Page 68 of Old Money

I picture him, glowering at the shadowed figure striding toward the pool. He might have missed those crucial little details, like hair color or exact height. But then, why bother to look that closely? As far as he knew, it was just one of those nonmember boys making trouble.

“ ‘That boy, who never should have been there,’ ” I murmur, recalling his own words.

“He shouldn’t have been,” Mr. Brody adds in soft agreement. “Neither of them.”

I straighten up, my cheeks still burning, and wait for him to meet my eye again.

“So you knew it was Jamie or Theo, but you didn’t know which. Is that right?”

He nods.

“No inklings whatsoever? Over the years?”

“Certainly, I had them,” he says evenly. “There were rumblings about your brother, as I’m sure you know by now. And Jamie’s behavior this summer—forgive me, but all this snooping and scheming with you. Barging in here with you to interrogate me.”

He gives a bewildered shake of the head.

“I tell you, I did not know what to make of it. But the kettle was boiling.” He lifts his hands from the arms of his chair. “Nothing to do but wait for the whistle.”

“Nothing to do,” I repeat. “Really, nothing ? For twenty years?”

Mr. Brody considers for a long moment, his expression calm. He knits his hands together and rests them on the desk.

“Had I an explanation, I would give it to you gladly. All I have is the fact of those twenty years—all the life that’s happened. Days go by, each one full of other business, other tragedies, and that is how the past becomes the past.”

His eyes shift downward, and he draws a tired breath.

“Which is another way of saying that I have no excuse,” he adds. “You did the right thing. I did not. Mea culpa, Ms. Wiley. And well done.”

***

Outside, the sun has turned from stinging bright to warm, rich rays of orange, glimmering through the trees.

The crickets are already chirping, getting a jump on sunset.

The days are steadily getting shorter, and I can smell the first notes of fall, even through the heat.

I pause beside my car, and take a deep breath of it. Then I open the driver’s side door.

“Hey!” a voice calls from somewhere behind the clubhouse. “Alice, wait up!”

I stop with the door still open and shield my eyes against the sun. Jamie calls my name again, and then he appears on the edge of the parking lot, jogging toward me. He’s dressed in a blue T-shirt, sweating around the collar—not even close to dress code.

“Where were you?” I ask, eyeing him.

“Birthday party at the stables,” he says, pausing to catch his breath. “They needed hands—everyone’s out of town.”

He frowns, noticing my bags in the back seat.

“Wait, are you leaving right now? Seriously?”

I look at my luggage with a pang of uncertain guilt.

“No text, nothing?” he asks, squinting. “A little dramatic, even for you.”

“No, I—” I was trying to do the opposite, for once. Trying to make a quiet exit. “I was going to call you.”

It sounds wimpy. We both hear it.

“Uh-uh, in the car,” he says, and opens the passenger door. “We’re doing this in air-conditioning.”

I stand still as he gets in the passenger seat and shuts the door.

“This?” I ask.

“ Air -conditioning,” Jamie repeats.

So I get in and start the engine, cranking the air on full blast. We sit in sweaty silence until the vents blow cool, and then Jamie leans forward, adjusting the knobs. I flip my visor down against the sunset, now blazing over the river.

“What’s the game plan?” he asks.

“Uh, drive back,” I answer, looking forward. “Shower. Sushi, maybe.”

“Cool, any plans after that?” He gestures at the horizon. “In terms of the rest of your life?”

“Not really. I’m open to suggestions.”

I glance sideways at him. His expression turns sincere. I don’t know how much more sincerity I’m up for today.

“Can I just say I’m sorry?” My eyes drop to his shoulder. “Can that be it for now?”

A heavy silence hangs in the car, until finally, Jamie breaks it.

“Hmm,” he says in a musing voice. “What happens if I say no?”

“God,” I say. “Jamie Hotdog.”

Jamie’s head goes back, eyebrows raised. “ Whoa , I forgot about that nickname. That was good.”

“I think it was supposed to be mean.”

He shrugs.

“Yeah, but it was cool. It was funny. I remember I was mad that I hadn’t thought of it myself.”

The corners of his mouth go up as he nods, thinking back—like it’s that simple. I sit and watch him smiling at the memory, his face so wide-open and content that I stop breathing for a second. I reach out, squeezing his shoulder, hard and quick.

“Okay,” I say in a farewell tone. “I really do have to go. I have to unpack and get groceries and everything.”

I put my hand on the gearshift, but he doesn’t take the cue.

“Do you need a hand with groceries?”

“No,” I say.

He widens his eyes, exasperated or pretending to be, or a little of both.

“Well, can I give you one anyway?”

I feel my smile bending into a grin.

Why not? I think. Whatever this is—why not?

I can’t think of a reason. I might be giving up on reasons for a while.

If I’ve learned anything these past three months (and the twenty-ish years prior) it’s that there’s rarely a good reason for the things that happen to us, or the things we do.

I haven’t earned the great fortune I’ve been given or the brutality I’ve witnessed—or even this moment right here: sitting in the sunset, in an air-conditioned car, with gas in the tank and someone beside me.

I don’t deserve any of it—this minute, this life. But I’m the one who got it, and I can’t give it back.

I put the car in gear and go.

*****