by Talley, Liz
Her mother was brilliant at negotiating conflict . . . or rather avoiding it. Anne’s refusal to go anywhere with Tennyson required a good reason, otherwise she’d have to explain why she disliked Tennyson, and that meant rattling the skeletons in the closet. This was what had made Anne such a good attorney. She was the ultimate spin doctor.
“Okay, then. Mom, you, me, and Tennyson will go. I’m so excited,” Emma said, her face portraying exactly that. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and in that moment, Melanie didn’t think she’d ever seen a prettier girl.
Melanie knew her emotions about the trip were evident when Emma’s expression shifted to concern. “I know you and Tennyson aren’t exactly friends anymore, but maybe this will be good. After all, our two families are going to be spending a lot of time together. And whatever your past, surely you can try to be reasonable about . . . uh, being together? Find some middle ground?”
“Sure. I can be reasonable, remember? Finding your dress will be . . . fun.” Melanie managed to not choke over the word. After the meeting with the wedding planner, the thought of picking out a wedding dress with Tennyson made her feel itchy. But she would try because Emma deserved as much. And her daughter was correct—she’d have to find some middle ground. Or at the very least, learn to ignore Tennyson.
“Thank you, Mom. And who knows? Maybe you can find your way to being friends again,” Emma said over the top of the menu she’d opened. She gave Melanie a big smile, one that might have been a little sassy.
“Fat chance,” Kit whispered toward her as he bent to retrieve his napkin. When he lifted his head, he was distracted by two stilettos and a pencil skirt. “Char, you made it. We were just about to order.”
“Hello, everyone,” Charlotte said, obviously having moved through the restaurant like a viper approaching prey. Or maybe that was how it always felt—like she was stalking them, ready to strike at any moment and swallow Kit whole.
Melanie’s mother looked up and frowned, offering no greeting. Emma said a polite hello, and Melanie tried to smile. “Hello, Charlotte. Where’s your . . . uh, friend?”
She made a confused face. “Friend?”
“Brendan?”
“Oh, yeah, he couldn’t come after all,” she said with a wave of her hand.
Melanie would place a hundred-dollar bill on the bet that Brendan had never been invited. “Well, we’re glad you could join us.”
Liar.
Charlotte pulled out a chair and sank onto it. “I am, too. I never get to spend much time with Kit’s family. I see him almost every day, of course, but it’s nice to spend time away from the grind. We’ve been so busy on this new development, I’ve lost five pounds from the stress. Guess that means I can have extra chips and salsa.”
Really? She lost five pounds from stress? If that were true, Melanie should be a veritable waif. Didn’t stress make you eat? Like whole sleeves of Oreos and tubs of ice cream?
Guess everyone dealt with stress differently.
“Well, don’t worry. We’ll be getting away from the grind in Destin. You can drink piña coladas and chill at the pool when we’re not in sessions,” Kit said, handing Charlotte a menu.
Melanie went hot and then cold in a matter of seconds. Destin? What?
“Wait, when are you going to Destin?” Emma asked, dropping the menu and looking at her father.
“In two weeks. It’s the Sky Com Conference for NARED. It’s on our family calendar. Char and I will be gone for four days. We’re actually presenting a program on climate adaptations for new developments.” Kit looked pleased. He loved to present his knowledge to his colleagues; thus, he put in to host workshops every year. Last year it had been in Las Vegas. Melanie hadn’t gone because Noah had his wisdom teeth out that week.
She vaguely remembered Kit mentioning it, but then all this wedding stuff happened, and she’d forgotten all about it. Melanie wasn’t concerned about Kit going to the conference—he went almost every year. She’d even gone with him a few times, calling it a getaway from the stress of being a SAHM. Nope, the conference wasn’t the problem at all.
It was the five-pounds-lighter, hungry-for-another-woman’s-husband hussy who sat next to him nibbling a chip who was the problem.
“I just bought two new bikinis on sale at Dillard’s. I will find time to hit the beach,” Charlotte said, tossing a smile at them all before picking up her menu and scanning the offerings.
Melanie looked over at Kit. The man had to know her concerns. They’d been discussing ad nauseam their relationship and Melanie’s concern that Kit secretly desired to dump his sane, stable life and pursue something less . . . confining. Being honest was the therapist’s constant decree, and Kit hadn’t held back on admitting he was flattered by the attention the younger women bestowed on him and troubled by Melanie’s refusal of him, particularly in the bedroom. His words, not hers. So why hadn’t he thought to mention that he was plopping himself down in the land of temptation in two weeks’ time? With a younger woman who seemed to have set her cap for him? Wouldn’t that have been flipping honest? Wouldn’t that have been worth addressing with their marriage counselor?
“I guess I forgot about this conference. The wedding has seemed to dominate the conversations lately. I can go with you. I haven’t been to the beach in years,” Melanie said, sliding a look to her mother, who she could feel tightening with suspicion. If anyone had cause to safeguard against potential scandal, it was her mother.
“When is the conference again?” Emma asked, her brow furrowed.
Kit pulled out his phone. “June twenty-fifth through the thirtieth.”
“The shower Tennyson is hosting for me is on the twenty-eighth,” Emma said.
“Well, pumpkin, I can’t be there. I’m sorry. This has been on my calendar for eight months. Our presentation is on the morning of the twenty-ninth. No way can I be in both places, and as much as I love celebrating these nuptials, I have to pay for them. So . . . I have to mind my career. Lots of big names roll into this conference.” Kit spread his hands out in an apologetic manner. “But your mom will be there.”
Melanie couldn’t believe what was happening. Her husband was going off to the beach with Miss Hot Pants, and she was stuck with Tennyson and her Tour of Italy shower? At that moment all she could think about was the bridal-shower scene from the movie Bridesmaids where Kristen Wiig’s character punched the giant cookie and tried to empty the giant chocolate fountain. Because Melanie felt really close to losing it herself. Just punching whatever came her way.
Maybe it would be Charlotte.
She’d really love to punch Charlotte.
“Mom? You have to come to my shower. You’re my mom,” Emma said, doing that hurt-puppy look that wasn’t totally pathetic but was still very effective.
“Of course I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Emma smiled and went back to deciding on her dinner, but her mother caught her eye. Anne’s mouth was a hard line, and as she slid her glance to Charlotte, Melanie knew exactly what her mother was conveying—a snake is in your henhouse.
The snake in question set her hand lightly on Kit’s forearm. “Have you had the margaritas here? Should I get the mango or the traditional? You always know the perfect thing to order.”
Kit literally preened. “I know my way around tequila. Now this one”—he leaned over and pointed to something on her menu—“is a top-shelf reposado. I had it in Cabo once, but this one is a good añejo tequila. It’s been aged longer than the reposado. But in margaritas it doesn’t matter because the quality of the tequila is masked by the citrus fruit.”
“See? How do you just know this stuff?” Charlotte marveled.
Melanie wanted to gag. Like, literally gag at the ridiculousness in front of her. But the thing was, she didn’t know how to deal with it. She could be direct and ask Charlotte why she was constantly hitting on her husband, but Charlotte was clever and never did anything overt—just light touches and adoration. Mel
anie could come off looking like a jealous shrew and perhaps a bit crazy. Or she could play dirty with Charlotte, going toe to toe with the seduction and flirtation, but the thing was, she didn’t know how. She and Kit had grown together over the years with a steadfastness that was true, solid, and deep. She’d never had to use her wiles or trickery to make him fall in love with her. She’d never learned to flirt.
But she couldn’t let this go on.
“You know what? I’ll come to Destin with you on Wednesday night and leave Friday morning . . . as long as everything is good here. Tennyson is hosting this shower, and all I have to do is show up. It will be nice to sink my toes into the sand. You two can work, and I’ll play. You said swimsuits were on sale at Dillard’s?” Melanie directed the question to Charlotte, who looked . . . perturbed.
Good.
Kit was hers. She’d taken him from one conniving woman, and she could damned sure keep him from another. If Charlotte wanted to play this game, Melanie was ready. She might not be a size 4 who lost weight when stressed and never ate cake (and climbed effing mountains in her spare time), but she was the mother of Kit’s children, the keeper of the fires, and the person with a prenup that would require Mr. Christopher Layton to give up a substantial amount of money if he jumped ship.
And Kit liked money.
“Oh, yeah, they do have them on sale, and I’m sure they have one-pieces in your size,” Charlotte said with a smile.
Melanie curled her fist.
Emma tilted her head and looked at Charlotte. “Um, my mom wears regular sizes. They have her size everywhere.”
“I didn’t mean anything like that. I just remember that she prefers one-pieces. She wore one to the Fourth of July party last year, so I was just confirming that they have a lot of different sizes on sale. You know, so she could find one. I didn’t mean it as an insult, Melanie.”
Right.
“That’s fine. Let’s order.” Melanie lifted a hand and waved to Juan, who was setting their drinks on his tray.
“But first, drinks,” Kit said, looking tired. And perhaps very aware of what just went down. Perhaps he was even seeing what happened when a man left the door open a crack. Because Charlotte had barreled through. Now he had to decide if he would fish or cut bait.
“We definitely need drinks,” Melanie said, feeling very much like a knife was swinging her way.
CHAPTER TEN
Tennyson watched as Emma walked from the dressing room toward the raised platform with the triple mirrors, wearing the Cristina Ottaviano gown she’d found online and fallen in love with.
The simple white gown wasn’t “the” dress, but it was very beautiful nonetheless.
Emma glowed as she lifted the detachable back drape, twirling slightly. “What do you think? I like that it’s so simple without any embellishment. Besides, the train comes off for the reception.”
Melanie sucked in a breath, reached for the box of Kleenex to Tennyson’s left, and pretty much dissolved into a ball of emotion. Her former friend would be little help in this endeavor. Every gown she’d seen on Emma’s Pinterest page, which they perused on the drive over from Shreveport, had been perfect for Emma. Tennyson was a bit more discerning on what would suit her son’s bride. Emma needed something that wasn’t so plain and unembellished.
“It’s a lovely gown, and I agree with you on the simplicity. The style suits your figure. But since we’re here, why not try on a few others. Becky?” Tennyson shot a look at the stylist who hovered on the perimeter, allowing the bride her spotlight.
The stylist nodded, and Tennyson could see that Becky understood Emma needed to try on something more . . . her. “We have a Serge Jevaguine trunk show coming in a week, but the gowns are already here. The dresses are, well, they’re wonderful and inspired by the ballet. Are you opposed to trying shades other than white?”
Emma looked to her mother.
“Well, I think she prefers a white or ivory, but she can try whatever she wants,” Melanie managed with a sniffle. Her eyes were red rimmed, which just matched the terrible patterned shirt she was wearing with a pair of very nontrendy capri pants. Melanie truly needed some fashion guidance. If the woman didn’t hate her so much, Tennyson would be willing to take her to the women’s department and help a bitch out. But she doubted Melanie would appreciate the opportunity.
“I have one I think will be lovely on her. Let’s try it and see what you think, Emma,” Becky said before disappearing into the depths of Stanley Korshak.
Emma studied herself in the mirror. “I mean, I really love this one. It’s so elegant and refined. But I don’t know. Is it too . . . severe for me?”
Tennyson stood and walked to her future daughter-in-law, eyeing the elegant fabric. Cristina Ottaviano was an excellent designer, but Emma had glimpsed exactly what Tennyson had seen plainly—the dress was too old for her with a sophistication that wasn’t Emma at all.
Becky came back with a fluffy ball gown. She saw Emma’s forehead crease. “I didn’t really want something so . . . big.”
The stylist grinned as she hooked the dress on the stand, unzipping the protective bag. “I understand, but I think it’s important to try a few styles. You look lovely in the trumpet gown, but I have a hunch this might suit you better. Note the cascading pale-pink silk-and-pearl flowers on the bodice, which spill down elegantly over the sheer organza. Your bosom is tastefully covered, but there’s some sexy sheerness, and then there is the skirt—multiple layers of the softest tulle. The back is the most magnificent one I’ve seen in a while. Enormous attention to detail in this dress that is youthful, elegant, and, well, one of my favorites.”
Emma eyed the gown and nodded. “Okay. I’ll try it.”
Off the two went, leaving Tennyson alone with Melanie. They hadn’t said much to each other all day, instead directing their conversation to Emma. It had been an awkward ride over, and Tennyson had several times over the course of the three-hour ride in the limo and the rushed luncheon at her favorite sushi restaurant thought she should have stayed at home. But she needed a mother-of-the-groom dress that didn’t make it look like she was sixty-five years old. And, Lord help her, but Melanie probably needed one, too.
Melanie had always had a tendency toward dressing conservatively. Mostly because her mother liked all things covered, so Melanie had followed that directive. Yet the sheer bad taste the woman had been displaying lately, in an effort to cover up the weight she’d gained or whatever, made Tennyson too nervous to leave her to decide one of the most important elements of the wedding—Emma’s dress.
Nope.
“Have you already found your dress for the wedding?” Tennyson asked after a good three tense minutes of silence, hoping Melanie hadn’t already bought a MeeMaw dress to wear with her favorite clodhoppers.
“Uh, I will probably pick up something at Dillard’s. I was hoping to lose a few pounds before . . . why am I even telling you this? I’m fine.” She wiped a finger beneath each lower lash and looked grumpy as a codfish.
“I’m going to look for mine while we’re here. The store carries a great selection of designers. You might be able to find something special,” Tennyson said, trying to be diplomatic. She was tired of Melanie’s anger. Okay, yeah, Tennyson deserved a lot of it, but wasn’t Melanie tired of being hostile? How much longer was she going to be a blazing bitch?
“I saw the price tags on the dresses when we came in. Two thousand dollars for a simple sundress? No thank you.” Melanie pulled out her phone and tapped on the screen.
“But it’s your daughter’s wedding. You’re not really going to wear an ugly dress off the sales rack from somewhere in Shreveport, are you?”
Melanie looked up at her. “Who are you anymore? What’s wrong with a dress from Dillard’s? You used to think Dillard’s was great, remember?”
Tennyson stared down at her. “I’m exactly who I want to be.”
“And that’s someone who does . . . what exactly? Flits around with no purpose? Have y
ou even had a job? Or was your career merely marrying wealthy men and spending their money? Or maybe it’s marathon champagne drinking?” She glanced pointedly over at the empty flute on the table next to the seating area.
“I like champagne.”
“I think everyone knows that. Not to mention you’re a walking advertisement for plastic surgery. Oh, and particularly good at making everyone else feel cheap and . . . fat. If that was your goal for coming back to Shreveport—to show everyone how rich and tacky you are—mission accomplished.”
Tennyson laughed, even though deep inside Melanie’s words were a pair of brass knuckles delivered to her gut. Ouch. “Jealous much, Mel?”
“Of you?” Melanie asked, doing her best Anne Brevard impression, chin high, eyes cold. “Hardly.”
“But you are. I can see that as plain as a billboard. But I can also see you love being a martyr, don’t you? You probably get a hard-on from everyone in the PTA saying ‘Melanie can do it. She’s so good at doing all the things,’ and I bet secretly you enjoy bowing and scraping to your kids, setting out the perfectly cut watermelon in pretty glass bowls, planting herbs you’ll never use, hiding your smoking habit so everyone will think you’re the perfect wife and mother. But, God, Melly, you’re so boring.”
Melanie’s cheeks suffused with color. “And you’re a blow-up, plastic wannabe who likes to flaunt money. But then again, that’s what the nouveau riche do. Bless your heart, you just don’t know any better, do you?”
Okay, gloves off. “At least I get laid. I bet you haven’t given Kit a blow job since the Obama administration.”
Melanie’s whole face turned red. “But I bet you’d like to, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, sugar, been there, done that,” Tennyson said.
Melanie’s face showed the emotional blow she’d dealt, but there was nothing more to be said because at that moment Emma and Becky came into the room.