Chapter 7
I stare at myself in the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, readjusting the felt crow on my shoulder. Its beak keeps falling to the left, which makes the entire ensemble appear gaudy and absurd.
Someone knocks on my bedroom door. I turn, expecting to see Ava or even Mrs. Wilson. Instead, it’s Marlowe. Warmth fills my chest as I take in the sight of her—undone curls pulled back with a claw clip, a knotted T-shirt, and a floral maxiskirt sweeping the floor.
She immediately wraps her arms around me, and I catch a glimpse of the swirly script inked into her forearm.
Enjoy the ride. It references an Anthony Bourdain quote.
In college, she only agreed to sit through The Godfather if I returned the favor by watching a season of Parts Unknown.
When she graduated from culinary school, I went with her to the local tattoo parlor to celebrate, although I was too noncommittal to get anything myself.
“Ava let me in while you were in the shower. I went straight to the kitchen and started prepping for the meal.” She takes a step back, examining my outfit. “You look ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” I say, grateful for Marlowe’s brutal honesty. “What’s Ava talked you into wearing?”
“I’ll be putting it on later in the night, after the meal is ready.” She presses a finger across her lips. “I’m sworn to secrecy until then.”
“All of this is…” I struggle to find the right word.
“So very Ava? Over the top is on brand for her.”
She laughs, the sound raspy and rich. Marlowe and Ava butted heads a few weeks back during the bridesmaids’ dress fitting.
Skirmishes are normal when friendships run as deep as ours, but I’ve been too scattered to check in with either of them lately.
I still am not sure how to broach it, but I’m realizing now just how much I miss her.
We’ve not seen each other since before the Oliver fiasco.
“Anyone else arrived?”
“I’ve only seen Ava. Preston is around here somewhere. I guess that means we’re just waiting on Constance.”
That rounds out our whole group. I’ve been friends with Ava, Marlowe, and Constance since college. These are the women I went to Europe with, and I try to look for that feeling of peace again. I remind myself I’m among the people I cherish most.
Marlowe takes this moment to move toward the kitchen.
“I’m sure Ava told you that instead of hiring her usual caterers, since she knows you don’t like how fancy they are, I’m running point on the food.
I still have a ton of prep, so I’ll see you later,” she says, her expression shifting slightly. “I just wanted to pop in and say hi.”
“I’m happy you’re here,” I tell her, honestly. “And as usual, I can’t wait to eat your cooking.”
Marlowe leaves, and I look back at the mirror, still disappointed with the crow’s awkward positioning, my overall appearance.
Why can’t things with Ava ever be simple?
Everything is always on display, enhanced by the spotlight, gleaming and sparkling, never mind that I’d rather be alone in the dark.
I swipe burgundy lipstick over my mouth, hoping a little color might bring me to life.
I head downstairs. Instrumental music plays, the delicate melody echoing through the various areas of the house.
I enter the parlor Marmee uses to receive guests, olive green walls and multicolored upholstered chairs scattered around.
There’s a large fireplace with a wide wooden mantel.
A tarnished mirror in a gilded frame hangs on the wall above it.
“The guest of honor has arrived.”
Preston, Ava’s husband of nearly a decade, is standing at the back of the room by the bar, concealed by shadows.
I’d overlooked him in my initial scan of the room.
He extends his arms for a hug, his reach powerful and wide, like the wingspan of a condor.
His build epitomizes a professional athlete’s, even though he retired a few years ago.
“You’ll have to tell me about your costume,” he says, pulling away. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”
“You’ve never seen The Birds?”
“I’m not an old-movie buff like you.”
“But it’s a classic,” I say. “Hitchcock.”
“I’m sure you’re doing the costume justice.”
“It appears you aren’t playing along with tonight’s theme,” I say, looking him up and down.
Preston wears a dark suit and red tie, more formal than I’m used to seeing him dress, but certainly nothing special.
He smiles, holding up a finger to tell me to wait. He runs his hands through his hair, making sure each piece is slicked back. Then he turns to the sofa and picks up a clear rain poncho, speckled with red droplets. “You get it now?”
“Patrick Bateman,” I say. “American Psycho.”
“That’s the one. Not going to lie, I wasn’t big on the costume idea, but Ava insisted. I figured this was a pretty good compromise.”
One Halloween, after a night of heavy drinking and sloppy dancing at some club in Midtown, we stumbled back to their apartment in search of leftovers and a few edibles to polish off the night.
After much insistence from me, they agreed to watch American Psycho.
By the time private investigator Donald Kimball arrived at Patrick Bateman’s office, both spouses had fallen asleep.
I stayed up watching scary movies until sunrise.
There’s no telling how many nights like that we’ve had together.
I used to play the role of third wheel gladly, mainly because Preston was the first boyfriend of Ava’s I actually liked.
He can be rough around the edges, but he has a softness to him that’s endearing, something I often remind her of when she’s venting about his carelessness around the house or his frivolous spending.
If Ava and Constance and Marlowe are my surrogate sisters, it’s safe to say Preston is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother.
He wanders back to the bar, thoroughly inspecting each bottle. “You want anything?”
“I’m fine for now.” Alcohol will only exacerbate my nerves. “I’ll wait until dinner.”
“Whatever Marlowe is cooking smells phenomenal,” he says. “My stomach has been growling since I walked out.”
“Where’s Ava?”
“Still perfecting her ensemble. She insisted on getting dressed in the closet upstairs.”
A flicker of annoyance rises as I imagine Ava traipsing about Marmee’s walk-in closet again without permission. I mount the stairs to confront her when the doorbell bellows.
“Looks like someone else has arrived,” Preston says, taking another sip of his drink.
I walk across the foyer and open the door.
Constance stands on the front porch, her back to me. When she turns, an energetic smile spreads across her face.
“Happy birthday!” she says, holding out her hands. “Ava said she thought you were going to back out.”
As predicted, there have been multiple conversations between them about me, this party, and whether I’d attend at all.
“Come inside.”
Constance turns her head from left to right, then tilts her head to examine the sparkling chandelier overhead. “I forgot how beautiful the place is. I can’t believe we get to be together the whole weekend!”
Now that she’s inside the brightly lit foyer, I have a better view of her costume.
A checkered black-and-white dress that ends several inches above her knees.
Peter Pan collar and sheer sleeves. Mary Janes on her feet.
A retro hat that pairs nicely with her chin-length hair.
The retro ensemble is the opposite of Constance’s normal bohemian flair.
The moonstone medallion hanging from her neck is the only item true to her style.
Her growing stomach protrudes. Constance is in her third trimester.
“Rosemary’s Baby,” I say. “I should have guessed.”
“I know it’s not Hitchcock, but it’s still an old scary movie. I mean, how often do you get invited to a costume party when you’re this pregnant?”
“My costume isn’t old-timey at all,” Preston says.
“You don’t even look like you’re wearing a costume.”
“My accessories are in the other room,” he says, bending down to give her a hug. He hovers his hands over her stomach awkwardly, as though he’s unsure whether it’s appropriate to greet the baby, too.
“I think you look fabulous, and not just the costume,” I say to Constance. “You are absolutely glowing.”
She rolls her eyes, unconvinced. “It’s getting harder to sleep, but all my clients have moved to virtual meetings only, so that’s fortunate. Honestly, I was excited to get out of the house for once.”
“Do you have any bags?” Preston asks.
“The driver left them on the porch.” She cradles her stomach, and I notice how much she favors a young Mia Farrow. “I’m getting past the point of wanting to lift anything.”
Constance is the first member of our group to become a parent, something that surprises me given her whimsical nature.
She’s adopted a dozen different personas over the years I’ve known her.
There was the summer she worked as a raft guide in Appalachia.
After that, she decided she wanted to be an artist and took off to San Francisco for a year.
She even tried joining Marlowe at culinary school for a while, before dropping out to explore yet another avenue.
Now she works as an energy healer. Constance is passionate about her work, believing she can improve any aspect of life with the right crystals and affirmations.
When she admitted she wanted to become a mother, I was surprised.
She shuns any type of commitment, romantic or otherwise.
Not that being a parent necessitates a certain relationship status, but there certainly isn’t a holistic way to get pregnant without another person involved.
She was adamant she wanted to enter this next stage of life on her own, confident she could give a child all the love and protection needed.
When she decided to go through the process of intrauterine insemination, I accompanied her to the first fertility appointment, sat beside her as the doctor asked countless questions about her sexual activity and family history.
As the time for insemination drew nearer, Ava hosted a party so we could go through binders and select the most suitable anonymous donor, an event that made a scientific and sterile process seem more personal.
I feel guilty that I’ll be out of the country for Constance’s due date, missing the culmination of this adventure we started together.
Marlowe enters the parlor, carrying a silver tray. Constance tries to greet her but thinks better of it, knowing one false move could send the food toppling.
“I thought you might enjoy a snack while I finish dinner.” Marlowe gives me a soft smile as she sets the tray down on one of the antique bureaus in the foyer. “Smoked salmon and capers. The rest of the meal should be ready soon.”
Preston immediately snags a slice of the fish-covered baguette.
“Thanks, Marlowe. I’m absolutely starved.” He puts the entire appetizer in his mouth. Marlowe winces in disgust.
“Is it hot or chilled?” Constance asks, reaching for a slice.
“Chilled,” Marlowe answers.
Constance drops her hand. “I can’t eat it then. Cold meats and fish aren’t good for the baby.”
Marlowe doesn’t flinch at the suggestion Constance won’t eat what she’s prepared. She says, “I’m heading upstairs to slip into my costume.”
I watch as she ascends the staircase, my gaze falling to the sideboard positioned closest to the banister. Earlier in the day, its surface was empty except for the flower bouquet from my father, but it’s now covered with cards and wrapped presents.
“Gifts aren’t necessary,” I say, walking to the display.
“It’s a party,” Constance says. She walks past me, putting her own card on the table. “Of course they are.”
My eyes scan the present table, noticing one card is prominently posed, its flap unsealed. My curiosity piqued, I pick up the envelope.
I slip out the thick cardstock rectangle inside, admiring the watercolor vista on the front. At first glance, I think it’s a sketch of a nameless city skyline. Upon closer inspection, I see it’s a portrait of downtown Boston. I open the card to see who it’s from.
Happy birthday, Tippi. Don’t have too much fun without me.
Love, Oliver.
My hands tremble. This can’t be right.
Why is a card from Oliver at Marmee’s house?