Page 74 of Old Money
I shake my head, not looking up. After scanning all morning, I’ve slipped into a state of pleasant numbness, no thoughts in my head butScan. Save. Repeat.Even the cacophony of the jam-packed clubhouse is little more than white noise now.
Mr. Brody, on the other hand, is starting to fray at the edges. He was visibly pissed to see me this morning, and we both know he can’t stay here watching me all day. The members are already buzzed, and there are kids running down the gallery—and he hasn’t madeoneof them cry yet.
“Now, now,” Mr. Brody continues, turning strident. “Best not to skip it. Big day.”
Big anniversary too, I think, still silently scanning.If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was getting to you.
“I think you’ll find, Ms. Wiley,” Mr. Brody huffs, “that you are obligated to take a break every—”
The phone on his desk rings with a shatteringbrrrrill, and he snatches the receiver.
“Yes,” he barks. Another huffing sigh. “Fine, I’m en route. No, you’ll have to discard them. Because it’s limerounds, not wedges.”
He drops the phone into the cradle with a clang and stands up, tugging at his vest.
“They screwed up the punch, huh?”
“Indeed, they did,” Mr. Brody snips, blowing past me like a storm cloud and through the doorway.
“Whoa,” Jamie says, appearing in it, seconds later. “Hey, did he—”
“Limes. He’s on it,” I answer, robotic, feeding another page into the scanner.
“Thank God.” Jamie rests a hand on his chest. “You doing okay?”
I nod, ignoring the lilt of concern in his tone. I’m in the zone and I want to stay here.
“Alice?” he presses. “Alice, stop.”
“Jamie, I’m fine.” I turn from the screen, annoyed. “I’m—”
“No, stop.Look.” He points to my laptop screen, an open-mouthed smile on his face. “Told you.”
I look back at the computer, skimming the page on the screen. It’s another page from the members rolls—I’ve scanned hundreds by now, and the info never changes. You get one or two new members a year, but even then, it’s all the same names.
“What?” I whisper, searching the screen. “What is it, I don’t—”
But then I do. I lift the laptop, squinting at the entry scrawled in Mr. Brody’s tight cursive:
Gordon Fairchild (Vivian Fairchild)—R
10 Little Farm Lane
Ashborough, New York
I stare gaping, first at the address and then theR. That’s a first—but the meaning is obvious. Members almost never resign,as doing so signals one of two things: dire financial circumstances, or a major social gaffe.
“What year is that?” Jamie asks. “Early 2000s?”
I check the ledger’s spine. It’s 2002—the yearA Death on the Hudsoncame out. I turn to show Jamie.
“Bingo.” He nods. “Where is Little Farm Lane though? It rings a bell, but—”
Jamie’s cell phone buzzes in his jacket.
“Shit,” he says, fumbling for it. “Sorry, wedding emergency”
It must be if he’s got his phone out on the floor.
