Chapter 20
Before
Ava had a way of scoring reservations at even the most elite restaurants.
Oliver and I had tried having dinner at Marco’s twice, only to be turned away on account of a packed waitlist. And yet Ava, beautiful and brilliant as she is, was able to score a table for my bridesmaids only the night before.
“I don’t know how we’re supposed to eat a full meal and then try on dresses,” Constance said, examining the menu.
“You’re pregnant,” Marlowe said, rolling her eyes. “Your bump will be twice as big once the wedding rolls around.”
“I’ll be a whale swathed in chiffon and satin.”
Constance had revealed the happy news shortly after the engagement party.
We’d all squealed and cried and offered up baby names straightaway.
When the celebration subsided, my thoughts turned to Ava; we’d all thought—hoped—she’d be the first to share baby news.
I didn’t want Constance’s revelation to become a blow to her ego.
Ava remained happy as ever. Even now, she looked down at Constance’s bloated midsection and said, “You’re going to look beautiful no matter what.”
Constance’s expression softened. It’s typical for pregnant women to make self-deprecating remarks about their condition while easily forgetting the Avas of the world, women who’d gladly endure anything to be in their position.
“Are you sure you don’t want to postpone the wedding?” Constance said, smiling. “Say, when I’m at least six months postpartum?”
I chuckled. “It’s important to Oliver that we make things official before the move.”
The atmosphere of the room shifted, each woman at the table seeming to sit up straighter. Across the dining room, the chatter of nearby diners and the clanking of silverware became unbearably loud.
Ava wrapped her arms around my shoulders, playfully. “We’re going to miss you more than you know.”
“You love California,” I said. “The move gives you an excuse to visit.”
“I’ve been wanting to scope out the culinary scene,” Marlowe said, fiddling with the stem of her wineglass. “And I’m dying to see the beaches.”
“See! There are all sorts of reasons to come visit.” I slid my arm across the table to hold Constance’s hand. “And once the baby gets older, you’ll have to come, too.”
“Okay, okay. No more sad talk,” Ava said, slicing her arms through the air. “Let’s talk about the most fabulous party I ever intend on planning.” She looked directly at me. “Your wedding.”
I’d never been the type of girl to envision her wedding.
This time last year, I didn’t consider myself the type to ever settle down.
The moment Oliver entered my world, my life took on a completely different trajectory.
He brought all the fantasy and dramatics of romance and made them a reality.
I’d never imagined myself being this person, and yet, here I was.
Ava preferred my lack of vision. It allowed her to take charge, even though the ceremony itself was being thrown together in a short amount of time, and there would be fewer than thirty people in attendance.
We discussed the venue—a rooftop, similar to the location where we’d first met—and decorations and dresses.
She made me settle on a color—olive green—and we decided it would be chic if everyone picked their own style of dress.
“All right, ladies,” Marlowe said, snatching the bill before anyone else had the chance to pitch in. “We have a plan. Let’s go have some fun.”
As she had with the restaurant, Ava was able to secure a private suite at one of New York City’s most exclusive boutiques.
Even I’d heard of the place, as I remembered reading about a prominent starlet selecting her gown there before her elopement in Tahiti.
As soon as we arrived, shopping assistants wearing all black greeted us with salted peanuts, juicy strawberries, and champagne flutes. Constance sipped sparkling cider.
Marlowe and Constance journeyed to the dressing rooms at the back of the store while Ava gossiped with the clerk at the front desk.
In the past year, Ava had taken on more wedding-themed events: bridal showers and engagement parties and bachelorette soirees.
I assumed she couldn’t miss the opportunity to snag more clients, or at the very least, some good industry gossip.
I sat, scrolling through the local headlines on my phone, waiting for my friends to arrive in their gowns, when a familiar picture captured my attention.
Long red hair, captivating green eyes. From the small rectangle on my phone, Oliver’s ex-wife, Danielle, stared back at me, her gaze haunting across mediums. And yet, it wasn’t her picture that was the most disturbing. It was the obituary alongside it.
Obituary: Danielle Schwartz
Danielle Marie Schwartz, age 32, of New York City, passed away Friday morning at her residence. She was born November 17, 1992, in New York, the only daughter of the late Benjamin Schwartz and Marie Bates Schwartz. She is survived by her mother.
Danielle earned a degree from NYU and went on to open the Schwartz Gallery in Midtown. She loved art, travel, and vintage cars. A diabetic since childhood, she was actively involved with various medical charities and foundations.
Funeral service will be held two p.m. Thursday, April 10, at High Street Cathedral. Burial will follow at a private cemetery. Visitation is from twelve p.m. to two p.m. at the church.
In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the American Diabetes Association.
Every sensation in my body came to a screeching halt. I’d almost forgotten to breathe. I kept gawking at the article on my phone, staring at Danielle’s face, trying to make sense of it.
Weeks ago, I hadn’t known this woman beyond the stories Oliver told me about her. She existed only as a figment of his past, of the life he lived before coming into mine. She’d come barreling into my world, flesh and all, pleading with me to listen to her.
You’ll never have to worry about her again.
That’s what Oliver had said when I told him Danielle had confronted me. Could it be a coincidence that a few weeks later, the woman turned up dead?
A soul-splitting wail erupted from the back dressing room, startling me to the point I dropped my phone.
I bent down to get it, and when I straightened, Marlowe rushed past me.
Her cheeks were splotchy and red. She held the gauzy material of her gown at her knees to keep it from dragging on the ground.
“Marlowe, what’s wrong?” I was dazed, my thoughts still orbiting around the other crisis. Danielle.
Ignoring me, Marlowe rushed out the front doors of the bridal salon. Constance stumbled out of the dressing room a moment later. Her gown wasn’t even zipped in the back.
“Is Marlowe okay?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I surveyed the changing rooms like I expected a monster or beast to come rushing out next. “Did she say anything to you?”
Before she could answer, Ava joined us, one of the associates close on her tail. Ava stared between us and the front doors as if she couldn’t see clearly.
“Marlowe stormed outside in a four-hundred-dollar dress,” she said. “What the fuck is going on?”
“We were trying on our dresses. Talking about the wedding.” Constance paused, as if struggling to remember the events accurately. “She said something about Michael and just lost it. Maybe it’s too soon to be doing this.”
Ava’s face hardened. She marched outside after Marlowe while the associate tried to help Constance out of her gown. I stared down at my phone, trying to process what I’d just read and what I’d just witnessed. Stuffing the phone in my pocket, I skipped outside in search of the others.
By the time I reached the sidewalk, Ava and Marlowe were shouting at each other.
“I only need a minute to compose myself,” Marlowe said, gulping for air as if she’d been stuck underwater.
“You’re fucking right you do,” Ava railed. “We’re here for Tippi’s wedding. It’s about her. You can’t ruin this!”
“I wasn’t trying to. I’m just—”
“We’ve tried to be there for you, Marlowe. You’re the one who keeps pushing us away. Whatever happened with Michael, you can’t make this about you. Not today.”
“Ava! Stop,” I said, finally exiting my trance long enough to address them. “Just give her a minute.”
Ava tensed her jaw as if physically struggling to keep quiet. I thought she might cry when she rushed back inside the salon. Marlowe came closer to me, her chest covered in burgundy patches of irritated flesh. Her porcelain skin always flushed when she was upset.
“I’m sorry, Tippi.” Her face filled with shame when she looked at me. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m fine,” I said, wiping at my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I’d started crying before Marlowe exited the dressing room. “Don’t worry about me. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I wasn’t trying to ruin—”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I told her, pulling her back toward the sleek glass doors. “It’s my fault. I should have checked on you before rushing into this.”
She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know what.
“Let’s just go inside and finish this. Act like nothing happened.”
Marlowe didn’t say anything. She raised the fabric of her dress, lowered her head, and staggered back into the bridal shop. I remained on the sidewalk, my chest heaving as if I’d just finished a marathon, my brain struggling to process.
Clearly, Marlowe was bothered by something, likely her unresolved feelings from the divorce, and Ava’s reaction only made it worse, leaving Constance and me caught in the confusion, but at that moment, I couldn’t be concerned with any of it.
I was too disturbed over what might have happened to Danielle Schwartz.