My dear Molly, I read in Gus’s educated, fluid script, I can’t tell you how much we are pining for you. Life seems positively dull without having you around. And New York is beastly hot and uncomfortable, but Sid insists on staying put because of the articles she is writing on the suffrage movement. We imagined you sitting in the leafy shade, drinking iced lemonade and having a lovely time, and we were tempted to hop on the next train and come for a visit, but Sid pointed out that your mother-in-law might not approve of us and she didn’t want us to do anything that might cloud your future relationship. Sid is always so thoughtful, isn’t she?
But then she had an equally splendid idea. Why don’t we give a small party for Molly, she suggested. All those friends who are not being invited to the wedding. Of course we started planning and scheming immediately. Should it be a Japanese theme, or Ancient Greek? Sid suggested an underwater motif and wanted us all to be mermaids, but that was really impractical as we wouldn’t be able to dance with tails on. So we’re still debating the theme but we thought that some time during the Labor Day weekend would work well, if you’ve nothing planned. Do let us know as soon as possible whether this suits you and we’ll go full steam ahead with the plans.
We’ve seen your betrothed from time to time, although I can’t say he has paused to be sociable with us. As you know, he has been having the place completely redecorated. And the other day he stopped by with a load of furniture, presumably from his rooms, since it looked very dour and masculine. We peeked in a couple of times and we must say that it all looks wonderfully brand, spanking new—and the wallpaper remarkably tasteful. I think you’ll be pleased.
We do hope you can come for Labor Day. Sid sends her warmest regards.
Your friends Sid and Gus,
P.S. I almost forgot. A man came to your house yesterday and when nobody answered, he rapped on our door and demanded to know where you were. He said he represented a most important man who had an urgent commission for you and left his card with us. He demanded that you to contact him as soon as possible. We told him we didn’t think you were taking any commissions at the moment but he said he was sure you’d take this one. He was quite insistent. So you might want to come back to the city a day or so before the party, just in case there is a juicy assignment waiting for you. Naturally we’ve said nothing of this to Daniel.
I reread the letter, then folded it. An urgent commission from an important man. I had promised Daniel that I would give up my detective business when I married, but I wasn’t married yet, was I? And if it was a simple, straightforward assignment, it would provide a nice fee to add to my coffers—so that, at the very least, I could go to a department store and buy ready-made undergarments without feeling guilty.
Daniel’s mother looked up as I came up the steps onto the porch. “Good news, I hope?”
“Delightful news, thank you. My friends in the city have planned a pre-wedding celebration for me, to take place next weekend. So I do hope you’ll forgive me if I go back to the city for a few days. I fear I’m more of a hindrance than a help to you in the sewing anyway.”
I thought she looked relieved if anything, but she said stiffly, “This celebration requires you to be away for more than one day, does it?”
“I know these friends,” I said. “Their parties are always elaborate costume affairs, so I’ll need to assemble a suitable costume somehow.”
“A costume affair—that seems an odd sort of wedding party to me.”
“It is Greenwich Village,” I reminded her. “And many of our acquaintances are artists and writers. They enjoy being creative in their celebrations.”
She went back to her sewing, one neat little stitch after the next.
“With your sewing skills, let’s just hope that it’s a Roman toga,” she said at last.
I laughed dutifully, although I couldn’t tell whether she intended to make a joke.
“I’ll be back in good time to help you with the wedding preparations and to do the final fittings on my dress,” I said.
“And I take it you’ll be staying for our luncheon with the Misses Tompkins and croquet with Clara Bertram today?”
“Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of missing out on luncheon with the Misses Tompkins.”
And this time she looked at me to try and guess whether I was joking.
Two