April — The garden, obviously
Darlings, this morning I had multiple- yes... that, but also - multiple opinions about where to put the peonies and zero patience for the opinion that we should “keep it simple.”
We are not keeping it simple. I have never kept it simple. Keeping it simple is for other people. Not me. I am throwing a garden party in early spring because it has been decided, somewhere between January and now, that what this particular circle of Sirens needed was a full-scale celebration. There is no birthday. There is no anniversary. There is no State Imposed Day of Note or greeting card to send. There is only the fact that we are here, fabulous, and genuinely delighted by each other. And of course, by possibilities.
That is the entire brief. I told them so when I handed out the invitations — yes, actual paper invitations, yes with a wax seal, and no, I will not be taking questions about that decision. I do understand there are other uses for hot wax. But Darlings, even I, on occasion, bow to more pedestrian pursuits.
Currently: there are three lists on my kitchen table. The guest list. The menu. And a third list simply titled “Things That Must Not Go Wrong” which I have already revised four times and which one of my Mavens — the newly-in-love one, practically radiating rose gold — described as “extremely you.”
She’s not wrong. But she’s also not in charge of the flowers. Although I suspect she will bring some.
· · ·
The theme — and yes there is a theme, there is always a theme — is “New Season, New Story. With Sprinklers and Lemonade” Which sounds simple until you understand what I mean by it.
I mean: we are done with what was. We are done with the particular brand of introspection that comes with short days and long nights and too much time to think about texts we haven’t answered. Spring, Mavens, is not a season. Spring is a declaration. And a declaration deserves a party.
I have asked every Siren to of course, come as they are but to be sure and arrive in something that radiates the best possible version of the story she’s currently living. No rules beyond that. No dress code except: wear what makes you walk differently. I suggested — as a starting point only, as pure inspiration, not as law — that the Backyard Lemonade collection embodies exactly the kind of spirit that says “I arrived with intention.” Three of them immediately asked where I found it. Which is, frankly, the correct response.
Although – it is not an it. It is a collection of possibilities. Sun dresses to twirl in. And lemonade inspired bikinis to refresh, with just a tinge of tart.
I have been considering my options with the serious playfulness the occasion deserves. Which is to say: I started in February. I have a shortlist. The shortlist has a shortlist. My current leading contender is the blue one that I have been saving for a day that deserves it. I believe this is that day. A garden party co-hosted by spring including every one of my best friends.
Because when it comes to best friends Ladies, why would you ever consider having just one? Not unlike lovers, each are the best at, well, at various specialties.
The guest list is elevenish, plus their guests. Eleven women at various coordinates of love, transition, reinvention, and peak chapter. One recently made a decision that terrified her and turned out to be the best thing she’s ever done. One is quietly becoming the person she always suspected she might be. Two are madly, recklessly in love with someone who deserves them. And one — I won’t say who — has recently begun wearing lipstick to the grocery store, which I am counting as personal growth of the highest order.
And each is bringing a guest of their choosing, someone interesting and interested. That is a requirement to enter. Plus, of course, their significant other, although bringing one of Those is Not a requirement of entrance.
There will also be one guest I have not yet mentioned to the others. Someone new to this particular circle, though not new to me. Someone who makes rooms more interesting by entering them. I sent the invitation on impulse — not my usual operating mode, but on occasion it does present some delicious possibilities. Darlings, I am, after all, a woman of considered moves — and not surprisingly, my invitation received a yes within the hour.
Within the hour. I found this interesting. I still find it interesting.
· · ·
The garden itself is in the middle of a frank conversation with me about expectations. What I have envisioned: a lush, effortless explosion of early blooms, the kind that looks like it simply happened. What is currently happening: a spirited negotiation with a florist who has very firm opinions about “seasonal availability” and a gardener who keeps using the word “realistic.”
We will be getting the peonies. Many, Many Peonies. I have made my position clear on this.
There will be a long table under the old tree at the back but still near enough to the pool to be daring. Mismatched china because uniformity has always bored me and because each plate tells a story — this one from a market in the south, that one inherited from someone I adored, another one purchased dramatically and specifically because it was the most beautiful object in a shop I wandered into on a rainy afternoon with absolutely nowhere to be. The table will look like it was assembled by someone who has lived well and paid attention. Because it was.
I want the afternoon to feel the way the best conversations feel: unhurried, slightly surprising, better than anticipated. I want my guests to arrive and feel, immediately, at home. Welcome. Exactly right to dare to wear what they wished. To know that the version of themselves they brought to this garden is exactly whom I wished to have as my guest.
That is what friendship is, really. Not the grand gestures — though I am also a fan of those — but the steady, repeated act of making a person feel that their presence in your life is not accidental. That you chose them. That you keep choosing them.
Spring is the season of choosing, after all. Everything in the garden is making a decision. The whole world is deciding to try again. How could we possibly sit inside and miss it?
Speaking of which — and I promise I am not getting distracted, I am getting to the point — the menu also includes a dessert I have been perfecting since a summer afternoon years ago when someone made it for me in a kitchen that smelled of lemon and something I have never successfully replicated. A small private tribute. Even my closest Darlings will not know that. They will simply think I also bake brilliantly, which, of course, is also true.
· · ·
The florist just called. The peonies are confirmed. I may have audibly cheered, which is not behaviour I choose to explain to anyone.
I am also, if I am being honest — slightly more interested in what my surprise guest is going to wear than I am professionally required to admit. Someone who says yes within the hour is someone who already knows what they’re walking into. That kind of confidence, Mavens, is its own form of couture.
I have, for the record, already chosen what I will be wearing when they arrive. A little floral number that I have been saving for exactly this kind of occasion — the kind where possibility walks through the garden gate and you want to be absolutely ready for it.
All confirmed. One particularly intriguing. The peonies: secured.
All that remains is the party itself.
And whatever walks through the gate wearing confidence like it’s the season’s best accessory.
