win-win: Take care.

(*Vermont? That was fast. Though maybe it wasn’t. It had been about five and a half months since we’d bid adieu. Had I expected him to become a monk?)

(**Maybe there was a point to this slate-messaging after all. I was glad he couldn’t hear my voice or see my face as I expressed how really, really happy I was for him.)

(***Suffice it to say, not quite everything.)

TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I received a phone call from Keisha, Mr. Kipling’s wife. “Anya,” she said tearfully, “Mr. K. is dead.” Mr. Kipling had been fifty-four years old. He’d had a major heart attack my junior year of high school. A little over two years later, a second heart attack had finished him off. Mortality rates in my circle were always high, but that year, they had been particularly so. I’d lost Imogen in January, my cousin Mickey in September, and now, Mr. Kipling. A loss for nearly every season of the year.

Perhaps this is why I did not cry when Keisha gave me the news. “I’m truly sorry,” I said. “I’m calling because I wondered if you might say a few words at his funeral?”

“It’s not really my strong suit.” I was not comfortable with public displays of emotion.

“But it would mean so much to him. He was incredibly proud of you and the club. Every single article about you, he saved.”

I was surprised to hear that. For the last nine months of his life, Mr. Kipling and I had fought, mainly over my decision to open the club that apparently he’d been “incredibly proud of.” (There had been other reasons.) However, from my father’s death in 2075 until I’d become an adult last summer, Mr. Kipling had overseen every financial decision I had made and quite a few of the personal ones. I’m not sure how good his advice was at times, but he had always done his best and had never given up on me even when it seemed that the world was against me. I knew he had loved me. I had loved him, too.

Noriko; Leo, who was finally home from prison; and Natty, who was back from Sacred Heart, accompanied me to St. Patrick’s. I was the third to speak—after Simon Green and a man named Joe Burns, who apparently had been Mr. Kipling’s squash partner, but before his daughter, Grace, and his brother, Peter. By the time it was my turn, my palms and armpits were moist. Though it was winter, I was seriously regretting my decision to wear a black sweaterdress.

I brought my slate with me to the podium. “Hello,” I began. “I wrote some notes.” I turned on my slate, which seemed to take forever, and glanced over what I had written:

1. Mr. K. = Dad’s best friend. Joke about how it’s hard to be a crime boss’s best friend? 2. Mr. K., funny story about his being bald?

3. Mr. K., maybe not the best lawyer, but loyal. Story about that? 4. Mr. K. honored commitments.

And that was what I had. I had written the notes after coming home from a late night at work. They had made sense at the time, but as I stood in St. Patrick’s, they looked pretty inadequate. I turned off my slate. I would have to speak from the heart, which was an act I tried to avoid.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said stupidly. “He was”—my inane notes ran through my head: bald? my dad’s best friend? a mediocre lawyer?—“a good man.” My foot was shaking and I could hear myself breathing. “Thank you.”

As I walked back down the aisle, I could not look Keisha Kipling in the eye. I sat down in my pew, and Natty squeezed my hand.

After the funeral, Simon Green, who I usually tried to avoid, approached my siblings and me. Natty hugged him. “He was like a father to you,” she said generously. “You must be heartbroken.”

“Yes. Thank you, Natty.” Simon took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. He nodded toward me. “Anya,” he said, “I wondered if I might speak to you a moment.”

I would have preferred not to, but what choice did I have? “This is hard to say,” Simon said once we were outside.

I crossed my arms. I already didn’t like the tone of his voice.

“Mr. Kipling left his firm to me, but unfortunately, his client list is vastly diminished. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it afloat. Of course you can say no, but I wondered if you might have a job for me at the Dark Room.”

“The Dark Room has a lawyer already,” I said. Furthermore, I didn’t want Simon around.

“I know. I only meant because your business is so big now. Maybe if it gets any bigger you’ll need another lawyer. And a man like Charles Delacroix can’t be thinking he’ll be legal counsel to a nightclub forever.”

“I’ve learned it’s fruitless to try to speculate about what Charles Delacroix is thinking.” “Okay, Annie. I can see I’ve made you upset. You can’t blame a person for asking.”

I knew I was being unkind. “Listen, Simon, it’s not personal, it’s business.” “Sure, Annie. I get that.” He paused. “Leo’s back from prison, I see.”

This was not said casually, but as a reminder of an obligation I may or may not have had to Simon regarding the circumstances of my brother’s return from Japan last Easter. Had Simon spoken bluntly, I would have respected him more. “If my situation changes, I’ll let you know.”

And so I came to the end of 2084. It was tempting to dwell on the lows (the deaths, the loss of Win, the arguments with my sister, etc., etc., etc.), but for once in my life, I chose not to. My portion of tragedy had made my triumphs somehow sweeter. My business was prospering; I had settled relations with Fats and the Family; I was on the right side of the law for the first time in my life; I had more than enough money; I had become a godmother; and I’d become increasingly skilled at wearing heels.

And perhaps this explains why your fun-challenged heroine decided to behave in a way that was entirely out of character: New Year’s Eve, I threw a party at the Dark Room.

I posted a sign out front that read: CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE AFFAIR. Then I opened the doors of my club wide and turned the music up loud.

That night was the first time Leo had been at the club. “What do you think?” I asked him.

He grabbed my head with his hands and kissed me on my forehead, my cheeks, and the top of my head. “I honestly cannot believe that my tiny baby sister made this herself!”

“I had help,” I said. “Noriko. And Theo. And Mr. Delacroix.”

“You are the most amazing sister. Hey, Annie, can I come work here, too?” “Sure,” I said. “What would you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I want to be useful.”