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“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Boston Logan. The current time is 4:22 p.m. If Boston is your final destination, please buckle up and be safe on the roads. If you’re connecting here, please check the monitors at the gate for flight info. It’s been our pleasure serving you. Again, welcome to Boston.”
Please stop saying “Boston” on repeat. Some of us aren’t on vacation, and I’m most definitely not home, so, yeah…
Once deplaned, I grab an Uber to my hotel. Why I thought arriving on a Friday at rush hour was a good idea is beyond me. Oh, I know. Because I wanted as little time on the ground as possible. This traffic is cutting into that. Thank goodness for small blessings.
Once I arrive, I get cleaned up and spend an extra five minutes doing breathwork for relaxation and to manage external stressors. I probably look like a freak but I don’t care. Walking into my parents’ home for their fortieth wedding anniversary is nerve-wracking.
Seeing my Stepford parents and overachiever sister and being on display for their snooty friends is even more so. Though it’s less nerve-wracking and more exasperating.
My bourgeoise meter used to be scaled from finishing school to Ivy Leagues. Now it’s on a kindness scale with fun weighing into the equation.
I knock on their door, knowing I could walk right in, but that the doorman hired for the party would make a sour face and that would ignite my mom’s indignation in front of guests.
My black dress fits like second skin. It goes straight across the cleavage, of which mine is minimal, with two sheer gunmetal gray straps. They’re wide and I had the tailor add them so my parents didn’t have a conniption about a strapless dress. It falls below the knee and has a slit up the back that allows for movement while keeping the beautiful silhouetted form.
My black heels are high at four inches. It feels foreign to be this tall and to be wearing red-bottom shoes again. It’s only for one night.
“Invitation please,” the doorman drawls as he pulls the heavy door open slowly. I hand it to him, and to his credit, he keeps the same long face when he sees my name as he had when he answered. His white-gloved hands hold the linen envelope. “Miss Morgan.” He dips his chin and allows the door to open fully, standing back to let me in.
The smell is what I notice first. The musty smell of books combined with lemon wood polish is the smell of my parents’ home. Other elements aren’t as easy to pick up. Pipe tobacco, a hint of bleach, and peach blossoms.
I take a deep breath, taking it all in and studiously avoiding making a sour face at the combination and the memories that inundate me with it.
“Thank you.” I accept my invitation back, replace it in my clutch, and head for the back garden. The library in the front has warm yellow lighting and is where I picture my mother and father when we talk on the phone. I know they could be anywhere, but I seem to always visualize my father sitting on the settee with a newspaper open and my mother at the uncomfortable writing desk chair in a matching sweater set, just waiting for the call to end.
Suck it up, Livy. It’s one night. They love you. This is about them. And you can go home tomorrow.
I move through the long wood-paneled center hallway with its expensive Persian runners, through the dining room, and step out onto the slate terrace that’s been perfectly manicured for the event. White-gloved waiters move through the crowd, serving silver trays of hors d'oeuvres while not intruding. Others have trays of champagne flutes or summer cocktails. I grab one near the large fountain as I tuck my clutch into my other palm.
Peach nectar and dry champagne with frozen cherry. It’s way too sweet, almost undrinkable, but it means my hands are full. If my mother took anything away from her study of the British monarchs, it was that. A small clutch and full hands mean fewer people to touch or to be touched by.
Mother has her back to Father, though they stand near each other. She’s talking with one couple while he’s deep in conversation with another man. At least it’s a perfect night to be outside. July can be iffy, but the night is cool and the breeze is pleasant.
“Livy?”
I turn to see Tommy and a woman approaching. His arm is wrapped low on her hip. She’s thin, almost waiflike, and honey blond. Her smile is forced as they stop in front of me. Tommy leans forward, a hand on my elbow, and kisses my cheek. “You look lovely, Livy. So glad to see you. This”—he turns to the woman he holds at his side—“is Cassandra.” She extends a hand awkwardly since I have no way to take it. “My fiancée,” he continues.
No one in the garden hears the record screech to a halt in my mind. I hope my carefully composed face doesn’t show it either.
“It’s nice to meet you, Cassandra. Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you.” She beams and, in a nod to the fact that she certainly wasn’t raised with finishing school, she flops her wrist out, palm down, to show me the ring.
My ring.
One carat, pear shaped, with a delicate design carved into the band. I wore it for nearly a year. I can certainly recognize it sitting on another woman’s finger.
I swallow past the sand in my mouth and take a long sip of the drink that slides like syrup slowly down my throat.
“It’s beautiful,” I offer her and turn my gaze to Tommy as he shifts his weight, looking nervously between the two of us. “Davidoff’s on Main?”
He swallows roughly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the force, and clears his throat. Cassandra’s eyes go wide, and her mouth pops open. “Wow, you’re good. How did you know?”
“They’re amazing jewelers and this looks like their work. It’s exactly what I’d expect Tommy to choose.” I give a little emphasis on the wordexactlybut not so much to embarrass the woman in front of me.
Tommy is not my problem anymore. There’s no need in shaming the woman at his side because of it. Chances are she’ll figure it out eventually.
I see my parents’ guests meander away and take the opportunity to extricate myself from this situation. “I wish you two all the happiness in the world. Will you excuse me?”
