The Wedding War

by Talley, Liz

  He opened the door and stepped onto the threshold. “Good night, Tennyson. Don’t forget to lock the door behind me. Appreciate the hospitality.”

  Tennyson stuck a hand on her hip and tilted her head. “Oh, sugar, it was just a drink. Next time maybe I’ll let you frisk me.”

  His expression before shutting the door was almost wolfish. Right before he closed it all the way, he opened it and tapped the lock. “Don’t forget.”

  Then he closed the door. She walked over and turned the dead bolt, resisting the urge to part the curtains in the dining room to watch Joseph walk away.

  Well, the man had the “protect” part down.

  Now what about the serve?

  Perhaps she would get the chance to find out. Tennyson was fairly certain a warning shot had crossed her bow, the ref was standing in center court holding the ball, and the horses were in the chute thingy. Along with all the other euphemisms for “it’s about to be on” she could think of.

  She smiled and strolled toward her bedroom, switching off lights and kicking off the Louboutins that had been killing her feet all night.

  As she went, she hummed Carly Simon’s “Anticipation.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Melanie slid off her shoes and set them on the shelf in her massive closet. She’d worn the nude kitten heels for the engagement party and those went on one of the two neutral-shoes shelves. She looked down at her dress and noted a bit of dried frosting on the sheath. Sighing, she unzipped it, slid it off her body, and placed it in the dry-cleaning hamper. She caught sight of herself in the mirror affixed to the back of the closet door and made a face. The tight control top of the pantyhose pressed into her flesh, making a significant muffin top, and her knees looked saggy beneath the bottom elastic band. Her bra was serviceable, not even close to a sexy scrap of lace, and she was almost certain her neck was starting to sag into turkey territory.

  And, God, was she tired. She could see it in her face and the circles under her eyes. The way she looked, it was . . . middle-aged.

  Just a month ago she’d turned forty-six years old, but most days she didn’t feel that old. Sometimes when she was required to tell someone her age, she was surprised when she remembered exactly how old she was. The big five-oh was coming at her, and that seemed . . . wrong. She couldn’t be nearly fifty years old because that was, well, old. But now she was officially the mother of the bride. Before too long, she could be a grandmother.

  A grandmother.

  Melanie had always said she would grow old gracefully and wouldn’t be one of those women who desperately plied their face with cream and stalked plastic surgeons. She wouldn’t need a lift or tuck because she wasn’t the vain type, but staring at herself in the mirror, and thinking about a new phase of her life coming at her like a 747 coming in hot, she wondered if she needed to set up a consultation with a plastic surgeon. Her boobs weren’t pointing at her feet yet, and her behind wasn’t totally saggy, but if she didn’t start working out soon, she may be heading in that direction. She didn’t want to be a fluffy, middle-aged, tired woman.

  Then she thought about Charlotte and the way she was stealthily worming her way into Kit’s life, and that not only made her feel old but also discouraged.

  Growling at her reflection, she jerked the stupid control top down, waddled out of it, and kicked it off. It flew like a flesh-colored jellyfish and nailed Kit right in the face as he came into the closet.

  “What the fu—”

  “Sorry,” Melanie said, covering her breasts with her arms and sucking in her stomach, something she never did with Kit. Why did she feel that compunction now? She’d never been ashamed of her body, and Kit had always loved the flare of her hips, her soft breasts, and dainty feet. Or so he proclaimed when he was sexing her up.

  Kit tossed the makeshift girdle back to her. “What are those, anyway?”

  “Shape wear. It helps things stay in place,” she said.

  He started unbuttoning his shirt. “I like when things don’t stay in place. Come on over here, and I’ll show you how much.”

  Melanie wanted to slide the bra straps down her arms, unhook the clasp digging into her back, and do exactly what her husband suggested, but she no doubt had the imprint of the waistband around her midsection, and her hair smelled like étouffée. She hadn’t had a shower since that morning, and she knew she’d done her fair share of sweating as she readied the house for the event. “Uh, that sounds good, but maybe tomorrow night? Or the morning?”

  He jerked his head up, his gaze showing both irritation and disappointment. “Sure.”

  Kit turned his back, and she knew she’d made a mistake. Who cared if she was bone tired and possibly smelled like an advertisement for the Louisiana seafood industry? Her still-sexy husband was flirting with her and wanted her. “I mean, it’s just that I need a shower.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, sliding out of his pants and folding them carelessly over a hanger. Melanie’s fingers itched to match the seams and rehang the pants.

  “I don’t want you to think I don’t want you. I do.”

  “Mel, it’s fine,” he said, shrugging out of his shirt. “I’m tired, anyway.”

  But she could tell it wasn’t fine, and she felt guilty. But at the same time she was aggravated. Didn’t he know she was exhausted? She’d spent all day getting everything ready for the party, and then for the past hour, she’d seen guests out and made sure everything was turned off and put away. She still had a big stack of silver that she and Louisa would have to tackle in the morning when the housekeeper arrived. And they had an appointment with the wedding planner in the afternoon, something that was sure to drive her to drink. And Kit was miffed because she didn’t drop her panties and climb aboard?

  I bet Charlotte would.

  Her snarky inner voice made her even angrier. Why should she have to feel like she had to have sex with her husband in order to prevent him from picking up what Charlotte was laying down? She shouldn’t. Not when she was this dang tired.

  “I’m tired, too,” she said, sliding past him.

  Once upon a time, he would have looped a hand around her waist, pressed her up against the wall, and persuaded her to not be tired in a most delicious way. She’d squeal and laugh . . . and then quickly sigh. Kit knew she liked to be dominated in the bedroom—slightly aggressive seduction was her favorite game, probably because she’d grown up reading 1880s historical romances with dashing sea captains who practiced their wiles on windblown virgins. She had a weird penchant to want to be persuaded. Or maybe it was because she was in charge of so much, constantly having to handle every situation in their family that made her want to surrender control and let someone else slide into the driver’s seat.

  But now Kit seemed content to let her pass without a second thought.

  “Are you going to bed?” he called after her.

  “I just said I was tired,” she said.

  He padded out of the closet in his underwear, looking not middle-aged at all, damn him. “How about that cake-astrophe, huh? What a shit show.”

  The same words Tennyson had used.

  “It would have been avoided if Tennyson had not brought her dog. How much attention does one person need? She only totes that dog around so people will look at her.”

  “People would look at her anyway,” Kit said, pulling his toothbrush out of the holder and running water over it.

  “What does that mean?” Melanie asked, pausing at the door, stomach still sucked in, arms still wrapped around her breasts.

  “You know,” Kit said, catching her gaze in the mirror, looking slightly caught.

  “You mean Tennyson’s still pretty.”

  “I mean, yeah. She’s always been attractive and, you know, had a good body. Plus she displays it.”

  Something about his words hurt. They always did when it came to Tennyson. Mostly because Kit had chosen Tennyson first. Back when they were in high school, Kit had shown up their sophomore year, an athlet
ic, tanned sixteen-year-old with thick, blond hair, an alarmingly sexual smile, and eyes that made every girl sigh. By that time, she and Tennyson were back in school together, Tennyson having gotten a scholarship to the private college-prep school Melanie attended. Kit’s first day had sent the female population on drool alert and the male population on butt-hurt alert. Tennyson had taken one look at Kit and actually uttered mine.

  And he had been . . . for a while.

  Melanie had always taken a back seat to Tennyson, but it hadn’t bothered her because she was nothing like the temperamental, high-strung, creative beauty who was her best friend. On the contrary, Melanie was steadfast, reliable, and unremarkably pretty with a clear complexion, rich brown hair, and high cheekbones. Her pleasing countenance, compact figure, and unassuming manner was the kind that grew on a person rather than bowling them over. Melanie had no desire to be like Tennyson because she was comfy in her own skin. And in the end the tortoise had won the race, hadn’t she?

  Kit trailed her into the bedroom with a leonine grace she’d always admired. He moved with fluid movement that drew the eye as he lifted a magazine from the bedside table and tossed back the covers. In the process, he upended the decorative pillows onto the floor. Melanie bit her tongue instead of pointing out the bench at the end of the bed that had been placed there for such a purpose. Instead she pulled a nightgown from her chest of drawers and jerked it over her head, unfastening the bra beneath. She saw Kit watching her do this and knew he wondered why she was hiding herself. Melanie really didn’t have an answer. All she knew was she didn’t want to be naked in front of him. Perhaps it was because of his words about Tennyson. Or maybe it was the image of Charlotte looking at him with something just short of possession in her eyes. Or maybe it was because she felt old and flabby.

  “She’s always been stunning. I haven’t forgotten that,” Melanie said, picking up her laptop and heading toward the bedroom door.

  “I thought you were tired?”

  “I remembered that I promised Emma I would look at the wedding software she wants to buy. I don’t want to disturb you with the tapping.”

  He took off his shirt and tossed it on the floor. She tried to ignore that, too. Then he slid on his reading glasses, looking quite delicious as he opened his magazine. “You can work here. I’m going to read for a bit.”

  So neither one of them were really that tired.

  And still . . .

  Kit looked up and lowered his glasses. “Why software?”

  Melanie shrugged. “Supposedly you need software. It’s what the wedding planner will use to keep tabs on everything.”

  “Then shouldn’t the planner buy the software?”

  “Kit, I don’t really know.”

  “Just how much is this going to cost us?” he asked.

  Melanie felt her stomach tilt south. She’d been dreading this conversation. Not because she wanted to blow their retirement on Emma’s wedding, but because the preliminary research she’d done on weddings over the last few weeks had essentially inferred that no wedding was done on a budget under twenty-five thousand. Kit was very good about giving his children the things they wanted, but even he would stroke out over what she estimated this wedding might cost, even if it were done as something “simple” as her daughter requested. The thing was, Emma had no clue what things actually cost. Melanie had discovered this when she took Emma shopping for prom dresses. Conclusion—her firstborn had champagne tastes. Simple didn’t mean cheap. “I’m not sure. Don’t worry. Emma says she wants something simple and elegant.”

  Kit sighed and looked back down at his magazine, effectively dismissing her.

  Melanie padded into the living room and then the kitchen, avoiding the still damp patch created by Tennyson’s puppy. She turned on the kitchen light and nearly screamed when she saw Noah sitting at the kitchen island eating a bowl of cereal.

  “Oh my goodness.”

  “Hey, Mom,” he said, crunching away.

  “I thought you were at Matt’s.”

  “I was at Matt’s, but it was boring, so I came home.”

  “Oh, well, I wish you would have texted. Your father has a gun, you know.”

  Noah raised his eyebrows. “How was the deal?”

  “Your sister’s party was nice. I wish you would have come, especially now that I know your prior obligation was something ‘boring.’”

  “Mom, I had to be at the kickball tournament. I’m the best one on the team.” Noah then tilted the bowl, drank the milk, and poured another big bowl of something that would rot his teeth out if given the chance. It was the one thing she bought him that was absolute crap for his diet. A mother had to choose her battles.

  “So humble, too,” she said, fishing a delicate china cup from the cabinet and starting the fire under the kettle.

  “Why is Emma getting married so fast? Just seems weird, you know?”

  At last someone who agreed with her. She’d spent all night expecting someone to remark on how young Emma was to be getting married, but no one had said diddly. And here was her voice of reason—a man-child who smelled his dirty socks before putting them on and existed solely on peanut butter cups and Cap’n Crunch.

  “She’s in love,” Melanie said, reaching for the chamomile tea and scooping some into the tea ball.

  Noah rolled his eyes. “I’m never getting married. Don’t need no chick telling me every move to make.”

  “Use correct grammar, please,” she said. Then she realized she sounded exactly like her own mother and wanted to snatch the words back. This was likely the longest conversation she’d had with her son in two months, and she had to go all Japanese mother on him.

  “I don’t need no female telling me what to do,” he amended with a smart-ass grin.

  Melanie chuckled. “You already have one telling you what to do.”

  “Touché,” he said, slurping up the cereal, swiping at the milk dribbling down his chin with his bare hand. Melanie stopped herself from going to the paper towel holder and tearing off a sheet. If Noah wanted milky hands, he could dang well have them.

  “Emma told me about Mrs. Janie falling in the cake. I bet that was dope.”

  Melanie looked up. “It was actually dangerous.”

  Noah didn’t seem to care. He shrugged. “She said Andrew’s mom brought her dog in a purse. I met that woman at graduation. She’s totally bougie. And drama.”

  And again, someone who saw exactly what she did. Of course, what Noah didn’t know was that Tennyson had always been that way. He also didn’t know that half of it was an act because Tennyson was afraid people might see the real person beneath the carefully manicured surface. Beneath was the girl she’d grown up with, the one who wore brand-name clothes she’d scored at the secondhand store, the one who stood outside the country club fence and looked inside, the one who never learned to drive in high school because she didn’t want to get the hand-me-down Pinto. But Melanie didn’t say that. She settled for, “Yeah, Tennyson is a piece of work, all right.”

  “Does this mean she’s going to be, like, coming to Christmas and stuff?” He looked horrified.

  Melanie rather felt like that herself. It wasn’t like once the wedding was over, Tennyson would be out of her life. The woman had moved to Shreveport. Why exactly, Melanie wasn’t certain. And now Emma and Andrew would be living in her backyard. Holidays would be on them before she could blink. She tried to envision Tennyson at Thanksgiving or sitting next to her during the Christmas Eve candlelight service singing “Silent Night.” Then there was the thought of grandchildren.

  Dear Lord, one day they would be grandmothers, fighting to be the first to hold the little bundle of joy.

  Hell on earth.

  That’s what her life was turning into. She was getting old and fat, her husband had a side piece at the ready, her daughter was getting married, and she was getting Tennyson as an in-law. Kill me now.

  “Uh, not necessarily,” she said, hoping her words would be true. />
  “Cool. She makes me nervous or something.” He got up and set the bowl down too hard in the sink. The clank made Melanie wince. “I’m going to bed.”

  Melanie reached for him and wrapped him in a hug. The child tolerated it for .002 seconds before moving away. “Good night, buddy.”

  “Yeah, about that. How about not calling me your buddy.” At her crestfallen look, Noah stopped. “At least not around other people.”

  Melanie smiled. “I can do that. But you’ll always be my buddy. After all, you’re the only other person who thinks this wedding is crazy.”

  Noah nodded. “I’m not so dumb, am I?”

  “Never thought you were, Noah,” she said, fighting at the guilt that once again appeared to grab her by the throat and shake her. Why did her child feel stupid or inadequate? She’d felt that way much of her life and had tried so hard to make sure her children never felt as if they were not enough. Still, sometimes the things that came from her mouth, the way she pushed and managed, steered her toward that parenting style that had crippled her when she was herself a child . . . the same critical pushiness that had turned her sister, Hillary, into a virtual shadow of herself.

  “Night, Mom,” Noah said.

  “Night, bud—” She caught herself in time. “Good night, Noah.”

  Her son left, the kettle chirruped, and she poured a cup of tea while opening her email and looking for the link her daughter had sent. Melanie had pointed out that her future mother-in-law had bought her a planner, but Emma had had a friend who’d worked for an event planner one summer and insisted it was the best way to keep everything organized. And then there was something about a vision board. Emma had already started amassing a color palette and font samples on a digital vision board. Melanie had asked to see it beforehand, but Emma had been vague about it, saying she wanted to unveil it at the meeting with Marc Mallow.

  Putting on an engagement party in three weeks’ time wasn’t much harder than planning PTSA teacher appreciation or a baby shower for Millicent Hyde’s last daughter. Hire a caterer, pick up champagne, and arrange some flowers. Presto chango. No problemo.