“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 herfeet. 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 thatbeing 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.
