She never told me what to wear or what to bring, and it only occurs to me now that it was probably another test. I’m suddenly glad I went out of my way this afternoon to get a nice bottle of wine for the host. Vivian is wearing another bright dress, this one fuchsia. She has a drink in one hand, something clear on the rocks, and a bouquet of yellow tulips in her other hand.
“Friends,” she says, embracing us without spilling a drop. She hands the tulips to Alice and takes a step back to look at her. “The yellow tulips are a tradition, though I can’t say I know when or why it started. Come. I can’t wait to introduce you both to the group.”
As we climb the stone steps, Alice gives me a look as if to say, Too late to turn back.
The massive doors give way to a gigantic foyer. It isn’t what I expected, though—no marble, no fussy French furniture, no painting of a long-dead railroad baron above a fireplace. Instead, it has natural wood floors, a brushed steel table topped with a concrete bowl of succulents, and lots of open space. Beyond the foyer is a huge room outfitted with floor-to-ceiling windows. The windows frame a group of people out on the patio.
“Everyone is excited to meet you,” Vivian says, leading us through the living room. In the mirror above the fireplace, I catch a glimpse of Alice’s face. It’s difficult to read her expression. I like seeing her holding the yellow tulips, which make her look soft. Since taking the job at the law firm, she has developed sharper edges; the late nights and the intensity of the work have understandably made her a tad impatient.
An attractive woman in her fifties hurries toward a door to our left, carrying an empty tray. She seems frazzled, though underneath the nervous energy she has the bearing of a woman with wealth and influence.
“Ah,” Vivian says, “perfect timing. Let me introduce our host, Kate. Kate, this is Alice and Jake.”
“Of course it is,” Kate says, nudging the door open with her shoulder to reveal an enormous kitchen. She sets the tray on the counter, then turns back to us. I reach out to shake her hand, but she pulls me in for a long hug. “Friend,” she says, “welcome.” Up close, she has the faint smell of almond paste. I notice a scar on the left side of her chin. Though she’s covered it with makeup, you can tell it was a significant cut. I wonder how she got it. “My dear friend,” she says, embracing Alice, “you’re exactly as Vivian described.”
She turns to Vivian. “Why don’t you take them outside and introduce them to the group? I’ve got work to do. It’s been a long time since I hosted a party for thirty-six without help.”
“The rules require that no one other than members can be present during the quarterly party,” Vivian explains as the kitchen door swings shut behind Kate. “No caterers, no servers, no chefs, no cleaners. For security, of course. Pay attention; your turn will come.”
Alice raises her eyebrows at me, excited. I can tell she’s already planning the party in her mind.
The backyard is massive. A bright blue rectangular pool, a fire pit, a lush lawn bordered by elms—it looks like a photograph for a luxury home-and-garden magazine. Tasteful tiki torches give the area a warm glow, and in the faint light I can see the guests scattered about in clusters.
Vivian hands us two glasses of champagne and leads us to the center of the patio. “Friends!” she calls out, clapping her hands twice. Everyone stops talking and turns to look. Though I’m not exactly shy, I don’t enjoy a stage, and I feel my face turning red. “Friends, I am honored to introduce Alice and Jake.”
A man in a blue sport coat and dark jeans takes a step forward. Suddenly noticing that most of the men are similarly dressed—more Silicon Valley entrepreneur, less Wall Street financier—I wish I hadn’t worn the suit. He raises his glass. “To new friends,” he says. “To new friends,” the group choruses, and we all drink. After nods and smiles directed at Alice and me, the others return to their conversations and the man walks over to introduce himself.
“Roger,” he says. “I’m so pleased to host your introduction at my home.”
“Thank you for having us,” Alice says.
Vivian takes me by the arm. “Let’s leave these two to talk. There are people you need to meet.”
It’s a better crowd than I expected—relaxed, happy, no obvious arrogance or pretension. Two venture capitalists, a neurologist and her dentist wife, a former professional tennis player, several tech people, a local news anchor, a clothing designer, a couple in advertising, and Vivian’s husband, Jeremy, a magazine publisher.
We approach the last group. As Vivian begins making introductions, I realize that one of the women is someone I used to know. JoAnne Webb—now JoAnne Charles, according to Vivian. We went to college together. More than that, we were in the same class, we lived in adjoining dorms our sophomore year, and we were both floor resident advisers. Each Tuesday for the entire year, I saw her at our weekly RA meeting in the Fireside Lounge.
While I haven’t seen JoAnne in years, I’ve actually thought about her many times. It was JoAnne who influenced me to become a therapist. In the middle of our sophomore year, on a warm weeknight, I was eating dinner in the cafeteria when a kid from my floor came running up, looking pale and scared. “There’s a jumper on Sproul,” he whispered. “They need you.” I ran out of the cafeteria, across the street, and up onto the roof of the neighboring dorm. Perched at the edge, I could see a kid I only vaguely recognized. His legs were dangling over the side, seven stories up. JoAnne Webb was the only other person there. I could hear her soft voice, talking slowly as she moved in closer. The kid seemed irritated, ready to jump at any moment. From the phone inside the stairwell, I contacted the campus police.
I stepped closer to where JoAnne had taken a seat next to the kid, her legs also dangling off of the roof. She made a subtle gesture with her hand, asking for time and privacy. As the kid’s voice grew more agitated, JoAnne’s became softer and quieter. The boy had a long list of things that were bothering him—grades, money, his parents, the usual, although it mainly sounded like a short, failed relationship was what led him to this moment on the edge. Two others had jumped from the very same roof earlier that semester; from the sound of the kid’s voice, I sensed he would soon be number three.
For nearly two hours, JoAnne sat there with him as a crowd of students, campus police, and a fire truck gathered down below. Every time someone came onto the roof and approached them, JoAnne would raise her hand as if to say, “Give me time.” At one point, she motioned me over. “Jake” she said, “I’ve got a sore throat, can you grab me a Dr Pepper from the vending machine?” And then she turned to the kid. “John,” she said, “a Dr Pepper for you too?”