“Oof!” she muttered while I cried, “Sorry!”
Poppy had stopped because our hostess had stopped. Still clutching our suitcases, the woman gestured with her chin at a nearby doorway. Through it, female laughter and the sounds of clinking glasses could be faintly heard.
“You go in there, with the other girls,” she said. “Okay?”
“Yes, thank you so much, and one quick question.” Poppy held up her phone. “What’s the Wi-Fi password? I’m not getting any reception.”
The woman watched her with barely hidden disdain. “No password.” She motioned to us. “Coats.” We obligingly slipped off our coats and handed them to her. She pointed to our hats and we gave them to her too. Somehow she managed to take hold of everything and rolled on, disappearing down the long hall.
“No password?” Poppy’s forehead crinkled beneath her freed crown of golden hair. She frowned at her phone screen. “But I’m not seeing any networks.”
“If everyone else is in there, they can probably tell us.” I was amazed at the calm in my voice. At the sounds of other women, my heart had started thudding, throwing itself against my chest like a caged animal. Wren.
“Yeah, okay, you’re right.” Poppy slipped her phone into her purse. “Let’s do it.” She squared her shoulders and went inside.
We both softly exclaimed as we entered the library, which, from my research, I’d always thought was the most spectacular room. Roza Vallo’s famed library. Ten thousand tomes. As a child—maybe still now—this would’ve been my fantasy: to be surrounded by so many books. The shelves stretched up to the high ceiling, more books than anyone could read in a lifetime. At the far end, windows shone pale light on an assortment of plush couches and chairs grouped around a massive stone fireplace. A table nearby was heaped with platters of cheese, meats, fruit, and about five bottles of wine. One woman’s back was to us as she loaded her plate. Another appeared to be lying on a couch, but all I could see was a striped, socked foot resting on the arm.
“Hi!” Poppy called as we approached.
The woman by the food turned and the other’s head popped up.
My heart slowed. No Wren.
It was funny: I hadn’t even considered the other women who would be at the retreat. Who they would be, what our group would feel like.
I plastered a smile on my face. First impressions were important—and especially if Wren was going to arrive after me, it’d be helpful to have a head start in getting everyone on my side.
“Heyyy!” The girl on the couch had a mischievous grin and freckles sprinkled over sharp, fox-like features. Her short blond hair was tinged with a faded green dye, which added to the overall elvish effect. She lifted her glass, and her loose, falling sleeve revealed colorful tattoos that glowed against her pale skin. “Welcome, friends! Come get some motherfucking wine!”
“Um, yes. That’s exactly what I need.” Poppy strolled towards the table. “How are you, it’s so good to meet you! I’m Poppy!”
The woman by the food wore red cat-eye glasses and her box braids were twisted into a high bun. “Good to meet you too. I’m Keira. She/her.” A serene smile lit her face. She wore all black: chunky sweater, jeans, and a cashmere scarf.
“Taylor.” The tattooed girl waved from the couch. “She/her. Sorry, y’all, I’d get up, but this is the most comfortable I’ve been in years.” Her voice held a faint Southern drawl.
“I’m Alex. She/her.” I felt a brief flush of relief to be able to say my pronouns easily. Sharon had asked us to start using them at work six months before when introducing ourselves in author meetings. It had struck me as ironic that Sharon was at all concerned about being “woke” when she’d only ever hired BIPOC people at the assistant level.
To be fair, I’d only ever thought about race—particularly, being white—within the last few years. It had made me realize that my whole life, I’d existed in mostly white spaces. Growing up in suburbs around the Midwest, my schools and neighborhoods had been glaringly white. College classes had been the same. In New York, Ursula had been my first close nonwhite friend, and she’d only expressed thoughts on race to me within her essays. I remembered reading about a racist comment directed at her on the subway and feeling shocked. Publishing was mostly white—ditto my neighborhood, East Williamsburg.
Even now, it appeared that Keira was the only woman of color in the group. That was surprising. Or… not?
“Oh. Yeah.” Poppy looked stricken. “Sorry. Preferred pronouns. She… how do you say it?”
“She/her.” Taylor evaluated her, then smiled kindly. “You can just say pronouns. They’re not preferred, they just are, you know? Thanks for sharing.”
“Sure.” Poppy accepted a glass of wine from Keira, cheeks pink.
“Want one?” Keira asked me.
“I’d love one, thanks.” The wine was a dark maroon, the type that always reminded me of blood. I shook off the morbid connection. Wine would be nice, would cool down my insecurities. I just had to be sure to eat too. I dropped some crackers and cheese on a small crystal plate.
“Poppy—that’s a cool name.” Taylor settled back onto the couch, sitting cross-legged. I sat beside her.
“Thanks, I know, it’s kind of different, right?” Poppy plopped onto a chair near Keira, nibbling on a strawberry. “Irish.”
“I thought you said it was Scottish?” I asked.
“Oh my god, yeah, sorry.” She chuckled, rolling her eyes. “It’s such a mishmash that I usually just pick one country to tell people. Just to make it easier.”
“I get it,” Taylor said. “I’m the same: ancestors from all over Europe.” She studied me. “Where’s your family from, Alex? You look kind of French to me.”
“Oh, wow, really?” I giggled nervously. “I don’t consider myself particularly chic.” I’d spent a comical amount of time that morning trying to figure out what to wear, and I still felt somewhat frumpy in my jeans and polka-dotted sweater.
“Take the compliment.” Taylor grinned.
“Thank you. Um, I’m German and Hungarian.” Mom had been born in Budapest after the war but during the Soviet occupation. Her parents—both Holocaust survivors—had died when she was in her twenties, and she rarely spoke about her past. I’d had to glean details when she was slightly drunk and in a chatty mood.
“Hungarian like Roza.” Taylor tipped her glass at me. “That’s a nice connection.”
“Where in Germany?” Keira asked.
“I don’t know, actually. It’s my dad’s side. And he’s not really in my life.” I wondered if it was too much to share, but Keira gave me a sympathetic glance. “But it’s fine,” I went on. “Do you have ties to Germany?”
“I studied in Berlin for a while.” She smiled.
“Keira, where’s your family from originally?” Poppy asked, chewing.
“Senegal.”
“I’m guessing they didn’t come here by choice,” Taylor said.