“Why?” she said. “When have you ever been unlucky?”
At this, her mother closed her eyes and just stood there, refusing to open them for so long that Jacy wondered if she’d had a stroke. She really hoped not, because that would mean she’d have to stop tormenting her, at least until she recovered. Finally, eyes still shut, her mother said, “Okay, be like that.”
“I will. I am.”
“Maybe Vance will be able to do something with you.” They were flying him up from Durham for the weekend in the hopes of cheering her up. “Something your father and I can’t seem to.”
“By my father do you mean Donald?”
At last she opened her eyes. “You know what I’d like to do right now?” she said. “I’d like to slap you silly. You stupid, stupid, stupid girl.”
When they left for Hartford, Jacy took the opportunity to break into Donald’s office. When she opened the door to the safe, it was so full of money that several stacks of banded, large-denomination bills tumbled out onto the floor. Try as she might, she was unable to cram them all back in again. No matter. There was plenty of room under her mattress for the ones that didn’t fit and a few extras as well.
* * *
—
THAT SUNDAY, she and Vance and both sets of parents were meeting for brunch at the club, which was celebrating its centennial. The walls of the long entryway were hung with photographs of the clubhouse itself and its members over the years. Time Machine, it was called, and the photos were displayed in chronological order so that as you proceeded down the corridor you dove deeper into the past. Vance loved it. “So fascinating,” he enthused, stopping every few feet to examine another picture or newspaper article about renovations to the dining room or the construction of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. “So much history!”
“Right!” Jacy mocked back. “Find the Negro and win a prize!”
Brunch was a disaster. Jacy, monosyllabic throughout, drank two Bloody Marys, barely touched her eggs Florentine and insisted they leave before dessert, Vance’s favorite part of any lunch or dinner. Since their return from Hartford, Don and Viv had both been out of sorts, so it had fallen to Vance and his parents to carry the conversation for the entire table.
“Will you please tell me what’s wrong?” Vance begged, when the ordeal was finally over. There was a bottleneck in the corridor, people oohing and aahing over the Time Machine photos.
“Nothing is wrong,” she assured him, though everything would have been closer to the truth.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been yourself all weekend.”
Actually, she thought, I have been. This is the new me.
“You were disrespectful to our parents in there and, frankly, rude to me. In fact, you act as if you don’t love me at all.”
It’s not an act, Vance. I don’t love you. Not even a little.
“If you’re worried about the wedding, that’s understandable. The future’s always scary. I get it.”
The future with you is scary. And you don’t get it.
“But we’re going to be happy, Jace. We are. I promise.”
No, we’re going to be miserable. I’m going to see to it. You have no idea how completely devoted I am to our misery, now and till the end of time.
“We’re going to be just like those guys right there.”
He was pointing at one of the Time Machine pictures, of Don and Viv, together with Vance’s parents, all four in their twenties, raising champagne flutes, Vance’s mother clearly pregnant. The caption read: A Toast to the Future!
And there he was, behind them, the grinning tuxedoed bartender, champagne bottle raised, as if to top them all off. Young, dark skinned, curly haired, handsome. The only person in the picture not looking at the camera was Viv, whose head was turned so she could regard the bartender, and the expression on her young face was one Jacy had never seen before. The names of those in the photo were listed beneath. The bartender’s was Andres Demopoulos.
Andy.
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY Jacy heard the phone ring in her father’s office. Her mother must’ve heard it, too, because when Don emerged she was waiting for him. From the top of the stairs Jacy was able to eavesdrop, though they kept their voices low.
“I just got a tip,” Donald said. “They’re on their way.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Nothing. They’re fishing.”
“Fish get caught.”
“I’m not the fish they’re after. The worst that happens to me is a slap on the wrist.”
“Why not