“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 parlorMarmee 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 seenThe 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 watchAmerican 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. Iused 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?”
