Melanie turned to her. “Seriously, are you sure about this, Tee—”
“Yes, and I thought we agreed to call each other by our given names.” Tennyson walked past Melanie, not quite pissy, but close. Okay, fine. She was a bit miffed that Melanie had acted like a total jackass the night before with her cold “you don’t have the right to call me Melly” thing. And no one called her Teeny anymore anyway. That girl was so gone.
“What was that all about?” Emma inquired behind her.
“Nothing. Never mind,” Melanie said, sounding perturbed.
Tennyson pressed the buzzer, and the door swept open as if someone had been lying in wait, biding his time before sinking his well-manicured nails into a defenseless bride. It was off-putting to say the least, and Tennyson almost fell back into Emma.
“Darlings,” the man cooed, spreading his arms wide, his teeth perfectly white against his tanned skin. He stepped back, holding the door. “Come in, come in.”
Marc Mallow was three inches shorter than Tennyson, and likely a good twenty pounds lighter. Whipcord thin with a dramatic sweep of silver hair draped strategically over his high forehead, Marc wore tailored monochromatic clothes that looked as if he might break out into some weird Bob Fosse choreography at any moment. His glasses were square and his grooming impeccable. Shiny red Gucci loafers were his lone statement piece.
Tennyson extended her hand. “I’m Tennyson.”
Marc actually lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed a very light kiss atop the back of her hand, which was kind of gross but also sort of courtly. “A pleasure, my dear. You could very well be the bride, you know. So young and a true beauty.”
He knew who was paying the extra 20 percent, no doubt.
“Ah, this is what I missed about the South. You’re such a gentleman, but this is our blushing bride,” Tennyson said, turning and extending her hand toward Emma. She caught Melanie’s eye roll and almost laughed.
“My dear, you are indeed a radiant beauty. I will have such fun planning an exquisite, memorable day for you and your intended.” Marc enfolded a surprised Emma into his embrace.
Emma gave a nervous laugh. “Thank you. I’m so excited you agreed to help us on such short notice.”
“Oh, darling, someone is going to pay me very well for that, don’t you worry,” he said with a chuckle. He released Emma and moved past to Melanie. “And here is our mama. I can see she will put up with none of my shenanigans, as well she should not.”
Melanie stared at Marc as if he’d sprung a pair of horns from his well-coiffed head before giving him a nod. “Indeed, and I take that job seriously.”
This caused Marc to titter. “Oh, well, I will have to behave. These managing mamas are like mountain goats—a hardy bunch who pack a wallop and never go down.”
Melanie’s mouth may have twitched. Or perhaps it was gas. Either way, she managed a strained smile. “I don’t think anyone has ever compared me to a goat. This should be fun.”
Marc clapped his hands and stepped back, indicating a well-appointed area with a velvet Victorian settee, two tapestry armchairs, and a delicate coffee table filled with various large binders and a lone orchid as a reminder they sat within a garden. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” Tennyson murmured, sliding in and taking an armchair.
Emma sat on the edge of the couch, looking somewhat nervous. Melanie settled herself next to her daughter while Marc took the other armchair. He picked up a small bell, rang it, and then settled back into the chair, folding his hands across his compact stomach.
A door behind him opened, and an incredibly large woman carrying a tea tray emerged. She was a good six feet tall, wide-shouldered, with a buzz cut. She had a small hoop ring in her nose and a wide smile.
“Thank you, Donna.” Marc crossed his legs and waited as she settled the tea service on the small table to his left. “This is Donna, my assistant.”
They murmured polite hellos to the blonde giantess, who gave an adorable bob of her head along with a curtsy. “Nice to meet you, folks. I’ve brought tea, scones, and clotted cream as his majesty expects. Is there anything else, milord?”
Marc made a face and muttered something about ungrateful heifers.
Donna winked at them. “He truly loves me.”
Marc made another sour face and a shooing motion. “Get back to the salt mines before I fire you.”
Donna grinned, dropped a kiss atop Marc’s head, and saluted. “As you wish.”
She disappeared quickly for a large woman, and Marc shook his head. “My apologies. The woman is incorrigible, but magnificent at her job. I would fire her for her insolence, but then I couldn’t reach the vases on the top shelf of my storage, so . . .” He gave a shrug.
Tennyson laughed. “I think I love Donna.”
Marc sighed and passed around the small box with assorted teas. “Everyone does.”
After the tea was poured and scones sent around, Marc leaned forward and looked at Emma. “So, my dear, tell me why you want to marry this man.”
Tennyson thought it a stretch to call her boy a man, but she let that go because the why seemed rather important at the moment.
Emma tried to swallow the last of her scone but sort of choked. She lifted her tea and looked desperately at her mother as if she expected Melanie to answer. Tennyson’s once upon a time friend had been taking all this oddness in stride but didn’t seem eager to help her daughter out. Melanie likely also wanted to know the answer to why.
“Um, because I love him,” Emma finally managed after a large sip of Earl Grey.
“Well, yes, but loving someone is not a requirement for marriage, is it? One can be in love and never marry. Why do you want to don a fancy dress, spend your parents’ hard-earned money, and say vows in front of people who quibbled over whether to buy you the toaster or the crystal on your registry?”
“I . . . well, I want to marry him. I mean, we want to make that commitment to each other because we know we belong together. We knew from almost the beginning. It was like we were meant to be.”
Melanie glanced briefly at Tennyson and looked away.
Marc made a moue of his mouth and nodded. “Just so, just so.”
Melanie uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her “I’m about to take charge” posture. “Mr. Mallow, I’m sure you have other things to do this afternoon, so let’s not waste time. My daughter is marrying, and you are the person who has agreed to make that happen. We are putting our money and trust in you, so this is more about the hows and not the whys.”
Marc tsk-tsked. “My mama goat. You don’t waste time. I like that. Yes, yes, let’s get down to it.”
Emma pulled her MacBook Air from the depths of the large tote she’d brought with her. “I have my vision board.”
Marc arched a brow. “These brides and their damned Pinterest. I do believe the internet would put me out of business if it could. Let me see, dear.”
He took the opened computer and looked it over, making little noises as he clicked and scrolled. “Lavender and absinthe. Very southern. Perhaps flaxen seersucker mixed in with the linens, even a bit of wisteria in the bouquet. Yes, yes, I like the raw linen for the table, leveled floating candles, maybe even some country ceramic vases for a more grounded feel.” He looked up at Emma and narrowed his eyes.