliably vacant at this time of day, and if you can stand the combined heat of the fireplace and late-afternoon sun, then it makes an ideal spot to spy on the lobby.

Already I feel perspiration beading above my lip and beneath my eyes.

I keep my back against the book-lined wall and look out into the lobby, my gaze fixed on the front entrance.

It’s still early , I think. They’re probably not here yet .

But then, as soon as I have the thought, they are.

Liv and Whit Yates lead the way—he, tall and dapper in a tuxedo, she in a skimming satin gown with a subtle train at the back.

The crowd shifts, making way for them as they stride across the room and greet another couple, receiving cheek kisses and two glasses of champagne.

I can hear my own breath sharpening as I spot Susannah in a white dress, blank-faced and holding her clutch with both hands.

I knew she’d come. And still, I can’t believe it. The Susannah I knew wouldn’t have come to this party if you dragged her by her hair.

I’ve got to get to the Martha. I wait until Susannah is standing with the Yateses, then, keeping my eyes on her back, I pivot and step out of the library. Just as Patrick Yates steps into it.

“Fuck!”

We stumble clumsily against each other in the doorway, and the smell of lime and woodsy cologne waves over me. He’s holding his phone against his ear.

“You f—”

He stops, realizing. We stand in a frozen stare-down, close enough that I can hear the tinny voice on the other end of his phone.

He holds a fizzing glass of something in his other hand—gin and soda by the look of it—though half of it’s splashed on his lapel now.

Up close, he looks older than he does in photos, but still younger than he is.

“Excuse me,” I say.

Patrick lowers the phone to his chest, turning sideways to let me pass. And as I do, he answers.

“Nope,” he says. “No fuckin’ chance.”

The air goes out of my lungs, and I stop with a slight wobble a few feet past the doorway. With all my might, I will myself to look back.

Patrick has the phone against his ear again, but his eyes are still on me. He waits for me to turn, then he raises his glass.

“Cheers,” he says, perhaps to me or to the person on the phone. Then he grins that boyish grin and brings the glass toward his mouth.

“Happy Fourth.”