The Wedding War

by Talley, Liz

  Melanie picked up the box, her expression still troubled. Tennyson moved beside her, and together they walked toward the worn path that led to Melanie’s three-story house. Right as they climbed the incline to the other side, Tennyson looked back. She wasn’t sad that summer was over, because she was ready to wear her new Izod polo and the grosgrain ribbon her mother had bought her in lieu of a belt. She was ready for fall . . . she just wished Melanie were going back to Glenbrook with her.

  But no big deal. They’d always be friends. Nothing was going to break them apart.

  Best friends 4ever.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Spring 2020

  “If Tennyson Whatever Her Name Is Now thinks I’m hosting a graduation party with her, she’s lost her mind,” Melanie said, folding her son’s athletic socks into neat stacks on the matelassé spread covering the king-size bed. The abandoned iPad with the email from her daughter about the “fabulous” grad party had been tossed aside.

  Her husband poked his head out of the closet. “She’s gone back to O’Rourke. Besides, we’re not doing the party. Just attending.”

  Melanie rolled her eyes.

  “Come on, Mel, you know we have to play nice. It’s for the kids. For Emma.”

  “I’m not sure anything is worth having to deal with Tennyson,” Melanie huffed, looking for the mate to the Under Armour sock that had a hole in the heel. Dang dog. Poppy loved to steal the socks Noah left in the game room and chew on them. She’d asked her son not to leave his dirty socks on the floor, but Noah wasn’t good at listening these days. Most everyone around her wasn’t good at listening. “And kids is the right word. That’s exactly what they are. Emma actually said something about how it might make sense for her and Andrew to move in together while she was in med school. To save money.”

  Kit came out adjusting his tie. “She’s not wrong. I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Them living together?” Melanie looked at him like he’d agreed to a three-way with their seventy-two-year-old oversexed next-door neighbor, Coco Festervan. She knew Coco was probably up for it. There were rumors for good reason.

  “Well, it makes sense financially,” Kit said, wrapping the navy tie he always wore to make deals around his neck.

  Melanie dropped the T-shirt she was about to fold. “You’re seriously advocating our daughter live with a man before marriage?”

  She knew she sounded like a Puritan because times had changed and people lived together all the time, but how in all that was holy was she going to tell her mother that Emma was moving in with her boyfriend? That little nugget would go over like a dog turd in the punch bowl. Anne Fumiyo Brevard, Melanie’s mother, was the president of her book club, the secretary of her Bible study, and the chairperson of the South Shreveport Garden Society Tour of the Greens. Which meant she didn’t cotton to loose morals even if they saved a person money. There was a right way, and that was Anne’s way.

  “Hon, Emma’s twenty-two years old and about to be twenty-three. She’s a grown-up.”

  Melanie shoved the basket away and set her hands on her hips. “She’s not a grown-up. Not if we still pay her bills.”

  A ball of aggravation curled tight in her gut. Kit always took their kids’ side, leaving her to be the heavy-handed parent. Ol’ Melanie, permanent stick-in-the-mud. He gave the kids too much free rein to do what they thought was best. That was not parenting. That was taking the easy (and more popular) way out.

  “Can we shelve this argument? You know I have a big day today. Meeting with Hal is always nerve-racking. That old bastard doesn’t let go of the purse strings easily. I need this to go through so I can retire before I’m dead.”

  “You know that’s not true. You could retire today.”

  He gave her an alligator grin. “My kind of retirement will be expensive.”

  Melanie sank onto the bed and tried to calm herself. Emma was set to graduate next week from the University of Arkansas, where she’d excelled in her studies (and, if Snapchat was to be believed, keg stands) and now was heading back home to attend medical school at LSU in Shreveport. But while she was in Arkansas, Emma had managed to fall in love with the one person Melanie would have wanted her to steer clear of.

  Melanie hadn’t realized that Tennyson’s son, Andrew Abernathy, had gone to the University of Arkansas—she’d lost track of Tennyson’s whereabouts years ago. Of course, U of A was Tennyson’s father’s alma mater, but the woman had been living on the East Coast. Or so she’d heard. Anyway, it was surprising her son would eschew a plethora of blue-blooded schools to go to Arkansas. Even more surprising was that Emma had sat next to him in microbiology. Two weeks later the two sophomores met at Marley’s for pizza. Two weeks after that, Emma took Andrew to Chi Omega’s spring semiformal. And then, the two were as inseparable as Melly and Teeny had once been.

  When it came to incalculable odds, Melanie would have rather had the bad luck to lose her leg in a shark attack than have her daughter date her mortal enemy’s son.

  God had a sense of humor.

  Obviously.

  Melanie hadn’t actually seen Tennyson since running into her when Bronte got married fifteen years ago. Even then they’d stared at one another and disappeared to the opposite sides of East Ridge Country Club. This past year, when Kit and Melanie went to parents’ weekend, Tennyson went to Saint Croix. When they’d traipsed up to Fayetteville to see the LSU Tigers take on the Hogs, Tennyson had skipped the game and gone skiing in Park City. Tennyson had taken Emma and Andrew to Jackson Hole right after Christmas that past December, and Melanie had seen pictures of her once-upon-a-time best friend, but she hadn’t had to actually face her.

  But that would change next week when they went to graduation. Emma and Andrew had planned a big party for after the ceremony. Tennyson would be there.

  “Wish me luck,” Kit said, emerging from the bathroom looking as handsome as ever, even if his eyes were slightly squinty and his hairline a bit thinned. Time had been gracious to Kit Layton, that was for certain. He still turned heads when he entered a room, his blue eyes vibrant against the craggy, tan face, his lean physique commanding, his teeth bright when he flashed a smile.

  “You don’t need luck,” she said, allowing her lips to curve as she slid her gaze over her husband in his best suit. Still such a babe.

  “You always say that,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Because I believe it. You’re good at what you do.”

  Thanks to her father gifting her money and the acreage right off the Red River before he died and Kit’s innate talent for developing property into profitable ventures, the company she and Kit had started when they’d first married was flourishing. Early on, Melanie had worked elbow to elbow with her husband to build their property-development company. With her degree in accounting and Kit’s marketing acumen, they’d given birth to some of the most successful housing developments in South Shreveport. The venture Kit was currently working on encompassed a development based on their favorite beach-vacation community, harkening back to days of old when neighbors met in a common area and activities promoted tight-knit relationships. Instead of going for the pastels-and-beach vibe, Kit had envisioned something more native to northwest Louisiana, focusing on natural flora and fauna with hints of rustica, like a “farmers’ market colliding with an upscale state park.”

  Right as Kit turned to say something to her, his phone rang. His mouth twitched into something pleasing as he clicked the button. “Hey, Char, I’m about to leave now. You pick up the boards from the printers? They do them right this time?”

  Melanie watched as his face reflected his approval at what the other person was saying on the line. Charlotte Mullins was his administrative right-hand woman, who he’d hired last year when his longtime assistant had retired to New Mexico to be closer to her grandchildren. Charlotte was the cousin of one of Melanie’s Junior League friends and had moved to Shreveport to start her life over after a bitter divorce. With a degree from Wharton�
��s business school and a desire to not be part of corporate America with its impossible demands on time and energy, Charlotte had agreed to work for Kit part time. That part-time job had morphed into a full-time pseudo partnership, with Kit agreeing to a hefty bonus for her if this deal went through.

  Melanie liked Charlotte. Or at least she had at first.

  Charlotte was thirty-two with long, dark hair and fit legs that came from daily tennis. Pair that with her crackling energy and sexy Carly Simon vibe, and the younger woman made Melanie feel like two-week-old cheese—once desired but now avoided when rooting in the refrigerator. It didn’t help that at times Kit seemed to anticipate Charlotte’s company more than he did that of his own wife. Melanie quickly grew tired of hearing about how smart the woman was, how men hit on her when they were out to lunch, and how Char had hiked some mountain in Colorado. Blah, blah, blah.

  So she was young, fit, and pretty? Whoop-de-freakin’-do.

  “Yeah, Heritage Woods is going to blow their minds. I can’t see how Hal wouldn’t want a piece of this. You did good, Char. After we seal this deal, we’ll have dinner and toast your brilliance.”

  Melanie turned away from Kit and rolled her eyes so hard she had a moment of dizziness.

  Kit pocketed his phone. “That was Char. We’re good to go.”

  “Her name is Charlotte,” Melanie said, trying not to sound testy but failing. Use the person’s given name, for heaven’s sake.

  Her husband made a frowny face. “I know. Anyway, I’m out of here. I’ll call you once I know something. Do you want to join me and Charlotte after the presentation? I’ll spring for the good champagne.”

  “Noah has a baseball game. It’s on your calendar.”

  Kit slid his wallet and keys into his pocket. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’ll try to make the game before it’s over.”

  “I know he’ll appreciate seeing you in the stands.”

  When Noah first started playing his freshman year, he’d been an incredible pitcher with a curve and slider that fooled the batter almost every time, but then he’d injured his shoulder in football the next year and hadn’t been able to pitch that spring. So far, his junior year had been rocky with him sitting the bench a lot and not making the travel team. Kit had gone from being involved in the dads’ booster club to barely mentioning the sport he’d once thought his son would excel in. Noah had asked to quit the team. Melanie responded with hiring a pitching coach and getting him better physical therapy for his shoulder. She didn’t raise quitters. Even if every game now felt like watching an execution—starting with hope, ending in a solemn ride home.

  Kit disappeared out the bedroom door, and Melanie picked up the piles of laundry she’d stacked on their bed.

  She walked toward her daughter’s room, now lifeless since Emma had taken all her favorite things with her when she went to college. Periodic summer and Christmas breaks brought the room back to its former state of disaster, but those times were like a summer storm—quick, brutal, and gone before a mom could blink. She placed the sweater her daughter had left behind on the shelf in her closet and then headed to Noah’s room to put away his raggedy socks.

  When she opened the door, she registered two things—Noah was still home, and Noah thought the door was locked.

  “Mom! Oh my God!” he shrieked, jackknifing up and covering himself with a towel. “You’re supposed to knock!”

  Melanie ripped her eyes from her son and focused on the baseball print she’d had matted and framed for him last year. “I-I didn’t know you were here. I thought you’d left. And why—”

  “Get out,” he yelled.

  “Noah, it’s natural—”

  “Please, Mom. Please,” he pleaded.

  Melanie tossed the stack of clean laundry onto his cluttered desk and pretty much ran from the room. She closed the door a bit too loudly and then leaned against it. She heard her son utter a word he was not allowed to use in the house, but she figured after having someone walk in on a masturbation session, she would let his use of the mother of all curse words slide.

  Why was he still home? It was eight thirty, and school had started a half hour ago.

  Then it hit her. He had an appointment with the optometrist to get fitted for his new contacts. She’d forgotten they’d agreed he would check into school afterward.

  “For goodness’ sake, lock the door next time,” she called through the closed door.

  Still a little shaky from what she’d glimpsed, Melanie made her way downstairs, where Poppy met her with a wagging tail and one of the Aquatalia boots she’d just purchased. Poppy looked so pleased with herself as she dropped the mangled suede bootie at Melanie’s feet. Her “wanna play” face was in place.

  “Poppy, no,” Melanie groaned, stooping to pick up the boot she’d just taken from the Nordstrom box last week. She’d had her eye on the boots all winter but refused to pay full price. When they’d gone on sale for 33 percent off, she’d snagged them, knowing they’d be perfect for next fall.

  Or not.

  She examined the damp boot, noting Poppy had gnawed on the heel. She glanced around and spied the right boot in the center of the living room. Poppy had chewed a big hunk off that one.

  “Son of a b,” Melanie muttered under her breath, wanting to reach out and smack the good-natured retriever. Poppy was still like an overgrown puppy, given to her kids five Christmases ago only because she could think of no other gifts for them. They’d been thrilled with Poppy—there had been tears and a precious video that went semiviral. Noah and Emma had vowed to walk her and bathe her and love her . . . and that had lasted about a week. After that, Poppy had become yet another one of Melanie’s responsibilities. A cute responsibility, but another to-do on her list.

  “Bad dog,” Melanie said, picking up the boot and making a mean face. “Bad Poppy.”

  Poppy’s happy puppy face disappeared as she hunched down, shamed.

  And that made Melanie feel bad because Poppy didn’t know her new chew toy was a pair of expensive boots Melanie had yet to wear. And the dog hadn’t opened the closet and walked in. No, Kit had left the closet door ajar, giving the dog entrance into the forbidden cavern of a thousand smells. Poppy had already chewed up one of Kit’s driving moccasins and a scarf that Kit’s mother had given her. No real loss on that one, though. His mother had atrocious taste.

  “Let’s go outside, Poppy,” she said, walking toward the mudroom that led out into their fenced backyard. The dog cheered up and bounced toward the screened porch where her doggy door allowed her entrance into a realm where squirrels begged to be chased and neighboring dogs were prepared to chat . . . loudly.

  Melanie walked into the kitchen and frowned at the mess Kit had made at the coffee maker, drips of creamer and rogue sugar crystals. The man had never been much for cleaning up after himself . . . or ensuring he shut the closet door fully, something Melanie had reminded him to do every day for the past month. She reminded people of stuff all the time. Pick up your shoes. Don’t forget to pay your fees. Rinse the toothpaste from the sink. Don’t forget your father’s birthday.

  And if she forgot, her kids and husband always said, “Why didn’t you remind me?”

  Like she was in charge of everyone’s life and decisions.

  She tired of being the person she was. People called on her to be on every committee, saying, “You’re so organized, Melanie. You can get so much done.” She went from meeting to meeting, chairing this and that. But no one ever asked her to brunch. Or to a girlfriend weekend. Or to go shopping . . . unless it was for supplies for Chatman House or the battered women’s shelter.

  If she said no more often to committees, she might be invited to drink mimosas at the club. If she stopped being the responsible one, maybe she would be more fun. Spontaneous women wanted fun people to be their “ride or die.” She wasn’t sure what that meant—she’d seen a meme on Instagram—but it had to be better than doing spreadsheets for the PTSA budget.

  Darn it. She wanted
to be in someone’s squad.

  Melanie wiped up the mess at the coffee bar, then set the juice glass and coffee mug in the sink for Louisa. Her housekeeper of fifteen years would be there later that day, likely with some banana bread for Noah because he’d mentioned not having any in a long time. Louisa spoiled Noah more than anyone.

  Melanie turned as her son dashed by the kitchen, hooking his backpack with two fingers and heading toward the garage without as much as a glance at her. He was a missile locked on to a target.

  “Hey, don’t you need breakfast?” she asked.

  “I’ll get a protein shake,” he called, not looking back.

  She followed him. “What about your lunch?”

  His neck was as pink as her favorite lipstick. “I’m not hungry, Mom.”

  The garage door rose, and her son stood and waited, his back to her. He wasn’t going to face her. His parting words had said as much. She lamely offered, “I’m happy to fix you a sandwich.”

  He shook his head and ducked under the aluminum garage door sliding up. “Bye.”

  “You know it’s natural, Noah. You have to look at me eventually,” she called, clutching her soft cardigan across her breasts as she moved to the edge of the garage.

  Noah climbed into his truck, tossing the backpack into the passenger seat. “But not today.”

  He closed the door and fired up the truck, shifting immediately into reverse. The sound of the dual exhaust he’d had put in with his Christmas money never failed to unnerve her. Sounded like a motorcycle gang. Melanie gave a half wave as Noah backed a bit too recklessly down their driveway.

  “Great,” she said to herself, catching Coco out of the corner of her eye. The older woman was gardening, wearing shorty shorts, a skimpy tank, and kitten heels. Good Lord.

  “Hey, Melanie,” Coco called, giving her a wave.

  “Morning, Coco,” she returned before picking up a magnolia leaf the size of a saucer that had skidded into her garage and depositing it in the trash can. “Have a good day.”

  Not waiting for a response, Melanie closed the garage just as Poppy started a high-pitched barking frenzy that signaled a threat in the backyard. Likely just a mama cardinal bringing breakfast to its babies in the Ligustrum on the corner of the house. Poppy alerted them to all intruders, big or small. As Melanie passed the catchall desk in the mudroom, she heard a ding.