Chapter 10
The dining room is just as beautiful as the rest of the house.
The bottom half of the walls are covered by dark wooden panels, the same rich chocolate color as the floors, making the transition appear seamless.
Floral wallpaper, tiny salmon- and lemon-colored buds sprawling out from wild emerald vines.
As a child, I used to look at this design and imagine being trapped in the woods, the brambles and branches wrapping around my limbs like knuckles.
And yet, I always felt a sense of peace within this house, the beauty and darkness it seemed to represent.
There are some noticeable differences to the décor, all thanks to Ava.
The table is dressed in a deep red tablecloth lined with gold trim, which reminds me of a red carpet you might see at a film premiere.
An assortment of Marmee’s antique bowls and vases sits at the center of the table housing delicate flowers, likely clipped from the conservatory, and candles.
The whole presentation is dark and romantic and lavish.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Ava.”
“It’s perfect,” Constance says, struggling to slide the thick wooden chair from beneath the table. “You did all this by yourself in a couple of hours?”
“Preston was a big help, of course,” Ava says. “And Mrs. Wilson.”
“Save the compliments for my wife,” Preston says. “She only needed me for some heavy lifting.”
“And there’s one more detail,” Ava says, her tulle skirt billowing as she walks over to the far wall and dims the lights. She fiddles with something on a table. A beam of light extends across the room. It’s a projector. Images spring to life on the opposite wall.
“What is this?” Constance asks.
“We can’t have a movie-themed party without actual movies,” Ava says. “It’s the perfect backdrop for our dinner.”
Crows caw and screech, their cries a menacing crescendo, signaling the beginning of the movie. Flapping feathers and crooked talons blur past. It’s the opening scene to The Birds.
“Lovely,” Marlowe says, a look of discomfort on her face as she watches the scene unfold.
“Oh, hush.” Ava smooths her skirt as she sits at the head of the table. “Tonight is all about Tippi, and there’s nothing she loves more than Hitchcock.”
My anxieties from earlier in the night scatter.
The birthday card had me on edge, and the fact that Constance saw it, but in this moment, I’m humbled by the effort everyone has put into making tonight special, the ridiculous costumes we’re wearing included.
Having the leads from The Birds, Midsommar, Rosemary’s Baby, American Psycho, and Rear Window all in the same room sounds like the start of a corny joke.
Regardless, I’m grateful for every person here.
Almost every person.
Damien, dressed as Jack from The Shining, sits across from me. I watch as he looks around the dining room, admiring the same pieces of art and decoration that used to entertain me as a child.
It could have been someone else at the door, whispers a small voice inside, my thoughts fixating on the card inside my pocket.
Marlowe disappears into the kitchen around the corner, returning moments later with a steaming slab of meat on a silver tray.
“Roasted lamb seasoned with rosemary,” she says. “Served with mint jelly. Tippi’s favorite.”
“You remembered,” I say in amazement. It’s a meal we’ve probably had only once or twice together over the course of our friendship.
“I never forget a person’s favorite dish. And don’t worry, Mrs. Wilson is taking a serving upstairs for Marmee.”
“That’s so thoughtful.”
It’s only my favorite meal because it was Marmee’s first. It’s what she served during my childhood for special occasions, like Christmas Eve dinner and Easter lunch.
“There are a ton of sides, too,” Marlowe says, just as Mrs. Wilson exits the kitchen, two large serving bowls in her hands. “Honey-glazed carrots and garlic mashed potatoes. Creamed spinach and warm dinner rolls.”
“You have outdone yourself,” Constance says as she peers at each passing dish.
“Ava and I thought of every last detail,” she says, barely nodding at the compliment. “We needed something that would be yummy and easy to prepare in a short amount of time.”
“It’s absolutely perfect,” I say, unfolding my napkin. “Thank you for this.”
Marlowe walks up behind me, squeezes my shoulders. “You’re welcome, darling.”
“This is beautiful,” Damien says, looking at the prominent vase at the center of the table.
“It’s Venetian glass,” Ava says before I have a chance to respond. Like me, she’s committed the histories of Marmee’s antiques to memory.
“Yes,” I say. “She bought this piece on her honeymoon, back in the sixties.”
“Impressive,” Damien says.
“Venice is my favorite part of Italy. So romantic,” Constance says, fiddling with her moonstone pendant. She looks at Damien. “Have you ever been?”
He shakes his head.
“I prefer Rome,” Marlowe says. “Amazing food.”
Damien turns to her. “I didn’t know you’d been to Italy.”
“The four of us went together the summer after college,” Ava says. “We spent an entire month touring the continent. If I remember correctly, we stayed in Venice for three nights and never even rode in one of the famous gondolas.”
My post-graduate romp around Europe hadn’t been a solo endeavor. I’d had the pleasure of sharing the experience with my three closest friends. I laugh, recalling the memory. “We were wanting to save money for wine and gelato.”
“And we ate our weight in both,” Marlowe adds.
“So you’ve known each other since college?” Damien asks.
“The girls have,” Preston answers.
“We were dorm mates,” Constance explains. “Marlowe and I shared a room. Ava and Tippi were across the hall.”
“That was only the first two years,” Marlowe adds. “The four of us lived together off campus after that.”
“And you’re still friends now,” Damien says. “Amazing.”
“I came along about ten years ago,” Preston says.
“The one-night stand that never ended,” Ava jokes.
Even though we’ve shared these same stories and details countless times over the years, there’s magic in hearing them told again to a newcomer.
Our friendships truly have stood the test of time.
We’ve made it from awkward young adults to the people we are now.
Mid-thirties, I recognize, with only a slight shudder.
“You look really familiar,” Damien says, snapping me out of my thoughts. He’s talking to Preston, even though I’ve been thinking the same thing about him since he arrived.
“Are you into sports?” Preston asks.
“Sure.” Damien nods, then pauses, recognition falling into place. “Wait a minute. Are you Preston George?”
He dips his head in recognition. “Good to know I’m not completely forgettable.”
Preston spits that line often. He tries to come off as modest when his sports history is brought up around new people, but I know that deep down, he loves being recognized and dreads the day people won’t know him from his face or name alone.
“I can’t believe this,” Damien says, smiling. “Yankees outfielder, right?”
“For three years,” Preston says, beaming. “I was in the minors before that.”
My thoughts drift away as the men continue talking sports, a topic that holds zero interest for me.
When Ava and I first met Preston, he was just another guy at the bar.
Even after they started officially dating, and she filled me in on his career accomplishments, I didn’t fully appreciate the fandom surrounding him.
“You did some of those sports commentary shows for a while, right?” Damien asks.
“A little,” Preston says. He gulps down the rest of his drink.
“What are you doing now?”
Two years ago, Preston was halfway through his latest contract when he tore his ACL.
The injury was so severe, it effectively ended his athletic career.
His brilliance on the baseball field was so pronounced, he never aspired to do anything else, and he has struggled since to settle on a new path.
The sports commentating didn’t last. He’s tried his hand at investing in various startups that always seem to flounder.
His penchant for a good meal led him to invest in Marlowe’s restaurant, Hu?tre Maison, although his involvement in that didn’t last long either.
“Tippi, do you think you’ll visit Venice again when you’re traveling this summer?” Ava asks, graciously reverting the conversation back to where it originated.
“I hope,” I say. “I still haven’t solidified the itinerary, but nowhere is off the table.”
“Planning a trip?” Damien asks.
“The trip of a lifetime,” Constance jokes.
“I’m covering the Cannes Film Festival next week,” I say. “After that, I’m planning to tour around.”
“Reliving our heydays,” Ava says.
“I’m hoping to join her for part of it,” Marlowe says. “Maybe in July.”
“Of course,” I say, already looking forward to the opportunity. Marlowe is an easy travel partner. Less fussy and energetic than Ava, more reliable than Constance, who tends to wander.
“I might end up tagging along, too,” Ava says. “If I can find a gap in my schedule.”
Summer tends to be the busiest time of year for Ava’s business, the winter holidays a close second. Everyone wants to find reasons to celebrate when the temperatures are hot and the skies are clear.
“Do you work?” Damien asks Ava.
My jaw clenches. I get as annoyed as Ava when people pose this question. With another person, the question would be phrased What do you do for work? There’s a basic assumption that everyone works, unless you’re married to a former professional athlete.
Ava handles the faux pas with grace. “Yes. I run my own business.”
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “What do you do?”
“This.” Ava glides her hands above the table, admiring the display she designed with precision. “I plan parties for a living.”
Damien stalls, and again, I feel like I’m reading minds across the table. Is that a real job? I’ve heard people ask Ava this before, in that condescending tone that says what she considers a career is what the rest of the world considers a hobby.
“They say do something you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life,” she says. “I’ve always been the life of the party. Now people pay me to bring their visions to life.”
“And that’s a lucrative business?”
She smiles politely. “Very.”
“Ava has quite the impressive client list,” Marlowe says, sensing her guest is becoming too comfortable. “She’s hosted parties at some of the most fabulous places in the city.”
“For some of the most fabulous people,” Constance adds. “Even celebrities.”
“Do tell,” Damien says.
“I started hosting parties for some of the other wives on the baseball team. Birthdays and engagement parties and baby showers. Things like that. Through word of mouth, my name got out there more and more.”
“Tell him the rest of the story,” Preston cuts in. “About how you got started.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ava says, reaching for her wineglass.
Preston puts his elbows on the table, leans in like a conspirator.
“Right around the time Ava started her business, there was another girl trying to run the same thing. I hired a guy to look into the other woman’s business and steal some of her ideas.”
Ava shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “That’s not exactly what happened.”
“Sure, it is. My guy came back with all the details about her parties, and gave you the upper hand.”
“I’d already organized everything for my upcoming events by that point.” She looks at Damien, failing to appear unbothered. “My clients were pleased with what I’d done. It was exactly what they’d asked for.”
“Knowing what the competition was planning didn’t hurt,” Preston says, finishing his drink, unaware of how his words slash through his wife’s sense of self-worth. I feel the tone of the night turning.
Ava and Preston are the eternal compass of our group, the mother and father of our little makeshift family. When things are good, it’s great. When they’re not, you can slice the tension with a knife. Preston’s ignorance is part of his dopey charm, but to Ava, it’s absolutely infuriating.
Ava, struggling to keep her composure, stands. “Excuse me.”
She covers her plate with her napkin and exits.