Before grabbing Nick, Patch had been roaming around the portion of the Egyptian wing that had been kept open while the last part of the renovations were being completed. In the main room, there were large placards along the wall that explained the history of the temple and how it came into existence. The story centered on the area of northern Nubia, along the Nile, where the Temple of Dendur was built. The temple, removed from its original site in Egypt in 1963 and opened at the Met in 1978, was considered a smaller temple, though it was still thought to be one of the prime examples of Egyptian architecture in the world. The temple had been erected in the year 15 B.C.E. to honor Isis, Osiris, and two brothers, Pedesi and Pihor, who had drowned in the Nile during Roman times.
But this wasn’t what Patch wanted to show Nick.
“You’ve got to see this,” Patch muttered to his friend. “Just don’t be too obvious about it.”
Nick followed as Patch led him to a skirted table that was displayed with a scrapbook, invitations, photographs, and clippings from Dendur Balls in years past, specifically the last one, which took place in 1992. Claire’s mother had said the display was there to provide some background and get everyone excited about the party.
“It’s just a bunch of New York socialite stuff,” Nick said.
“Right, well, look at this,” Patch said, pointing to a picture of a woman.
There was a spread from the New York Times’s social pages, a grouping of pictures by Bill Cunningham, the well-known photographer. At the center was a picture of a woman, identified as Esme Madison Evans. She was wearing a simple column dress and was staring straight at the camera, her eyes wide, a strange combination of an otherworldly spirit and a deer caught in the headlights. Her photo was next to those of prominent socialites of the time, names Patch recognized as important social leaders, the types of women who chaired committees and would find their names, along with those of their husbands, carved above the doorways of the Met’s galleries.
“It’s my mom,” Patch said. “From before I was born.”
“Wow,” Nick said. “She looks beautiful. I mean, I always knew your mom was beautiful, but I-well, to be honest, I don’t remember that much of her, since she, you know-”
“I know,” Patch said. “Neither do I.” What he did recall was mostly from after her breakdown: when they had to shave her head to keep her from pulling her hair out, and the baggy hospital-issue clothing that she was forced to wear. His mother had probably spent the last ten years wearing nothing more glamorous than a stained nightgown.
“Look,” Nick said, pointing to another spread from a magazine. “Here’s a picture of my parents.”
It was a picture of Georgiana and Parker Bell. Patch marveled at how young and innocent Nick’s parents appeared in the photograph.
As he looked at the picture, Patch felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find Mrs. Chilton standing behind him.
“Patchfield,” she said warmly, as he nodded. “I’m wondering if you can help us out with something. I’ve heard that you’re quite wonderful on the-I don’t know what the kids are calling it these days. Disc jockey? On playing music?”
“Sure, I can spin,” Patch said.
“Would you be willing to provide the music for the Dendur Ball? It is so important that every dollar we make goes to the museum, and you wouldn’t believe what some of these so-called professionals charge! It would be such a treat if you would donate your services. You just tell our deputy chair exactly what you need in terms of equipment, and we’ll provide it for you.”
Patch nodded. “Um, sure, that would be great. I can do that.”
“And we need a name for the invitation. I mean, we can’t just write ‘DJ Patchfield Evans,’ can we? What would your parents think?”
“My parents are, um, they’re not around.”
Mrs. Chilton ignored this. “What would your name be? Something fun, right?”
Patch thought about it for a second. His vlog was called PatchWork, and though he hadn’t been posting to it regularly since the television option, people knew the name-he did, after all, have tens of thousands of followers on his MySpace and Facebook pages. “How about ‘DJ PatchWork’?” he asked. “Is that ridiculous?”
Claire had come by to stand next to her mother.
“I think it’s adorable,” Mrs. Chilton said.
“So cute!” Claire agreed.
“Yeah,” Nick ribbed him. “Totally cute.”
“I guess so,” Patch said. Strangely, the only thing on his mind was, what would Lia think about this? He wasn’t really sure.
Still, it was a good gig, and if it got his name out there, it might lead to other jobs that actually paid. He could be on his way to making the five thousand dollars he would need to buy back the rights to Chadwick Prep.
Mrs. Chilton turned to Nick. “And dear, I hope you’ll be able to promote this evening to all your nightclub contacts-we really want to attract a young crowd. Claire’s told me all about the parties you’ve been having.”
Nick stood there awkwardly. “I’ve actually sort of gotten out of that. Ever since Jared died. It’s been hard.”
“Well,” Mrs. Chilton said with a plastic smile, “I’m sure you can muster up the energy to do it for charity.”
“Of course,” Nick said, clearly straining to keep his sarcasm in check. “Patch and I will do absolutely anything for charity.”
After waving good-bye to Nick and Phoebe on the steps of the Met, Patch walked across the street to his apartment building. Nick and Phoebe had to go to Southampton to execute the first part of Nick’s plan, though Nick had been vague about the details. Patch didn’t mind-he was tired of being the one who was always investigating everything. Besides, he still wanted to sort mentally through everything he had experienced today. For starters, the picture of his mother and her connection with the Dendur Ball. He knew his mom had been social and that his parents had been friends with the Bells, but seeing a picture of her in a newspaper clipping made it concrete. Before this, his primary image of Esme had been as a crazy person. In the black-and-white newspaper photograph, though, she looked so composed, so beautiful. Like someone he had never known.
Patch was also incredibly frustrated by his chat with Simone and the prospect of buying back the rights to his show. The possibility of DJ gigs in the future might help, but it would take a lot of bookings to make five grand.
While he felt distracted by everything going on, he was also amped up about Lia. After his visit to Simone’s former offices, he had met Lia for a coffee date at the Pink Pony on Ludlow Street. She was the only girl he had ever met who knew more about music than he did. He liked, though, that she didn’t lord it over him the way she could have-for the most part.
As Patch ducked under his building’s awning, he saw Parker Bell get out of a town car that had been idling at the curb. He looked at Patch, as if surprised to see him.
“Patchfield, it’s nice to see you. Are you just back from the meeting?”
Patch was momentarily surprised, as Parker was not usually so nice to him. The last interaction he’d had with him was at the initiation on a remote island in Maine.
Patch nodded as Parker handed his briefcase to the doorman and asked that it be left in his foyer.
“Will you walk with me for a moment?” Parker asked. “I’d like to confer on a few matters with you.”
Patch nodded, figuring that out on Fifth Avenue he wasn’t in any immediate danger. He still didn’t trust Nick’s dad after everything he had been through in December.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I just wanted to see how you were adjusting to Society life. You’ve entered our group in a rather unusual way, and I want to make sure that you feel fully acclimated. Of course, I know you are already friends with some of the members, my son included.”
“I’ve been fine. I know some of the other kids. It all seems pretty straightforward.” Patch knew this was a lie, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. “They told us about the Dendur Ball tonight. Sounds pretty cool.”
“The Dendur Ball.” Parker seemed almost wistful. “It’s amazing that they’re reviving it after all these years. You’ll have fun that night. The event is black-tie. Do you have a dinner jacket?”
“I think I have one that used to belong to my dad,” Patch said, thinking of the threadbare, moth-eaten tuxedo his father had. He would probably need to have it altered, but it still wouldn’t look right.
“I want Nick to take you to our tailor. He will make one for you. There’s nothing to make a young man look more handsome than a bespoke dinner jacket.”
“I don’t think I can afford-”
“You’re to put it on our account. You understand?”
Patch nodded. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable accepting something like this, but it would be nice to look sharp for the ball instead of having to wear hand-me-downs.
“Sir, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
Parker Bell smiled. He was a handsome man, tall and trim, with silvery gray hair. Patch had always seen him as foreboding, but there was something about him tonight that seemed friendly. Patch understood how Nick could have such mixed feelings about his father. The man was like a chameleon.
“Patch, I care deeply about my children. About their future and about their happiness. I care about who they spend their time with. You have always been close to Nick, and I know that he values your friendship. What happened between the two of you last fall was regrettable. We should have realized that you were Society material from the start. I am sorry for that choice, and I hope that we can make amends.”
Patch nodded, and there was a silence between the two. As if by unspoken agreement, the two of them turned around and started walking back toward the apartment building. Patch didn’t know what else to say. As Patch put one foot in front of the other, the thoughts swirled around in his head: This is a man who is evil. This is a man who killed people. This is a man I cannot trust.