Excerpt
May 05, 2011
``Hey, how's Jolyn?'' I would ask Mirella, who was at the time Jolyn's best friend. ``Dunno,'' Mirella would say. ``Every time I call her, she can't talk. The sprinkler man is coming, or she caught the nanny smoking pot in the laundry room, or one of the kids is screaming.'' ``Horrible. Just horrible,'' we would say, and then we would forget about it. And then, a month ago, the inevitable happened: Little white invitations bordered with tiny purple flowers arrived, summoning four of Jolyn's city friends to a bridal shower she was hosting at her house. It was being held on a Saturday at one p.m.--only, as Mirella pointed out, the most inconvenient time and the last thing you want to be doing with your Saturday afternoon. Schlepping to Connecticut. ``Jolyn called and begged me,'' Mirella said. ``She said she wanted some of her city friends to come so it wouldn't be too boring.'' ``The kiss of death,'' I said. Still, the four women did agree to go--Miranda, thirty-two, a cable exec; Saran, thirty-eight, who ran her own PR company; Carrol, thirty-four, some sort of journalist; and Belle, thirty-four, a banker and the only married woman of the group.
