Page 51 of Old Money
The urge to shout is so intense it aches like a cramp in my throat.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said anything,” she cedes in a crisp, polite tone. “About anything.”
“Why not?” I’m shaky with rage, more adrenaline in myveins than blood. “ ‘People do it,’ right? Totally normal choices you’ve made.”
Susannah props her elbow on the table with a clumsy bang, dropping her forehead into her hand.
“I don’t know why I thought this would go differently.”
My breath comes out in choppy laughter.
“Me neither!”
Susannah looks around again—embarrassed now, by me.
“Look, Alice, this is not what I came here to do. I apologize, okay? I know this is sensitive.”
The word hits like ice water.
“Sensitive,” I repeat. “Susannah, you are engaged to a murderer. You are talking about having children with a murderer.”
On the edge of my vision, our server approaches, then quickly changes direction. Susannah and I are still as statues, almost head-to-head.
“Alice,” she says, nearly inaudible now. “You don’t know wh—”
“Yes, I do, Susannah. I know exactly what I’m talking about. You know I do.”
Then, another miracle: Susannah crumples inward, a hand covering her face. A tear free-falls into her lap, and then another. My anger dissolves, and I realize this is it—this is my window. I reach through it.
“Susannah,” I say, reaching for her other hand. “Tell me. What is happening?”
“That’s not what...” she whimpers, a ragged inhale cutting her off.
“What? What is it?” I squeeze her hand, willing her to squeeze back. “Please, I want to help.”
“Stop.” She sits up, shaking her hand out of mine. “Enough.”
Susannah breathes in, composing herself. She dabs her face discreetly with her napkin, then tucks it back in her lap.
“He forgives you. Okay?” She looks me in the eye, resolute and calm again. “That’s what I came here to tell you. He forgives you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“She saidwhat?”
Jamie gawks at me over his beer. I take a deep drink of my own.
“I don’t get it,” Jamie continues. “He forgives you for what?”
“I think, all of it?” I shrug. “Reporting him? The entire public-accusation thing?”
Jamie squints and shakes his head.
“That’s all I got, dude.”
I twist sideways in my seat, wedging my back into the corner of the booth. The Martha Washington is one of the oldest operating pubs in the state, and the owners take great pride in their genuine-replica booths, modeled after the original colonial ones. It’s a charming spot, but there’s not one comfortable seat in the house. I have to suck in and bend over to get into a booth, and Jamie—who stands a foot taller than any of our founding fathers—has to fold up like an accordion just to get his legs under the table. But the Martha is twenty minutes outside the village and the food is both bad and overpriced, so it’s reliably empty. Thus, it’s become our meeting spot.
“Do you think that’s actually why she wanted to have lunch?” Jamie muses.
