11
Some of this possibility made perfect sense; Julianna had the money, and perhaps some of that could have come through Ward, who was apparently rolling in it. The money allowed her to call the shots where Bentley was concerned, such as shipping him off to Canyon Ranch when she was embarrassed by him (and, let’s face it, by me). If he relied on her for financial support, he was much less likely to leave her. And with most schools unwilling to take Adrienne after all the trouble she had gotten into everywhere else, going through Ward was a surefire way to secure a last-minute acceptance at a prestigious place like Rockwood.
Still, things didn’t add up. Bentley had never alluded to Adrienne being someone else’s biological daughter. He certainly didn’t need to tell me any of this, but we had spent a decent amount of time together, and not just in, shall we say, intimate encounters. There had been fairly risky lunch dates in the back corners of quiet North End restaurants with plenty of conversation. And, of course, there had been late-night meetings for ice cream when it was so dark out that we wouldn’t have been noticed easily. It had felt somewhat cute at the time, even if I didn’t have particularly deep feelings for him; I enjoyed the companionship and attention that fit into my hectic schedule. And I’m pretty sure Julianna had known about us; she only appeared to care when Adrienne caught us and then felt humiliated, which I get . It wasn’t a good move on either of our parts. But if she had the money and the power, what did she need Bentley for?
For all I knew, Adrienne could be wrong. She had never met Ward, and she just had vague suspicions. “Her office at home is full of his artwork,” she told me, which I had never noticed before, probably because I had had no idea who the hell Ward Connelly was until a few days earlier. “And I get this weird gift from him every year,” she said. “Last year, it was a birdhouse he made. It had a real taxidermized bird in it. I like strange stuff, but this was too much even for me.”
“How does she explain why you’re getting a gift from an artist you don’t know?” I asked her.
“She says he’s an old friend of the family,” she replied. “And I just went along with that because there are plenty of people they know who send me things. I’m the only child of a couple that a lot of social climbers want to know,” she said, and there was a sadness to her words. These people weren’t sending Adrienne gifts because they loved her or were being kind; it was all very transactional. And at sixteen, she knew it.
“What made you think that he’s your father then?” I asked as we walked across the campus. I had to get back to the dining hall; she had homework to do, and I definitely did not want Ward to see me talking to Adrienne. It could raise too many suspicions. Unless he had no idea that I had been involved with Bentley—it all depended on how much Julianna confided in Ward. So many questions.
“When I got kicked out of the school in Carlisle, my parents had a very heated conversation in my mom’s office,” she explained. The door was closed, but it was loud. My dad yelled something about her asking her boyfriend to get me into his school. It was all very sarcastic sounding, like he was mocking her or something. And then she started ridiculing his weight and said it was a good thing you were gone so he couldn’t eat fattening food all the time. And she threatened to put him on NutriSystem or something like that. But then she ended up shipping him off to the Berkshires, and I’m here.”
“So, you put two and two together that Ward was the boyfriend who could get you in here? Excellent sleuthing.” I had to give Adrienne a lot of credit. She was a savvy kid.
“I had a hunch, but I searched online for famous Rockwood alumni. When I saw his name, it was the only one that made any sense. And here I am. A Stallion,” she said dryly.
“It’s nice here in the fall, though, huh?” I asked as we walked down the path that cut through the center of campus. The leaves had started to turn bold and bright, and the golds, oranges, and reds brought me back to my days on my college campus less than thirty minutes west of where we walked. I wanted to try to find some kind of common ground with Adrienne, but talking about leaves probably wasn’t it. Hopefully, cooking would be if she found that she liked it.
“It’s okay,” she said, stomping on a crinkly brown leaf with her boot. “It’s weird that it’s been so hot. I like snow, so I’m ready for that.”
The weather might not be where we could meet in the middle. “Not my favorite, but I know I have to accept it,” I said. “I’m going to get to go to LA in December, though, which should be nice. Do you know I cook for a player on the Celtics?”
“Yeah, some kids were talking about that,” she said. “I’m not a big sports fan, but that’s cool.” She stopped outside of Harris House. “I’ll see you tomorrow, um, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to call you. Ms. Paige? I know some of the kids call you Chef. Do you like that?”
I shrugged. “I think it’s more sarcastic than anything else. Ashlyn and people like her, who I’m pretty sure are making fun of me most of the time, sometimes call me that. But whatever you want. Devon is fine, but I’m not sure what the expectation around Rockwood is for what students should call adults. Yet another thing that was never expressed to me.”
“Okay,” she said. “I usually don’t follow most of the rules anyway. See you later, Devon.”
...
Everything was set and ready to go. The VIP area was roped off, with chairs, a podium, and bottles of water for important guests. A few photographers and reporters from local media outlets were taking pictures and recording the pre-ceremony preparations. There was a general seating area for students, staff, and community members to watch the event. Although students weren’t required to attend, it was a Friday after classes, and the weather had returned to ideal autumn conditions—sunny and sixty-five degrees, with a light breeze. Instead of utilizing the folding chairs, many students brought towels and blankets and portable outdoor seats to sit on, filling the small hill adjacent to where the artwork—now shrouded in an enormous white cloth emblazoned with the red outline of a stallion—was to be unveiled. I watched as dozens of local residents walked through the open gates of the campus to be a part of the experience. It made sense that so many wanted to be there; Ward was both an alum and lived among them in the tiny St. George’s community.
My team was ready with the snacks and drinks for after the ceremony, and I felt the buzz of nervous energy from them as well as Andrea, who was flitting around checking in on people. It was both her and my first big all-campus event since starting our jobs, and it was a significant one. She introduced me to several members of the Board of Trustees, who expressed their thanks for my acceptance of the job. “And this, Devon, is our newest board member,” she said. “Please meet Bentley Preston.”
I gasped as Bentley turned to face me. The color drained from his face, while mine likely turned beet red, given how hot it felt. “Um, hello, Devon. Good to see you.”
“You, too,” I squeaked out, surprised I was able to say any words at all.
“Oh. OH!” exclaimed Andrea. “I totally forgot, really, I did. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” As much as Andrea loved good fodder for gossip, judging by the horrified look on her face, I don’t think she had connected the dots until she saw our reactions to being introduced to each other.
“It’s okay,” said Bentley quietly. “Let’s not make a big deal about this.”
“Is she here?” I whispered, looking around for Julianna.
“Went to the bathroom,” he said. “So maybe you might want to –”
It was too late. I smelled the Chanel perfume, so I knew she was standing right next to me. “Well, what a coincidence. I never thought I had to inquire about who was on staff before enrolling my daughter in a boarding school, but apparently, they let just about anyone work here,” she muttered.
“Hello, Julianna,” I said evenly, trying not to show any emotion or reaction despite the horrible discomfort I was feeling. Andrea watched, wide-eyed, as if she was observing feeding time at the zoo. The kind where you see a lion about to feast on a fresh animal carcass. I was the carcass.
“I’m sure you two can go find a closet to run off to together,” she spat out. “I’ll be taking my seat now.” She walked toward the general seating area and sat down in the front row. The three of us watched in disbelief as she gave the old man next to her a once-over, followed by a dirty look and scowl. He stood up and went to another row.
“She’s not nice,” I said to myself, forgetting for the moment that Bentley was right next to me.
“No, she’s not,” he conceded. “I better take a seat with the rest of the Board,” he said. “Sorry about all this, Devon. I hope the job is going okay. Other than right now, of course.”
I nodded, knowing I had said enough, and retired to the catering station. Andrea stood alone, shocked by everything that had transpired. The chapel bells rang, signaling that it was four o’clock. It was time for the ceremony to begin.
Ward Connelly emerged from the woods in dramatic fashion, wearing tight black jeans, work boots, and a big camel-colored cape. A large cowboy hat sat atop his head. He marched past his creation and through the crowd, causing students and other guests to have to move out of his way. He made his way to the podium, kissed a stunned Andrea on the cheek, and sat down in the front row. I glanced at Julianna, who sat watching him with a knowing, sly smile. Well, that confirms it, I thought.
The Chairman of the Board spoke for a few minutes in generic terms about the value of a Rockwood education and the importance of art in our daily lives. Andrea gathered herself together enough to thank the Board for her appointment and to express her excitement about the art installation about to be revealed. “This is the first thing that guests and prospective students and their families will see as they drive through the iron gates of Rockwood,” she said. “It will be a symbol of who we are, what we are about, and what we dream about for our future. Simply, it will encompass all that is Rockwood.” The crowd clapped, and several students whistled and cheered. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for, as we’ve watched Mr. Connelly and his crew escape underneath drapes and tarps over the last few weeks, toiling in sweltering heat to finish their work for our event today. Without further ado, The Stallion!”
A facilities team member pulled a rope, and the cloth was ripped away. Perched high atop a slim black pole was a large charcoal gray, smooth, shiny cylinder, pointed at one end, tilted at an angle, aiming toward the sky. And that was it.
Murmurs shot through the crowd. “What is it?” “Isn’t that sort of, you know …” “Weeks and weeks for that?” “That’s a horse? It doesn’t look like a horse.” “I thought he was supposed to be good.” And finally, a student yelled out, “It looks like a penis!”
From that point on, everything went out of control. Andrea tried to calm everyone down, but the student section was laughing and hooting. Many of the locals were arguing with each other, probably about whether it was good art or not. Countless pictures were snapped of the chaos—and video recorded—and inevitably uploaded to social media. The Board members looked perplexed. And Ward Connelly started to grow furious that he wasn’t getting the respect that he seemed to believe he deserved.
A familiar voice boomed through the crowd. “Enough! Come on, students. You can all decide on your own if you like this or not. That’s why it’s art. It’s up to you. Remember the painting ‘Washington Crossing the Delaware’? Remember when I told you Mark Twain didn’t think it was all that great? Super famous painting still today hanging in the Met in New York, and Mark-fucking-Twain of all people panned it.”
“Mr. Holling!” pleaded Andrea. “I know what you’re trying to do, but please! Language!” She gestured to the Board of Trustees members, who were watching everything play out before them with a combination of fascination and confusion.
“Sorry, Ms. Lark,” Kyle said. “But my point is that you get to decide. But we can’t be assholes about it. There I go again. Sorry,” he said to Andrea. “Can we end this now? Ms. Paige has some cookies, I know. You all love Ms. Paige’s cookies.”
“Cookies!” the students started yelling, and soon I was flooded with teenagers grabbing their new favorite treats. I looked over at Andrea, who threw up her hands, and the formal part of the event appeared to be over.
When all the cookies were taken, and I began cleaning up, Kyle walked over to me. “No more cookies, I assume.”
“All gone,” I said. “There will be more soon, I’m sure.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Midsy is next week. People will be looking for them then.”
I watched as the crew began hauling away chairs, tables, and sound equipment. “What the hell is Midsy?”
“Midway through the first semester. Rockwood has tried to rebrand it over the years as something called Night of a Thousand Laughs, and there are all these comedy performances, improv, that sort of thing. But it’s still Midsy. And there are always tons of pranks. We’ll see how Andrea deals with it this year. It can be a doozy for the administration.”
“Ugh. Another event that no one told me about. I need some recovery time from this one.”
“Yeah, this one sucked pretty bad. You did great. But Jesus Christ,” he said, gesturing at the sculpture—if you could call it that. Rockwood security, along with an officer from the tiny St. George’s police force, were standing guard. They had helped to disperse the crowd, and an additional officer walked Ward home in case anyone harassed him. It had been a bad scene.
“So, all that about judging for yourself was just talk? You think it’s a piece of crap?” I looked up at the artwork. It was not my cup of tea, but I didn’t know much about art either.
“Oh, people should definitely judge for themselves, that’s for sure. Some of them might love it. It might speak to them in some way. Personally, I think it’s one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s almost embarrassing. And I think Andrea’s got a rough road ahead of her with this one. People in town are not happy. The neighbors who live across the street are pissed. This one old lady told me she doesn’t want to look at a phallic symbol every time she gets the mail or newspaper.”
“Oh my God. Do you really think he intended it to be, well, that ?”
“Who knows,” said Kyle. “I’ve never talked to the dude. Did you get that impression of him?”
I looked around and didn’t see anyone within earshot. “Not really. He was strange, that’s for sure. But I did learn something really interesting from Adrienne Preston.”
“Adrienne? You talked to her again?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “You want to go have a drink?” I asked, and soon, we walked down to the bridge connecting St. George’s to Portsmouth, heading to the little pub on the other side.