Patrick admired the feeble defense she mounted; in fairness, she had accomplished a lot very quickly. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come inside.”
The house was immaculate, glimmering white with colorful pillows and ceramics freshly rearranged—glorious vases and sculptures in orange and bronze—including a small metallic-blue Koons. Patrick’s Golden Globe sat in its new home, a shelf above where it had previously lived, out of the reach of young hands; it even had its own key light. And yet it was the seven-foot pink-tinsel Christmas tree with shimmering clear lights and glass ornaments that stood as a sort of pièce de résistance that really drew one’s eye. Patrick grinned proudly, claiming full ownership, when Cassie finally noticed it.
“Was I supposed to be in charge of decorations?” Cassie asked, worried the Christmas tree was there to cover some further failure on her part, the lack of balloons or streamers or some sort of custom banner. “Or maybe supposed to get ice?”
“No, just the guests and the bartender and the valet, and you did all those things flawlessly.” Patrick snapped his fingers three times. “But what are you wearing?”
“A dress.” Cassie’s shift dress was white, sleeveless—perfect, it seemed, for a desert garden party when it was likely to be over one hundred degrees. She twirled like she was on the red carpet, mistaking the horror in his voice for interest.
“It’s white.”
“Yes,” she agreed nervously.
“Am I keeping you from your wedding?”
“What? Of course not.”
“And those shoes?”
“It’s a two-hour drive! I can’t do that in heels.” Cassie’s eyes darted as if she knew she were out of her element.
“You look like Louise Fletcher.”
Even though her MBA was not an MFA and she lacked a formal education in film, Patrick’s remark was perfectly clear: in all white from head to toe, with shoes that were just shy of orthopedic, she resembled not Louise Fletcher but Nurse Ratched. She stared at Patrick. “You’re wearing white!”
“A white shirt! That’s totally different.” As if to underscore that difference, Patrick kicked out a leg to display the loud butterfly print of his pants.
“I see.” Her expression suggested she didn’t really see.
“Well, it’s not a disaster. We can certainly fix it.”
“We can?”
“NOOOOO! But we can burn this and start over. Maisie!”
Instead of Maisie, Marlene came running from around the corner, her nails failing to find traction on the terrazzo floor. She looked even smaller than her sixteen pounds, navigating the steps of the sunken living room, her splotchy face and tail and button nose standing out most against the white tile. A pink tongue hung limply to one side; any eyes Marlene may have had were lost in the sprouts of dark fur.
“I said Maisie, not Marlene!” Patrick exclaimed, but the dog didn’t understand him, and once she found her footing she made her way to his side. “Well, anyhow, Cassie, Marlene, Marlene, Cassie.”
“You adopted a dog named Marlene!” Cassie crouched down to envelop the dog’s face in her hands.
“No, I adopted a dog named Bella, but Jesus Christ. So she’s Marlene now. Maisie!”
This time Grant came screeching around the corner. He was dressed in shorts and a short-sleeve shirt with a dashing bow tie.
Patrick slapped his forehead. “What kind of Martha Marcy May Marlene nightmare is this?”
“I can’t breathe, GUP.” The boy tugged at his tie.
“Breathing is overrated.” But Grant started to stomp and Marlene jumped back to protect her front paws, so Patrick undid the kid’s bow tie until it hung loose around his neck like Grant was Dean Martin after a particularly intense bender. “Here. That looks way cooler anyhow. Where’s your sister?”
“I’m right here.” Maisie appeared out of nowhere in an outfit identical to Grant’s; she, however, liked her bow tie, looking not unlike how one imagines Diane Keaton looked as a tween. Maisie fell in line next to her uncle, her brother, and the dog.
“Maisie, Grant, you remember Cassie? And where is Marlene’s bow tie? Never mind. Maisie, will you take Cassie to my dress closet and find her something decent to wear?”
Cassie started to protest, but was caught off guard. “You have a whole dress closet?”
“It’s my caftan closet, technically, but I think you’ll find something nice. Maisie, you know what I like.” Leaving the decision to Cassie was clearly out of the question.