I remember, but it’s been a while. Mom told me about the cake and the dog. Bummer.
That was an understatement.
Tennyson.
That’s all she would need to type—her sister totally understood. Hillary had been in town when all the crap with Tennyson had gone down, and, of course, she’d been there for the wedding.
Hillary sent a funny GIF of a diva Hollywood star walking into a room, dropping her fur coat, and taking her gloves off one finger at a time. It was so much like Tennyson, Melanie laughed.
Bingo.
Melanie smiled as she typed the next response. God, she missed her sister so much. Over the past year, their time together got smaller and smaller. Hillary didn’t like company, and she was an excellent liar—all people who struggle with eating disorders are. They lie to themselves, and they lie to others. Hillary pretended she was getting better, but Melanie knew she wasn’t. She’d tried to intervene, but both her mother and Hillary had erected barriers. At one point, Melanie had threatened to call the authorities and report her mother for essentially letting Hillary kill herself, but her sister had threatened to move back to Baton Rouge. Melanie had relented when her sister promised to go back to the outpatient therapy program, but that had lasted only a few months.
I missed you. Especially tonight. Emma looked so pretty. Can you believe she’s getting married?
Little bubbles appeared as her sister typed. And then they stopped. Melanie waited a full two minutes, but Hillary didn’t respond.
You there?
Nothing for another minute.
Alarm curled around her heart and sneaked up into her throat, clogging it. Her sister’s health issues were sometimes scary, and she’d had a few episodes that had necessitated a trip to the ER. The prognosis wasn’t great because Hillary’s organs had starved for too long, but so far her sister was managing. She had good, consistent care and counseling that helped her deal with her diseases. Still, at times, Melanie felt fear tear through her at the thought of losing her sister. She wasn’t sure if she could survive being left behind with their mother.
From the very beginning, Hillary had been the anomaly in the driven, acerbic, somewhat disillusioned Brevard family. Her mother liked to say Hillary was born without a single sound. Even after the nurse had smacked her behind in an effort to issue a cry, the newborn hadn’t made a peep. She’d merely opened her blue eyes and peered around as if she were surprised she even existed. As a baby, her sister was placid and content, and as a child, she was friendly and kind. But when she became a teen, it became obvious Hillary was too tender to withstand the onslaught of ugly in the world, including the pressure exerted by an exacting, ambitious mother. Plump, pleasant, and oddly charming, Hillary seemed too good for the world she lived in. Her sister had done what any survivalist would do: she’d tried to assimilate. Which meant Hillary had tried to be what she was supposed to be.
Of course, Melanie had never noticed how Hillary had lost the weight she had during her junior year of high school . . . until her biology teacher did a unit on mental health that included eating disorders.
Like a baseball winging in from right field, the realization had clonked her on the head. As a sixteen-year-old kid who had her own crap to deal with—mainly crushing pressure from her parents regarding her grades and being totally besotted with her best friend’s boyfriend—Melanie found she was ill equipped to address her sister’s binge-and-purge cycle. Even when she presented evidence of the harmful behavior to her parents, she was brushed off or set aside. Her parents didn’t want to dig beneath the foundation to look for the creepy-crawlies hiding beneath their suddenly popular and pretty eldest daughter. Instead they’d shifted their attention to Melanie’s faults, making her wish she’d kept her damned mouth shut.
Sorry. Had to go to the bathroom. I’m beat and off to bed.
Melanie gave an audible sigh at her sister’s words. Hill was okay. She paused before typing. You feeling okay?
I’m fine.
It was what her sister always said. But then Melanie realized it was what she always said, too. Hadn’t she just said as much to her husband when he’d asked if she was okay? But how did one say she was scared her world was about to fall apart when she was supposed to say she was fine?
Maybe that’s what Hillary had always understood—you didn’t tell the truth. You hid it because then everyone would leave you the hell alone.
Love you, Hilly Billy.
You too, Melly Bean.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tennyson wore the dress she’d worn to her first husband’s funeral to meet with the wedding planner. The navy St. John knit dress was classic, expensive, and easy to recognize. From what Tennyson knew about Marc Mallow, she understood he enjoyed a certain level of je ne sais quoi in a person . . . mostly because she read his Twitter feed last night, and that was part of his bio. She also knew that while the man professed to be obsessed with undefined elements, he very much would appreciate the very tangible quality of her dress.
Tennyson was prepared to like the diminutive man who seemed to be a cross of Martin Short’s character on Father of the Bride and the discerning Tim Gunn of Project Runway. That being said she knew he’d hailed from Sarepta, Louisiana, a virtual speck on the map, and had earned his way to being prima donna of Shreveport’s wedding scene only because the man knew how to play the game . . . and could get picky mamas and pouting brides on the same page in order to produce a wedding that everyone talked about for at least a good three days after the bride rode away in the carriage, limo, bicycle, or hot-air balloon. Whichever she chose.
And, really, he was the best they could get at this late juncture.
Tennyson parked her car and stepped carefully onto the rocky driveway. She’d worn a pair of neutral Stuart Weitzman heels because they were stylish enough to suit her and classic enough to match the dress.
Marc’s office sat in a picturesque garden behind his mother’s successful floral shop. He’d had a lovely, large gazebo constructed, which served as the entrance to his building. On Marc’s Facebook page he’d professed the unusual office was in order to aesthetically blend into the beauty of the roses and fragrant climbing jasmine beneath the spread arms of the mossed oaks. That, and he loved the gazebo scene from The Sound of Music. Whimsical garden statues and blown glass à la Chihuly studded the landscape, making the overall effect a mishmash that was more The Hobbit meets Alice in Wonderland.
“Charming,” Tennyson said, coming up behind Melanie and Emma, who both stood staring at a nude statuary of Pan in which certain parts had been overexaggerated.
“Are we sure we want this man to do the wedding?” Melanie asked, shooting a side-eye at her daughter.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Mom, you have been to the weddings he’s done. They are always suited to the couple and their vision. It’s what I want.”
Tennyson ran her gaze over Melanie. Whereas Tennyson had chosen to put her boring but stylish foot forward, Melanie had gone with middle-aged matron for her look. She wore black pants that did nothing to flatter her figure because they were too big, a top that was better suited for someone who was seventy-five and owned six cats, and hair that was so severely cut she looked somehow sad. Girlfriend needed a makeover in the worst way. Melly looked more and more like her hard-assed mama than Tennyson would have ever thought she could.