Page 73 of Old Money
Jules texts me early, reminding me that I’m invited to join them at home, for a low-key day of board games and Chinese takeout, withThe Twilight Zonemarathon on in the background. This is the July Fourth ritual that Mom, Theo and I fell into after Caitlin’s death, and part of me aches to say yes. But then I think of the note in the mailbox (its tidy folds and chilling brevity:Take care).
I get to work early, but the club is already decked out in festive bunting, and bustling with party prep. The groundskeeper and his team are setting up space for fireworks, and delivery trucks are clustered at the top of the hill.
I can hear Jamie on the phone as I approach the office. It’s not even 9:00 a.m. and he already sounds exhausted and desperate.
“Again, Gail, please allow me to apologize, on behalf of the whole club. If there’s any— Well, no, I’m afraid not.”
Jamie’s talking in his calm-cool-concierge voice, but he isneither calm nor cool. He’s hunched over his keyboard, hair askew, clutching the phone receiver with both hands, like someone negotiating a hostage release.
“Do you need anything?” I whisper. “Lemons?”
I give him a hesitant wave. Jamie waves back quickly, then clenches the hand into a fist and quietly thumps it on the desk.
“No, Gail, as I said, that is simply not going to work for us.”
He squeezes his eyes shut while the other voice squeaks furiously at him through the phone.
“I’ll go,” I whisper. “You look, um, busy in here.”
Jamie nods, eyes still shut.
“Later?” I add, backing out of the room. “The Martha?”
Jamie keeps nodding. I retreat silently into the hall.
“Wait, Alice—” Jamie says. “Gail, sorry, one moment.”
He covers the mouthpiece. “You okay?”
I shut my eyes. I hate that tone.
“You don’t need another day off?” he adds. “Today, I mean.”
“No,”I declare, perhaps a bit too firmly. “Thank you, really. But I prefer—”
“Yes, Gail, pardon me.” Jamie pivots back to the phone, whacking his sticky keyboard. “No, just holiday mayhem around here.Exactly.”
He waves me off with a big, flapping hand. I head toward the grill, where they’re test-driving an online reservation system (approved by the board, “with the understanding members are under no obligation to participate, and may continue to make reservations via telephone and fax”). The first week was a breeze, and today we have the perfect conditions to see how things fare when the clubhouse is full, and the members are tanked. It’ll be a headache, but I’m up for a headache today.
Tasks!I think, bucking myself up.
I zoom past the lounge at the end of the gallery, stepping sideways as a couple strolls out, arm in arm. One of them gasps, stopping me cold.
It’s them. Patrick and Susannah. They’re not alone either. Patrick’s parents are with them—the whole group in linens and pastels, the women holding sun hats. Susannah blanches, and Whit and Patrick both look resolutely blank. Liv is the only one still smiling—that sparkling, wicked-queen smile.
They really don’t care, I think.Even today they’re here, bright and early.
Patrick clears his throat and turns left, guiding the rest of them away.
“Happy Fourth!” Liv trills as she passes.
I watch them process down the gallery. All around me, the clubhouse is steadily filling up, the members arriving in festive clusters, everyone chatty. None of them care, I realize. It’s just Fourth of July, nothing more. It shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t make me want to scream and smash the windows. What the hell did I expect?
I change my mind about bothering the grill team. I’ll bother Mr. Brody instead. Today’s a good day to stay in the basement.
***
“Time for your break, I think,” says Mr. Brody.
