Wish granted, bitch.
Five minutes later, after having found Janie a dress that pretty much swamped her petite figure, Melanie slid out of the bedroom to address the mess in the dining room. She was met with apologetic smiles and a couple of pats from friends and family. Emma and Andrew had done an admirable job of distracting everyone from the disaster. When Melanie finally rounded the corner into the dining room, she found Charlotte and her neighbor Coco, a most unlikely duo, cleaning up the cake and spilled bourbon. Thankfully, neither of the glasses had shattered and sent splinters of glass careening.
“Such a shame because it really was a pretty cake,” Coco said. The woman wore a miniskirt and stilettos, but her blouse fully covered her enhanced breasts. Small wonder.
“Thank you, ladies,” Melanie said, giving Coco’s arm a squeeze. She was surprised to find her older neighbor’s arms were pretty well defined. More so than her own. Which was kind of sad since Coco was a good twenty-five years older than Melanie. God, she needed to start working out.
“You’re welcome. I’m always happy to help. Goodness, I’m like family to Kit, anyway,” Charlotte said, wiping up the last of the frosting and tossing it in the white kitchen trash bag. Kit came into the dining room with more towels and a bottle of kitchen cleaner. He handed it to Charlotte wordlessly.
“Teeny’s dog peed in the kitchen,” he said, matter of factly.
“Where is that woman?” Melanie asked, looking around for Tennyson.
“It’s okay, Mel,” Kit said, pressing his hands toward her in the manner she hated. She despised when he tried to tell her how to think and feel. Like he was the voice of reason.
“It’s not okay. It’s our children’s celebration. This is not the occasion for a dog in a purse, for heaven’s sake. She should know better.”
“You just said the important words—it’s our children’s celebration. Let it go. No one was hurt, and who needs cake, anyway?” he said, trying to smile and lighten the mood.
“I never eat cake,” Charlotte said, drawing the bag’s ties together.
“Of course you don’t,” Melanie said, turning on her heel so she didn’t say or do something she regretted. She needed a moment. She needed a drink. Or Xanax. She wondered if she had any left from the root canal. Or was that some other drug they’d given her to relax? Whatever. She felt tight as a snare drum.
She moved through the kitchen, where the staff had gathered to replenish hors d’oeuvres, and then snuck onto the small back patio that seemed to have no real purpose since it wasn’t attached to the larger one. One of her friends had suggested it was specifically for a kitchen garden, so she, with the help of Hillary, had dutifully installed oregano, mint, and basil in containers. No one came out here, so it was the perfect place for her to escape when she needed something more than a glass of wine.
Lifting the ceramic frog Noah and Emma had given her for Mother’s Day ten years ago, she fished out the Ziploc bag containing her contraband pack of smokes and a lighter. She tapped one out, stuck it in her mouth, lit it, and sucked in the sweet nicotine that would soothe her jagged nerves.
“I’ll have one of those,” Tennyson said from the darkness, startling her.
“You can go to hell,” Melanie said, shoving the plastic bag back up the frog’s ass.
Tennyson’s smile split the darkness. “You first.”
CHAPTER SIX
Tennyson had been hiding from Melanie’s wrath on the small screened porch right off the kitchen. She’d first gone to the powder room to pin her straps, then she’d come back and scooped up her troublesome puppy on the way out. She had every intention of returning to clean up the piddle Prada had delivered to Melanie’s kitchen rug, but over the past week she’d learned Prada often did her business back to back. When she’d picked up the terrified puppy, Prada had clamored up her bodice, making the torn dress sag again. Thankfully, it did not pull it down to give her boobs an encore performance. The pup had immediately tried to hide beneath Tennyson’s chin, which turned her irritation at the dog to sympathy. Poor Prada. Golden retrievers were usually friendly, but then again, Tennyson had seen Cujo.
Eventually, Prada calmed and struggled to be free of Tennyson’s grasp. Independent little cuss. Tennyson set her on the brick pavers and opened the screened door. Prada waddled out and proceeded to take a dump on the pristine lawn. Great. Something else Tennyson would have to clean up. Seemed almost prophetic. Things had gone to shit fast.
Tennyson sank onto an abandoned gardening stool in the corner so she could keep an eye on Prada. She’d seen an article about small dogs being scooped up by owls and coyotes, so she never left the puppy alone. She was so focused on watching the hunched-over dog, she nearly screamed when the back door opened.
In the full moon, she could see it was Melanie, who looked super stressed.
Tennyson knew she should say something to alert the woman, but she didn’t feel like dealing with the fussing she’d get over the buttercream, bourbon, and dog pee all over Melanie’s floor. Mel would probably suck in a breath, square her shoulders, and go back to deal with things the way she always had. Her former friend was the queen of dealing.
But then Mel did something that made Tennyson raise her eyebrows. Or kind of raise them. She’d had Botox on Thursday.
Mrs. Goody Two-shoes pulled a baggie from beneath a frog statue and filched a ciggie.
When she and Melanie had been juniors in high school, they’d taken up smoking. They figured it would make them look cooler to smoke while they drank their Miller Lite ponies out in the Ferriers’ field. It was tradition after every Friday night football game to drive out and circle their cars and trucks around a bonfire. So one Monday, Tennyson bought a pack of cigarettes from an obscure grocery store owned by a small Chinese man who spoke little English and didn’t realize she was underage. She and Melanie practiced all week so they wouldn’t cough or struggle to light the cigarettes. Tennyson didn’t really like smoking that much, but surprisingly Melanie was brilliant at smoking and looking cool doing it. From then on, Mel liked a cig when she drank.
“I’ll have one of those,” Tennyson said, standing and walking over.
“You can go to hell,” Melanie said with a glower after shoving the baggie back up the frog’s ass.
“You first,” Tennyson said, latching on to the old joke they had made after watching James Bond movies on TBS when they were girls. Melanie had made fun of how there was always a funny line delivered before 007 offed the villain. Ah, silly jokes between friends. How they came back to you when you least expected them.
Melanie’s lips twitched, and she didn’t protest when Tennyson pulled the baggie out, tapped out a lung dart, and lit it.
Tennyson took a drag and exhaled the smoke. “That was a real shit show.”
“Yeah, thank you so much for bringing your dog to the engagement party. I didn’t know they offered so much emotional support. Can I borrow her?” Melanie drawled, heavy on the sarcasm. Then she jabbed a finger at where Prada still hunched on her lawn. “And you’re cleaning that up, too.”
“She’s been constipated for days.”
“Try changing her food. It helped with Poppy,” Melanie said.