Page 75 of Old Money
“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 formalwear. 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.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jamie hurls himself into our booth at the Martha, his elbows and knees audibly whacking against the wood.
“Hey.” I look up from my phone, surprised. “You made it. How—”
