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"Yes."
"I guess I underestimated how involved you were when I asked. Congratulations. When is the wedding?"
"End of June. You'll be invited," I told him. and he laughed.
"Wait awhile before sending it out. You may hate my class and decide to have nothing more to do with me."
"I doubt it." I said, and his eyes warmed.
I enjoyed his class right from the beginning. He had an informal way of teaching and seemed to work from invisible notes scribbled an his lectern. After the first few sessions. I began to feel as if we were all just a group of people very interested in the subject who gathered twice a week to have a good discussion. Even when he scheduled a test or made an
assignment, it didn't impose a heavy burden, at least not on me.
I enjoyed all my teachers and all my classes. The first week. I grew friendly with a pair of twin sisters. Lani and Petula Butterworth. They were attractive women with strawberry blond hair and patches of freckles in exactly the same places on their creamy faces, on the crests of their cheeks and along their temples. Both were about my height but with more petite figures, making them look years younger. I quickly learned that Petula had been nicknamed Pet by her father and was called that by most of her friends, but not by Loni. There was significant sibling rivalry, and Loni was quick to tell me, "Petula is my father's pet." Pet denied it, of course, but seemed to enjoy the accusation anyway. I thought they would make for a great psychological study and even, when I felt comfortable enough with him, mentioned it to Professor Fuentes, who said he couldn't agree more.
"Take mental notes." he advised me. "You might use it someday. I think I read somewhere in your father's papers," he added. ''that he said for anyone in psychology, there are no wasted
experiences. We're always in the midst of some research, something to add and to use."
"That was the way my father lived," I agreed.
Most of the people I met at the school, especially my teachers, were interesting to me. If I had inherited anything from my father in that regard. I guessed it to be his insatiable curiosity about people, especially people he had just met. He would go after them like some sort of mental cannibal, deyouring their life histories, with an endless appetite for tragic, emotional, or significant events in their lives. I suppose his genius came from his ability to question wisely and make efficient use of every moment he spent with someone, no matter how difficult the situation or how short the time.
I was curious about Holden Mitchell, He was outgoing and talkative, yet seemed to have a strange restraint about him as if he was afraid of revealing something dark about himself. I quickly learned that no one, not even those who'd known him before, got too close to Holden Mitchell.
He came from a well-to-do family and lived in what Palm Beach residents would call a modest home, but most everyone else in the country would call a mansion. What I did learn was that his father had been married before and divorced with no children and was nearly twenty years older than his mother.
Although Holden was just twenty, his father was sixty-eight and now a fully retired dental surgeon who had enjoyed a very successful practice. I got most of this in dribs and drabs from Holden himself, although socializing at college was no longer of much interest to me.
My college life and my life back at Jaya del Mar were so different from each other that at times I felt I should be carrying a passport because I was moving between two separate countries. The people I associated with at college were almost another species from the socialites who, as Thatcher predicted, began to chase after me.
It began with an invitation to lunch at a private Palm Beach club. Manon Florette, the owner's daughter and the granddaughter of the originator of the club, first sent me a written invitation and then. before I could RSVP, phoned to be certain I had received it and was going to attend.
"You should be flattered." Thatcher told me when I described it all to him.
Why?
"Club Florette is the most exclusive of all the private clubs in Palm Beach. Each year upwards of seven to eight hundred people apply for membership. and Henri Florette admits ten."
"Ten? Out of that many? How does he decide, net worth?"
"No. Actually, he told me he looks for the most interesting people to add to the mix and doesn't concern himself with their net worth. To join, you have to pay five thousand dollars, and then the yearly dues are three thousand."
"Just to eat at this place?"
"And be known as a member. It's like getting another ribbon to put on your chest." Thatcher said. "Anyway, the fact that she called to follow up shows you how much they want to know you."
I tilted my head suspiciously. "Are you a member of this club?"
"Never applied, never was asked to apply, but maybe now we will be." he decided.
"I'm sure we'll find better places to waste our money," I muttered, and he laughed,
"Waste not, want not is different here. It's waste not, why not?" We both laughed.
As long as we both could laugh at the world we were in. I guessed it would be all right.
At first sight, Club Florette looked like it fit its reputation for being exclusive. It was well off South Ocean Boulevard and tucked neatly behind very high hedges and a gate with a security guard. Even the gate wasn't just an ordinary gate: It was gilded and scrolled with palm frees. My name had been left at the gate, which was then opened, moving as slowly as I imagined the gates of heaven would. The grounds were beautiful, with a large pond populated by swans and pink flamingos. Everywhere I looked, flowers bloomed radiantly and uniformed gardeners pruned and nurtured the fauna.
