Page 62 of Old Money
“I saw the wedding invitation.”
I say it to the floor, scared to see her face.
“Oh God,thatnonsense,” Jules says, scoffing. “Talk about WASP bullshit.”
I wait, confused. Jules looks back with an astonished half smile.
“It’s because of Theo. Because he’s running for office. It’s one of those ridiculous, old-school courtesy things.”
I stare through her, trying to do the math.
“Whit Yates is a senator. Theo’s running for Congress. Local-politician hat-tipping, blah blah blah—just what they do around here. I thought you knew all that stuff.”
“But it came from Susannah’s parents,” I reply, though even as I say it, I realize I’m almost certainly wrong.
“Right, that’s tradition too,” Jules says, folding her arms. “ ‘Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So invite you to the wedding of their daughter.’ The bride’s family traditionally pays for the wedding too, but I gather that’s not the case here. I don’t know the Joyces, but I’m guessing they’re not in a position throw a black-tie reception at the club.”
My stomach sours at the thought of it. I bet Susannah’s parents would have loved to throw a wedding for their only child. A modest one, yes, with a cake from the bakeshop and Susannah in her mom’s old dress. I wonder if the Yateses even asked before they booked the club.
“So,” I say slowly. “You’re going to decline?”
Jules’s eyes pop.
“Me? I’m not even dealing with it. It’s on Theo to figure out how to say no—while still tipping his hat back or whatever. It’s a lousy position to be in, but he’s the one who wanted to go into politics. Is that why you left? Because of the invite?”
“No,” I say, meeting her eye. So there’sonetruthful thing I’ve told her.
“Good. And maybe you do need a breather. But talk to your brother, all right? Let him apologize. I mean it, this is not the year for dramatic silences. You two can do it your way on the next fight. This time I’m butting in for the greater good.”
“Deal,” I say, my voice dry.
She pulls me in for one last hug—the solid, whole-armed kind that disarms me every time, and makes me want to ask her where she learned it. She lets me go and I open the door for her, leaning heavily against the frame.
“Will we see you next week?” Jules asks in the hall. “I know you don’t really celebrate. I just thought you might want to be together this year.”
I frown, not understanding. “The fundraiser?”
“The Fourth, Alice. Next Wednesday is the Fourth.”
“Oh.” I shake my head, sputtering. “No, of course, I just—I forgot what day it was.”
“Time flies,” Jules says, a sad smile.
“Yup. And the fundraiser’s Tuesday. I didn’tforgetforget.”
“No pressure,” she says. “For the fundraiser or the Fourth. Just—keep in touch, okay?”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
“And get some sleep.”
I close the door at last and step out of my work shoes, kicking the oxfords into the little closet without bothering to unlace them. I turn on the shower to warm up while I undress. Even the sound of it makes me smile with drowsy relief. I reach back to unzip my skirt, instinctively patting my pockets before remembering I don’t have any.
A soft rattle comes from across the room. I look over at my bag, slumped on the floor against the frilly armchair. My phone vibrates inside of it again.
It can wait. If it’s Theo, if it’s Jamie—it can all wait.I step into the bathroom, the calming rush of water blotting out all other sound.
Three restless minutes later I emerge, clean but unrelaxed, and hurry across the room in a towel, my hair dripping all over the rug. I fish my phone out and there they are again—a row of stars where a phone number should be. And beneath it, another row. And another, and another, and another.
