After the party finally shut down, Justine had to call an ambulance for the out-of-town date of one of the Midnight Society’s new inductees. Alcohol poisoning. The guy wandered off to a strip club with his new buddies and left her passed out on a bench in the courtyard—ironically, dressed as a naughty nurse. It was not pretty.
We don’t typically talk trash about club events, or about club members. Most of us, with the notable exception of Janey, won’t bother to waste our breath on members’ silly indiscretions or social drama that has nothing to do with us. But I won’t begrudge this crowd the opportunity to let off a little steam when it comes to the Midnight Society. They’ve earned it.
“Just so we can get ourselves emotionally prepared,” Irma says, her voice suddenly serious, “what’s the theme this year?”
“Y’allywood,” I announce, consulting the details listed on my tablet, as if I need them. Of course, Eli had already filled Luisa and me in. The three of us have been talking daily since he showed up at Luisa’s house to break the big news. Eli seems very concerned to prove to me that he’s reliable and trustworthy. From what Luisa’s shared with me, he has somewhat loftier goals when it comes to her. At first I was worried when she spilled the news that their relationship had taken a romantic turn. But I wasn’t concerned for long, after hearing the thrill in her voice when she told me about their adorable first date on Buford Highway. I’m so happy for them both, but I also feel a little wistful, recalling what could have been with Hugh.
It’s going on two weeks, and he still hasn’t called or texted. Not a word.
“How’s Y’allywood likely to rank us on the offensiveness scale?” Byron asks, bringing me back to the task at hand.
“Can’t be as bad as ‘Divas and Dudes,’?” Irma scoffs.
“When Mr. Wilkerson showed up dressed as Diana Ross,” Justine recalls, laughing in spite of herself. “Old white man wearing a two-foot-tall Afro and a tight sequined gown. That’s messed up.”
Honestly, I still can’t look at Mr. Wilkerson the same way. I’m constantly pushing away the image of his veiny, gray-haired leg peeking out from behind the long slit of a silver gown.
Hearing a series of soft taps on the conference room door, we all turn to see Janey peeking through, her sensible brown loafer nudged into the doorway.
“So sorry to interrupt,” Janey whispers, as if we’re in a library and not a windowless room along the dingy service hallway. “But there’s someone at the gatehouse,” she says, turning her gaze toward me. “Who needs to speak with Holly.”
I pick up my phone and glance through texts, wondering whether I’ve missed something from Luisa. She’s meeting with a source at the FBI’s economic crimes squad. And Eli scored an invite for a weekday fly-fishing trip with Griggs and Jim Wade. They’re up at Brigadoon Lodge, on one of northwest Georgia’s most exclusive private rivers. I made it clear that he absolutely, under no circumstances, will catch one of their renowned trophy-size rainbow trout. He laughed at that one, then assured me that he would “make no such promises.”
Seeing no text from either of them, I look at Janey, puzzled.
“A British gentleman,” she adds, her eyebrows arching oh-so-subtly. “He says he needs to speak with you.”
I feel a fierce blush rise to my cheeks, as the attention of the entire room turns in my direction. “We’re just about finished here,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
I quickly adjourn the meeting and then rush out, trying to push aside the full knowledge that this absolutely will make it into tomorrow’s episode of Janey’s Daily Dirt Dump.
I arrive at the guard station to find Hugh leaning casually against an oak tree. He’s looking up, studiously observing a branch waving in the breeze. His distraction gives me an opportunity to study the curve of his neck, the angle of his nose, the way his dark hair gleams in the dappled sunlight.
Hugh turns to look at me, and a broad smile spreads across his face. “I finally found you,” he exclaims, making his way across the lawn toward me. He stops short of reaching out to grab my hand or hug me, which causes me to ache a little inside.
“How long have you been looking?” I ask, surprised that he seems to have been in search of me. I have a phone, after all, and he could have texted.
“Suffice it to say, I’ve had a lovely and informative tour of Atlanta’s most exclusive country clubs. I’m awash in salmon-pink polos.” My expression must betray my bafflement, because he continues without pause. “I hope I haven’t made a mistake in coming here. You mentioned in your voicemail—”
“So you listened to the voicemail,” I say sheepishly. “You read my texts, too?” I wince, embarrassed.
“I did, eventually,” Hugh replies. Lionel, the security guard on duty, sends a Range Rover through and then steps out of the guardhouse to give us both a friendly wave. “I was away from my phone for several days,” Hugh continues, waving back. “Trying and failing to finish drafting a monograph.”
“Oh,” I say, relief washing over me. I decide not to ask what a monograph is, or whether he noticed my extreme use of the word “really” in the string of texts. Watching another member pull in, I gesture for Hugh to follow me around the corner to the edge of the club’s property. We stand together beside a stone wall, overlooking the rolling green hills of Piedmont Park.
“I felt—” He pauses and runs a hand through his thick hair. “I felt awful that you might have imagined I was ignoring you, and I wanted to explain in person. So I decided to accept your kind invitation. Shall we walk and talk?” he asks, looking back toward the park. “Or are you on the clock?”
“Not anymore,” I say. “Free as a bird.”
We head into Piedmont Park and follow a wide path toward the Beltline, under a broad canopy of trees. It’s my favorite season in Atlanta, early summer, when the canopy fills out with a dozen shades of green, and fragrant flowers blossom in every direction—gardenia, wisteria, spray rose, and iris infuse my city with a gentle sweetness and the fresh feeling of possibility. Soon, the chartreuse leaves will deepen to green, bright scents will turn to heavy decay, and the delicate flowers will wilt in the extreme heat of summer. But somehow, every year—as spring fades to summer—knowing what’s to come makes the moment all the more special.
We pass under an arch, twined with star jasmine, and Hugh asks me how I came to work at a members-only country club. I tell him about those early months in Atlanta, alone with Aidan, and my desperation. I explain that it may seem strange, but Dogwood Hills has been a gift to me, has given Aidan and me a family, and in so many ways has been a home. I tell him that working there, as an eighteen-year-old single mom, was the first time I ever held down a job, and it felt good to take responsibility, to build some structure and purpose into a life that had been, until then, adrift.
“I guess my fellow country club employees were kinda like your punk rock buddies,” I say, recalling what he told me that night at the jazz club, about how he fell in with anarchists and stole his very first linguistics book. “They helped me pull my shit together.”
We arrive at the Beltline and gaze into a sea of walkers, joggers, and cyclists. It feels strange to start cruising along this path in my wrap dress and sensible flats, but it’s also lovely to be here with Hugh, skirting the edge of Midtown.
“Well, what I failed to share with you that night,” he says, dodging a Great Dane whose owner is too busy talking on the phone to notice, “is that those punk rockers also landed me in jail.”
