The Wedding War

by Talley, Liz

  Yes. Terrific mother. That’s what everyone said. She’d spent the last twenty-odd years assuring that no one could ever look askance at her parenting skills. She volunteered, hand-sanitized, and organic-snacked her way into the Motherhood Hall of Fame. Yet her sister was dead, her mother was a raging bitch, and now her husband was leaving her because he wasn’t fulfilled. But she was a good mother, by golly. There was that.

  “Well, thank you, Kit. I really appreciate that. You can leave now.”

  He made a face. “I know you’re upset.”

  She angled her eyes to the corner of the bathroom as if she were in contemplation, and then she looked at him and shrugged. “Um, no. I’m not upset. In fact, I think it’s an excellent idea. You go. I don’t want you to have to worry about the obligations of this house. I wish you well. Enjoy an apartment and the swimming pool. Hey, some even have a fitness center. Living away from all this will be awesome.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “No, no. Feel free to have some fun while you’re on your trial separation. You know, seize the day and all that. I hear the singles scene in Shreveport is dead, but a guy like you—almost fifty years old with a great one-bedroom apartment—ought to be just the thing. I hope you get fulfilled. I hope you get fulfilled hard, buddy.”

  “Mel, come on. Think of this as another form of therapy. Let’s just give each other some space, you know? It’s a trial. Not permanent.” Kit came to her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Take your hands off me,” she said, shrugging him off.

  He did as she asked, looking a little hurt that she’d been so firm with him.

  She exhaled and inhaled a few times. “I’m not stupid. I know why you want a ‘trial’ separation. Because it gives you permission to ‘fulfill’ yourself, and if I agree that it’s some form of therapy, your divorce attorney will call it mutually agreed upon. Like it was both our idea, right? But here’s the thing, Kit. I know you won’t really divorce me, because I have the money and an ironclad prenup.”

  “Oh, come on,” Kit said, his hurt fading, irritation taking its place. “The whole prenup thing? You said we didn’t have to worry about that. Remember? I signed it only to satisfy your father.”

  It was then that Melanie smiled. “Well, you also said vows you’re willing to toss aside. I suppose I said some things I didn’t mean, either. The prenup stands. Thank goodness for my daddy.”

  Kit’s features tightened.

  Melanie crossed her arms. “You’re not stupid, Kit. You’re not willing to give away half the company and almost all the assets we’ve built just to schlep around with Miss Independent Size 4. Have you told her that you’re only worth about twenty percent without me?”

  “Mel, come on.”

  “I bet you haven’t. I bet she’s talking about all the fun she’ll have when y’all get married. But she just doesn’t know, does she? All that delicious money belongs to the Brevards.”

  “I have money,” Kit said, like a kid who’d been told no dessert until he cleaned his plate. Now he was the one in a snit.

  “You do have some. In fact, I actually used your account to pay for the wedding. Now, don’t let the door hit you on the ass when you leave.” Melanie opened the door and made a grand goodbye sweep of her arm.

  “Mel,” he cajoled.

  “Oh, and before you leave, pick your fucking toenail clippings up off my bathroom floor, you disgusting pig.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Something was wrong with Melanie. That much Tennyson knew.

  Of course, it wasn’t like drag queens and booze were her former friend’s favorite things to begin with, being that she was horribly repressed and superconcerned about what everyone thought about her, but the woman had been somber as a mortician throughout most of the night. Not even the edible panties and the penis mixer had drawn a smile.

  And Melanie was dressed like a ninja—black pants, black shirt, and no statement piece to break it up. Just plain black.

  Bella, the six-foot-five drag queen with gorgeous skin and glitter eyelashes, sauntered by. “Still no bingos at this table? Lord, you people need to step it up. Ain’t one of my tables yelled bingo yet.”

  Tennyson pointed to her card. “I think I got a dud. Can you rig it so I can win?”

  Bella grinned, her teeth white and straight . . . and big. Like a vampire’s. “How much money you got, sugar?”

  “I’m sure she’ll show you all her bank statements if you ask nice,” Melanie muttered, looking up at the screen where Ginger and Candy, each clad in a sequin ball gown and tiara, ran the bingo board. Melanie narrowed her eyes and looked back at her card.

  “Uncalled for,” Tennyson said in a singsong voice, motioning the waitress over so she could order another cosmo.

  She and Melanie had been stuck at a table in the back because there was no room at the reserved table. Two of Emma’s friends who hadn’t thought they would make the festivities arrived at the last minute, so she and Melanie had agreed to sit at the back table with Milford Mann, a retired mail carrier who’d known Tennyson’s father; Justin and Jolie Green, a middle-aged couple from Plain Dealing; and Frank Something or Other, a rough-around-the-edges farmer who kept looking at Bella like she was a fillet and he’d just tied a bib around his neck.

  “Bite me,” Melanie said, looking directly at Tennyson.

  “What’s with you tonight?” Tennyson made a face.

  Melanie gave her a withering look and turned her head.

  “Looks like your friend is in a huff over not winning that last round. A toaster is a nice prize, and she was so close,” Milford said, happily stamping N-32 after one of the emcees pulled it from the hopper.

  “Very true,” Tennyson said, stamping her own N-32 and ignoring Melanie’s sour face.

  “You have a daughter getting married, huh?” Jolie asked Tennyson.

  “Son. It’s Melanie’s daughter, Emma, he’s marrying on Saturday,” Tennyson said, straining to hear the next number. She was one away, and if she bingo’d, she would win a case of Pepsi and free chicken wings at the Old Port Diner for a whole year.

  Come on, O-69.

  Ginger pulled another number from the hopper and made an O with her mouth. Then she fanned her overexposed cleavage. “Oh, lovies, you won’t believe it, but it’s my absolute favorite number. Oh, yes, it is.”

  Tennyson stamped her card.

  “O-69, y’all!” Ginger called out.

  “Bingo!” Tennyson shouted, leaping up and giving a fist pump. She then did a little dance, and Emma’s table broke out in applause. “Woo-hoo!”

  Bella, grin as big as a gator’s, came over and eyeballed her card, then she pulled out one of those confetti poppers and pulled the string. Streamers and glitter caught in Tennyson’s hair, and Bella gave her a kiss on the cheek, no doubt leaving a hot-pink imprint. The rest of the room, sans Emma’s table and her own, groaned in defeat.

  “Chicken wings,” Frank said with a gleam in his eye. “They have really good ones. You’re a lucky woman to get them free for a whole year.”

  Tennyson laughed. “I don’t really care for wings. Why don’t you have the prize, Frank? I don’t mind.”

  “Naw, I couldn’t take your prize,” he said, blushing when Bella walked by and lightly raked her long nails over the back of his neck.

  “I want you to have it. I’m not going to use it, anyway,” Tennyson said, giving him a smile. Something about his embarrassment and longing for Bella made her heart warm. She knew how it felt to be tempted by someone who didn’t seem to make a good deal of sense. Of course, she’d gotten her hot cop. And the chase had been such fun.

  “Okay, then. I’ll gladly take those wings off your hands, little lady,” Frank said, his cheeks still heated.

  For the past two months, Tennyson had found herself growing more and more attached to the police officer who showed up several times a week to check things out around her house. His favorite place to check for trouble was t
he bedroom. He was always so thorough in his search.

  So odd to think how much she had been enjoying her pared-down life. With Emma and Andrew steps away and a pseudoboyfriend sprawled on her couch watching SportsCenter, she was living a life close to what her parents had led—mundane, somewhat boring, but also comforting. Her former life had been one most only dreamed of—box tickets at the Met, private planes to Paris, personal shoppers, and a complete house staff—but over the past few months she’d discovered she didn’t miss her old life one bit. Something about squabbling over who should get the last bite of Halo Top ice cream, deciding who got to choose the next movie, and cleaning her own oven felt fulfilling. She didn’t want to put a label on what she had with Joseph because she didn’t want to rock the boat, but so far, she felt like she’d found a place to belong.

  Not only had Joseph given her a sense of contentment, but he’d turned out to be a great listener, offering sage advice when she grappled with relationships or a sense of purpose. Just last week he’d made a suggestion that had sort of blown her boat out of the water. They’d been talking about her failure to get her degree and what her upcoming year might look like once the wedding was over. Tennyson had admitted that she didn’t have a direction.

  “Why don’t you go back to school? You could go to LSUS or even Centenary. What is it you studied?” he’d asked, looking up from the steak he was pulling from the marinade. He’d started growing a beard, which was hot as hell. Maybe they should let those fillets marinate a bit longer while they played house in her king-size bed.

  “Yeah, I majored in theatre. I’m not sure they have a degree program in that at LSUS.”

  “Maybe not, but there are movie studios that come into Shreveport and film. They’ve done a lot of films here. My cousin does extra work. Or if that doesn’t do it for you, you could use some of your theatre experience in other ways. Or you could always go into something like counseling or being a drama teacher. I think you’d be terrific as a teacher.” He capped the bottle of olive oil and placed it back into her pantry, carefully wiping away any drips on the marble counter. Joseph was very conscientious. She liked that about him.

  “Me? Oh, I couldn’t teach kids these days. They’re animals. Don’t you watch YouTube?”

  Joseph laughed. “Um, I’m pretty sure those are isolated incidences. How about working in counseling? You said you had a lot of regrets in your past. The counselors who have lived the life and walked the walk are the ones who are most effective because they’ve been there. I mean, I don’t know what experiences you’ve had, but you might rely upon the mistakes you’ve made to clear a path for the future. Unless you like just floating around in the pool and worrying about what series you’ll watch next on Amazon?”

  “Are you implying that I have no purpose?” she asked, her pride taking a punch with his words. It wasn’t as if she were useless. She did stuff. But then Melanie’s words from the bridal gown shopping trip came back to her. Have you even had a job? Or was your career merely marrying wealthy men and spending their money? Or maybe it’s marathon champagne drinking? Is that what people thought about her? That she had no purpose beyond handing over her credit card or getting her nails done?

  “No. I’m not saying that at all. I’m just trying to challenge you because I think you need that in your life. You were made to be of use. I see that in everything you do or touch. You enjoy the process. So this isn’t me dragging you down, it’s me lifting you up so you can see that you have a lot of talents that could be put to use.”

  Tennyson had bitten her lip and thought about his words. They’d stayed with her all through dinner, through reruns of Seinfeld (because Joseph had never seen the series), and after they lay sated in her sheets, breathing hard, coming down from another amazing bout of soul-stirring, toe-curling sex. And even still, after she pulled on his T-shirt and snuggled under the coverlet, his words pricked at her.

  To be of use. To have purpose. To apply her talents.

  The next day she’d called City Hub Volunteers and signed up to serve as a mentor. She’d gone to an orientation and made an immediate connection with the director of the counseling center, Annette Grafton. Tennyson had even revealed to Annette her deepest, darkest, guilt-ridden sin—the abortion she’d had her freshman year of college. Annette had held her as she cried, told her that she had been brave and strong, and given her something no one had given her before—absolution.

  Tennyson had never gone to confession about what she’d done, even though she’d been a “good” Catholic girl. She couldn’t seem to utter the words, not even to ask for forgiveness. She’d been too afraid to tell her parents, especially since she didn’t know if the baby was Kit’s or one of the other two boys she’d hooked up with when she returned from Christmas break her freshman year. When she got back, she’d been so hurt by Kit, she’d been determined to rinse the taste of him from her mouth. So she’d partied, slept with a few fellow students, and done her first line of cocaine. A month later, she’d tossed her cookies while painting backdrops. She continued vomiting every morning for five days straight. She stopped believing it was bad Chinese food and took a home pregnancy test.

  It had been positive.

  She’d been nineteen, up for a part in the university spring show, and living on student loans. Fear had turned her spit to ash and taken her to a clinic, where she made an appointment. Two weeks later she’d had the procedure that had erased her bad decision. When the director had given her a pamphlet about counseling and mental health after pregnancy termination, Tennyson had trashed it. She would be fine.

  Except she started having nightmares and days when she could think of nothing but the unborn child and who he or she might have been. That guilt led to more bad decisions—she tried to drown the pain with drugs and booze. Tennyson went off the rails and lost herself for many years.

  When she’d finally gotten her shit together, married Stephen, and felt the wee kicks of baby Andrew, she’d started writing the checks to the centers to help women who hadn’t been able to deal with the loss of pregnancy, whether intentional or not. It was the only way she could sleep a full night. If she could help someone else, she could somehow make her own mistake less.

  She blinked as someone passed her a new bingo card.

  Wow, those memories had dragged her away a bit too easily. Maybe it was easier to go to that place in her heart now because Annette had given her a space to be honest. The director had talked about her own abortions, about how she used the sadness and anxiety of her past to help others. Tennyson didn’t feel so alone after confessing her hurt. Joseph had been right—being counseled by someone who had walked the same journey was far more effective than sharing with someone who hadn’t felt the same emotions.

  “Melly and Teeny, we’re going to do one more round,” Emma called back to their table. Andrew’s intended had the high flush of happiness and a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. Tennyson acknowledged her with a wave and a smile.

  Melanie sighed. “I really wish they would move on to the club or wherever they’re going so I can go home.”

  That was the longest sentence Melanie had used all night—and it was a grumpy one. Tennyson knew the woman was still grieving Hillary, so she hadn’t pushed her earlier at the cocktail party and lingerie shower when she sat like a bump on a frog’s ass. She’d thought maybe Melanie would be in a better mood, especially after the conversation Tennyson had yesterday with Kit. She’d gone by his office to drop the reimbursement check for the deposit on MK Bistro, the venue for the rehearsal dinner.

  Kit’s assistant had looked surprised when she strolled into the office. Of course, she’d dropped in unannounced, so that could be the reason, but the woman’s reaction gave her a funny feeling.

  “Can I help you?” the woman said, lifting the mouthpiece thingy so she could speak.

  “Is Kit in?” Tennyson asked, repositioning her new Percy sunglasses atop her head. She wore the LALAoUNIS chandelier earrings that husband number
two had bought her (with her own money) while they vacationed in Athens, along with a new floral Erdem dress with a black lace overlay. She knew she looked chic, confident, and a bit off-putting since she was carrying her red crocodile Birkin bag. Not that the receptionist would even know it was an Hermès and cost about the same as a car.

  “Uh, I think he’s in a meeting.” The receptionist cast a nervous glance at the double doors leading into Kit’s inner sanctum.

  Déjà vu. She’d been here and done this before.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll announce myself,” she said, breezing by the desk and opening the office door. It wasn’t even locked.

  Amateur.

  When she walked in, she saw Kit and the heifer on the couch together. Whatever her name was had her shoes off and her feet curled beneath her tight skirt. Her forearm was on Kit’s shoulder as she leaned in, looking at whatever was on the iPad in his hand. When they heard the door open, they leaped apart, the woman tucking her hair behind her ear and uncurling her legs.

  “Oh, Tennyson, you scared the bejesus out of me,” Kit said, setting the iPad on the coffee table and rising, pulling his jacket aright.

  “Look at you talking about Jesus,” Tennyson drawled, looking pointedly at the woman, who was searching for her pumps with her feet.

  Kit made a confused face before donning his normal grin. “What brings you here?”

  “Money.”

  He looked even more confused as he moved behind his desk and sank onto the plush leather. “Money?”

  She withdrew the check from her bag. “I owe you for the deposit on MK Bistro.”

  “Oh yeah. Thanks.” Kit tucked the check into a drawer. Then he looked at her as if he expected her to leave. But Tennyson didn’t want to. Not without a private word with the man she’d once declared her soul mate. She’d been wrong about that. But then again, she’d been wrong a lot in her life, so this revelation came as no big surprise.