by Talley, Liz
But a wedding in less than three months was daunting if not out-and-out harrowing. One of the ladies in her book club had a daughter who’d gotten married last fall, and the event had dominated every aspect of the entire year. From haggling over event space to family histrionics over seating to something called a house party, Esme Roemer had just about gone nuts. And she’d had almost eighteen months to plan the wedding. How in all that was holy was Melanie going to pull this off?
Of course, Tennyson had volunteered to help split the cost of the wedding, but that would come with a huge, huge price tag because there were strings all over that offer. Not strings. Straps. Big, strangling straps that would cut off her airway. Because Tennyson would want her hands all over the wedding. She’d be weighing in on everything from calligraphers to wedding bands. Melanie knew this because they’d had their high school graduation party together. Melanie’s suggestion of a casual beach bash was quickly overridden in favor of Tennyson’s vision—a southern lawn party.
They’d wore linen and seersucker with fancy hats and made bets on the Kentucky Derby. After a horse had to be put down on the track, Melanie had cried for a good twenty minutes and then drank too many mint juleps. And then she’d gotten totally smashed and thrown up in the pool. Her mother had been livid and had ordered everyone out of the backyard, even the white-gloved waitstaff Tennyson had talked Melanie into spending her graduation money on. Melanie could still remember the smell of sour bourbon and the way they’d brought a curtain out on the track to prevent people from seeing them put down the poor horse. So, yeah, she’d partnered with Tennyson for an event before and learned the hard way that some people had no compunction about steamrolling the other. Yeah, Melanie had been a doormat long ago, but she’d long since learned how to be a steel blockade when it came to people smacking her down.
Except your mother. And your family. And every person who asks you to serve as a chairperson.
She thumped that little gnat of truth out of the way and smiled as her messenger dinged.
You up, jellybean?
Hillary.
Couldn’t sleep. You know how it is after a party. Wiped out, but a million things going through my mind. Or maybe her being up was more about the fact that her husband wanted to have sex, and she didn’t want to. Because she wasn’t slim enough or sexy enough or in the mood enough. Maybe she needed to go to the doctor and get some testosterone or estrogen or whatever made a woman want to roll in the hay . . . or rather four hundred thread count sheets. Or maybe she just needed to lose the extra premenopause pounds. One of her friends had gone on a diet, lost fifteen pounds, and said afterward she’d had more sex in one month than she’d had in two years. Maybe Melanie needed to up her commitment to weight loss for more than just looking good in a dress.
I remember, but it’s been a while. Mom told me about the cake and the dog. Bummer.
That was an understatement.
Tennyson.
That’s all she would need to type—her sister totally understood. Hillary had been in town when all the crap with Tennyson had gone down, and, of course, she’d been there for the wedding.
Hillary sent a funny GIF of a diva Hollywood star walking into a room, dropping her fur coat, and taking her gloves off one finger at a time. It was so much like Tennyson, Melanie laughed.
Bingo.
Melanie smiled as she typed the next response. God, she missed her sister so much. Over the past year, their time together got smaller and smaller. Hillary didn’t like company, and she was an excellent liar—all people who struggle with eating disorders are. They lie to themselves, and they lie to others. Hillary pretended she was getting better, but Melanie knew she wasn’t. She’d tried to intervene, but both her mother and Hillary had erected barriers. At one point, Melanie had threatened to call the authorities and report her mother for essentially letting Hillary kill herself, but her sister had threatened to move back to Baton Rouge. Melanie had relented when her sister promised to go back to the outpatient therapy program, but that had lasted only a few months.
I missed you. Especially tonight. Emma looked so pretty. Can you believe she’s getting married?
Little bubbles appeared as her sister typed. And then they stopped. Melanie waited a full two minutes, but Hillary didn’t respond.
You there?
Nothing for another minute.
Alarm curled around her heart and sneaked up into her throat, clogging it. Her sister’s health issues were sometimes scary, and she’d had a few episodes that had necessitated a trip to the ER. The prognosis wasn’t great because Hillary’s organs had starved for too long, but so far her sister was managing. She had good, consistent care and counseling that helped her deal with her diseases. Still, at times, Melanie felt fear tear through her at the thought of losing her sister. She wasn’t sure if she could survive being left behind with their mother.
From the very beginning, Hillary had been the anomaly in the driven, acerbic, somewhat disillusioned Brevard family. Her mother liked to say Hillary was born without a single sound. Even after the nurse had smacked her behind in an effort to issue a cry, the newborn hadn’t made a peep. She’d merely opened her blue eyes and peered around as if she were surprised she even existed. As a baby, her sister was placid and content, and as a child, she was friendly and kind. But when she became a teen, it became obvious Hillary was too tender to withstand the onslaught of ugly in the world, including the pressure exerted by an exacting, ambitious mother. Plump, pleasant, and oddly charming, Hillary seemed too good for the world she lived in. Her sister had done what any survivalist would do: she’d tried to assimilate. Which meant Hillary had tried to be what she was supposed to be.
Of course, Melanie had never noticed how Hillary had lost the weight she had during her junior year of high school . . . until her biology teacher did a unit on mental health that included eating disorders.
Like a baseball winging in from right field, the realization had clonked her on the head. As a sixteen-year-old kid who had her own crap to deal with—mainly crushing pressure from her parents regarding her grades and being totally besotted with her best friend’s boyfriend—Melanie found she was ill equipped to address her sister’s binge-and-purge cycle. Even when she presented evidence of the harmful behavior to her parents, she was brushed off or set aside. Her parents didn’t want to dig beneath the foundation to look for the creepy-crawlies hiding beneath their suddenly popular and pretty eldest daughter. Instead they’d shifted their attention to Melanie’s faults, making her wish she’d kept her damned mouth shut.
Sorry. Had to go to the bathroom. I’m beat and off to bed.
Melanie gave an audible sigh at her sister’s words. Hill was okay. She paused before typing. You feeling okay?
I’m fine.
It was what her sister always said. But then Melanie realized it was what she always said, too. Hadn’t she just said as much to her husband when he’d asked if she was okay? But how did one say she was scared her world was about to fall apart when she was supposed to say she was fine?
Maybe that’s what Hillary had always understood—you didn’t tell the truth. You hid it because then everyone would leave you the hell alone.
Love you, Hilly Billy.
You too, Melly Bean.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tennyson wore the dress she’d worn to her first husband’s funeral to meet with the wedding planner. The navy St. John knit dress was classic, expensive, and easy to recognize. From what Tennyson knew about Marc Mallow, she understood he enjoyed a certain level of je ne sais quoi in a person . . . mostly because she read his Twitter feed last night, and that was part of his bio. She also knew that while the man professed to be obsessed with undefined elements, he very much would appreciate the very tangible quality of her dress.
Tennyson was prepared to like the diminutive man who seemed to be a cross of Martin Short’s character on Father of the Bride and the discerning Tim Gunn of Project Runway. That being said she knew he’d
hailed from Sarepta, Louisiana, a virtual speck on the map, and had earned his way to being prima donna of Shreveport’s wedding scene only because the man knew how to play the game . . . and could get picky mamas and pouting brides on the same page in order to produce a wedding that everyone talked about for at least a good three days after the bride rode away in the carriage, limo, bicycle, or hot-air balloon. Whichever she chose.
And, really, he was the best they could get at this late juncture.
Tennyson parked her car and stepped carefully onto the rocky driveway. She’d worn a pair of neutral Stuart Weitzman heels because they were stylish enough to suit her and classic enough to match the dress.
Marc’s office sat in a picturesque garden behind his mother’s successful floral shop. He’d had a lovely, large gazebo constructed, which served as the entrance to his building. On Marc’s Facebook page he’d professed the unusual office was in order to aesthetically blend into the beauty of the roses and fragrant climbing jasmine beneath the spread arms of the mossed oaks. That, and he loved the gazebo scene from The Sound of Music. Whimsical garden statues and blown glass à la Chihuly studded the landscape, making the overall effect a mishmash that was more The Hobbit meets Alice in Wonderland.
“Charming,” Tennyson said, coming up behind Melanie and Emma, who both stood staring at a nude statuary of Pan in which certain parts had been overexaggerated.
“Are we sure we want this man to do the wedding?” Melanie asked, shooting a side-eye at her daughter.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Mom, you have been to the weddings he’s done. They are always suited to the couple and their vision. It’s what I want.”
Tennyson ran her gaze over Melanie. Whereas Tennyson had chosen to put her boring but stylish foot forward, Melanie had gone with middle-aged matron for her look. She wore black pants that did nothing to flatter her figure because they were too big, a top that was better suited for someone who was seventy-five and owned six cats, and hair that was so severely cut she looked somehow sad. Girlfriend needed a makeover in the worst way. Melly looked more and more like her hard-assed mama than Tennyson would have ever thought she could.
Melanie turned to her. “Seriously, are you sure about this, Tee—”
“Yes, and I thought we agreed to call each other by our given names.” Tennyson walked past Melanie, not quite pissy, but close. Okay, fine. She was a bit miffed that Melanie had acted like a total jackass the night before with her cold “you don’t have the right to call me Melly” thing. And no one called her Teeny anymore anyway. That girl was so gone.
“What was that all about?” Emma inquired behind her.
“Nothing. Never mind,” Melanie said, sounding perturbed.
Tennyson pressed the buzzer, and the door swept open as if someone had been lying in wait, biding his time before sinking his well-manicured nails into a defenseless bride. It was off-putting to say the least, and Tennyson almost fell back into Emma.
“Darlings,” the man cooed, spreading his arms wide, his teeth perfectly white against his tanned skin. He stepped back, holding the door. “Come in, come in.”
Marc Mallow was three inches shorter than Tennyson, and likely a good twenty pounds lighter. Whipcord thin with a dramatic sweep of silver hair draped strategically over his high forehead, Marc wore tailored monochromatic clothes that looked as if he might break out into some weird Bob Fosse choreography at any moment. His glasses were square and his grooming impeccable. Shiny red Gucci loafers were his lone statement piece.
Tennyson extended her hand. “I’m Tennyson.”
Marc actually lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed a very light kiss atop the back of her hand, which was kind of gross but also sort of courtly. “A pleasure, my dear. You could very well be the bride, you know. So young and a true beauty.”
He knew who was paying the extra 20 percent, no doubt.
“Ah, this is what I missed about the South. You’re such a gentleman, but this is our blushing bride,” Tennyson said, turning and extending her hand toward Emma. She caught Melanie’s eye roll and almost laughed.
“My dear, you are indeed a radiant beauty. I will have such fun planning an exquisite, memorable day for you and your intended.” Marc enfolded a surprised Emma into his embrace.
Emma gave a nervous laugh. “Thank you. I’m so excited you agreed to help us on such short notice.”
“Oh, darling, someone is going to pay me very well for that, don’t you worry,” he said with a chuckle. He released Emma and moved past to Melanie. “And here is our mama. I can see she will put up with none of my shenanigans, as well she should not.”
Melanie stared at Marc as if he’d sprung a pair of horns from his well-coiffed head before giving him a nod. “Indeed, and I take that job seriously.”
This caused Marc to titter. “Oh, well, I will have to behave. These managing mamas are like mountain goats—a hardy bunch who pack a wallop and never go down.”
Melanie’s mouth may have twitched. Or perhaps it was gas. Either way, she managed a strained smile. “I don’t think anyone has ever compared me to a goat. This should be fun.”
Marc clapped his hands and stepped back, indicating a well-appointed area with a velvet Victorian settee, two tapestry armchairs, and a delicate coffee table filled with various large binders and a lone orchid as a reminder they sat within a garden. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” Tennyson murmured, sliding in and taking an armchair.
Emma sat on the edge of the couch, looking somewhat nervous. Melanie settled herself next to her daughter while Marc took the other armchair. He picked up a small bell, rang it, and then settled back into the chair, folding his hands across his compact stomach.
A door behind him opened, and an incredibly large woman carrying a tea tray emerged. She was a good six feet tall, wide-shouldered, with a buzz cut. She had a small hoop ring in her nose and a wide smile.
“Thank you, Donna.” Marc crossed his legs and waited as she settled the tea service on the small table to his left. “This is Donna, my assistant.”
They murmured polite hellos to the blonde giantess, who gave an adorable bob of her head along with a curtsy. “Nice to meet you, folks. I’ve brought tea, scones, and clotted cream as his majesty expects. Is there anything else, milord?”
Marc made a face and muttered something about ungrateful heifers.
Donna winked at them. “He truly loves me.”
Marc made another sour face and a shooing motion. “Get back to the salt mines before I fire you.”
Donna grinned, dropped a kiss atop Marc’s head, and saluted. “As you wish.”
She disappeared quickly for a large woman, and Marc shook his head. “My apologies. The woman is incorrigible, but magnificent at her job. I would fire her for her insolence, but then I couldn’t reach the vases on the top shelf of my storage, so . . .” He gave a shrug.
Tennyson laughed. “I think I love Donna.”
Marc sighed and passed around the small box with assorted teas. “Everyone does.”
After the tea was poured and scones sent around, Marc leaned forward and looked at Emma. “So, my dear, tell me why you want to marry this man.”
Tennyson thought it a stretch to call her boy a man, but she let that go because the why seemed rather important at the moment.
Emma tried to swallow the last of her scone but sort of choked. She lifted her tea and looked desperately at her mother as if she expected Melanie to answer. Tennyson’s once upon a time friend had been taking all this oddness in stride but didn’t seem eager to help her daughter out. Melanie likely also wanted to know the answer to why.
“Um, because I love him,” Emma finally managed after a large sip of Earl Grey.
“Well, yes, but loving someone is not a requirement for marriage, is it? One can be in love and never marry. Why do you want to don a fancy dress, spend your parents’ hard-earned money, and say vows in front of people who quibbled over whether to buy you the toaster or the crystal on
your registry?”
“I . . . well, I want to marry him. I mean, we want to make that commitment to each other because we know we belong together. We knew from almost the beginning. It was like we were meant to be.”
Melanie glanced briefly at Tennyson and looked away.
Marc made a moue of his mouth and nodded. “Just so, just so.”
Melanie uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her “I’m about to take charge” posture. “Mr. Mallow, I’m sure you have other things to do this afternoon, so let’s not waste time. My daughter is marrying, and you are the person who has agreed to make that happen. We are putting our money and trust in you, so this is more about the hows and not the whys.”
Marc tsk-tsked. “My mama goat. You don’t waste time. I like that. Yes, yes, let’s get down to it.”
Emma pulled her MacBook Air from the depths of the large tote she’d brought with her. “I have my vision board.”
Marc arched a brow. “These brides and their damned Pinterest. I do believe the internet would put me out of business if it could. Let me see, dear.”
He took the opened computer and looked it over, making little noises as he clicked and scrolled. “Lavender and absinthe. Very southern. Perhaps flaxen seersucker mixed in with the linens, even a bit of wisteria in the bouquet. Yes, yes, I like the raw linen for the table, leveled floating candles, maybe even some country ceramic vases for a more grounded feel.” He looked up at Emma and narrowed his eyes.
Her soon-to-be daughter-in-law fidgeted slightly. An uncomfortable silence sat like a fart in a PTA meeting. Finally, Marc sat the computer down and folded his hands.
“The colors are lovely, and I’m seeing a bit of nostalgia tied to this wedding. Ties to the past of who you are, who your mamas were. I think this overall feel is very fitting since your mothers were once best friends, yes?” He spread his hands, a diamond pinkie ring winking at them.