“Nothing,” she says. “I remember he won that prize. I entered too and finished second.”

  “Really. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Natalia is looking at Emily. “English is my second language, so I’ve had my struggles, but you’re an English major, so this is right in your wheelhouse, writing an essay.”

  “I guess.” She adjusts her glasses again, even though it seems hard to believe they moved at all in the few seconds that passed since the last adjustment. “I just got honorable mention in that Optimists’ Club contest. When I told my parents about it, my dad said honorable mention is like kissing your sister.”

  “Harsh,” Duffy says.

  “But you did have a poem published in the campus literary magazine. Right?” Sydney turns to the rest of us. “Emily and I took creative writing together freshman year. The professor hated all of my poems. I wrote about volleyball a lot. I guess it, like, could have been boring for someone who’s not a fan.”

  “I don’t know,” Duffy says. “Volleyball poems. That could be a unique thing. A niche, right?”

  Sydney smiles at Duffy, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. Her freckled cheeks flush. “Well, maybe. I remember that poem you wrote, Emily. The one about starting college and how exciting it was. It perfectly captured how I felt too. Right? I guess that’s what makes a great poem, when you can tap into what other people are feeling.”

  But Emily is shaking her head. “I hate that poem.”

  “Why?” Sydney seems genuinely hurt by Emily’s denial of her own freshman-year poetry.

  “It’s so . . . I don’t know. Naive. Simple. Like I just used to believe everything everybody told me. I was so dumb back then.”

  “Weren’t we all as freshmen?” Duffy says.

  Everybody nods, and Captain Stephenson says, “I was a dumb freshman too. And I was forty-two years old with two kids and a wife.”

  “No, seriously,” Emily says. There’s an urgency to her words as if she really needs to say this to all of us. Here and now. “I was such a product of who everybody else wanted me to be. My religion, my politics. It all came from others. I was a little drone. A worker bee. I’m glad I’m not like that anymore.”

  Today’s students are tomorrow’s alums. And donors. So I never miss a chance to extol the virtues of Hyde College. “We aim to educate the whole person. I’d hate for any one of you to be the same person when you leave Hyde as you were when you came in. That’s progress.”

  Emily turns away. Maybe my little commercial is too much. Or maybe she doesn’t think Hyde College had anything to do with her transformation. Sometimes fundraising requires a great deal of patience. Donors can be courted over the course of many years. And alums can take a long time to be in a position to donate anything back to their college.

  I know my time with Nicholas is short. I can’t be too patient. Not with Grace and the board breathing down my neck.

  As if on cue, we all hear the sound of the cork being pulled out of the bottle of Pappy. It makes a satisfying pop. Then Nicholas is pouring the amber liquid into the glasses I ferried in from the other room. The gurgling of the bourbon refreshes me. When he’s finished, he returns the cork and smacks it into place with the palm of his hand.

  “It’s time for our toast,” he says.

  Captain Stephenson rubs his hands together. And I have to admit, I’m excited too. I’ve always wanted to try this most famous and most rare drink. And I’m about to have my chance, thanks to Nicholas Hyde.

  “I know you’re all twenty-one,” Nicholas says. “So feel free to give it a try.”

  “If you don’t feel like drinking or don’t want to, you don’t have to,” I say. “That’s okay.”

  “Unless the bylaws require it,” Duffy says, laughing to himself. “Heck, I hope those bylaws let me go to the bathroom at some point.”

  I expect a laugh from Nicholas, but he’s irritated. “It’s okay if someone doesn’t want to drink. The bylaws require a toast, but I guess they don’t specifically require that everyone drinks in the wake of the toast. There’s toasting and then there’s drinking. Still, I don’t know why anyone would pass up this rare chance. Given the cost, it’s once in a lifetime. For most of you.”

  Natalia shrugs. “I said I don’t drink. I’m not opposed to it. Besides, this sounds like something I may want to try.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Nicholas says, and he starts handing out glasses of bourbon to each of us.

  24

  DUFFY RAISES THE GLASS to his nose and takes a few sniffs.

  “Mmmmm.”

  Captain Stephenson swirls the bourbon in his glass, which I always thought is something you do for brandy or cognac. But I’m no expert.

  I can’t help it. I follow suit and bring the glass up to my face, taking a few sniffs of the most valuable liquid I’ve ever held in my hand. It smells . . . a little like maple syrup. A little like vanilla. A little like the white oaks that stand outside. I know it’s aged—for twenty-three years—in oak barrels.

  My mouth waters like a dog’s. The bourbon actually smells like money.

  Nicholas has his book of holy writ out and places it on the dining room table. Everyone is spread around the perimeter. Nicholas takes his own glass, and his hands shake. With his free hand, he finds the correct place in the book and stabs the page with his index finger.

  “Before we drink,” he says, “a few words in honor of Major Hyde.”

  Everyone grows mildly impatient with the insistence on ceremony. Even Captain Stephenson looks like he’s ready to disregard the rules and throw back his shot. I too wish we could skip this part. Theodore Hyde used to rush through it as quickly as he could, knowing that everyone was hungry and the summary of Major Hyde’s life did little to move the students. But Nicholas insists on reciting every word.

  “ ‘When Major Hyde returned from the Civil War,’ ” Nicholas reads, “ ‘he found himself possessed of an intense desire to matriculate at the University of Kentucky to complete his education in the classics. But the pain and terrors of the late unpleasantness had left his family’s finances in grave tatters, and his beloved father, Clement Hyde, found himself stricken with a series of ailments that rendered him unable to care for either the family or the property. Alas, Major Hyde was faced with a nearly impossible choice. Attend college and fulfill his own long-delayed dreams of higher education. Or forgo that crystalline vision and care for his family.’ ”

  Nicholas scans the students in front of him. “Which option do you think he chose?”

  “Spoiler alert,” Emily says. “He skipped college and took care of his family.”

  “That’s right,” Nicholas says, either unaware of or ignoring the trace of snarkiness in Emily’s tone. Nicholas appears to be off script now. He’s speaking his own words to the group and not reading out of the book.

  “I didn’t know all of this until very recently. I always assumed Major Hyde attended college, and that gave him his interest in education. But it turns out he didn’t go. He worked, and as he became successful, he paid for his younger brother, Rodney Hyde, to attend medical school and become a doctor.” He turns to me. “Did you know that, Mr. Gaines?”

  “I did. That’s why the building that houses the biology department is called Rodney Hyde Hall. In honor of the major’s brother.”

  “Oh, that’s who Rodney Hyde is,” Natalia says. “I always wondered.”

  “He founded the hospital here in Bluefield,” I say. “And it’s still going.”

  Nicholas finds his place again with his finger and completes his toast. “ ‘This exemplary commitment to family, community, and education is why Major Ezekiel Hyde created the Hyde Memorial Fellowships and Scholarship. He wants others to have the educational opportunities he never had.’ ”

  Everyone seems relieved. And really ready to drink.

  But Nicholas goes on.

  “You know,” he says, “it’s funny. All these years I thought about Major Hyde going to college, and now I know he didn’t. He’s a self-made man, one who pulled himself up by his own bootstraps without a formal education. The truth is, we’re kind of missing that toughness as a country, that willingness to work and work to get ahead. As I’ve learned more and more about this process over the past few weeks, I’ve really started to ask myself about the value of higher education. It’s so expensive these days, insanely so. And isn’t that why you all are here? Because of the ridiculous cost of an education?”

  A ripple of unease passes through the room. Perhaps they too recognize that Nicholas is off script and rambling.

  “That’s why we’re all so grateful to Major Hyde,” I say, hoping to move things along. “And your family.”

  “No,” Nicholas says, “just think about it. All of this exists because of Major Hyde, but he didn’t go to college. Many other successful people didn’t. For example—”

  “I know,” Emily says. “Bill Gates. People always break that one out when they’re trying to say you can make it without a college degree.”

  Nicholas stares back at Emily. He winces at his thunder being stolen. “Yes, he’s one example. Of many. As another example, I never completed my college education. I started at Pepperdine but never graduated. I’m about three semesters short of a degree. And I don’t think I’ll ever finish. Fortunately”—his words stop like he’s lost his train of thought—“fortunately, my mother never cared about that. . . . She supported me no matter my choices. . . .”

  A moment lingers while no one speaks.

  “What’s Pepperdine?” Duffy asks.

  “A college in California,” Captain Stephenson says.

  “Malibu, to be exact,” Sydney says. “They have a volleyball team. The Waves. They’re really good.”

  “Well, we are on a schedule—” I say.

  Captain Stephenson interrupts me. “It’s pretty easy to say forget about college if you’re born into a certain kind of family. Isn’t that right?”

  No one says anything contradicting or supporting Captain Stephenson’s statement, but I can tell from the body language they all agree. I agree as well and am glad he said it.

  Nicholas stares into his glass. “Some members of my family haven’t always held me in the highest regard.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Captain Stephenson says. “But all of us”—he makes a gesture toward the other four students—“all of us are here because we feel we need to go to college. And we need to find a way to pay for it without going bankrupt.”

  “And I’m glad all of you are here,” I say.

  “I guess I was just thinking that there’s a big world out there,” Nicholas says, “and there’s more to it than Hyde College. I mean, even if one of you wins this, the rest of you would have to find a way . . .”

  “We’re all probably pretty skilled at finding a way,” Natalia says, touching a giant button on her cardigan. “We’ve probably all been doing so for a while. I know I have. My family’s been doing that as long as they’ve been in this country.”

  “Well,” I say, “we probably shouldn’t let this good bourbon just sit here. And then we have a meal to eat.”

  “That’s right,” Nicholas says, lifting his glass. “Let’s all drink a toast to Major Ezekiel Hyde. And the Hyde family. Whatever remains of it.”

  We all go ahead and drink.

  25

  IS IT POSSIBLE FOR bourbon to be better than sex?

  Possibly not. But the Pappy 23 comes damn close. Damn close.

  It’s the smoothest bourbon I’ve ever swallowed in my life. Everyone else seems to agree with my assessment. Faces light up and cheeks flush as they swallow, even Natalia’s.

  “Wow,” Sydney says. “I totally got sick on Jim Beam my freshman year. I mean, like, really sick. And I haven’t touched brown liquor since then. But this is so smooth.”

  “I’m not sure what six thousand dollars tastes like, but this must be it,” Captain Stephenson says.

  Nicholas is holding his empty glass. A melancholy washes over him, and I immediately worry he’s offended by the pushback on his comments about college. Even the world’s most expensive bourbon can’t go far enough to relieve my concerns about courting the college’s most important donor.

  I move next to him. “Did you want to say anything else?” I ask. “What did you think of the Pappy?”

  Nicholas continues to contemplate his empty glass like it holds all the secrets of the world. “I don’t have anything to say. Maybe we should all get moving toward lunch. I know we’re on a schedule.”

  “That would be fine if you’re ready.”

  “We just go load our plates in the kitchen and bring it back here?” he asks. “Is that how Ted did it?”

  Ted? Not Dad. Ted.

  “That’s how he always did it,” I say.

  “Then who am I to argue?”

  “Your dad always did read the menu to everyone,” I say. “But if you don’t want to—”

  “Why don’t you do it?” he says.

  “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  The students are all looking at us. It reminds me of the times Rachel and I argue in front of the kids, and they stare at us like they aren’t sure what to think. And that thought—and the one about bourbon and sex—makes me think of Rachel. And how I’m going to have to wait until four o’clock to talk to her again.

  It’s worth it, I remind myself. I’m doing all of this for her. And the kids.

  For the future.

  I’ll have to tell her about Milo—and the way we voted to stay and finish the process even with a dead student in the other room. The greater good. Always the greater good.

  “Okay, everyone,” I say, trying to sound like a cheery coach, “it’s time we went in for lunch, which is waiting for us in the kitchen at the rear of the house. It’s buffet-style, and the way we do it is everyone goes back and fills a plate with food. Then you bring it out here to the dining room, and we all eat together. Just as Major Hyde preferred. Would you like to hear the menu?”

  “I’ll eat just about anything,” Duffy says.

  But Emily and Sydney exchange a look, and Sydney says, “Are we sure it’s safe to eat anything in this house? Whatever happened to Milo, if it was poison, it might be in that food. Right? I mean, what if someone wanted to poison all of us?”

  “I don’t think I’m eating anything,” Emily says.

  “I understand,” I say.

  Captain Stephenson raises his hand. He holds it high in the air until I nod at him.

  “If I may, sir, I do believe Milo was poisoned. But if it was in the food and drink from this morning, then someone else would have ingested it. And if someone ingested it this morning, there’s just about no way that person wouldn’t already be feeling the effects. Or be deceased. And I’m assuming no one is sick?”

  Everyone shakes their heads.

  “I have to believe we’re in the clear, sir,” the captain says. “Whatever happened to Milo happened before he arrived here. Or he had a bad heart, which is why he passed out that time in class.”

  “I’m still not eating,” Emily says. “I have a lot of allergies anyway. Gluten and dairy.”

  “No one has to eat if they don’t want to,” I say. “Just like drinking was voluntary.”

  I try to take comfort from Captain Stephenson’s words. There’s a logic to them. If Milo was poisoned here, why hasn’t anyone else fallen ill? Couldn’t he have eaten something before he arrived? And this is all assuming he really was poisoned and didn’t suffer a seizure or an aneurysm or something else. Ten years earlier, when I’d been at Hyde College for only a few years, a student collapsed and died in a colleague’s math class. The cause—an undiagnosed heart condition. Cardiomyopathy. Isn’t it possible something like that happened to Milo? Something tragic but undetected?

  “Who would like to hear the menu?” I say.

  “I would.” Duffy raises his hand.

  “I’m hungry,” Natalia says, holding her empty glass in the air. “Somebody told me once that drinking alcohol increases your appetite.”

  “So,” I say, “the lunch menu has been the same for one hundred fifty-two years. It’s a menu chosen by Major Hyde, consisting of some of his very favorite dishes. We’re going to have rabbit, grits, wax beans, and, for dessert, buttermilk pie.”

  Nicholas stares into his glass.

  Five students stare back at me, their faces somewhat blank.

  “Rabbit?” Emily says. “Are you kidding me? You killed a rabbit?”

  “Probably more than one to feed all of us,” Duffy says. “It’s pretty tasty, really. I’m not sure about the wax beans, though. Whatever those are.”

  “They’re like green beans,” the captain says.

  “See why I’m not eating?” Emily says. “No real thought for vegetarians.”

  “We can—”

  “Just eat the damn beans and the grits,” Nicholas says. He slams his empty glass down on the table and walks out of the room. “I have to take a leak.”

  Everyone stands around with their mouths hanging open. Emily looks angrier than she has all day.

  I decide that—for good or ill—Nicholas has provided us with a natural break.

  “Why don’t we all eat something?” I say. “And on the way, you’re all welcome to take a bathroom break. There’s one restroom by the kitchen and another by the parlor. I’ll see you all when we’re back here with our food.”

  26

  I LEAVE THE DINING room and step into the hallway. Murmured voices reach me—the students chatting as they wait for the bathroom.

  There’s no sign of Nicholas. He must be in the bathroom, cooling off. Not a bad idea. I need to use the facilities and then get food for myself, but before I can, I hear something from the front of the house.