Page 8 of The Party Plot

Shit. How longwashe going to be there?

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” Jamie continued. “Do youlikehim? Are you worried you’re going to fall for him and ruin all your plans, or something?”

“No, of course not. I just—ow!” A splinter of paint lodged itself under Casey’s nail, and he jerked his hand away from the windowsill. “It’s just inconvenient,” he said, sucking his wounded finger into his mouth.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Was there anything else? I’m headed to Costco to get hot dogs for the babies.”

The babies were a teeming colony of raccoons that lived in the woods adjacent to Jamie’s swamp.

“No, you’re right. I’ll be fine. He’s—” Casey’s throat closed up as he saw a familiar figure down below. He washere, wandering across Denise’s front lawn with that loping, self-assured stride of his. Casey had the urge to bang his head against the window. “You know what? I’ve got to go, too.”

*

Melody’s car had been out in the sun long enough for Laurel to see heat haze shimmering across the dashboard, and he knew that the inside would be a little goldfish bowl of Hell, hotter than the Earth’s molten core. He thought about just leaving it here. If he were Chip, he’d figure out a way to get it impounded, so that she couldn’t drive anymore. But instead here he was, being nice. Picking it up for her.

There was a creepy, uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Melody had been under some kind of influence when she’d driven here, or else she’d still been loaded from the night before, and he should really talk to her about it. But no one talked about these sorts of things. Everyone had that uncle who was especially jolly, except when he was ranting about The War (there was only one, down here), or that maiden aunt who had persistent stomach issues and lived on mint juleps and benzos and the occasional finger sandwich. Admitting anything was wrong would just be bad manners.

Sighing, he turned to look at the house. There was movement in one of the upstairs windows, and he wondered if Denise was watching him. God, he really didn’t want to talk to her. But he also didn’t want to bake alive in Melody’s car, or talk toher.

“Laurel!” His mom was waving from the porch, decked out in Lilly Pulitzer as if she had somewhere to be, instead of just lounging around the house all day. “What a surprise. Come in, honey. Come have some tea.”

The thought of ice cubes clinking in a glass, of something cold, made up his mind. The car could wait.

Denise ushered him into her parlor. Jasper, the newlywed dog, was splayed out on the floor as if melting into it. He gave Laurel a look of infinite tragedy as he walked into the room.

The parlor, like all the rooms in the big plantation-style house, was an over-decorated, maximalist nightmare. Laurel remembered the pall of anxiety that had followed him around, living in this house as a kid. The itchy weight of all of thestuff, none of which he was allowed to touch, for fear of breaking it. The walls were covered with glamor shots from his mother’s pageant days and paintings of old white men that he might be related to. He wasn’t even sure who most of them were; one, at least, was his dad’s dad, but Denise had no “people”, as they said here. She’d spent thousands at auctions and antiques markets, building up some kind of provenance.

Laurel sank into one of the overstuffed armchairs, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

And sat back up, heart pounding, as Casey came into the room.

“What, do you live here now?” Laurel blurted.

“Nice to see you too,” Casey said dryly. He was put-together as always, hair slicked back, cream suit free of sweat stains or creases. Like a special edition Party Planner Ken that had just stepped out of its box. Laurel ground his teeth.

“Laurel, don’t be rude. Casey is already hard at work on my next soirée.” Denise sat down, crossing her long legs beneath her tasteful skirt. “Won’t you join us? We’re just about to have some tea.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Casey said, to Laurel’s dismay.

“Mom, I can’t stay long. I’m just picking up Melody’s car.”

Denise let out a theatrical sigh. “Laurel, I really wish you would just cut that girl loose. After all the trouble she’s caused—”

A sour taste rose in the back of Laurel’s throat. “Mom, please.”

“No, someone has got to say it. Oh, thank you, Miss Mina.” There was a clink as Miss Mina, Denise’s maid, set down a pitcher of sweet tea on the coffee table. She was a petite Black woman, and Laurel noticed with a pang that her hair was much more gray than he remembered. He realized he didn’t know how old she was. He didn’t know much about her, and he had never heard her complain, but he’d occasionally caught her casting her eyes to the heavens behind Denise’s back.

Miss Mina smiled at Casey, setting a separate, full glass in front of him. “And unsweet for Mr. Casey.”

“Girl, you know I’m watching my figure.”

Denise giggled. Laurel felt a twinge of disgust. No sugar, no alcohol: how did this guy live? And what figure did he need to watch? Casey was thin, maybe almost too thin, with no muscle tone except what he’d been given by genetics.

That guy’s fake as fuck.

Laurel wondered what Casey was thinking, behind that pleasant, empty expression. He took a gulp of tea, the ice cubes clattering against his teeth, the cold sending a spike of pain through his head.

“I mean it, though,” Denise said, leaning forward to place a hand on his knee. “That Melody girl is an embarrassment. I can’t imagine what her parents think. I see them at church, you know, and they can’t even bear to mention her.” She tossed her long hair over one shoulder. “It’s just bad manners, to go around bad-mouthing her ex-boyfriend like that. They were on and off foryears. Surely it can’t have been that terrible, the way she kept going back to him.”

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