Last Night at The Beehive

Ava primps, willing her ebony hair to curl at just the right face-framing angle. She applies a sheer lipstick and steps back to take in the effect. Smoothing out her white sheath dress, she pivots in the mirror. Ava looks as though she’s on her way to a board meeting, not her own bachelorette party. Still, white is bridal, and it contrasts her mocha skin beautifully.

The venue is central to everyone. Practical. Ava’s friends always knew barhopping wouldn’t be her speed. Looking at the time, she decides to sneak in early to make sure everything’s perfect before the others arrive. She dashes out the door, scanning her face at the gate, and after removing her hand from the sensor, ‘LEAVING’ flashes across the touch menu.

Sunset dances across rows of brownstones leading to The Beehive, a gem with live jazz. The oldest restaurant in Boston’s South End, it overlooks the Charles River banks where Back Bay used to be. Ava ascends the steps of the restaurant and scans her face at the door, again placing her hand against a cold slab. ‘ARRIVING.’ The screen displays the venue’s occupants. Ava’s stomach does a summersault. Margot’s already there.

Surely Margot would have been the last to arrive, swooping in to regale them with stories of recent parties and fighting crime – or otherwise participating in it. Ava enters tentatively, unheard over the clattering of plates. Margot is at the helm. A cigarette poised in her mouth, she’s meticulously straightening centerpieces of ranunculus, Ava’s favorite. Ava doesn’t recall ordering flowers.

Margot bends down to level one of the chair legs. A high-strung host emerges from the kitchen. “You can’t smoke in he—” Margot holds out the open pack without looking up. He looks around and takes one. “How much did these set you back?”

“Almost as much as you’ll make tonight if you switch off room surveillance.” Margot straightens up and hands him her coat. He gives a knowing nod and leaves.

Margot runs her hands through her tousled blonde bob and rests them over her head, stretching her lithe body. She’s wearing slacks again, which would get her reported in any other district. Somehow Margot manages to float above and between the regulations. Her hair a little too short. Her style a little too androgynous. Her demeanor three blocks left of ladylike. She’s the only one Ava knows who could pull it off.

Ava clears her throat and smiles. Margot, caught off guard, tosses her cigarette into the fireplace and walks into the chair she’d just fixed. Ava stifles a laugh and hugs her oldest friend. Her collar smells of cinnamon and vanilla, with notes of freesia and something else that pulls Ava in. Something undefined that’s just… Margot. Butterflies graze Ava’s ribs.

Margot beams. “Of course, you’re early. What d’ya think?” She gestures to everything but doesn’t look at any of it.

“It’s beautiful!” Ava laughs, not looking at any of it.

“Please!” Margot pulls out a chair. “Tonight’s all about you. Which I know you hate.” She flashes a sly smile. “What can I getcha? The host is a fussy thing but he’s on our side.”

“Nothing contraband, thanks.” Ava smiles.

“A cocktail it is. Something pink?” Margot returns with an aperitif adorned with spun sugar. And a whiskey. “I’m sure the girls won’t mind us starting without them…” Firelight flickers off their glasses, casting Ava’s face in soft radiance. “A toast!” Margot gathers herself. “To you! May this marriage… bring you joy.” She forgets to drink.

“And you!” Ava rallies. “Your birthday’s around the corner. You should be getting your assignment any day now... A toast to your future husband. Heaven help him.” Ava laughs.

Margot sets her drink down, smile fading. “…I’m not accepting my assignment.” A few long moments pass. She looks up at Ava, suddenly pallid and still.

“Margot…” Ava catches her voice. “This isn’t like skipping lecture because you don’t feel like it. You know what will happen if you don’t show.”

“I’ll be long gone.”

“Where? Where do you think you can go that they won’t follow? It’s suicide.”

Margot strains to keep her voice down. “Better than sticking around, getting assigned to some man I’ve never even met! I’m not getting my eggs harvested so they can stir up some genetically perfect specimen for me to force into the world!” They go silent as a waitress passes through the room.

“He might be great…” Ava lets that sit for a moment. They start to laugh. “No. Seriously.” Ava keeps her voice low, “You could still find ways to be with someone like you.”

Margot freezes. They’ve never brought it up before. Even suggesting it is damning.

“I’ve heard the Wives’ clubs look after their own. They’ll even turn a blind eye if –”

“—If I’m the right type. Right.” Margot lights another cigarette, agitated. “Ava, if it has to be a secret… If I’m getting away with it because I’m in the right family when people just like me are being ripped from their homes and into vans only a few streets away? That’s not freedom, Ava. Nothing about me is free here.” Her eyes are begging.

Ava swallows away the knot in her throat. “I know.” She tenderly swipes Margot’s hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

Margot looks into Ava’s eyes, dumbfounded. “I…I have my life savings and a plan…” Her heart is thundering in her chest.

A gaggle of women erupts into the room, delighting in collective shrieking.

***

Ava and Margot hang back as the party disperses merrily into the night. The corner traffic light casts its hazy colors through the rain, illuminating their jubilant staggering. There haven’t been cars in Boston since the 60’s but the South End remains nostalgic for a different time.

At last the coast is clear. Margot swings her umbrella, briefly obscuring them from the street cameras, and presses her lips to Ava’s.

By the time Ava opens her eyes, Margot is in the street. A small black notebook has been left in Ava’s hands. She holds it open delicately, like a snowflake, or a bomb. A $20,000 micro-check and a new ID slip out from the lining pocket. An address has been scribbled hastily across the first page.

“If you change your mind,” Margot calls through the night, “that’s where I’ll be waiting.”