𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝙾𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 | ONC 2024

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙾𝚗𝚎

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

༺ ○ ༻

“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!”