You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Forty Three

Harry:

As we entered the tent, several guests complimented us on our costumes, and a few others offered congratulations.

“For what?” I demanded of one.

The woman—someone I didn’t recognize—gave me a funny look, then tittered with laughter.

“Oh, you.” She turned to Taylor. “He’s so funny.”

Taylor cocked her head. “Is he? How can you tell?”

“What was that about?” I asked when we moved on.

She shrugged her slender shoulders. “Maybe we already won the costume contest.”

We found Marcel and Marjorie standing near a long table of hors d’oeuvres.

Ramona was close by, manning a cheese
fondue pot, where the bread chunks on the end of the dipping sticks were artistically burnt to look like little skulls.

Marjorie was dressed as Captain Marvel; Ramona was Mother Goose. The women greeted us with smiles and small talk.

My brother was picking olives out of his pâté and throwing them on the grass, careful not to stain the black suit he wore with a ruffled  collar and a tall black top hat.

“Harry, my dear brother, so happy to see you.” He tipped his hat to Taylor, his tone cooling noticeably. “Miss Swift.”

“Don’t you look dashing?” she said. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“Charles Dickens, of course. I was rather hoping Mr. Malik would see my costume, as I know he would quite appreciate it. Is he here yet, brother?”

I closed my eyes at the momentary slug of pain that whacked me in the chest.

“I told you, Marcy,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “He’s out of town.”

“Yes, yes, North Carolina. But I had hoped he would’ve returned by now.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Whatever is he doing there?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

Marcel recoiled as if I’d slapped him, and Marjorie and Ramona averted their eyes.
Taylor gave my arm a squeeze.

“Sorry,” I said to Marcel. “I’m sorry, man. I don’t know what he’s doing or. . .”

If he’s coming back.

Marcel nodded, and his shoulders loosened. “Quite all right, brother. I understand completely. I miss him too.”

He said it to the ground. To anyone listening, it would’ve sounded natural and unremarkable.

But Marcel rarely uttered a sentence that wasn’t dressed up in fancy language.

To utter such a naked sentiment was almost shocking. It stripped my whirling, confusing emotions to the bones.

Tentatively, I reached out and touched Marcel’s shoulder.

“Me too.”

He glanced quickly at me with a small smile, patted my hand, and then slipped out from under my touch.

“This really is quite some party,” Marjorie said brightly into the silence that followed. “Vanity Fair is here. Forbes. And that local one. Seattle Society.”

Taylor perked up. “Vanity Fair? Really? Where?”

“They don’t have kids they could be taking trick-or-treating?” I said, scowling.