Farewell, Dorothy Parker by Dorothy Parker Ellen Meister - Farewell

that the reason for the coffee get-together was to celebrate the commercial actress’s birthday, Violet took pains to set up the dining room the way Ivy would have. And though she lacked her sister’s Martha Stewart touch, she had to admit she did a pretty good job. The long, narrow room was quietly lit with dozens of candles. A panel of gold brocade ran the length of the old farmhouse table. In the center was a vase of hydrangeas cut from the garden out back. To the left of it sat a multi-tiered dish filled with tiny pastries. In deference to Suzette the anorexic, a large bowl of red apples sat to the right. The pretty cake, decorated with buttercream flowers and
Happy Birthday Mariana
in yellow script, remained in the kitchen, waiting to be carried in.
    Violet returned Mariana’s surprising hug and backed away, excusing herself for a hasty retreat to the kitchen to make the coffee.
    The two Lindas waylaid her in the hallway.
    “We love the crown molding,” said the Linda with the long face. Violet thought of her as Linda One.
    “The crown molding is to die for,” said the other.
    “Thanks,” Violet said, glancing up at the ornate woodwork.
    “Did it come with the house?”
    “My sister did all this,” Violet said. “She was an architect and restored the place herself.”
    “She did a beautiful job,” said Linda Two.
    Linda One agreed. “Do you know how much she paid for the place? Next to nothing, I’ll bet. And it’s worth a small fortune now.”
    “My parents bought the house,” Violet said, begging the question. She didn’t think the price was anyone’s business.
    The Lindas pressed Violet on the purchase date, and when they learned the year, Linda Two gasped and Linda One squealed.
    “They must have paid next to nothing for it!” she said.
    “Next to nothing!” said Linda Two.
    Violet left the two Lindas gushing over real-estate values and went into the kitchen, where she had left the Algonquin guest book. She took a few deep breaths, listening to the rest of her guests talking and joking in the dining room. For now, Mariana was holding court, en-tertaining the group with inside stories about the crazy world of commercial shoots. But soon enough they would expect some witty repartee from their hostess and resident movie critic, and the very thought made Violet want to throw up.
    She opened the guest book, hoping Mrs. Parker remembered her promise to float around without taking on a corporeal form. Sure enough, there was no ghostly appearance.
    “Are you here?” Violet whispered.
    Nothing.
    She shrugged and went about making coffee, hoping Dorothy Parker would appear in time to help her navigate the social waters of this little party. As she carefully counted the scoops of coffee, she became aware of a whooshing sound by her right ear, as if an insect were flying by. After a few seconds it became clear the sound was actually a whisper, though she couldn’t quite make out what it was saying. It sounded like
covey, covey.
    Violet lost count and had to pour the grounds back into the sack and start over. Then she realized the word was
coffee.
    “Mrs. Parker?” she said softly.
    Why are you serving coffee?
came the whisper.
    “To go with dessert.”
    Drinks. A party needs drinks. Liquor. How do you expect everyone to loosen up when you’re serving coffee?
    “Shit, I lost count again.”
    A male voice startled her. “Do you always talk to yourself when you make coffee?”
    It was Michael, her kung fu instructor, looking even more beautiful standing at the door of her kitchen than he did in class. His shirt was blue, his eyes were hazel, his skin a warm brown. In street clothes, his rigid posture was movie-star dramatic.
    Violet had a tendency to shut down around good-looking men. They expected too much, appreciated too little, and were rarely interesting. But Michael was different. She sensed that there was an epic or two beneath those hazel eyes. And then there was that voice. It made her