I had already blown my mom off earlier this week when she tried to get me to sit in on a virtual board meeting. She bought the excuse that I was tired, but in actuality, Clover wanted to watchThe Wolf of Wall Streetso she would get all the references one of her professors kept making to it, but her laptop dies quickly and easily overheats. I bought a projector and screen, which I’d been planning to do anyway. We kept our distance as we lay on our stomachs and shared half a package of Twizzlers. She fell asleep for the last forty minutes, but she got the gist of it. (The gist being when Matthew McConaughey pounds his chest and does his grunting song.) I woke her up and she clumsily pulled her bra (dark blue) off through the arm holes of her dress and then went back to sleep. It was worth missing the meeting.
I spend the reception hour watching the door for Lacey Rosen while Tex and Julian make attempts at charming older men and women. They’re both the kind of people who parents love, so they play well with this crowd.
Eventually, we’re ushered into the Silent Six Alumni Parlor, which is only open to non-alumni once a year for this dinner and houses the six sculptures representing the six silent founders of Wexley. According to Wexley history, the school had thirteen founders. Twelve of them were shunned professors and philosophers who migrated west to reimagine education on their own terms. Six of the twelve were silent founders because they were such controversial outcasts in the world of academia. And the thirteenth founder was none other than Crumpets the goat, who was also the first dean on record.
(However, the drunken version of the story says the silent six wanted to remain anonymous because they thought the plans for the school that unfolded on the train journey west were an elaboratejoke and were embarrassed to find that the other six were completely serious.)
The long, narrow room houses six sculptures to represent the silent six: a spiral shell, a closed eye, an open eye, a broken compass, a single lit candle, and an open book. The parlor exists so that Wexley alumni will always have a home on campus, and in the fall, it is a sort of speakeasy for a few hours before every home football game. As an undergrad—albeit a flaky one—I am willing to admit that seeing this place before I’ve graduated is stirring up a bit of school spirit.
Lacey appears just as the reception is ending, and I wonder if she sat in her car until the very last minute because she looks like she would rather be anywhere but here.
I intercept her and introduce myself. “My mother sends her apologies,” I explain.
Lacey’s hair is long and blond, skimming her waist, and her structured white strapless dress is subtly luxurious. I expect to be a punching bag for her comments about being stood up by my mother, but instead she only looks me up and down and tucks her arm through mine so that I can escort her.
“I should warn you: I’m a mediocre replacement for my mother.”
“Are you going to make me talk business or can we just get drunk on free champagne?”
“No business,” I promise her.
She pats my forearm. “Correct answer.”
We find our table just off the side of the stage. Beside me Lacey is seated next to a senator and on my other side is an honest-to-god rocket scientist. I would catch their names were it not for the sudden scent of vanilla and amber as our server reaches over me to place a napkin on my lap.
The familiar ring on her left hand winks beneath the chandelier overhead, and my fingers are wrapping around Clover’s wrist before I can stop myself.
The whole table is staring at me for manhandling our waitress, including Lacey, who was in the middle of a debate with Julian about a Mormon mom influencer they are both fascinated by.
Julian saves me from any further awkwardness. “Clover, what are you doing here?” he asks in that easy tension-slicing voice.
I turn and look up at her. She’s in her uniform and her hair is pulled back into a smooth bun that doesn’t suit her.
I haven’t really seen much of her in the last forty-eight hours, but she looks drained. Her normally rosy cheeks are colorless and her under eyes carry deep-set purplish bags.
Julian is rambling about how Clover is one of our oldest friends, but I’m having a hard time looking away and stomaching the fact that she’s supposed to be serving us tonight when she looks like she’s about to fall asleep on her feet. Or honestly, that she’s waiting on us at all.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“Fine,” she says, lips pressed into a thin line, before moving on and helping the senator with his napkin.
I am not at all coy about watching her, because I get a covert text from Tex telling me so. Beside me, Lacey clicks her tongue, and I can’t blame her. She has officially dropped off the face of the earth as far as I’m concerned.
We make it through our second course when I notice the pitcher of water trembling in Clover’s hand. A few moments later, she clears our plates and when she’s halfway back to the service door, she trips on absolutely nothing and a few plates clatter to the floor. A vaguely familiar woman rushes over to help her and they’re both gone before most people even have a chance to turn around and check out the commotion.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, interrupting Lacey saying something about supply chains.
I feel Tex and Julian watching me as I step through the swinging service door into utter pandemonium.
“On your left!” someone shouts, and I duck to avoid decapitation by a tray full of third-course salads.
I search frantically for her familiar blond hair, but the kitchen and staging area are packed with cooks in white and servers in black. I’m tugged by my bicep out of the action and down a linoleum hallway by the woman I recognized earlier, and it suddenly clicks.
“You were our witness,” I say. “Marianne, right?”
She flashes a grin over her shoulder. “That would be me.”
“I never forget a pretty face.”
