This might be an even worse conversation starter. Ava and I met as roommates back in college and remain best friends to this day. Her ideas either turn into something spectacular or lure me into something I don’t want to do. Usually, a combination of both.
“We all know socialization is my coping mechanism, and yourbirthday is right around the corner,” she continues, “so I’d like to throw you a party.”
“Ava, no—”
“It would double as a going-away party,” she continues, refusing to let my rejection stand in the way of a good pitch. “Who knows when the next time we’ll see each other will be? You have to let me do this.”
Party planning is what Ava does for a living. She’s organized dozens of events for celebrities and socialites and athletes. Most people would jump at the opportunity to use her services, for free no less.
And yet, the last thing I want to do at a time like this is celebrate.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell her, wishing she’d just listen.
“It won’t be anything big. The normal gang will be there.”
The normal gang minus Oliver,I think, my stomach twisting into knots.
“Fuck Oliver,” Ava says, as though reading my mind. “He might have reneged on all his promises to you, but we can’t let him ruin everything. This is the next chapter in your life, and you must meet it with positivity. Not all this whiny victim energy.”
A harsh laugh escapes. “Is that how I’m coming off to you?”
“That’s how you’ll look to everyone if you don’t show up to your own party.” She sighs again, this time with more compassion. “I mean, the whole thing is practically planned. Food, decorations, entertainment.”
“Entertainment?”
“All you have to do is show up,” she says, bypassing that question quickly. “I’ve arranged everything else.”
As usual with Ava, I’m not sure whether I want to strangle her for the inconvenience or kiss her for the consideration. Most of her weekends are booked out in advance by high-paying clients. No matter how nonchalant she is about the whole thing, she couldn’t set aside a last-minute weekend for me without some schedule rearranging. And it’s obvious what this is really about. She spins it as a party to celebrate my thirty-fifth birthday, but it’s a Band-Aid to mend my broken heart.
The last thing I want is to face my closest friends with a forced smile on my face, all of them knowing that my world has just imploded. I remember the paralyzing dread I felt when I had to call them to explainthat Oliver and I had decided to cancel the wedding, each of their pitying reactions forever stamped into my memory. I had to fend off their offers to come over and commiserate with me, insisting I wanted to be alone. My plan was to avoid visiting any of them in person until after my trip to Europe, when I could confront them as a stronger, more secure person.
Ava is making that impossible.
“I have to go,” I tell her. “I’ll be late for Sunday brunch.”
“Fine, fine. Call me after you talk with Evelyn.”
Evelyn is my grandmother, but Ava always calls Marmee by her first name, accentuating the deep connection they’ve built over the years.
“Ava, have you been talking to Marmee?”
“Just call me after you leave,” she says, hurrying to get off the phone. “Love you. Byeee!”
Ava has always been dramatic, leaving me in the dark about what she might spring on me next. And now, the strange confidence in her voice makes me wonder what she knows that she isn’t saying.
4
A wrought iron gateguards the entrance to Marmee’s estate. I type my birth date into the keypad, and the vertical bars open wide. A single-lane driveway lined with manicured hedges snakes through the lush green fields.
A small bungalow appears on my left. The Morning Cottage, Marmee calls it, because of the delicate way the sun dances across the tiled roof at sunrise. Mrs. Wilson, her caretaker, lives there. She’s been with the family for years, first nannying for my father when he was an infant. After he reached adulthood, she took over home management before eventually becoming responsible for Marmee’s health concerns.
Marmee owns more than twenty acres outside the city in Westchester County, a slice of real estate that would likely sell for an unbelievable amount in today’s market. Lush flowers spring from the bushes lining the road, vibrant gardens sustained by meticulous groundskeepers. Just beyond the maple trees rests a man-made pond. But none of that compares to the beautiful home at the estate’s center.
My car careens over the hill and the entirety of the mansion comes into view. Two stories of intricate brickwork, robust ivy sprawling acrossthe dimpled surface. The front of the house is lined with windows and balconies providing a glimpse into the vast rooms inside. The roof is a canopy of pointed turrets and spires.
As a child, this place reminded me of a castle, worthy of a gothic fairy tale. As an adult, that same sense of wonder remains. I’ve seen some of the most beautiful places in the world: Nice’s pebbled shores and Amsterdam’s scenic canals and Barcelona’s architectural wonders. None of them hold a candle to Marmee’s mansion, and that’s not just sentimental bias talking.
A circular driveway looms in front of the house. A fountain displaying a murder of crows serves as the centerpiece of the front yard, one of the many nods to Hitchcock and other figures of cinema royalty around the property. After all, it was Marmee who first introduced me to my love of film.
