Delmonico's Bistro
Gilded Grove District
New York City
June, 1951

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“Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today.”

The announcement made by the maître d' was met by seven blank stares of varying incredulity. One of the staring ladies blinked at him rapidly, as though he'd said something especially absurd. Another let out a little gasp.

Per usual, Marcella Montgomery took charge. She was the Gilded Grove Ladies' Book Club president, after all, which made her the de facto leader of their little group. Such a title came with certain responsibilities. (And certain privileges.) With a haughty toss of her head, she focused her piercing gaze on the maître d'. “I beg your pardon?” she said. Her tone suggested it wasn't really a question. “What was that?”

“Madam,” the maître d' began again, just as polite, though a bit more ill at ease. “Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today.”

The table erupted in a chorus of hushed exclamations.

“Camilla Otis! Can you believe it?”

“Canceling last minute, like that! Shame on her!”

“Really! The nerve!”

“Such a lack of commitment!”

“And from our vice president, no less!”

“To be fashionably late is one thing, but this…”

The maître d' stood by in silence while this medley of aghast disbelief went on, his eyes darting back and forth between the seven members of the Ladies' Book Club that were present for luncheon. At last, his anxious gaze came to rest on Marcella Montgomery, the only lady among the seven who hadn't uttered a word.

Marcella waited until the other ladies quieted down before saying, “It's Missus.”

“Missus?” the maître d' repeated, his brow creasing in confusion. “What's Missus?”

“It's Mrs. Otis,” Marcella clarified. She had the deep, sultry voice of a '40s film star, and she employed that in full force now. “Camilla's married. A fact she often forgets. And what reason did she give for her unplanned absence? Has she died, or something?”

The other ladies around the table murmured their agreement. Yes, her absence had better have been caused by an event of life-shattering importance. Nothing less would be excusable.

The maître d' swallowed and adjusted the pristine starched collar of his uniform. “Madam,” he said, addressing Marcella directly, “I'm afraid I really can't say. It was not Mrs. Otis herself who rang to cancel, but her maid. The poor woman sounded quite distraught, if I may be so bold.”

“A distraught maid?” one of the ladies echoed, an elated smile on her petal pink lips. “Oh, how scandalous! Was she crying?”

“If so, she really must be let go immediately,” another lady added, wagging a beautifully manicured finger. “What a pity. Good help is so hard to find!”

“Gloria. Patricia,” Marcella said, her tone full of warning. She gave the women an icy stare. “We're here for book club, not gossip hour.”

“Aren't they the same thing?” Gloria inquired, blinking stupidly.

“They most certainly are not,” Marcella negated. She smoothed her fingers across the dramatic swoop of her dark hair. “For gossip hour we have cocktails.”

“Oh, of course!” Gloria said, tittering a bit.

“We do, don't we?” Patricia recalled. “Always so astute, Marcella!”

Marcella's red lips curled into a chilly smile. “Yes, well, I do try.”

The maître d' shifted his weight in the most subtle of ways. “Madam, if there's nothing else..?” he prompted.

“Nothing else, no,” Marcella said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Unless you have a replacement for Camilla Otis hidden up that pressed sleeve of yours. My goodness, she has really put us in a pickle. So inconsiderate. How on earth are we supposed to split into pairs to discuss the particulars of this week's book when there are seven of us rather than eight?”

“Oh, yes, seven is an odd number!” one of the ladies remarked. “We can't be expected to make pairs out of that.”

“Camilla has really left us in the lurch, hasn't she, Penelope?” Patricia tutted in consensus. “Unacceptable.”

This problem did not strike the maître d' as especially dire. (He had served in Europe during World War II, and the permanent limp that marred his gait was proof enough that he knew a thing or two about actual dire situations.) However, the Gilded Grove Ladies' Book Club dropped an obscene amount of money at Delmonico's Bistro every time they patronized the dining establishment. By the looks of the ladies' plates and glasses, today would be no exception. Therefore, he tried to feign interest.

“And what is this week's literary selection?” he asked.

Seven copies of The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford were thrust in his direction.

“Ah,” the maître d' said. “Excellent choice. But alas, I don't know anyone who has read that novel recently.”

“I've read it,” came a mousy voice from behind the ladies' table.

Seven heads turned, and seven pairs of eyes scrutinized the speaker. (The maître d' took this opportunity to sneak away.)

A young woman of perhaps twenty-five stood adjacent to their table, her limp hair, threadbare dress, and worn shoes all various shades of muddy brown. In her hands she carried a hideous clutch (that looked as though it had spent time in the trenches during the first World War), and a tattered copy of The Pursuit of Love.

Five of the seven ladies at the table covered their mouths with the backs of their fingers in order to disguise a laugh. Gloria did laugh. Marcella did not.

“And who are you?” Marcella asked the young woman, a slender eyebrow arched in judgment.

The young woman seemed to shrink into herself, so heavy was Marcella Montgomery's stare. But instead of retreating, or sinking into the hardwood floor, she said in her mousy voice, “I'm Karen. Karen Dwindle? We've met. A couple times, actually. Most recently at your charity event for orphaned children last month?”

Marcella scoffed. “You were invited to my charity event? And you attended? Wearing something that looks nothing like that dress, I hope.”

Karen bit her lip. “I wasn't invited, no. I was a volunteer? I watched after the children from the orphanage who were there to inspire larger donations? We met, and you said you'd remember my name because your club's founding member was also named Karen. God rest her soul.” She quickly crossed herself.

“God rest her soul,” echoed all the ladies in attendance, save Marcella.

“Yes, Karen Sterling. The woman from whom I inherited the club presidency,” Marcella acknowledged. “And you think the coincidence of having a given name in common is grounds for joining our club? How…sweet. But I'm afraid at present we don't have any openings.”

“Not joining, no,” Karen amended quickly. “But you need a stand-in for today, don't you? Because Mrs. Otis isn't here? Forgive me, I couldn't help overhearing.”

“Ah, yes. The pickle,” Marcella conceded. She looked Karen over again, from her drab hair to her much drabber shoes. “Ladies? What do you think? Shall we let Karen Spindle join us for luncheon? Since Camilla Otis seems to be suddenly and inexplicably indisposed, yet couldn't be bothered to tell us why?”

“Dwindle?” Karen offered in an apologetic voice. “My surname is Dwindle, not Spindle.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Marcella drawled with a blasé gesture. She wasn't sorry. Not at all. This Karen-Spindle-Dwindle had a way of phrasing statements as questions that caused Marcella to gnash her teeth. The inquiring inflection Karen used while speaking made it sound like she was constantly asking for permission. She was as weak as she was tacky. “You just...look like a seamstress.”

“I do sew,” Karen commented. She gave the table an imploring smile. “And cook, and garden, and my penmanship is excellent. If any of you have need of those talents?”

“You've just described yourself as the perfect maid,” Marcella told her. “Congratulations.”

“Oh, oh! Camilla may be in need of a new maid!” Gloria exclaimed. “If her current girl was, in fact, crying on the telephone.”

“Really, the household staff needs to behave with some semblance of professionalism,” Patricia stated. “Even the ones that don't speak English.”

“So many people are hiring foreigners, aren't they?” Penelope cried, her eyes wide and affronted. “Carol Mulberry on Devon Drive told me she just hired a cook from Puerto Rico! My goodness, whoever heard of such a place?”

The other ladies all murmured in agreement.

“I've heard Puerto Rico is quite lovely,” Karen murmured. Her quiet remark was trampled under the stampede of complaints.

“Returning to the subject of Camilla and the fact that she's not here,” Marcella said, elevating her volume so she could be heard over the din of feminine voices, “we still need an even number for our discussion on The Pursuit of Love.” She turned back to Karen. “Miss Spindle, do you think you could be a dear and give us a moment to discuss this predicament? Amongst ourselves? We shan't be long.”

“Um, Dwindle?” Karen supplied. “And, of course! I'll just wait over there, shall I? By the potted plants?”

“Marvelous,” Marcella purred. She made a shooing motion with her hand. “What an obedient little lamb you are!”

Karen beamed and gave the ladies a clumsy curtsy, then trotted to the other side of the dining area.

Gloria tittered behind her hand. “Oh, my! She is a work in progress, isn't she? That lackluster hair! That tragic ensemble! Looks like she came straight from a funeral parlor!”

“As the mortician, or the cadaver?” Penelope jabbed, a snide smile on her rosy lips.

“Humph, both,” Patricia stated with a roll of her eyes.

“Her skin is so gray, and she's so painfully thin…” Penelope continued. “It looks as though she's spent the past few years escaping from Auschwitz.”

“Oh, Penelope, you really are a wicked thing!” Gloria exclaimed, her face lighting up with glee. “For shame!”

“We can't allow the likes of her to be seen with us,” Patricia remarked. “The Gilded Grove Ladies' Book Club is the most exclusive and elite club in Manhattan! How would it look if we were to harbor someone so drab and unstylish? We'd lose all credibility!”

“Or perhaps we'd be seen as magnanimous,” another lady pointed out. “Much like taking on a charity case.”

Marcella pointed to the lady in appreciation. “Yes, Darla brings up an excellent point. We can't make a habit of consorting with the riff-raff, of course. Our reputations must remain beyond reproach. However…” She turned her head and appraised Karen where she stood admiring the vines of ivy that climbed up the walls to the ceiling. “A charity case every now and then could be good for us. Give a good impression. Not to mention, send a message.”

“Oh! Are we writing letters?” Gloria asked, clapping her hands in delight. “I've been practicing my calligraphy!”

The other ladies pointedly ignored her.

“Send a message to whom, Marcella?” Darla asked.

“Camilla Otis,” Marcella replied, a steely glint in her dark eyes. “If she wishes to remain vice president of our club, she had better never miss lunch again. Lest we replace her with a nobody.”

All six of the other ladies nodded in unison, matching smirks on their bright lips. Yes, this would teach Camilla to cancel last minute.

“Good. Then it's settled,” Marcella said with a resolute nod of her own. Turning in her chair, she raised her hand high in the air and waved in a graceful, ladylike manner. “Karen!” she called across the dining area. “Come join us!”

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