The Wedding War

by Talley, Liz

  Kit raised his eyebrows. “That’s incredibly generous of you, Tennyson.”

  “I’ve always been generous, Kit,” Tennyson purred.

  Melanie shot her a look. “You have, haven’t you? Rumors prevail.”

  Tennyson’s gaze might have been Chinese throwing stars. “Since Melly and Kit are doing the engagement party, I’ll host the wedding shower.”

  “I’m sure there will be several showers,” Melanie said, signaling the waiter so she could get another glass of chardonnay. Tennyson had moved to Shreveport. She needed a freaking bottle. “I know Mother’s garden club will want to do something. Oh, and you know your friends will want to host something, Emma. We need to get a calendar.”

  Tennyson lifted the sleeping puppy from her bag. The little thing wore a tiny diaper. Melanie blinked once. Twice. “Is that dog wearing a diaper?”

  Tennyson rooted around inside her large Louis Vuitton bag, setting sunglasses cases and lipsticks on the table. “Yes. I learned that trick from the Kardashians.”

  Well, that explained everything.

  “Here,” Tennyson huffed, setting a slim-wrapped package on the table and pushing it toward Emma. “I found this today.”

  Emma lifted the gift and unwrapped it. “Wedding Bible?”

  “By Sarah Haywood. She’s a fantastic wedding planner, but probably not able to do your wedding. It’s too short notice. Still, I called David Tutera and Kevin Lee, but, again, too short notice. So anyone worth anything is booked. I made a few calls to Dallas, but at this point, I think we’re going to have to use Marc Mallow. He’s local but tolerable. He did the Murrays’ wedding, which was written about in Southern Society magazine. Three months is not much time, but I promised him twenty percent more than his normal fee. He’s a money-hungry little beast, so he’s in. But this book will give you some things to be thinking about. We have a meeting with him in three weeks, but in the meantime, you can send him your preferences. Will that work?”

  Melanie knew her mouth had dropped open, but so did Emma’s.

  Emma snapped her mouth closed. “Oh my God, he said he’d do it?”

  Tennyson patted the now groggy pup and set it back within the depths of her purse, nestling it into an expensive-looking scarf. “Yes, so does that work for you?”

  “Absolutely,” Emma said, grinning at Andrew. “I loved the lighted trees he did for Ainsley Polk’s wedding. Oh, and the flowers were amazing. I already have a list of some ideas. I’m thinking lavender and cream for the color scheme. Perhaps a bit of spring green as an accent.”

  So much for getting a leg up on this wedding thing. Melanie closed her mouth and glanced over at Kit, who now had a furrow between his pretty blue eyes. She knew why. Dollar signs were dancing across his vision. Marc Mallow did every society wedding in North Louisiana . . . if he wished to do it. The man was as flighty and fickle as any she knew. And she really didn’t know him. She knew his mother owned the floral shop Marc always used. Don’t even suggest another florist, or he’d walk away. She knew this because one of her friends had suggested using her own friend who was a florist to do the arrangements, and Marc got up and left. That being said, Marc was the best in the area.

  The waiter appeared. “Are we ready to order?”

  “Another drink,” Tennyson said, draining the last of her double martini.

  “Right away, ma’am,” the waiter said, disappearing with a slight bow.

  Tennyson looked up and smiled. “I do love a man who does what I ask.”

  Emma’s delighted laughter was a cheese grater against Melanie’s nerves. If she could figure out a way to leave without looking as if she were in retreat, she would do it, but at this point any slinking about, even for self-preservation, would be acknowledged by her former friend with a twinkle of triumph in her eyes. So Melanie would have to sit and suffer.

  She’d come up with something to counter Tennyson’s initial move. Her nemesis had gotten a heads-up on the engagement and used that to her advantage by buying the planner, booking Marc Mallow, and offering to do the shower.

  But the game was on. And just like last time she faced Tennyson, Melanie didn’t plan on losing.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two weeks later

  Tennyson stood in the threshold of her open French doors and surveyed the area around the pool with a critical eye. She needed to get the cedar-and-stone structure sheltering the enormous hearth restained and get new furniture in place. She’d already called an outdoor-design expert in Dallas, who would arrive for a consultation Wednesday. The pro would then hire the gardening team to redesign the landscaping in time for the wedding shower. For that event, clear tents would cover the entire pool area in case a pop-up thunderstorm made an appearance, and she’d made sure there would be large fans and air conditioners to cool the late June evening. Marc Mallow was handling the catering and decorating for the wedding shower of the decade.

  “Mom, where should we put these boxes that were left in the carriage house?” Andrew asked, poking his head out from the two-story “garage” apartment that sat to the left of her property. Advertised as a mother-in-law apartment, the small bungalow-type structure was a perfect space for Emma and Andrew to live in their first year.

  “What boxes specifically?” she called back, scooping up Prada, who had just piddled on the expensive Turkish rug in her dining room. The puppy didn’t seem to understand the difference between wool and grass. She should probably invest in a puppy training book and a few vats of carpet cleaner.

  “I don’t know. Not yours. They must have been forgotten by the previous owner or something. Can I put them in your garage until they can pick them up? It’s tight quarters, and we don’t have room. Emma has a lot of stuff.”

  “I have a lot of stuff? You mean you have a lot of stuff. Like this Peloton bike you don’t even use,” Emma called out, sounding so much like Melanie that Tennyson winced. Still, their teasing banter made her smile, especially when she heard a delighted squeal and knew her boy was probably lovingly harassing his fiancée. Oh, to be young and in love.

  She’d been that once upon a time. A few times, to be exact. Hadn’t worked for her. She’d accepted that she wasn’t meant to be in a relationship. She liked her freedom, hopping over to Milan if she wanted, taking a month in the mountains, dating men who knew good champagne from the cheap stuff. She was a butterfly made to flit.

  So why in the hell was she here?

  She didn’t really understand her own inclinations sometimes.

  Seeing Melanie a few weeks ago had been surreal. Even more so was seeing Kit and remembering what it was like to be the one to sit beside him. He’d been the one guy she’d never gotten over. Well, that wasn’t altogether true. She had gotten over him. Still, there was a part of herself that held on to that torn-apart piece of first love. The girl who still lived inside her remembered the boy who’d teased her about her wild hair and bubble butt (that he proclaimed to worship). Kit had been her first for many things—first boyfriend, first love, first sexual partner—and she’d been unable to uncurl her fingers and let go of that romanticized first love.

  As much as she hated to admit it—she wasn’t good at letting go.

  Kit had broken her heart. That he’d done so with Melanie, the one person she’d thought she could always depend on, had made it somehow ten times more devastating.

  Of course, there was much neither Kit nor Melanie knew about that first year after high school, the year she stretched out her fingers and brushed them against a dream that was too big to hold on to, the year she’d tossed something away . . . and paid the price.

  Those were the days she didn’t like to remember.

  Those were days she tried to forget.

  Andrew appeared before her, his face flushed and happy, a reminder of the good things she’d done, the best being him. “Hey, we’re going out for pizza. You wanna come with?”

  Tennyson should go with them—it was Memorial Day weekend, and everyone seemed to be h
appy celebrating the launch of summer. Since she’d moved back to Shreveport, she hadn’t gone out much, electing to stock up at Whole Foods on salads and fresh fruit. She’d hired a personal trainer who worked out of a small studio, and so far she’d managed to shed nine pounds of booze and macaroons she’d put on after the divorce. Pizza with Andrew and his soon-to-be wife sounded amazingly good. There was so much to enjoy about their enthusiasm and high spirits. And pizza was her favorite cheat food.

  When Andrew had told her he was dating a girl who had grown up in Shreveport, Tennyson had been shocked. Not many high school graduates from the area made their way up to Fayetteville to her father’s alma mater. When she’d found out the girl Andrew was nuts about was the daughter of Kit and Melanie Layton, her knees had literally buckled. For months she’d heard about Emma this and Emma that, and had seen multiple pictures of them at parties, but never guessed the pretty brunette was the daughter of her former boyfriend and former best friend. Once she knew, she could see both Kit’s and Melanie’s resemblance in the young woman.

  Melanie had given Emma high cheekbones and Kit had bequeathed those brilliant baby blues and rangy physique. But Emma’s mannerisms were handed down by Anne Brevard herself. That lift of the chin, the hard dismissal when she was displeased, and the pure elegance in her movement. No wonder Andrew was putty in Emma’s hands.

  Her son was tall, dark, and serious with a quick smile and kind words. He’d always been a little awkward, a bit dorky, as if perpetually awaiting adulthood. Andrew was everything Tennyson wasn’t—easygoing but resolved, kind to a fault, and always willing to retreat to high ground rather than scrabble about in the trenches.

  But she had learned that staying low and getting her hands dirty netted results. It was a skill that served her well, something she might need to get through the next few months as she reestablished herself in a town she never loved.

  After all, Shreveport wasn’t an endgame. Her mother and father had moved to a retirement community in Texas, where her brother Heathcliff and his wife, Wendy, lived, and her sister Bronte lived right outside Natchitoches on a cotton farm. Her other two siblings—Shelley and Blake—were almost ten years older than Tennyson and lived in California and Arizona, respectively. So she had no real reason to come back where she’d started other than Andrew and whatever itchy, weird vibe had made her search out real estate in Shreveport.

  Perhaps it was the divorce that had done it. She thought after she and husband number three split she’d go back to NYC and pick up where she’d left off—shopping, tennis, and lunching. Maybe serve on a few committees, get Fashion Week passes, a place in the Hamptons—all the gal-pal glamorousness of her past life, but she found most of her friends in their midforties were now living in Connecticut or focusing on making partner at their firm. They didn’t want to go to pop-up restaurants in the Village or warehouse parties in the Meatpacking District. Not to mention, when Tennyson really examined what she wanted, it wasn’t the busy streets and flashing lights. So one night she started looking at houses in her old hometown, which were ridiculously cheap compared to the Upper East Side. The memories came back, and she began to wonder what it would be like to go home . . . to return and buy a big house in the best neighborhood. To live the life she’d always wanted as a child.

  “Mom? Pizza?” Andrew called.

  “You two go ahead. I still have to shower and make a few calls. And Prada needs a walk.”

  Emma emerged from the carriage house, brushing her hands on the long-sleeved top she wore over her bikini. A pair of athletic shorts covered the bottoms, and her brightly painted toes in the flip-flops made Tennyson feel a million years old. She hadn’t worn a ponytail in a good ten years.

  “You ready?” Emma said to Andrew, who wore just as young and slouchy a uniform with his frat shirt and lululemon shorts. Running shoes graced his feet.

  “Mom, can we bring you back anything?” Andrew asked. Always courteous, that boy.

  “Nope. I’ll have a salad. Have to get ready for this wedding.”

  “Mrs. O’Rourke, um, Tennyson, you know you look incredible, and besides, as much as I love the idea of a big wedding, I don’t know if we should . . . uh, go crazy with it. We have only a few months before the date, and we’re worried things could get too big. Maybe simple would be best,” Emma said, looking at Andrew as if she was waiting for him to agree.

  Tennyson tilted her head. “So you want me to cancel Marc Mallow?”

  “No, I just . . . well, I don’t want my parents to get stressed. My mom can be—”

  “Easily overwhelmed? I remember. Don’t worry. It will be fine. Have the wedding you want, sugar,” Tennyson said.

  Emma’s shoulders sank in visible relief. “Okay. You’re right. It’s our only one.”

  Exactly. Or maybe. But at any rate, this was her only child’s wedding, and simple wasn’t anything close to what Tennyson wanted for the nuptials, which was why she’d essentially begged Marc Mallow to be the coordinator for the event. She was thinking more along the lines of stunning. Something fabulous to set Shreveport on its ear. And it would start with the wedding shower. Melanie could host her tasteful, small gathering to announce the engagement, but Tennyson was going to blow that engagement party out of the water with her spectacular bridal shower.

  Like, literally.

  She’d already told the backyard specialist she wanted to do something with the pool. And fireworks to end the night.

  Yes, the wedding shower she hosted would set the city abuzz. She’d already determined the theme would be a Tour of Italy to accompany the honeymoon to Italy she’d be gifting the happy couple as a surprise. Tennyson knew it was over the top, but big deal. The Colorado house would sell soon, and the Manhattan apartment already had several people interested in leasing. Her monthly stipend of thirty thousand could sustain her if she was careful. So this would be a mind-blowing wedding because that’s how much her only child meant to her. He deserved the best she could give him. That was how she paid her debt. That and the checks each month. To an outsider, it likely made no sense, but to Tennyson it did. It made the only sense she could make of the mistake she’d made.

  After Kit had broken things off with her for good, Tennyson had been messed up, making one bad decision right after the other. Those years of living recklessly landed her pregnant with Andrew at twenty-three years old. Andrew’s father had been a small-time director who was—surprise!—married. Rolfe had thought he was going places, but instead he overdosed on cocaine. But before he croaked, he’d made it plain that he wanted nothing to do with the baby if she kept it. Tennyson hadn’t loved Rolfe, but she had expected him to help her in some way . . . not selfishly die. Instead the man who’d financed Rolfe’s attempt at an off-Broadway show had stepped in. Stephen Abernathy was the gentlest, kindest person Tennyson had ever known. He wanted a child more than anything and had more money than the ocean had fish, so she’d married him and given him happiness until pancreatic cancer had taken him when Andrew was four years old. Stephen had given Andrew his name and his fortune, leaving Tennyson enough to live comfortably for the rest of her life, too.

  “We’re off,” Andrew said, laughing as Emma hopped on his back. Her overgrown puppy of a son then galloped toward his monstrous F-250 with Emma squealing the entire way.

  “Damn, they’re too young.” Tennyson sighed, even though she’d proclaimed they weren’t only weeks before. Mostly because she could see that Melanie thought their children were out of their minds to wed at such an age. Tennyson agreed. Those two needed time to season, but she wasn’t going to agree with Melanie. Besides, plenty of people, including her own parents, had married right out of high school, and they were still together. Sometimes it was best to grow up together.

  Maybe that was why Melanie and Kit were still together. They had married right after college, a day Tennyson would never forget. She’d been living in SoHo, recovering from Rolfe’s overdose and the shock of finding out she was pregnant when she g
ot the invitation. She’d stared at the cream vellum in utter disbelief. For one, she had no clue Kit and Melanie had gotten engaged. For another, she couldn’t believe their effing audacity. Pain had crushed her, and she’d stayed in bed for two days, eating ice cream, crying, and watching old movies featuring women who’d been cast aside getting their revenge.

  Then she’d booked her flight to Shreveport for the wedding weekend. They’d sent the invite . . . and she was damned well going to show up.

  Andrew tooted the horn as he backed down the driveway, and it jarred her from her thoughts about the past. She gave a wave, and nearly an hour later, she sprawled on the couch, her legs freshly shaved, sipping from a nearly half-empty bottle of her favorite wine. Andrew had texted that they’d run into friends and would be home later than expected. Not that he owed her any notice.

  She’d skipped eating the salad, and the wine was already giving her that mellowness she craved. Maybe she drank too much each night, but damn it, ever since she’d divorced her third husband, she’d been lonely.

  Not that she would admit it.

  By the time the bottle was empty, she was utterly bored. Prada was snoring softly on the cushion beside her, not even bothering to be company to her.

  She should have gone with Emma and Andrew. Or called a few old friends who she swore she was going to stay in touch with but hadn’t because she’d never planned to return here. Not that any of her old crew had reached out to her since she’d returned. Hell, they might not even know she was back in town. Melanie hadn’t, and that had been fun.

  Tennyson rose, not waking the pup, and walked out back, where the pool shimmered in the dawning starlight. She wore a gorgeous silk caftan that fluttered around her ankles in the soft twilight breeze. Her hair had been colored, highlighted, and cut into a flattering shag that softened her pointy chin. Her painted toes dug into the blue slate as she walked around to the in-ground spa, dipping one foot in. She could slip the caftan off and slide into the water in just her Agent Provocateur bra and thong.