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 happy 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.