“Hello, darlings,” Tennyson trilled from the open doorway, pausing for a moment in a vogue-like manner that suggested everyone look at her.
It worked.
Melanie and Anne turned to survey their guest. Kit walked in from the kitchen carrying a highball glass, his blue eyes on the woman standing in the doorway with leg pointed and hand on hip to showcase her figure.
Tennyson smiled brilliantly, sliding her sunglasses from her nose and folding them. Then she clacked into the house in impossibly high heels, a dress she’d obviously poured herself into, and an expensive-looking bag from which that stupid dog peeked out. Tennyson’s blonde hair had been swept up into something suitable for prom, diamond earrings dangled, and the large emerald on her finger couldn’t be real, but probably was because only Tennyson would choose something so obnoxious.
Melanie sucked in a deep breath and set the cake knife she’d just pulled from the depths of her buffet beside the cake. “Hello, Tennyson. Welcome to our home.”
Tennyson looked around, her eyes critical as she took in the space. Melanie had redecorated the public rooms in the fall. She’d had muted silver curtains custom made and painted the walls a dove-wing gray. Glossy, white trim, a slate hearth, and creamy velvet Chesterfield sofas sat facing each other with flax basket-weave armchairs anchoring the end facing the fireplace. Soothing slate, ecru, and white dominated the traditional space, which flirted with a hint of modern farmhouse because watching Fixer Upper did that to a person. In fact, Melanie had nixed the shiplap at the last minute. Punches of dusky blue and teal livened the space, and a huge crystal chandelier watched over the muted Turkish rug. The space was tasteful and fashionable enough to be featured in a local magazine.
Melanie was quite proud of it, but looking at it through Tennyson’s eyes, she could see that it was safe, boring, and exactly like a dozen others she’d seen in magazines. When she’d walked into Sherwin-Williams wearing lululemon (bought on sale, of course), carrying a Louis Vuitton bag (anniversary gift), and driving a Lexus (because, yes, they are awesome), the clerk had probably pulled the South Shreveport Basic Bitch color palette.
“Well, it’s very . . . you, Mel,” Tennyson said.
Melanie tried to smile, but she really wanted to slap Tennyson, which was not “trying.” So instead she summoned her best hostess voice. “Thank you. They featured it in SB Magazine this past January.”
“Oh well, a nice feather in your cap for sure,” Tennyson said, patting the dog, who wore a bow the same persimmon as Tennyson’s dress.
Why had she said that? Ugh. She sounded so insecure.
“Uh, the puppy? Are you . . .” Melanie arched her brows and looked at Prada. The dog’s pink tongue curled adorably as she panted all over the expensive leather.
“She’s my service animal and will stay in my purse,” Tennyson said, a challenge glittering in her eyes. Melanie didn’t want to deal with this again, even though she knew the dog was not her service animal. Instead, she nodded.
But why in the heck had Tennyson brought the stupid dog? Of course, Melanie knew why. It was one more way to draw attention to herself. People would coo over the little fluff ball, and Tennyson would look . . . something. Trendy? An animal lover? Any logical, sensible person would look askance at someone who brought a puppy to a party, but that was Tennyson. She always did the unexpected. That was her MO and had been for as long as Melanie had known her.
At that moment, Andrew and Emma breezed in, and Melanie got caught up in last-minute preparations. Thirty minutes later, guests began arriving, glasses clinked as toasts abounded, and the loud buzz of conversation distracted Melanie from her defensiveness around Tennyson. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, even her normally stoic mother, who sat on the sofa and held court over a few of her invited friends. The waitstaff circulated with Pimm’s Cups and mint juleps, which everyone seemed to enjoy. Laughter rang out, and after another thirty minutes, Melanie had forgotten Tennyson was even there.
Until Poppy got out.
Melanie wasn’t sure exactly how it happened. She had put Poppy in the crate in the laundry room. They never shut the kennel door because Poppy liked to lay her head over the lip of the crate so she wasn’t fully inside. If Melanie hadn’t let the dog have her way, what happened next wouldn’t have occurred.
Melanie supposed someone had been looking for the lavatory and bumbled into the wrong room. The headstrong retriever wasn’t nose blind and took advantage of the situation by escaping out the open door. Poppy was somewhat obedient, except when it came to shoes, socks, and food. And, man, did Poppy love to beg for food. The delectable smells in the living and dining rooms had likely been too much to ignore, and Melanie caught sight of the fluffy, sneaky dog slinking in and weaving through the crowd toward the fragrant chafing dishes. She’d been in the middle of a conversation with Janie Thackery over the trends in bridesmaids dresses and failed to catch Kit’s attention so he could head Poppy off.
Of course, Kit was oblivious to her piercing stare. Her husband was locked in a conversation with their banker, and standing next to him, glowing with a healthy tan and wearing a size 4 black dress that accentuated her utter skinniness was Charlotte. The woman kept darting admiring glances at Kit and touching his arm as if she were his partner in life and not business. Her weird high-pitched laughter had been abusing Melanie’s ear all evening.
“Kit’s got the perfect plan for that. He always does.” Yeeeheee, tee hee, haaahaaahaaa.
“You should see this guy try to kill a wasp.” Yeeeheee, tee hee, haaahaaahaaa.
“A foot-long hot dog on a stick. That’s exactly what Kit said when we went to the Rangers game.” Yeeeheee, tee hee, haaahaaahaaa.
Please. It was nauseating.
Melanie and Kit used to have that psychic-connection thing where they could read each other’s mind, but that was a big ol’ fail at present because Kit hadn’t glanced her way in a while.
“Excuse me a minute, Janie. I have to attend to something,” Melanie said, setting her wineglass on the edge of the buffet. She slid past Janie, who had literally stopped midsentence and still had her mouth open. Poppy was skirting the table, and several people were smiling indulgently because Poppy was pretty darn cute. Of course they didn’t know what Melanie knew. Poppy was an expert counter surfer, and she’d just hit the Big Kahuna with the rows of delectable, meaty wondrousness spread before her.
Melanie caught Poppy’s collar just as she was about to go paws up on the table.
“Oh no, you don’t, missy,” Melanie said, tossing a smile to John Reeves and Ed Deemer, who were scarfing down Natchitoches meat pies like they were Skittles.
“Woo, she nearly got her some,” Ed joked.
“She’d give you a run for your money on hitting this spread, Ed,” Melanie said, teasing their across-the-street neighbor, tugging Poppy’s collar, and looking around desperately for Kit. Instead Tennyson appeared.
“So who’s that heifer trying to climb Kit?” Tennyson asked, not reading the situation with the dog at all.
“What?”
“The woman trying to mount your husband in the living room,” Tennyson said, her eyes finding Kit over by the piano. Charlotte had her hand on his arm and was smiling up at him. Melanie gritted her teeth.