Southern Charm

by Tinsley Mortimer

  Back at my desk, I logged onto my Gmail Chat account so I could send Spencer a quick download of my meeting with Ruth. It was our way of communicating at the office without being overheard. I had just finished typing the word “bitch” when a message popped up.

  Taking New York by storm, I see?

  I gasped. It was Ryerson.

  “Oh my God,” I said out loud.

  I honestly had no idea what to say. I hadn’t heard from him in over a year. Why would he contact me now when we were thousands of miles away from each other? Come to think of it, I didn’t even know where he was.

  He continued with a second message when I didn’t respond: I saw your photo somewhere. I know it’s been a while . . . but maybe the next time I fly through New York we can get a drink.

  And, finally: I miss you, Minty.

  What?! I stepped away from my computer.

  Spencer popped his head up from his cubicle. “All okay?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, shaking my head. Spencer looked back at me, puzzled. “I’m just, um, kind of under the gun with this list.”

  I was partly telling the truth, of course. I didn’t have a clue as to how I was going to confirm more top people at such a late hour. I picked up the phone and called Emily. Luckily, she said she had two people in mind—Georgia Bennetton, a socialite, and Olive Hudson, an up-and-coming actress. She thought she could get them to come if we would “gift” (a term for giving free things to celebrities) them a Kevin Park dress. It turned out Saks had just picked up Kevin’s line, so Emily was able to pull directly from the floor. It really was the perfect solution. I was able to wrap up the list and make it down to the Kevin Park boutique just in time for the start of the event, all the while thinking in the back of my head, What the hell does Ryerson Bigelow want?

  The boutique, located on Mulberry Street in Nolita, was a modest (by fashion-empire standards), austere space finished in smooth concrete and bright white paint. The clothes were feminine—frilly almost—in bright, whimsical shades of pink, lavender, powder blue, and yellow. It was almost as if he’d stepped inside my head and created the perfect wardrobe.

  When I walked in, everything seemed to be in good shape. Kevin and his team were en route from the showroom and all we had to do was make a few final adjustments to the flowers and wait for the guests to show up. Besides the fact that Emily was still coming (I couldn’t exactly disinvite her when she was the reason we’d confirmed two more amazing guests), I was feeling pretty confident this time. All I could do was hope that Ruth saw the trade-off and respected my decision.

  Thankfully, things were going so well from the get-go that Ruth took me off the door and asked that I circulate and make sure everything was running smoothly. Kevin, whom I hadn’t met yet, caught my gaze through the crowd and motioned for me to come over.

  “You work for Ruth, right?” he said.

  “Yes! I’m Minty.” I extended my hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m such a fan of your designs. I hope you’re happy with everything . . . ?”

  Kevin smiled. “Yes, I was just looking for Ruth.” He glanced around the room. “You guys are doing an amazing job—I just saw Olive Hudson come in. I mean, she is one of my favorite girls! I have been dying to dress her. Please let Ruth know if I don’t find her first.”

  Just then, Emily walked over with Olive and Georgia.

  “Emily!” Kevin exclaimed, pulling her toward him. “Oh my God, I didn’t know you were coming, this is amazing! Did you have a hand in getting these amazing girls in my clothes?”

  Olive and Georgia smiled and Emily made introductions. As I was standing there—feeling relieved and proud—I saw Ruth come out from the back of the store. She immediately zeroed in on Emily and started making her way through the crowd, her expression tight-lipped and focused.

  “Actually”—Emily smiled—“I have to give the credit to Minty here. It really was all her idea.”

  Kevin looked at me and beamed. “Genius, Minty. Just genius. I knew I liked you.” He examined me closely, taking in my simple black sheath (ugh) and ankle boots. “Have I seen you somewhere before? You look familiar but . . . different.”

  “She’s in work mode,” Emily said, beaming, “but Minty’s usually dressed like a Kevin Park ad. I mean, she could practically be your muse!”

  His eyes narrowed and he lifted a finger to his lips. Then his face lit up with recognition.

  “Oh, you’re that southern belle! I’m always reading about you in ‘Page Six.’”

  I shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

  “Yes,” Emily said. “That’s her.”

  “Kevin, honey, I see you’ve met Olive and Georgia?” Ruth asked.

  “Yes, yes, I have,” Kevin said. “Aren’t they gorgeous? Dressed in the spring collection, no less.”

  “Genius,” Ruth said. She turned to me. “Minty—”

  “And I have to say, your girl Minty here is a lifesaver,” Kevin continued. “Emily tells me she pulled some strings to get the girls here and even made sure they were wearing my designs.”

  Ruth paused, and for a moment I thought she might lose it. All right, so Emily was there, but I had technically pulled through in the end. And Kevin—Ruth’s most important client at the time—seemed thrilled. Wasn’t that really the only thing we cared about?

  “She’s my little protégée,” she finally said, patting me on the shoulder.

  I managed a strained smile in return, half-expecting her hands to travel up to my neck and strangle me right then and there. Okay, so she was basically bringing the credit back on herself, but at least she hadn’t blown up in front of everyone.

  “We’ve got to get her in some Kevin Park,” he said, eyeing me again and putting a hand on his hip.

  “Definitely,” Ruth said. “Definitely.”

  “Darling, how was the party?”

  I jumped when I opened my door. I’d been expecting to see Tripp in my apartment, not Scarlett.

  She was wearing a Ralph Lauren jacket and wool pants with a silky white blouse. Her hair was pulled back with a red headband.

  “Mother, what are you—”

  “You just missed Tripp, darling, we had the nicest conversation,” she began, waltzing into the living room. “He said to tell you he’d speak to you in the morning.” She paused. “Mind you, I didn’t know he had a key to your apartment!” She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Mother, please.”

  “Anyway, it was so good to see him again, I feel like it’s been ages. We got to talking about the holidays and I’ve been thinking. You know, Thanksgiving is going to be blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.”

  We were planning on spending Thanksgiving in Charleston, but with my work schedule I would only be able to spend a grand total of twenty-four hours there.

  “And then Christmas is right round the corner,” she said. “We’ll see all of the extended family at Thanksgiving, of course. So I was thinking we could maybe do Christmas in New York with just our immediate family. We could invite your father. It would probably be a lot more relaxing than boarding a flight to Palm Beach for another whirlwind trip.”

  But I loved spending Christmas in Palm Beach. It was a family tradition after all.

  “Christmas in New York?! Dad?! What the hell are you talking about?”

  Even though my parents were divorced, they were still close friends. Dad usually spent the holidays with his third wife. So if he was to be invited to spend Christmas with us, it could only mean one thing: marriage number three was headed down the tubes.

  “We could even include Tripp somehow,” she continued, ignoring me. “Maybe for Christmas Eve dinner? Didn’t you say something about how his family only celebrates on Christmas Day?”

  “Mother.”

  “It’s just that, I’m here and you’re here and God knows you’re so busy with this public relating business you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up in. Darby has four goddamn weeks off from Ole Miss; I barely know what I’m going to do with her and I
imagine your father will be no help at all.”

  “Mommy, I’m not so sure that this is the best idea.”

  “Well, why on earth not?”

  There were many reasons why on earth not. Tripp had met my parents before, of course, but the thought of his joining us for Christmas Eve dinner was still intimidating. They were not exactly Norman Rockwell normal. My father, for one, had an uncanny ability to make my mother look like the most stable, least manipulative person on the planet. And then there was Darby, who would definitely spend the entire time asking Tripp if he had any single friends and then would force us to go out after dinner. I was getting a headache already just thinking about it.

  “I just feel like it would be a lot.”

  “Five people? A lot? Sweetheart, you act as if we’re not going to be in Charleston in a few days with approximately fifty of our closest relatives.”

  “I’m just . . . ,” I began tentatively, “I’m just not sure it’s the right timing. I mean Tripp and I have only been together a few months and I don’t want to overwhelm him or anything, especially in the middle of Christmas when he’d probably rather be spending time with his family.”

  The look on my mother’s face was one of utter disappointment.

  “So, we embarrass you? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

  “You can roll your eyes at me all you want, miss, but if this boy is even slightly serious about you, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to join us for Christmas Eve dinner.”

  “I’m not saying he wouldn’t be thrilled, Mother,” I began. “It’s just . . . a lot to throw his way. I don’t want to overwhelm him.”

  “Overwhelm him?” She was the one to roll her eyes this time. “Your father and I were married after six months together. I think I knew within the first few weeks of dating he’d be the father of my children. And I was younger than you!”

  “Mommy, that was a different time.”

  “Oh please,” she said. “Not that much has changed about falling in love. You must have some idea about how you feel about him. About whether or not you see a future with him.”

  I was quiet. Of course I did.

  “So it’s settled, then,” she said, reading the look in my eyes. “We’ll have a Christmas Eve dinner with Tripp.”

  I gulped.

  In Charleston, I knew Ryerson’s entire family before we were even dating. But New York was different. I was worried the invitation would scare Tripp away. I was thinking I could just lie and say I’d invited him and he was unable to attend. But then I remembered Tripp and my mother were already in cahoots.

  “Mother . . . ,” I began, my voice tempered and calm.

  I walked farther into the living room until I was standing over her. I attempted to maintain my composure.

  “Yes, honey?”

  The way she raised both eyebrows, cocked her head, and smiled sweetly told me I already knew the answer to my question.

  “You didn’t already invite Tripp to Christmas Eve dinner, did you?”

  She tilted her head back and opened her mouth slightly. It was a classic Scarlett Davenport stall tactic, as if she was trying to recall, amongst the thousands of invites to Christmas Eve dinner, if she had extended one to my boyfriend. She pressed a finger to her lips and hummed.

  “Well, I believe I may have,” she finally said.

  “Mother!” I threw my hands up in the air.

  “Oh, Minty.” She waved a hand in my direction. “You have got to stop being so dramatic. I will have you know that Tripp was ecstatic to know we were planning—excuse me, thinking about—spending Christmas in New York and responded immediately to my invitation.”

  “Unbelievable, Mother. Truly unbelievable.”

  The thing with my mother is, you can fight her and lose or you can just surrender to whatever master plan she’s cooked up and hope for the best. I was done fighting with my mother. We would have Christmas in New York.

  As I was going to bed that night, Tripp called.

  “Hey,” he said. “Sorry I missed you earlier.”

  “Sorry my mother is a crazy stalker!” I said.

  He laughed. “Listen,” he began, “I was hanging out before Scarlett got there and I went to log on to my Gmail account. For some reason your Gmail account was open and I guess I saw something I shouldn’t have.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I was so brain-dead at that point I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was talking about.

  “Ryerson Bigelow?” he said.

  I racked my brain. Oh my God, I’d totally forgotten about Ryerson’s messages!

  “Oh, Tripp,” I said. “Please. That was so long ago. I honestly don’t know why he’s contacting me after all of this time.”

  “He clearly ‘misses you,’” he said in a singsong voice.

  I rolled my eyes. Something about Ryerson—beyond the fact that he was my ex—really got to Tripp. Boys could be so competitive.

  “Tripp,” I said. “Please. Ryerson and I are ancient history. Do we really have to talk about this now?” I was afraid I was going to fall asleep midconversation.

  “Ancient history or not,” he said, “you wanted to marry the guy at one point.”

  “But I didn’t,” I groaned. “And now I’m with you.”

  He was silent.

  “Listen, sweetie,” I said, “I’m exhausted. It’s so dumb. I didn’t even respond!”

  He sighed. “All right,” he said. “I’m sorry I even saw it in the first place.”

  “Well, try to forget it,” I said. “I know I have.” I thought for a minute. “Besides, I can promise you Ryerson is not invited to Davenport Christmas Eve dinner.”

  Tripp laughed. “He better not be!”

  “I’m glad you’re coming,” I said.

  “Me too.”

  “I have to be up early to fly to Charleston tomorrow,” I reminded him, yawning.

  “Okay,” he said. “I love you.”

  My eyes popped open. Tripp had said “I love you” that night at the Boom Boom Room, but this was the first time he’d said it, well, not under the influence. If it hadn’t happened to be past eleven o’clock at night, it was what I would have called a “daytime I-love-you.” Either way, I could tell he was sincere. It felt good.

  “I love you too,” I said.

  Never Keep a Lady Waiting

  In New York, when it rains it doesn’t just pour, it torrential-downpours for five minutes straight then stops, leaving you soaked, shocked, and standing in the middle of the street with a broken umbrella.

  After the Thanksgiving holiday, it was like someone pressed the “fast-forward” button at work. While we were always focused on pleasing the journalists who helped make our clients’ brands successful, we became obsessed with making sure they were very, very happy during the holidays.

  Like with everything else in New York, there was a class system when it came to giving presents to the writers, editors, TV reporters, and producers at the media outlets we worked with. A-list presents (typically the designer bag of the season or an expensive watch) went to top editors like Julie Greene and producers at programs like the Today show, while lesser-value B- and C-list items (scarves, fragrances, spa gift certificates) went to newspapers, general-interest magazines, and, finally, a short list of freelancers who happened to have great relationships with Ruth.

  We were so busy organizing the presents that I basically blinked and Christmas Eve was literally two days away. I was so preoccupied that I almost missed a very important e-mail sent to my personal account. Luckily, my mother had just called and was eagerly awaiting my approval on some jpegs of fabrics she’d sent, so I quickly logged on. And there it was, an e-mail from someone named Laila Zimmerman.

  “Dear Minty,” it began, “I’m writing on behalf of Kevin Park. He enjoyed meeting you at the boutique opening back in November and was curious if you’d be available to join him for lunch tomorrow before he leaves f
or St. Barth’s. Apologies for the late notice, but please let me know ASAP if you are able to make it. Also, Kevin would appreciate it if you refrain from mentioning this meeting to Ms. Vine.” It was signed, “Laila Zimmerman, Assistant to Kevin Park.”

  I stared at the e-mail as I held a glossy white bag in one hand and a metallic gold pen in the other. What on earth could Kevin Park possibly want from me? Of course I was incredibly flattered, but either way, how was I going to manage sneaking out of the office for two hours unnoticed on Christmas Eve?

  I solicited Spencer for some advice.

  “Just tell Ruth you have a doctor’s appointment.” He grinned. “Like, the lady doctor or something—it will throw her off.”

  “Gross,” I said.

  I was skeptical, but Ruth must have been distracted because she gave me the go-ahead. And thank goodness, because I wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity at one-on-one time with New York’s hottest up-and-coming designer. I e-mailed Laila back and told her I was thrilled and would love to meet with Kevin. She responded immediately and said she’d made a reservation for the two of us at Morandi, a restaurant near the Kevin Park showroom in the West Village.

  That night, I ran out and bought a pale lavender dress from Kevin’s resort collection. I paired it with gray suede booties from Brian Atwood, light gray wool tights, and a charcoal-gray wool coat. I even called my mother over from the Plaza for final approval. I wanted everything to be perfect. I had no idea what he wanted to discuss, but I had a feeling it wasn’t the weather.

  When I arrived at Morandi, a Tuscan-inspired restaurant situated on a tiny sliver of Waverly Place, Kevin was already seated.

  He noticed my dress immediately.

  “You see,” he said. “You’re exactly the kind of girl I design for. You live a cosmopolitan life but you’re not afraid of color. You’re not afraid to be feminine.”

  I was flattered.

  He didn’t waste any time in getting to his point.

  “So,” he began, “in a nutshell, I’ve been looking for a new brand ambassador, someone who’s not a celebrity but has a bit of a . . . higher profile than your regular girl-about-town.” He took a bite of his fish and looked at me.