“How did you find out David’s room number?” I asked Rosie as we stepped off the elevator on the eleventh floor.

“I asked old Coach Robbins, figuring he’d be going to the party, too. He didn’t seem to know anything about it, but he didn’t have a problem telling me David’s room number. His whole team is up here on eleven. It’s almost like high school, with everyone sticking together in the old groups.”

I thought back to Susan’s remark at our last crafts meeting, that if you didn’t fit in then, you won’t fit in now.

We walked down the hall toward eleven forty-three, Rosie alternately speeding up and slowing down. I was sure some of her pacing problem had to do with her stilettos, a far cry from the tennis shoes she wore in her own milieu, Rosie’s Bookshop. At one point I thought (hoped?) she was going to turn around and forget about the party.

When we got to David’s door, Rosie adjusted her dress and fingered each stone in her bracelet, a gesture she’d made repeatedly since she’d put it on her wrist. She gave me a look that said I should be the one to knock.

I did, gently.

No answer. Except for the giggling we heard through the door.

I knocked again, a little louder.

David opened the door, revealing expansive, handsome quarters. Looking down the opening he’d given us, I caught a glimpse of a panoramic view at the end of the suite. He’d shed his jacket and tie and swirled a drink in a short, stubby glass.

Cheryl, in a peach chiffon spaghetti-strap number meant for a younger woman, was on his arm, as she was at the cocktail party. Had she ever let go?

There was no sign of anyone else in the rooms.

“Hi,” Rosie said in a bright, nervous voice. “Are we too early?”

Cheryl swung her long brown hair back and laughed. “Too early for what?”

David looked confused. “Can I help you, Rosie? Mrs. Porter?”

I let Rosie handle this one.

“I… uh… I thought there was a little get-together tonight. In your room. Your note…” she said.

“We’re already getting together,” Cheryl said, her hair still swinging, her tone disparaging.

“I’m sorry,” David said to Rosie. “I don’t know anything about a get-together. I think everyone went out to dinner or something.”

I understood the “everyone” to mean David’s inner circle.

“Maybe she means the party tomorrow night, David,” Cheryl said.

Another confused look from the football star. “That’s just for-”

“Right,” Cheryl said. “I didn’t see her name on the list.” Cheryl laughed, emphasizing her, and apparently enjoying the third-person references. “Maybe she’s on the list that has Math Bird on it.”

Rosie put her hand on my arm to steady herself. I thought she was going to faint.

David grinned, then seemed to have an attack of conscience. “Do you want to come in for a drink?” he asked.

Too little, too late, I thought, as Rosie recovered her balance, turned, and walked away.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said to David.

“I guess so. Sorry, Mrs. Porter,” David said, closing the door. I figured he apologized to me, forgetting I wasn’t responsible for grading him anymore.

I went after Rosie, the sound of Cheryl’s laugh following me down the hallway. I recognized the reference to Math Bird, a nickname for one of the smarter boys in the class, but I had no idea why his name would be invoked tonight.

Apparently some of the thirty-year alums of ALHS weren’t just reuniting, they were sticking to the cliques of their high school days.

Even in her stilettos, Rosie managed to get to the elevator and ride away before I got to the doors. I took the next car and rode down to our room on five, feeling a heavy sadness for my friend. I was sure she didn’t expect to be humiliated. Who ever does? With all the misgivings I’d had from the beginning of Rosie’s journey to the past, I was still caught off guard. Warnings and forebodings were one thing; the full manifestation of all our fears was another.

I entered our room, where Maddie was already asleep on her cot in front of the television, a mostly eaten sandwich on her lap. All that swimming had taken its toll.

There was no sign that Rosie had returned to the room. I thought about checking the bar to see if she’d gone there, or the all-night business center where she could be doing bookshop work on a hotel computer. I decided not to interfere beyond putting a note on the cooler that she should help herself to sandwiches and snacks.

I covered Maddie, turned off the television, and settled down for a sandwich myself. As for David and the non-party, I couldn’t guess what had happened. Did Rosie misread the note? She’d held the note out to me, but I hadn’t read it myself. Was this a cruel game David was playing with her? All the gifts were now called into question. Had the whole drama been Cheryl’s idea all along? I couldn’t fathom.

I waited up for Rosie, reading until well after midnight, but she didn’t come back. I eased my fretting by assuming, and hoping, that she’d found a quiet place to reflect, or cry, or do whatever she needed to in private.

When I woke up on Saturday morning I expected to see the sun streaming through our east-facing windows, but this was San Francisco, where the summer days usually started with a serious fog bank.

I looked over at the second twin bed and breathed a sigh of relief that Rosie was there, also just waking up. She might have been a battered woman, for all the black and blue and puffiness on her face. I realized it was simply eye makeup running into cheek makeup.

She caught my eye, inadvertently I thought. It was hard to think of an appropriate greeting. “What time did you get in?” I whispered, not wanting to wake Maddie, curled up in a corner of the cot.

“Around two, I think. I just had to clear my head. I went to the fitness center.”

“Rosie, I’m so sorry about-”

She waved away my concern. “No problem. I just needed a little workout.” From a supine position, she lifted imaginary barbells in the air. “I’m really fine now.”

Why didn’t I believe her? Maybe one reason was because as long as I’d known her, Rosie had never been to a health club or lifted a barbell.

Maddie and I left the hotel about eight o’clock, while Rosie was still packing, her mood swinging from angry to moping. I wanted to get an early start on the drive back to Lincoln Point for the groundbreaking ceremony. Rosie had told us she doubted she’d return to San Francisco for the banquet tonight, and I couldn’t blame her. I’d wondered about keeping the commitment myself, but Maddie and I decided we would go back. After all, the room was paid for, and if nothing else, we could enjoy some of the tourist attractions.

“And be much cooler than in Lincoln Point,” Maddie added.

“Do you mean the temperature or what we can do there?” I asked.

“Both.”

When we reached the garage, I saw Cheryl Mellace coming down the entrance ramp in a black convertible. If she’d kept on a straight path, she would have passed in front of us, but she veered off and drove up another row and parked. My guess was that she had no interest in greeting me. The feeling was mutual.

We had nasty traffic the whole way home, but Maddie always made a car trip more pleasant than it otherwise would be. We never lacked for topics of conversation, knock-knock jokes, and plans for more time together.

One question, like “What are you working on in class?” could be good for many miles. Today she tried to explain video game design using something called fusion software. To me, fusion was a style of cuisine, and probably always would be.