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CHAPTER ONE SIMONE
Simone Hartwell has put a lot of stock—and thought and effort—into this evening. In a stretch of a thousand mundane days, there are turning points when everything changes, when life levels up. Tonight is one of them. And she’s ready. She can only hope her husband is too.
She resists checking the time again. Alex will get here when he gets here, with their son and the guest of honor in tow. There’s no point stressing about them being late. She’s arrived early to ensure every detail is in place before the 150 guests begin streaming in.
The vast ballroom is a little too stuffy and ornate for her taste. She prefers sleek, modern elegance over thick velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers, but tonight isn’t about her. And there was no scenario where Poppy’s retirement party would be held anywhere other than the room bearing his name—Lawrence Allen Hartwell—at the alma mater he reveres.
Poppy frequently goes on and on about the “fine” memories he made here, of dances and inspiring lectures designed to mold boys into men. Tate men, specifically. So when he donated $500,000 to the Tate School, he didn’t request a new science wing or athletic center—he wanted his name on the shiny brass sign outside the grand walnut double doors to this room, as if it would grant him permanent stewardship of the memories within.
Simone cannot relate, having considerably less of an attachment to her own alma mater, Central High School in Detroit, which could only compete with Tate in longevity; both opened their doors in 1858.
As Simone surveys the space, she notices subtle signs of deterioration beneath the veneer of opulence: snags on the silk fabric of chairs, nicks in the crown molding, and a dullness along the heavy frames of portraits lining one wall—all those silver-haired white men who could be clones of one another. This ballroom, like her husband’s grandfather, has passed its prime. The bright lights from the chandeliers and sconces only highlight the imperfections. The illumination feels more suited for a police interrogation than an intimate soiree. She can’t find any dimmer switches on the wood-paneled walls and is going to have to find some kind of facilities manager to help her figure it out.
Otherwise satisfied that the white-clothed tables are arranged perfectly around the parquet dance floor and the elaborate floral centerpieces she personally designed with the best florist in town are properly positioned, Simone goes to check on the caterers.
She hovers in the doorway watching about a dozen or so workers rushing around, clearly behind schedule. Having people arrive to find empty platters and champagne bottles still in boxes would be a disaster, but she’s not sure how to speed things up without coming across as bossy or bitchy, or both.
There are no white faces at all, not one, among the laborers sweating over hot steam and unpacking heavy crates of wineglasses. She should be accustomed to this after so long in Sawville, the affluent hamlet outside Milwaukee where Alex grew up. But somehow it is still jarring how often she is the sole brown face present—or if she’s not, it’s because she’s being served by someone who looks like her. However much she wants to push the catering crew to quicken their pace, she won’t command them like some indignant overseer dressed in a sequined gown and Prada pumps.
Instead, she observes the harried workers while silently contemplating, not for the first time, if she’ll ever feel like she truly belongs here. Perhaps tonight, when his grandfather officially hands over Hartwell Inc. to Alex, and her husband becomes CEO of the beloved chain of local grocery stores, Simone will finally feel they’ve arrived. Alex ensconced at the helm of the company his grandfather built from scratch, and Simone by his side as a dutiful wife, mother, and volunteer at every local cause she can fit into her schedule. Maybe now she’ll stop getting the confused, wary side-eye when she’s at Poppy’s country club, or less of it.
Her best friend Taylor’s strategy for dealing with this sort of subtle ostracism thrown their way amounts to “fuck those fogies.” Which is easy for Taylor to say. As a third-generation resident and daughter of one of the most prominent Black cardiac surgeons at St. Mary’s, Taylor navigates these conservative circles with enviable ease, despite being a brown queer woman with a buzz cut who favors graphic T-shirts with curse words among the pastel cashmere-sweater set. She was wearing one that said “Fuck You If You Don’t Vote” the day Simone first met her in a yoga class. Simone found this so brave and so scandalous that she couldn’t help but laugh and say, “Amen.” And Taylor responded with, “I mean, right? You get it. Clearly, we need to know each other…” With that, Simone made her first friend—and, to date, only true friend—in Sawville.
Taylor’s going to be late tonight because Taylor is always late, and not just fashionably late, but arrive-as-the-dessert-is-being-put-away late. Simone long ago moved from annoyance to awe at this habit, how brazen and consistent Taylor’s complete lack of punctuality is. So Simone channels Taylor in her head for the pep talk she needs in this moment that her friend isn’t here to give her: Who gives a flying fuck what all these women with dead animals on their shoulders think about you?
The problem is Simone cares very much what “these women” think. And this circle has strong opinions about proper etiquette, rivaled only by their passion for animal fur.
“Hello? Mrs. Hartwell? Why are you back here?”
Simone looks up to find Thelma, the head caterer, staring at her with annoyance, as if Simone had been silently scrutinizing her work rather than lost in thought. “Everything smells delicious!” Simone claps her hands like an excited child, cheeks straining from smiling broadly. Thelma continues rolling melon pieces in delicate prosciutto strips but grants her a nod. “I was hoping to have the shrimp cocktail and crudités ready when guests arrive.”
Simone pauses and pointedly glances at her watch, a rose gold Cartier that Alex gave her on her last birthday. Then she twists the diamond-encrusted display to her wrist’s underside, self-conscious. The timepiece costs more than this woman likely earns in a year. Simone can only muster, “So I’d appreciate whatever you can do to get the spread out as quickly as possible.”
When Thelma responds with a deferential “Yes, ma’am,” it hits Simone some type of way. She retreats to the bathroom, as much to escape Thelma’s glare as to have a moment to collect herself before the evening gets underway. The lighting in the space is as dim as the ballroom is bright, but she can still assess her meticulously applied makeup. Her eyelids shimmer with metallic shadow and her lashes extend dramatically thanks to tasteful extensions. The scarlet dress is daring, but its flowing fabric balances the boldness. She found lipstick matching the exact shade, creating a striking contrast against her dark skin. Simone rarely wears red, in clothing or makeup, but tonight it makes her feel powerful—and why shouldn’t she feel powerful? She’s about to become the wife of Hartwell Inc.’s next CEO, and she’s pleased she looks the part.
Her husband does too; he’s the physical embodiment of the classic CEO stereotype, straight out of central casting, as if he were born on a boardroom table. Serious, wide brown eyes. Chiseled jaw. Skin perpetually kissed by sunshine even through the long Midwestern winters. Commanding height of six foot three. He smelled like a captain of industry—expensive, which was one of the first things Simone had noticed when he bumped up against her on a crowded el train and spilled coffee (thankfully iced) all over her and her camel-colored winter coat. He’d insisted on taking her to a one-hour dry cleaner to get the stain out, that he knew of a ramen place nearby where he could also treat her to lunch while they waited. Her first reaction was a hard no—Simone wasn’t exactly a spontaneous person, and she didn’t plan to be detoured from her errands by making small talk with a strange man, however handsome he was. But she also had a stain all down the front of her best—and only—nice coat, which wasn’t a good look, and dry cleaning was expensive, at least on her meager salary at the Chicago Tribune. But even beyond those practicalities, it would be a distraction from obsessing about Kwame, her college ex-boyfriend who’d recently talked her into yet another go, only to suddenly announce days ago that he was leaving for a yearlong journalism fellowship in the UAE.
Alex proved more than just a distraction. Simone was charmed by his endearing shyness and silly jokes at lunch, and the dinners and day trips that followed, though she remained steadfastly immune to giving herself over to his overtures until a few months later, when she got a postcard from Kwame that read, Miss me? Those two flippant words enraged her (as did the fact that she did miss him). Simone decided she’d had enough. It was time to move on.
Kwame’s overtaken her thoughts lately, despite her efforts to banish him, ever since he invaded her inbox last week. That’s what it felt like—an invasion—when the email from him popped up inviting her to be on a panel he was putting together for BIPOC students at their alma mater, Medill School of Journalism. Five graduates from the Class of ’15 talking about where their careers had taken them over the last ten years. Simone couldn’t help thinking that Kwame wanted the platform to show off his prestigious awards and hit podcast. And she can’t exactly blame him for that. If she had those accomplishments, she would probably want to hold forth about her career too, in front of an auditorium of inspired students. The problem was that ever since she got pregnant and had Langston, her career had all but withered and died.
Langston was a preemie and needed all of her focus and attention in those first couple of years. And then trying to get pregnant again essentially took over her life, with no baby to show for it. Plus, Alex needed her more and more. Helping him find ways to thrive at Hartwell under the strident command of his grandfather. She had plenty on her plate managing their personal affairs and their household, never mind all the upkeep and grooming it took to keep up appearances. Time passed just like all clichés say it does—slow days, quick years—and jumping back into a career grind felt more and more impossible. So Simone questions why Kwame would want her on this panel. She can’t imagine he suddenly discovered her brand-new column in the Sawville Sentinel. She actually hoped he hadn’t. It wasn’t exactly hard-hitting news. When she’d approached the editor of the paper a few months ago, a friend of Poppy’s from the club, she’d pitched serious pieces—like a profile on Mandela Barnes, a rising Black political star in Wisconsin and the Democratic Party. But Peter was only open to “lighter fare”—amusing local history, new business openings, the annual cardboard boat regatta. It wasn’t exactly what Simone had in mind, but it was something, her name in print. Alex has his new position, Langston has started second grade. Simone has this. Six hundred blessed words a week.
She still hasn’t answered Kwame, though. Partly because every time she sees his name on the screen, her pulse pounds in her throat and she immediately closes the email before responding just to stop it. Also, because it forces her to remember what happened the last time they saw each other, at the funeral, a few months before she married Alex. And that’s the last thing she needs, especially tonight. She forcibly returns her thoughts to her husband. Alex, Alex, Alex. This evening is about him, and it’s already fraught enough. She’d been managing Alex’s nerves and guilt as well as she could these last few weeks since his confrontation with Poppy, which led to Poppy finally agreeing to relinquish the company to his one and only grandson. Though “agreeing” wasn’t exactly the right word, it was more like acquiescing, stubbornly and angrily. But they couldn’t ignore his decline any longer. The old man’s early dementia has been progressing faster than the doctors anticipated—or Poppy himself, who’d insisted on maintaining ten-hour workdays while keeping his condition a strict secret from everyone, including his employees and the board of directors. That became difficult when he got lost en route to last month’s board meeting, not just going to the wrong hotel but to the wrong county. That was the final straw. With persistent encouragement from Simone, Alex finally presented Poppy with an ultimatum: resign or he would tell the board about his diagnosis.
She understood why Alex had dreaded this conversation and needed her constant encouragement. The day he confronted his grandfather, he returned reeking of scotch, wearing the weary expression of someone who’d battled a lion—which he had, metaphorically. But it worked; Poppy would step down. That very evening, Simone threw herself into planning tonight’s celebration—a farewell for Poppy and a coronation for her husband, who’d finally get his chance to prove himself.
Flashing one last “you got this, girl” smile at her reflection, Simone heads to find the person who can adjust the ballroom lighting. She’s never met Sylvester, the facilities manager, but knows he’s worked at the Tate School throughout both Poppy’s and Alex’s attendance, so some sixty years. She vaguely recalls hearing that Poppy had contributed to a fund for one of his grandchildren’s cancer treatments. She assumes he’ll be easy to find downstairs in the janitor’s offices. Sure enough, descending the narrow staircase to the dank basement, she spots a figure with gray hair contrasting jet-black skin, leaning heavily on a broom handle. He examines her as if witnessing a rare creature in the zoo.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi, yeah, I’m Simone. I was wondering if you could fix the lights in the ballroom… I’m having a party there that starts in a few. It’s for my father-in-law, Larry Hartwell.”
“You’re Larry Hartwell’s daughter-in-law?” His question carries the same skepticism as his initial appraisal. He looks her up and down slowly, and it’s not to take in her gown.
“Well, actually, I’m married to his grandson, but Larry raised him, so I think of him as my father-in-law.” As usual, Simone avoids explaining the car crash that orphaned Alex at four years old, sparing everyone the awkwardness of a conversation about death when they aren’t expecting it. People never know how to respond. It’s why she rarely mentions her own father dying when she was ten—protecting others and herself from stilted condolences.
“I heard you’ve worked here forever. I guess you remember Larry, then? My husband, Alex, also went here.”
