My heart flooded, hearing her talk. I hated that she was worried about me, but it was still comforting, how much she cared.
“You’re very persuasive.” I kissed her on the forehead. “So, yes, I will try to enjoy my poker night with the guys. Jughead actually agreed to open it up a bit, invite some of the Serpents, Reggie. You know, small but fun.”
“I like it!” Her eyes flashed. “Just one thought. Or rather,” she clarified, “more of a question, actually: Where are you guys going to play? Did you have a location in mind?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. We basically just decided on it. The community center, I guess? I mean, that would be fine. It’s just a few of us, you know?”
She frowned. “Right. And fine is … well, fine, I suppose. But maybe we can do better than that.”
“Better than fine?”
“Come on—where’s your sense of occasion?”
“I … don’t have one?” I said. Or if I did, I guess I’d lost it … right around the time I lost my dad.
“What are you getting at?” I asked. I was definitely getting the feeling our low-key poker night was about to be kicked up to the next level.
She shrugged. “The girls are going to be off on our wilderness adventure, why not turn your ad hoc poker night into a full-on … well, a real, full-on Poker Night? You can keep your guest list small—if you must. But we can still take it to the next level. Why not?”
Next level. Did I know my girl, or what? I thought about it. Maybe she did have a point … ? “What did you have in mind?”
“Have it at La Bonne Nuit!”
“The speakeasy?”
“Of course! It’s perfect. Make it a whole event! Themed cocktails, a dress code, passed canapés, the works.”
“Good luck talking Jughead into respecting a dress code. And if you think either of us knows how to make canapés, sorry, but you’re in for a rude awakening.”
“Okay, forget the dress code. But Pop can arrange the food. You won’t have to lift a finger.”
“Okay,” I said, relenting. “We’ll have it at the speakeasy. We’ll have Pop-approved snacks. But nothing, you know, too crazy. Otherwise it’ll be the last guys night Jughead ever agrees to.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not to be reductionist, but I think it’s safe to say that once he hears about the canapés, he’ll be all in.”
“Good point.”
We were both laughing when we heard a soft rapping at the bedroom door.
“Come in,” Veronica called. To me she turned and said, by way of explanation, “Smithers.”
The door swung open and—yep—Smithers walked in, an enormous feast from Pop’s spread across a large silver platter in his arms. The smell was indescribable—chargrilled beef and gooey cheese and a hint of chocolate syrup from one of the milk shakes sweating beads of condensation down their sides. My stomach growled automatically. I hadn’t even realized I was starving, but now that I thought about it, it dawned on me that I’d skipped breakfast to make those early-morning construction deliveries. And I’d barely had a minute to scarf down a sandwich at lunch, since I was busy catching up on homework. No wonder the sight of those burgers was making me drool.
“Amazing timing, Smithers,” I said, clearing space on Veronica’s desk to take the tray from him. “How did you know?”
“Miss Veronica had asked me to bring an early supper in for the two of you while she packed,” Smithers explained. “I believe she said it ‘very well might be the last decent bite of food she had all weekend.’ ”
“Not hyperbolic at all.” Veronica laughed and snatched an onion ring from the tray, steam rising up from it in curls. “What can I say? I’ll no doubt be dreaming of this meal this time tomorrow night, when we’re relegated to …” She faltered. “Actually? I confess: I don’t even know what they serve at camp.”
“You’ll probably roast hot dogs over a campfire at some point,” I told her. “It’s classic. So, maybe not that different from Pop’s.” I pointed to the two chili dogs on the tray, smothered in relish.
“Okay, so maybe I won’t starve to death,” she conceded. “But I’m willing to bet this Pop’s chili dog is better than any I’ll roast at Sweetwater Pines.”
“No argument here,” I said. “I’ll save my betting for poker night.”
“Wise,” Veronica said. “And also, an excellent segue. Smithers, Archie and his friends are going to have a gathering at La Bonne Nuit tomorrow night. A boys poker night, as he says. Do you think you’d be able to coordinate some of the particulars with Pop for him while I’m away? Mostly the food and beverage orders, and confirming details about the security system. It should be simple, really. Reggie’s going to be there, right?” She looked at me.
“Right. But … security system?” I asked, puzzled. “It’s a poker night with my high school buddies, not a Danny Ocean movie.”
“Just standard operating procedure, Archiekins. What can I say? I’m my father’s daughter, no matter how much I may resist that fact from time to time. I invested in a state-of-the-art system for the whole building when I bought the deed to Pop’s and opened La Bonne Nuit. Reggie’s very familiar with it; he can get you up to speed.”
“Right, cool,” I said. I was doing my best to sound indifferent, but the truth was, thinking about Reggie being Veronica’s right hand at the speakeasy? It wasn’t the best feeling. Too much of a reminder of how they’d been together for a little while … and how, if Reggie’d had his way, they still would be.
If Veronica sensed any shift in my mood, though, she didn’t let on. “So, Smithers, what do you think? Would you be able to help with that?”
“Of course. I would be glad to, Miss Veronica,” Smithers said. He turned to address me directly. “Please don’t worry about a thing, Master Andrews.”
“I won’t, Smithers.”
“Excellent. Now”—he reached into the lapel pocket of his uniform jacket—“in the meantime, though, I did also want to deliver this letter to you, Miss Veronica.”
He fished a nondescript white envelope from his pocket and held it out to her. “It came today while you were at school. And it seemed to me to be something you’d want to see … before you left for the weekend.”
Something about the tone in his voice sounded loaded, meaningful. I could tell Veronica was thinking the same thing. Her eyes narrowed as she took the letter from him. She turned the envelope over in her hand, studying the return address. “Shankshaw Prison.” She sighed. “Well, that can only mean one person. The person I’m least interested in hearing from.”
“Speak of the devil,” I said.
Hiram Lodge was in maximum security—where we all hoped he’d rot, indefinitely, even if we tried our best not to say as much to Ronnie. The letter had to be from him. And there was no way it was good news. Nothing that came from Hiram Lodge ever was.
She held the letter out in front of her for a minute, considering it. Then she sighed heavily and ripped the flap open, pulling the letter out.