Page 79 of Old Money

“It won’t,” Jamie answers, not missing a beat. “Where are you anyway?”

I roll down my window, letting in the fragrant, grassy breeze.

“Still on Revolution,” I answer. “I’m not even at the lake yet. Where areyou?”

Most nights we both take Revolution Road to the intersection by Rippowat Lake, one of us following the other in a kind of unofficial escort on the rambling, unlit backroad. We usually wave good-night at the turn-off, Jamie heads toward his place in Ashborough’s town center and I turn back into Briar’s Green.

“Heading for the highway,” says Jamie. “Aren’t you? I’m not messing with Route 9 tonight.”

Down the road ahead of me, a cop car shoots across the intersection, siren whooping—on its way to confiscate some sparklers.

“Shit. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Good luck, soldier. Have fun driving on the shoulder. Anyway, it won’t rain at the rehearsal.”

“Right, but what if it does?”

“It won’t,” he repeats simply. “We don’t get rained out. Not since Roosevelt left office.”

“Oh—wow, you’re not serious.” I hear him chuckle on the other end. “Don’t tell me they’re still saying that.”

“Of course they are!” Jamie cackles. “Club tradition!”

Clubmythis more like it—one of the silliest. It starts with some ancient beef involving FDR and an ill-fated club luncheon he attended, the summer before his fourth term. I don’t know what faux pas he committed (perhaps a comment about socialized healthcare or women’s rights) but it was bad enough that he was allegedly never invited back. That, or he was too tied up with WWII to attend every country club lunch. Either way, the story goes, the club was rained out for the rest of the season—every terrace dance and golf tournament ruined. The bad streak continued the following spring, when the Easter Hunt was canceled by an off-season hurricane, and everyone feared another spoiled summer. But when FDR died three days later—“Left office” as the members like to say—the clouds instantly parted.

“And hasn’t rained on a club party since,” I finish.

“It hasn’t!” Jamie comes back, indignant. “Look it up!”

My laughter trails off into a sigh. The more doable this plan becomes the more anxious I get.

“You there?” Jamie asks.

“Yeah, but— Hey, listen. I don’t want you to do this. It’s too—”

“Alice—”

“No,”I say sharply. “It’s my call, and I’m saying it’s not worth it. I know you want to help, but you live here. You work here. You’ve made a whole life, and I don’t want you jeopardizing it for me.”

He waits a moment, letting me finish.

“Hey, egomaniac?” Jamie says lightly. “What if I want to helpbecauseI live and work here?”

I blink, my cheeks warming. I can hear him smiling.

“Just—you sleep on it too. Deal? If I get caught, you’re my accomplice.”

“Ooh, say that again?”

The heat spreads from my cheeks to my neck. I reach the intersection and hang my arm out the window into the velvety cool air.

“You know, there’s one thing I never really understood,” says Jamie. “About the murder.”

I idle at the stop sign, listening.

“Why do you think he did it?” Jamie continues. “They hadn’t even been dating that long, right? I don’t get the motive.”

A memory rises unbidden—one of those split-second dioramas: Caitlin stumbles slightly leftward, briefly unbalanced by Patrick’s grip around her wrist. He lifts his free hand, pausing—not even for a second, but long enough to notice—then he knifes it down across her head.