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.
