Also by Leah Marie Brown
Dreaming of Manderley
The It Girls Series
Faking It
Finding It
Working It
Owning It
LEAH MARIE BROWN
You’ll Always Have Tara
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Leah Marie Brown
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Leah Marie Brown
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Lyrical and the Lyrical logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-5161-0114-6
First Lyrical Press Electronic Edition: May 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0117-7
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0117-0
Chapter One
“You are not classically beautiful, Tara.” Truman Barton holds his champagne flute aloft as if giving a toast, drawling his vowels as if they were drops of bourbon rolling around on his tongue. “You’re as pale as freshly peeled whiteleg shrimp, your bottom lip is too big, and you wear cowboy boots with your dresses.”
Truman and Tavish Barton, known around Charleston as Those Barton Boys (usually said in an exasperated tone), are two of my dearest friends, despite their shared predilection for keeping me humble.
“It’s true,” Tavish chimes in. “Now, that you have gone and dyed your hair that ridiculous shade of blazing nutmeg—”
“Warm cinnamon,” I correct.
“Whatever, dahlin’,” he says, sniffing. “Cinnamon. Nutmeg. All’s I’m saying is a girl shouldn’t dye her hair the color of a nut.”
I have been dying my hair a darker shade with more brown tones because I think it makes me look more sophisticated on camera.
“Cinnamon doesn’t come from a nut.”
“It doesn’t?”
Tavish frowns at his brother. Truman shrugs.
“No,” I say, laughing. “Cinnamon comes from the bark of a tree. You peanut brains would know that if you stayed in college long enough to graduate.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little tree-bark head about us, dahlin’. We’re not chained to the kitchen, forced to bake six zillion crab-filled puff pastries just so we can pay for our John Lobb loafers.”
“Hush,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder. “I don’t want Grayson to know I’ve been doing catering jobs.”
Grayson Calhoun is my usually, sometimes, not right now, but will be again soon, boyfriend. We have been on-again, off-again since he pulled my ponytail in Miss Treva’s third grade class. He is from one of the oldest, most respectable families in South Carolina. He just graduated from Harvard Law School, but one day he will be governor of South Carolina. I know it in my bones. Grayson’s momma and daddy have been grooming him for a career in politics pretty much since Miss Treva named him third grade class president (despite his deviant hair pulling). The Calhouns are obsessed with politics. I guess you could say it’s in their blood since they are related to John C. Calhoun, the seventh vice president of the United States. Only, Grayson is quick to point out he isn’t a direct descendant on account of John C. having been a slave owner and all. Third cousin, four times removed. We share ancestors, not ideologies.
“Don’t fool yourself, Tara. It don’t matter how many damn snowbirds build their nests out on Daniel Island and Cainhoy way, Charleston is still a small town. Grayson knows your daddy died owing the IRS a heap of back taxes. The whole town knows you don’t have a pot to piss in, dahlin’.”
“I have a pot!”
Truth is, I do have a pot. It’s just not a big pot.
Two months ago, my daddy and aunt died in a freak boating accident one hundred miles off the coast of Sullivan’s Island, leaving behind a mountain of debt and years of unpaid taxes we knew nothing about. If it weren’t for the trust fund my momma left me, and my job filming cooking segments with our local news station, I would be as broke as my little sister Emma Lee. I have been doing catering jobs to earn money just so I can keep up appearances. Otherwise, I would not have been able to afford the new floral silk Erdem dress I am wearing.
“Hey, Tara.”
I recognize the sweet-as-a-box-of-Moon-Pies voice and have to choke back a groan.
“Hey, Maribelle.”
Maribelle Cravath, my archrival in all things (including, occasionally, Grayson’s affections), has joined our little gathering beneath the branches of a knobby old live oak covered in twinkly fairy lights.
“Love the dress. Is it the Erdem I saw in RTW?”
“Yes.”
She widens her falsely lashed eyes and gasps, but I see right through her surprised routine. I know what she is going to say before she says it and I mentally brace myself.
“But, I thought RTW only carried that particular Erdem in size four?”
Bitch.
I smile through the former chunky girl pain.
“That’s right.”
She lets her gaze make a slow, deliberate journey over my gown, from the boat neckline to the full, frilly skirt.
“Oh,” she finally says, her lips forming a perfect pink O—the same shade of pink as the big, bold begonias on her Lilly Pulitzer skirt. “Good for you, sweetie. Good. For. You. We all know how hard you’ve struggled with your weight through the years.”
It doesn’t matter how many pounds and years separate me from my pudgy, fudgy middle-childhood, comments about my weight still sting something fierce. Beneath my size-four (unvarnished truth: six) designer dress, I am still an insecure, eating-for-comfort fat girl, hungry for love. Not that I would ever let anyone—especially Maribelle Cravath—know that. I am a Southern girl born and bred, which means I am an expert at artifice, from the application of cosmetics to the camouflaging of unpleasant emotions. So, I smile and keep up a steady patter of polite, meaningless chitchat until my bes
t friend arrives.
Callie takes one look at my face and knows. She knows Maribelle has said something to hurt my feelings and that I am mentally gorging on a box of Fiddle Faddle, burying the pain beneath handfuls of buttery, toffee-flavored popcorn and peanuts because my need to be pleasing is greater than my desire to tell Maribelle what I really think of her. Callie has super-developed bestie intuition. She can read my thoughts and feelings across a department store or polo field.
“Hey, Maribelle.” Callie gives Maribelle one of those artificial Southern girl smiles. “Cute skirt. Lilly, right? My mom stopped wearing Lilly Pulitzer after they collaborated on a line of dresses for Target, but I love that you aren’t letting the porcelain-teapots-and-doilies set dictate your style. Brand loyalty. Good for you.”
Maribelle smiles as if she just took a bite of a biscuit made with curdled buttermilk, but doesn’t want anyone else to know; a tight, eye-crinkling kind of smile.
“Oh, look,” she says, pointing in the direction of the barn. “There’s Shelby Drayton. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“Better go say hello,” Callie says.
“By-ee.” Maribelle waggles her begonia pink lacquered pointy fingernails at us. “See y’all later.”
I want to waggle my own lacquered fingernails at her and say, By-ee. Don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, miserable viper in Lilly Pulitzer Kristen wedges.
But I don’t.
I don’t because I learned long ago that swallowing the pain of rejection is best done quickly and quietly, without artificial sweeteners. Smile, swallow, keep on smiling. People misinterpret my silences as arrogance, like I am impervious to slights and barbs because I think I am high and mighty. Believe me, I’ve never thought of myself as high or mighty.
Truth is, I’ve never liked Maribelle Cravath. She’s the Helen of our group. You know the beautiful, stylish, highly competitive antagonist in the movie Bridesmaids? Maribelle is a Helen. She silently circles, assessing the field, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and feed on the carcasses of weaker women. In the movie, Helen was transformed from a heinous, uppity antagonist to a moderately enjoyable sidekick before Wilson Phillips started singing the exit music. I am still waiting for Maribelle to have her character-redeeming scene.
“Don’t tell me,” Callie says. “She brought up your weight?”
“Yes.”
“Forget Maribelle Cravath,” Callie says, slipping her arm through mine. “We all know you were more than a few RC Colas away from being able to kick it in Paula Deen’s knickers.”
Say what you want about Paula, but I love any woman clever enough to think of six dozen different ways to prepare macaroni and cheese. Granted, it is a shameful, secret love—like my love for boiled peanuts and Goo Clusters—but it is abiding.
“Tell her, Truman,” Callie says, nudging the twin with her elbow. “Tell Tara she is a beautiful slender goddess.”
Truman chuckles.
“You are beautiful, Tara.”
“Classically?” I tease.
His lips quirk.
“Maybe not classically, but you could run a whole mess of circles around Crawdad Cravath, even in those godawful boots.”
I laugh.
Truman started calling Maribelle “Crawdad” a few years ago, but he refuses to tell me what she did to earn such an unfortunate moniker. Callie and I have spent more than a few brunches at Poogan’s Porch, sipping mimosas and thinking up devilish, delightful stories about how it might have happened. With her long, pointy fingernails and round bug eyes, it’s an apt nickname.
“Damn skippy,” Travish says, nodding his head so hard his thick, slicked-back chestnut curls fall over his eye. “Maribelle is just jealous because she knows half of Charleston would close their doors to her if she weren’t Beau’s sister.”
Beauregard Cravath III—B. Crav to his friends—is a member of Charleston’s ancient elite. The Cravaths are an influential political family with roots going back as far as the seventeenth century. In fact, B. Crav’s ancestor was a relative of one of the Lords Proprietors—overseers appointed by King Charles to colonize Charleston. B. Crav is an enthusiastic polo player. His Whitney Turn Up is the social event of the polo season, a raucous, Moët-fueled party with a guest list comprised of bluebloods from all over the world. B. Crav has serious connections that stretch far beyond our magnolia shaded borders.
He’s also a philandering playboy who has tried to bed or wed practically all of the women under thirty from the Mason-Dixon to the Florida-Georgia line, including my baby sister, Emma Lee.
“Beau is a dirty dog,” Callie mutters. “So it’s no wonder his sister is a b—”
“Callie!”
“Let’s change the subject,” she says, brushing an imaginary fleck of lint from her dress. “Talking about the Cravaths always riles me up.”
Talking about the Cravaths riles her up because she was sweet on Beau, and she thought he was sweet on her, too, until he tried to get her liquored up and suggested they have a three-way with his Swedish masseuse. (B. Crav has a live-in masseuse he met at a ski resort in Vail.)
“How is Manderley?” Callie asks.
Manderley is my big sister. She is the perfect Southern lady: calm, clever, generous, reliable, and terribly responsible. She’s my polar opposite and everything I strive to be.
“She’s fine.”
“Is she still in France?”
“Manderley is in Cannes with her best friend, Olivia Tate, the famous screenwriter. Olivia’s movie, A Quaint Milieu, was nominated for the Palme-d’Or. A glamourous job in Hollywood. Summers in the south of France. My big sister is efficiently and admirably directing her destiny. I am happy for her. Honest, I am. I just wish her destiny wasn’t leading her farther and farther from Charleston.”
“Yes.”
“Has she seen Matthew McConaughey yet?” Callie asks. “Never mind! I don’t want to know the answer to that question. If you tell me little old Manderley Maxwell is sipping champagne with Matthew McConaughey I will just die. I will! I will keel over right here at the Whitney Turn Up. They would haul my body to the coroner’s office, he would do an autopsy, and say I died from an overdose of toxic putrid green envy.”
Truman snorts.
“You don’t still have a crush on that old dog, do you?” Tavish asks.
“He’s not old!”
“Alright. Alright. Alright,” Tavish says, mimicking the actor’s Texas drawl. “Whatever you say.”
“He’s not old.”
“He’s ancient. When was he born?”
“1969.”
“1969!” Tavish whistles. “Lawd, he’s as old as Moses.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Jealous? Of Grandad McConaughey?” Tavish clucks his tongue. “Please, girl. That old man ain’t got nothing on me.”
“He’s rich.”
“So am I.”
“He’s famous.”
“Who hasn’t heard of the Barton Boys? We’re notorious in three counties.”
“Damn skippy,” Truman agrees.
Callie rolls her eyes.
“He’s married to a model.”
“I’m sorry for him.”
“Sorry?” Callie narrows her gaze. “He’s married to a beautiful woman and you’re sorry for him?”
“Sure,” Tavish says, crossing his arms and leaning back against the oak. “I don’t care how beautiful the cow is, why would I buy her when I can get the milk for free? Grand Daddy McConaughey is stuck drinking milk from the same tired old cow when there are millions of cows out there.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m serious,” Tavish argues. “Do you know how many breeds of cattle there are?”
“Eight hundred,” Truman interjects.
“Eight hundred breeds of cattle?” Tavish cries. “That’s a lot of milk to enjoy.”
“I can’t even deal with your”—Callie puts her hand up to stop Tavish from saying an
ything else—“just hush.”
Tavish laughs. He isn’t the chauvinist in expensive loafers and fashionably rumpled linen suit he makes himself out to be. He likes riling Callie up. I think it is because he is in love with her.
“I saw Emma Lee chatting up some woman on my way over,” Callie says, changing the subject. “How did you get her off the couch?”
“Do you really think Emma Lee Maxwell would miss the social event of the season?”
If my baby sister were dying of tuberculosis, she would use her last ragged breath to drag herself to a party. She is the most social and popular girl in Charleston, but ever since we received the news of our father’s death and deep debt, she has taken to spending her days on my couch watching crap reality television shows and eating Raising Cane’s chicken combos. I swear if I find one more Cane’s special sauce container on my salvaged wood coffee table, I am going to—
“Has she decided what to do with her life?” Callie interrupts my musing.
“Nope,” I say, twirling the stem of my champagne flute between my fingers and watching the liquid spin around my glass like a golden tornado. “She was all fired up to be a fortune cookie writer until she binge-watched Below Deck, and then she was positive she would make a brilliant stewardess on a super yacht. Last week, she caught a segment that ran before my review of that new French-influenced, low-country fusion place on King Street. It was an interview with a woman who works as a professional stand-in bridesmaid.”
“I saw that interview!” Callie cries. “The woman actually gets paid to be a bridesmaid for brides that don’t have enough friends. Can you imagine?”
“I can’t, but Emma Lee could. She emailed Manderley and asked for a loan to buy bridesmaids dresses and build a website.”
Truman chuckles.
“Uh-oh,” Callie says. “What did Manderley say?”
You'll Always Have Tara Page 1