2. Anonymous Donor

2

ANONYMOUS DONOR

DARREN

I n the bathroom mirror, I adjust my bowtie and drag in a deep breath because when I open that door, I’ll be pulled into the melee of clinking champagne flutes, fake smiles, and narcissistic conversations.

Alistair disappeared shortly after the fundraiser started, leaving me on my own, and when I find him again, I’m going to wring his skinny neck.

As soon as I exit the bathroom, Penelope Van Der Walt corners me against a French nineteenth-century side table. She looks very different from the last time I saw her. More adult than kid, and I suppose that’s right because when I do the math in my head, I realize that she has to be at least eighteen.

The older she gets, the more she looks like her mother Caroline with her blonde hair, green eyes, the high cheekbones of a distant aristocrat, and a petite but strong frame.

“Darren Walker,” she says, a bit too excited to be running into me. All I can see is the gangly kid that kept pretending to drown in the backyard pool so that I would put my lips on hers to do CPR. After the second drowning, I got wise to her.

“Penelope, I thought you were in Switzerland.” I relent, while edging away from her.

“I graduated,” she reveals, playing with the lapel of my suit jacket. “And I’m home for the summer,” she exhales forlornly.

“I didn’t know. Congratulations!” I exclaim, honestly excited for her.

“You’re not the only one who forgot.” she sighs. “Apparently, my parents planned a trip for that weekend and didn’t make it.” She grabs a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter.

“What about Alistair?”

“He has a job.” She makes a face. “Can you believe it?”

“Should you be drinking?”

“Do you think anyone will notice?” She downs about half the glass in one swig.

“Okay.” I grab it from her and place it on the side table. “I think that’s enough.”

“You can’t tell me what to do in my own home,” she says snottily.

“Where’s your brother?” I ask through gritted teeth and look desperately through the crowd for Alistair, or anyone for that matter.

Penelope slumps against the nearby sofa. “This party’s boring and not even you want to hang out with me,” she glowers.

“Look,” I mumble, scratching the back of my neck. “It’s been a long night. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t believe this is all for you.” She looks around the room at tuxedo-clad waiters carrying expensive champagne and delicate appetizers, weaving among beautiful floral arrangements that complement the original Brodinsky paintings.

“Didn’t they do something to celebrate your graduation?”

“Oh, Caroline presented me with a new car, and then Remington argued that we have a driver, so why would I need one, and after that, I just tuned them out and went to my room,” she bemoans.

“I’m sure they’re proud of you. Alistair too,” I point out.

“Darren,” Bethany interrupts, giving me a peck on the cheek.

“So nice to see you.”

“This is a great turnout,” Bethany says, gesturing around the room.

“Caroline outdid herself,” I admit. “Don’t you think?” I look to include Penelope in the conversation, but she’s gone.

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I meant,” she explains, touching my arm. “Caroline can only set the guest list but whether they actually show up is another feat entirely, and one that you seem to have accomplished.” She smiles with a pride that makes her blue eyes bright.

“I’m sure it’s more of wanting to see the fish in the fishbowl.” I raise a teasing eyebrow.

“You can’t take a compliment, just like your mother.” She shakes her head.

“How is retirement treating you?” I ask, changing the subject.

“I feel like I’m busier now than when I was working, especially lately,” she sighs.

“All good things I hope?”

“Very good indeed. You’d be happy to know that we’re expanding Compton House.” She takes a sip of her champagne.

“I wasn’t aware.” I haven’t had time to keep up with anything that didn’t involve the campaign.

“We just got the permits, and the recent donation is going to make such a huge difference,” she gushes.

“Sounds like Audrina is doing her job well,” I tease.

Bethany shakes her head. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” she winks. “I know it was you.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“The donation of course,” she explains. “I know I shouldn’t have said anything, but Darren, five million dollars is going to make such a difference.”

Five million dollars.

Compton House.

It’s too much of a coincidence to ignore.

“Will you excuse me?” I don’t wait for an answer before weaving through the crowd, trying not to be rude.

As I make a turn down the quiet hallway, Alistair grabs my arm and hauls me up a flight of stairs. He opens the window and steps out onto the roof, waving a hand for me to follow him.

I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m a candidate for the House of Representatives. I shouldn’t be climbing out of windows and escaping parties thrown to raise money for my campaign.

Against my better judgement, I climb through the window and into the night air, my dress shoes sliding on the shingles. I manage to take a seat, letting my legs hang off the edge.

“Thought you could use an escape, since hiding in the bathroom wasn’t working out for you,” Alistair jokes, and I smile.

“Who says I was hiding in the bathroom?” I take off my jacket and lay it on the wood shingles next to me.

Alistair gives me a look.

“Okay, I was earlier, and then I ran into your sister. She looks, um…” I’m at a loss for words. “All grown up.”

“Dare, you’re my best friend, but if you try anything with my sister,” he pauses. “Well, she’d be punishment enough, but also, just wrong.”

“What? God no.” I pull at my collar, losing the bow tie.

Alistair has already discarded his suit jacket and tie, his shirt unbuttoned and laying open.

“Good, because she’s a nightmare,” Alistair shakes his head. “I feel sorry for her future husband.”

I laugh. “She’s not the only nightmare.”

“Look, I don’t want you to think I’m not appreciative of your parents…” I apologize.

“Don’t worry. It’s a lot . Caroline went overboard tonight. Did you happen to see the lobster crostini? She doesn’t offer those unless she’s pulling out the big guns.” Alistair winks.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to eat anything.” My stomach rumbles, but I don’t have an appetite. “I’m surprised she even offered to host the fundraiser for me since I traded in my red card for blue.”

“Caroline and Remington always back a winner.” He pulls a flask from his pocket and hands it to me. “It’s Macallan.”

“What’s the occasion?” I take it from him.

“To the millions of dollars being thrown at you tonight—and not because you’ve taken your shirt off and given them a lap dance.” He chuckles and I take a swig, handing it back to him.

“I think you give my lap dance skills too much credit,” I tease, but I sense a quiet shift as Alistair leans back.

The darkness shrouds much of the grounds below. Only the soft light of the party reaches across the cobblestone to the path of the gardens.

“I don’t know how my father did it,” I whisper.

“I’m sure it takes a special breed. I don’t think I could do it,” he admits.

The confidence people have in me, enough to donate hundreds of thousands of dollars, is a bit unnerving and electrifying at the same time.

“I had an interesting conversation with Bethany York tonight.” I scoop up the flask and take a drink, hoping for some liquid courage.

“Did she proposition you or something?” Alistair jokes as he takes it back from me.

“She told me someone donated five million dollars to the Abigail Pershing Foundation.” I turn to look at him. “Specifically, to Compton House.” I raise my eyebrows.

Alistair tilts his head curiously, “It is a charity.”

“Five million dollars exactly.”

“Billionaires like even numbers,” he reasons.

“From an anonymous donor.”

“Not all billionaires want a plaque in their honor for donating to a good cause.” He throws his hands in the air. “Okay, that was a stretch,” he smiles.

I turn away from him. I know it was her. Who else could it have been?

He then places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t torture yourself.”

“I’ve been torturing myself for the last three months.” I stand up and steady myself on the uneven roof.

“Come on, Dare.” He stands next to me. “She took the money and left. Does it matter why?”

“Of course it matters.”

“I threw myself into the campaign hoping it would take my mind off her, but it hasn’t, and this,” I throw my arm towards the open window, to the party still going on below us, and turn back to Alistair. “Proves one thing.”

I slide my leg inside the window while Alistair asks, “Proves what?”

“That she loves me.” I slip inside the window.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

“Somewhere I should have gone all along,” I answer.

I pull at the collar of my shirt. Rausch’s elbow is visible on the armrest of the high-back chair in front of an unused fireplace. He’s still wearing the tux he had on at the fundraiser, and he leans over to look at me as he hears me enter the study.

“Did you know?”

He pinches his brows together and then sits back in his chair, casually crossing his legs. His dress shoes sit next to the chair, so he’s only in his socked feet.

“Darren, there are a lot of things I know so you might need to be more specific.”

I’ve never been in Rausch’s house before. The room is decorated in a monochromatic minimalist style—very geometrical—from the wallpaper to the Sean Scully painting hanging above the fireplace. Sitting on the side table next to him is a book.

“I’m talking about Evangeline,” I fume. “Did you know she donated the money to Compton House?”

“Why do you think I know anything about that?” he challenges wearily.

“Because you know everything that goes on,” I say, as if it should be obvious.

He lets out a small laugh. “That’s usually true.”

“You knew and you didn’t want me to go after her because it would hurt the campaign,” I accuse.

He shakes his head. “Do you think I’m that cruel?”

“I know exactly how you feel about her. You’ve made no attempt to hide it,” I raise my voice, but Rausch remains stoic.

“How I feel about her is irrelevant.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been pulling strings since the beginning. You did it with my father, and now you’re doing it with me,” I accuse.

“I never pulled the strings with your father.”

“Don’t play games. You know what she means to me,” I plead.

“I know.” He stands up, taking the book with him and placing it back in its slot on the bookshelf. All the spines are perfectly lined, nothing out of place, just like him.

“How do you know she donated the money?” he questions, standing in front of the bookshelf with his hands in his pockets. I’ve never seen Rausch look anything less than impeccable.

Tonight he looks different—vulnerable—not as impenetrable with his dress shirt unbuttoned, bow tie hanging loose and socked feet. Even his hair looks as if he’s run a hand through it, the dark locks unruly and out of place.

“Bethany mentioned it. She thought I had donated it,” I explain, slumping onto the leather loveseat. The anger has started to ebb away.

“If Bethany thinks you donated the money, then what makes you think Evangeline did?” He refills his glass tumbler with some clear liquid and gestures to make one for me, but I decline.

“An anonymous donation for five million dollars is not a coincidence.”

He ponders something that I think should be quite obvious.

“She didn’t want to hold me back.” I shake my head. “She thought she was a liability.”

I peer over at him in the chair where he sits casually, holding the tumbler with his thumb and forefinger precariously on the edge of the armrest.

“If you knew that’s why she left, then why didn’t you go after her?” he asks, taking a sip, the liquid causing his lips to glisten.

“Because she took the money,” I say through gritted teeth.

He shakes his head and sets the glass on the side table.

“You don’t care about the money,” he rebukes as if he can read me so well and it angers me that he does.

“I didn’t think she cared about the money, either,” I challenge him.

“Why did you let her go?”

“I didn’t let her go,” I say, exasperated. “She left. I got out of my exam feeling like I could conquer the world and found out she took the money.”

Rausch drags in a breath as if it takes effort. “Of all the ways for someone to leave…” he pauses, looking forward towards the bookshelf. “Death is the kindest.”

I stand up. “I don’t need Emerson quotes. I need the truth. Did you know? Did you make her leave so you could get what you wanted?” I accuse.

“Would it make it hurt any less if I said I did?” he raises his voice, standing to his full height.

I shake my head, confused.

“I wanted you to run, Darren. I wanted you to stop being a little shit and realize who you could be,” he stops, running a hand over his mouth before continuing. “But I wouldn’t break you in the process.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I wouldn’t be that cruel,” he says, eyes glistening. “Because I know—I know,” he stops, slumping back into the chair.

It’s then that I realize he’s drunk. Not the sloppy kind of drunk that makes you stand on a table and quote Emerson, but the kind that makes you sentimental.

“Maybe she donated the money, but does it even matter? You love her. You found someone who complements you, who makes you a better person, and fuck what the press thinks or what the voters think because what is the point of doing something good with your life if you don’t have her by your side while you do it?” He looks just as shocked as I am when he finishes his speech.

“Rausch,” I say quietly, wanting to—I don’t know—because I’ve never seen him like this. “Why aren’t you at the fundraiser?”

“You seemed to be doing fine without me.” He takes another drink.

I sigh, all the air whooshing out of me like a deflating balloon. “I hid in the bathroom for a bit,” I admit.

“But you found your way out.” As if I had accomplished something extraordinary instead of finding the handle to the bathroom door.

“That’s not what someone who wins elections does,” I admit sheepishly.

“Who says?”

I open my mouth and close it.

“You’re human. Evangeline’s human. She just…didn’t find her way out of the bathroom. Perhaps you should help her.” He lifts an eyebrow. “It’s been a long day,” he says abruptly and places a hand on my shoulder. “I trust you can find your way out.”

Then he leaves and I’m standing in his study alone, reeling. I look to the bookshelf, my eyes finding the space where one book is not perfectly lined up, the spine sticking out slightly farther than the others.

The Collected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson .