I got in a very short line, scanning a colorful chalkboard menu. I ordered a latte and a sweet-potato white-chocolate muffin that looked interesting but that I knew I probably wouldn’t eat because my stomach was in knots. I paid, dropping a dollar bill into a tip jar that read: AFRAID OF CHANGE? LEAVE IT HERE!, then stood to the side, waiting for a tattooed male barista to make my drink. Glancing around, I took note of the exposed HVAC lining the industrial ceiling, the concrete floor painted evergreen, and the bright sunlight filtering through high glass-block windows. The place was so mellow, a vibe unlike the Starbucks and juice bars in my neighborhood. When my latte was ready, I took it from the counter, along with the muffin they’d microwaved and put on a plate, and found a table against the wall close to the game corner. I sat in the chair facing the door, where I sipped my coffee and waited.
At exactly three-thirty, a man of average height and build walked in and glanced around. He looked slightly too young to have a teenager, but as his eyes rested on me, I felt sure that it was Tom Volpe.
I did a half stand and mouthed his name. He was probably too far away to read my lips, but he clearly got the gist of my body language, because he nodded, lowered his head, and walked toward me. With brown hair a little on the longer side, a couple days of beard growth, and a strong jaw, he looked like a carpenter. A second later, he was standing at the edge of my table, looking right at me. I stood the whole way. “Tom?” I said.
“Yes,” he said in a low, deep voice. He did not initiate a handshake, or smile, or do any of the typical things people do when they meet, yet there was nothing about him that seemed hostile. His demeanor was a small relief but almost more unsettling than anger. It gave me no starting point.
“Hi,” I said, running my palms along the sides of my dress. “I’m Nina.”
“Yes,” he said. His gaze was empty.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I blurted out, instantly regretting it, as there was nothing nice about this moment—and we both knew it.
But he let me off the hook, announcing that he was going to get a coffee, then turned abruptly and headed toward the cash register. I waited a few seconds before sitting back down, then looked over my shoulder, covertly studying him further. He appeared fit and athletic, or at least naturally strong. He was wearing faded blue jeans, an untucked gray Henley, and rugged boots that were hard to put in a category. They weren’t country or western, nor were they of the lug-sole “workman” variety. And they certainly weren’t at all Euro or trendy, like the ones lining the shelves of Kirk’s closet.
I watched him pay, drop his change into the tip jar, and collect his coffee before heading back my way. I lowered my head and took a few deep breaths, still uncertain of exactly what I was going to say.
A moment later he was sitting across from me. I watched him flip the lid off his coffee with his thumb, then wave the steam away from the cup. As he met my gaze, my mind went blank. Why wasn’t I better prepared? No wonder Kirk never trusted me to take important meetings alone.
Tom spoke first, saving me, though I knew that wasn’t his intention. “You look familiar,” he said, squinting a little. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Maybe just from Windsor?”
“No. It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. “I feel like it’s something else….Longer ago.”
I bit my lip, starting to sweat, and wishing I hadn’t worn silk. “I don’t know…I’m not very good with faces. Sometimes I think I have that disorder….”
“Which disorder is that?” he said with a slight tilt of his head. “The one where you don’t pay attention?”
I was pretty sure he’d just made a jab at me, implying that I was self-absorbed. But I was in no position to be defensive. So I simply said, “No. It’s a real thing. Facial blindness, I think it’s called….I’m pretty sure I have a touch of that…but anyway.”
“Yes. Anyway,” he echoed, glancing down to put the lid back on his coffee. It took him a second to get it on, pressing it all around the perimeter, clearly in no rush whatsoever. He raised the cup to his lips and took a long sip before looking at me again. This time he didn’t save me.
“So,” I finally said. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
“I’m sorry. Can’t help you there,” he said, with the first real trace of animosity.
“I know…I just…Well, as I said in the email, I don’t think my husband handled things with you the right way….”
Tom nodded, his light brown eyes somewhere between cool and loathing. “Oh, you mean his attempt to buy me off?”
My stomach dropped. “Yes,” I said. “That. Among other things.”
It fleetingly occurred to me that Tom could have already deposited or spent the money—and then what would I be saying about him as well? But no, he had used the word attempt.
Sure enough, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, opened it, and pulled out a stack of crisp, new bills. He slid the pile of cash across the table. I looked down and saw Benjamin Franklin’s familiar grimace, feeling queasy as I tried to formulate a sentence.
“For what it’s worth, I can’t believe he did this,” I said, staring down at the money. “I mean I know that he did…give you this…but I had nothing to do with his decision. This isn’t how I wanted to handle things.”
“And how did you want to handle things?”
I told him I didn’t know exactly.
He winced, then took another sip of coffee. “But you weren’t in favor of bribery?” he asked.
“No,” I said, completely flustered. “I had no idea he was going to give you…this.”
“Yep. Fifteen thousand dollars,” Tom said, glancing at the stack again. “And it’s all there.”
I looked down at it, shaking my head.
“So? What was he bribing me to do, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” I said, meeting his gaze again.
He gave me an incredulous look that bordered on a smile. “You don’t know?”
I swallowed and made myself say what I really thought. “I believe that he was trying to…motivate you to tell Walter Quarterman that you don’t think Finch should go before the Windsor Honor Council.”
“You mean bribe me.”
“Yes.”
“And what do you think?”
“What do you mean?” I stammered.
“Do you think Finch should go before the Honor Council?”
I nodded. “Yes. I do, actually.”
“Why?” he fired back.
“Because what he did was wrong. So wrong. And I think he needs to face some consequences.”
“Such as?” Tom pressed.
“Well, I don’t know….Whatever the school decides is right….”
Tom let out a caustic laugh.
“What’s funny?” I said, feeling a stab of indignation. Couldn’t he see how hard I was trying? Couldn’t he cut me a break? Just a small one?
“Nothing’s funny…believe me,” he said, his smile fading into another stony gaze.
We stared at each other for a few seconds before he cleared his throat and said, “I was just wondering, Nina…how much do you and your husband give to the school? Above and beyond tuition?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, although it was perfectly clear what he was getting at.
“I mean…do you have any buildings named after you on Windsor’s campus?”
“No,” I said, although we did have a conference room in the library named after us. And a fountain. “Honestly, I don’t see how that is relevant….Despite what Kirk tried to do—which is awful—Mr. Quarterman isn’t like that—”
“Isn’t like what?”
“He’s a good person. He’s not going to make a decision here based on what we’ve given to the school,” I said.
“Okay, look,” Tom said, leaning over his coffee, his face close enough to mine for me to make out the flecks of gold in his beard. “Say what you want. But I know how the world works. And so, apparently, does your husband.” His voice was calm but his eyes were angry as he pushed the pile of bills toward me.
“Well. Obviously, my husband got it wrong this time,” I said, my voice shaking a little. I gestured toward the money, then finally got rid of it, sliding the bills into my purse.
Tom refused to grant me the point and instead said, “Your son got into Princeton. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Congratulations. You must be really proud.”
“I was,” I said. “But I’m not proud now. I’m ashamed of my son. And my husband. And I’m just so sorry—”
He stared at me, then said, “Look. Here’s the way I see it. Your husband wanted to make this go away with money. And you’re trying to do the same thing with words. With a nice apology. You recognize your husband’s a bit of an asshole, so you’re trying to clean up after him. And ditto for your son.”
My cheeks on fire, I shook my head and said, “No. That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not here trying to clean anything up, or make anything go away. I’m just here to tell you I’m sorry. Because I am.”
“Okay. And?”