Chapter 74: Table Seven: No Such Thing As A Free Lunch.

I found myself in a sea of semi-familiar faces. We were, like so many obedient cattle, waiting in the roped-off line for “Cavalier Luncheon.” It was an invitation-only event, organized by the Alumni Association Greater Giving Committee. I hadn’t so much signed up for the lunch as I had been issued a command to attend. My engraved, real-paper invitation had arrived several weeks prior. I was, it seemed, the requested guest of an anonymous Tier One donor. If only to find out the identity of my mystery host, I decided to attend.

            “So, I hear you’ve reached celebrity status.” Mallory tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to meet her embrace. Mallory was channeling Jackie O in a vintage wrap-dress that probably cost more than every piece of clothing I’d shoved into my weekend carry-on combined.

“It was a complete surprise to me.” And, looking around, “The whole goddam weekend has been like my own private episode of the Twilight Zone. Seriously. Batshit crazy stuff. Coincidental meetings. Memories unearthed out from under decades of guilt, anger, frustration, disappointment.”

            “What? No nostalgia?”

            “What?

            “Well somewhere in all those recollections must be a few moments of wistfulness. You know. Things we did right. Choices that were, against all odds, the right ones. There must have been a few of those.” Mallory peered over her over-sized Dior sunglasses, smiling sweetly. “By the way, I missed you at dinner.”

            “God, I just keep doing it. Stood you up, again. I’m a horrible human,” I joked.

            “Nothing a few flowers won’t fix.”

            “You gotta be kidding me.”

            Mallory smiled. “You’re so easy. Seriously, are you this easy with your husband? He must have a ball teasing you. Of course I’m kidding. Where are you sitting?”

            I glanced around the terrace. “Casual Outdoor Fare” was the listing on the lunch itinerary. After the LGBTQ+ meeting, and the onslaught of well-wishes, hellos, can’t-believe-it’s-been-so-longs, general glad-handing and the obligatory call for donations to the cause, I slipped out and returned to my room to shower off and change into “casual” clothes. I opted for a variation on Chris’ uniform that morning: khakis, white oxford button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and white leather tennis shoes. I’d been on my feet for most of the past 48 hours. There was no way I could tolerate loafers and no socks. I drew the line at blisters. 

            The largest of outdoor spaces at Alumni Hall was the Kathryn B. Franklin Terrace. No offense to Kathryn or any of the other memorialized spaces, but it seemed that every room, hallway, garden, terrace, bench, kitchen and bathroom had earned a plaque through the venerable tradition of donation.

This tradition extended, apparently, to the luncheon seating.

Lunch-goers like Mallory and I were politely herded through the main lobby of the building, down the long gallery wall (of substantial donors), past the more intimate meeting rooms and through a generous wall of French doors which had been flung wide to reveal a floral garden tableau worthy of a spread in Architectural Digest.

“Oh, my. I didn’t bring my checkbook. Do you suppose they’ll seat me?” Mallory removed her sunglasses to take in the floral spectacle.

“I don’t think you need to worry. Apparently, we’ve already been bought and paid for. Did your invitation say which big-wig was sponsoring your table?”

“Nope. Not even a hint. ‘Anonymous.’ As if we might refuse to come if we knew. I’m at Table Seven. You?”

“Same.” I was grateful there would be at least one familiar face.

“Everyone, everyone? Could I ask you to please find your tables? Your table number should be in the lower right-hand corner of your invitation. If you need help finding it, just ask a service assistant. They’re all wearing  blue and orange name badges.” Barb Sussman was pleased to be the designated wrangler-in-chief. “Oh, and one more thing, and this is important, folks. As you know you’re here at the request of a fellow alum and Alumni Fund supporter. So, please, no switching tables. It’ll spoil the fun. Save the table hopping for dessert. Ok? Thanks. And enjoy your lunch.”

“I guess we’ll be in deep doo-doo if we break the rules.” Mallory chuckled, scanning the room for Table Seven.

“Did you see Freida’s name on the list? I want to be on my best behavior.”

“Too late, Drew. You’re already sunk,” Mallory said, giving me the once over.           

“What?”

“No tie. You might as well go home now.”

“I’ll pretend I don’t know you. You can run and save yourself.”

“You can’t abandon me now. Who’s gonna help me figure out these coded seating cards? I mean, really. Why all the cloak and dagger?”

I examined the seating card that had accompanied my invitation. The card had my name, the table number, and a five-digit code at the bottom, along with instructions to match the code to the corresponding place card on the table.

“Enhances the mystery, I suppose. I’m 58473. I hope I’ve got a good view of the crowd.”

It turned out that we had a prime table. Unlike my usual fund-raiser karma that banished me to a noisy seat near the kitchen or squarely behind a support post, Table Seven was strategically located in the middle of the room on a slightly raised platform. We were the first to arrive.

“Fancy.” Mallory leaned in. “I’m here: 85594,” she said, holding up her coded seating card.

“I’m over here,” I replied, motioning to a seat directly across from hers.

Mallory continued around the table, examining seating cards. “No names. Oh well,” she said, holding up the place card next to her own. “Let’s hope that “44938” is a gifted conversationalist.” Thinking, then frowning, she added, “If you’re so far away, how can we whisper obscenities and make fun of people’s shoes?”

“Unless you plan to sit under the table, shoes shouldn’t be a worry.” It was Sydney.

“Hello, Sydney. Twice in a weekend. What did I do to deserve this?” I was joking. Sort of. His barb about the ski trip I wasn’t able to afford 45 years ago had rubbed me the wrong way. It was a juvenile insult that I took like, well, a juvenile. I resolved to let it go.

“I see you took the ‘casual’ part of the invitation to heart. It’s so much more breezy without at tie. I suppose.” Sydney pursed out an icy smile.

Let it go.

“Shut up, Sydney. It’s my table and Drew can wear a kimono if he wants.”

Our sponsor and luncheon benefactor had arrived.