dozen or so of these letters have appeared in the press or online; you’ve probably come across one or two. Each one is worded a little differently from the others, but they basically all say the same thing: big birthday bash in December, everything red and black, starting at nightfall and until morning, pleasure of your company, in lieu of gift donate to charity, etc.
Miss Delilah’s letter was different. I must have read it three or four times, so I recall what it said pretty well.
“Dear Lilah,” it started, and that threw me off. I’ve never heard anyone call Miss Delilah ‘Lilah,’ not even Mr. Stanford before he passed away. It had to be a pet name from when they were kids, I thought at the time, but I’ve learned since then that if it is a pet name, it doesn’t go back that far. But I’ll get to that eventually. Let me go back to the letter for now.
Dear Lilah,
I yield.
You already knew I would, I suppose. Between you and Mother, what chance did I have, really? I’d tell you that there is no need for you to contact her and that I already informed her myself, but that would be robbing you of half your fun. So go ahead, gloat. But rest assured that the party is the only thing I changed my mind about.
Before you ask, no, I won’t need any help from you. I am quite capable of throwing a decent party on my own, even a party I give despite my better judgment. The same goes for the menu; I can plan it for myself, and as my guest I hope you will enjoy my choices of refreshments. I’m sure you will be busy enough deciding on your wardrobe and I wouldn’t want to trouble you with any such concerns.
There is no need for you to bring a gift, and I really do mean it, Lilah.
December twenty-first, nightfall, although I assume you’ll be fashionably late.
Yours,
Morgan
PS - NO gift. Please.
The letter was handwritten in dark blue ink except for his name, which was a deep red. Every other letter I’ve seen is all blue. None was sent before mid-October. Family first, I guess.
Now, I’ve worked for Miss Delilah for almost five years. I like to think I’ve learned to know her well—or at least, I believed that before the party. She always took Mr. Ward’s calls, even when she was busy.
Once, she interrupted a meeting with an ambassador to talk to him. I folded the letter again, set it sideways in the envelope so it’d be easier to pull out, and set that on top of her business letters. Ten minutes after coming in, she buzzed and asked me to put the party on her calendar. I said I would; truth is, I already had.
There was no RSVP card, no number to call. Mr. Ward must have assumed the people he invited would show up, and I doubt anyone who received one of those blue envelopes declined. Or maybe he didn’t care all that much who did show up in the end. With so many guests, it’s not like he’d notice anyway.
I didn’t realize right away what kind of party it would be, and by ‘what kind’ I mean the sheer scale of it. I’d seen Miss Delilah get excited about finding the perfect dress for an event before, so that was nothing new. The first time I noticed a mention in the press of the ‘Ward Bash’ as it came to be known, I felt a small thrill.
One of the perks of working for someone like Miss Delilah is that I often hear about things that will make the news long before they do. Some people would take advantage of it and try to sell what they know. I’d never do something like that. Miss Delilah’s trust is important to me. Or rather, it was. I’m not sure what to think of her anymore.
She ended up buying four dresses, from four different designers, all four of them blood red. Two of those were custom-made according to her own sketches. All were sumptuous, and I couldn’t wait to see which one she’d end up wearing. I doubted she’d decide until the day of the party.
That day, she didn’t come down from the penthouse; instead, sometime around four in
Miss Delilah’s letter was different. I must have read it three or four times, so I recall what it said pretty well.
“Dear Lilah,” it started, and that threw me off. I’ve never heard anyone call Miss Delilah ‘Lilah,’ not even Mr. Stanford before he passed away. It had to be a pet name from when they were kids, I thought at the time, but I’ve learned since then that if it is a pet name, it doesn’t go back that far. But I’ll get to that eventually. Let me go back to the letter for now.
Dear Lilah,
I yield.
You already knew I would, I suppose. Between you and Mother, what chance did I have, really? I’d tell you that there is no need for you to contact her and that I already informed her myself, but that would be robbing you of half your fun. So go ahead, gloat. But rest assured that the party is the only thing I changed my mind about.
Before you ask, no, I won’t need any help from you. I am quite capable of throwing a decent party on my own, even a party I give despite my better judgment. The same goes for the menu; I can plan it for myself, and as my guest I hope you will enjoy my choices of refreshments. I’m sure you will be busy enough deciding on your wardrobe and I wouldn’t want to trouble you with any such concerns.
There is no need for you to bring a gift, and I really do mean it, Lilah.
December twenty-first, nightfall, although I assume you’ll be fashionably late.
Yours,
Morgan
PS - NO gift. Please.
The letter was handwritten in dark blue ink except for his name, which was a deep red. Every other letter I’ve seen is all blue. None was sent before mid-October. Family first, I guess.
Now, I’ve worked for Miss Delilah for almost five years. I like to think I’ve learned to know her well—or at least, I believed that before the party. She always took Mr. Ward’s calls, even when she was busy.
Once, she interrupted a meeting with an ambassador to talk to him. I folded the letter again, set it sideways in the envelope so it’d be easier to pull out, and set that on top of her business letters. Ten minutes after coming in, she buzzed and asked me to put the party on her calendar. I said I would; truth is, I already had.
There was no RSVP card, no number to call. Mr. Ward must have assumed the people he invited would show up, and I doubt anyone who received one of those blue envelopes declined. Or maybe he didn’t care all that much who did show up in the end. With so many guests, it’s not like he’d notice anyway.
I didn’t realize right away what kind of party it would be, and by ‘what kind’ I mean the sheer scale of it. I’d seen Miss Delilah get excited about finding the perfect dress for an event before, so that was nothing new. The first time I noticed a mention in the press of the ‘Ward Bash’ as it came to be known, I felt a small thrill.
One of the perks of working for someone like Miss Delilah is that I often hear about things that will make the news long before they do. Some people would take advantage of it and try to sell what they know. I’d never do something like that. Miss Delilah’s trust is important to me. Or rather, it was. I’m not sure what to think of her anymore.
She ended up buying four dresses, from four different designers, all four of them blood red. Two of those were custom-made according to her own sketches. All were sumptuous, and I couldn’t wait to see which one she’d end up wearing. I doubted she’d decide until the day of the party.
That day, she didn’t come down from the penthouse; instead, sometime around four in
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