Page 4 of The Party Plot

The door burst open, making Casey flinch for the second time that day, and Denise Van Marcke, hat wobbling, eyes wide, stood there in a sea of tulle, her creamy pink complexion, so much like Laurel’s, spotted with red. “Laurel!” she exclaimed. “There you are! Oh, and Casey, honey, are we still on schedule for the cake cutting? Jasper is starting to get restless.” Before he could answer, she had turned back to her son, grabbing his arm. “Laurel, we need you out here. Your friend is making a scene.”

Casey could see Laurel suppress a sigh. Funny how many of his expressions were familiar, either because they mirrored Denise’s or—more disturbingly—because Casey had remembered them. The thought flooded Casey with spite, and he was happy to abandon Laurel to his mother. Let him deal with Denise’s endless drama for once. Casey had his own problems, like how to get two dogs to pose with a cake without going full land shark on it before any pictures were taken. And how to recalibrate himself after this encounter.

“My friend?” Laurel asked. “Chip? He wouldn’t—”

“No, of course not.” Denise gestured impatiently. “That Melody girl. She’s here, and she wasn’t invited, and she’s going to ruin everything if you don’t get her under control.”

2.

Tall, gorgeous, and only wobbling slightly, Melody Harper stood alone in the middle of the lawn. She wasn’t making a scene at all, but she definitely presented one just by being there, and by wearing some kind of snakeskin mini dress and stilettos in the midst of all the florals and peachy tulle. Laurel found it impossible to look away. Her black hair was miles long, her legs even longer, and there was a yellowing bruise on one of her thighs. She was looking at something on her phone, scrolling so intently that she didn’t even notice Laurel approach, her long nails ticking across the screen. Melody always had great nails, even when she was falling apart. A vape pen was clutched in her other hand like a security blanket.

“Melody, honey,” Laurel said cautiously.

She looked up, just a little flash of the eyes to acknowledge him, and went back to her phone. “Is Howie here? I need to talk to him.”

Laurel put a hand on her arm. “He’s not. Why don’t—”

She shrugged him off, surprisingly strong, her shoulders all bones and tension. “Well, when will he be? This is important, Laurel, I need—”

“Is everything okay here?” It was Chip, and Laurel felt himself break out into a clammy, relieved sweat. He wasn’t in any shape to handle this on his own, not after Casey.

“Chip.” Melody did look up fully now, teeth worrying her lower lip. She’d eaten off all her lipstick, leaving just a thin ring of color around the edges of her mouth, but she was still pretty. Pretty in a striking, unruly way that seemed to make women like his mother automatically dislike her. “I’m sorry I’m late, I—I must have misplaced my invite. I need to see Howie.”

“He’s not here. Melody, you didn’t drive, did you?”

She dismissed the question with a flick of her hand. “I’m fine.”

“Melody.” Denise was sashaying up, a dazzling smile on her face, and Laurel felt a wave of sickness at the sticky-sweet contempt in his mother’s voice. By all accounts, she’d grown up in some shitty little town in nowhere, Idaho, but she took to the role of Southern dowager bitch like she’d been born for it. He swept a hand over his face, thinking about how nice and cool it was in Belgium, how pretty the flocks of pigeons were when they took to the sky from the trees on his dad’s estate.

“Denise,” said Melody. She chewed her lip some more. “I was just telling Chip how sorry I am to be late. And I—I guess I didn’t get the memo about the dress code.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I just need to—”

“Sweetheart, you look sick,” Denise said, crossing her arms. “The heat must be getting to you. Why don’t you go home and lie down for a while?”

“I will, I just need to talk to Laurel and Chip—”

“I think you should gonow.” Denise’s face, though still smiling, was a stone wall. “You really don’t look well.”

“Come on, Melody.” Laurel took her arm, feeling how clammy she was. “I’m wilting too. It would be a good idea to get inside.”

Melody flicked hair out of her face. “Yeah. Fine.”

“We’re taking my car,” Chip said. “Neither of y’all should be driving.”

“It’s fine, Chip, I got here okay.”

“Yeah,” Laurel chimed in, “I can—” he couldn’t; he wasn’t sure why he was backing Melody up. Maybe just because no one else did. He had a flashback to their freshman year of college, Chip almost as wild as the two of them. Stealing street signs, climbing trees, making burnt quesadillas as dawn streamed through the windows and then somehow managing to make it to a class at 9am. In the ensuing years, Chip had managed to turn it around, become a responsible adult, like one was supposed to. He’d even been married for a while, but they didn’t talk about that.

Chip held up his car keys. “I had one drink hours ago. Come on.”

“Laurel,” Denise said as they set off across the lawn, “call me, will you? We need to catch up.”

*

His mom’s best bourbon sloshed around in Laurel’s stomach as Chip took them down lazy country roads, azaleas and pines and oaks shimmering stagnant in the heat haze, moss hanging from the branches like a shroud. The tangled greenery gave way to fields once they got onto Highway 26, farmland and rice paddies and small towns, the occasional church sign or drive-through, the ubiquitous yellow scrabble letters of Waffle House. It was soflatout here, and it made Laurel at once uneasy and hopeful, that sensation that you could drive for miles and miles.

“Isn’t this great?” he asked, though it felt anything but. “The band’s back together.”

Melody let out a weak, “Woooo.”

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