Her soon-to-be daughter-in-law fidgeted slightly. An uncomfortable silence sat like a fart in a PTA meeting. Finally, Marc sat the computer down and folded his hands.
“The colors are lovely, and I’m seeing a bit of nostalgia tied to this wedding. Ties to the past of who you are, who your mamas were. I think this overall feel is very fitting since your mothers were once best friends, yes?” He spread his hands, a diamond pinkie ring winking at them.
So the bastard knew about her and Melanie. Of course he did. He would have a line into the Shreveport gossip circuit, of course.
Tennyson glanced over at Melanie, and damned if it didn’t look like she had swallowed a bullfrog. Seemed their time of keeping their past from their children was over. Wasn’t like it could go on much longer, anyway. Emma and Andrew were bound to discover the truth.
“Well, uh,” Emma said, looking from Tennyson back to her mother with suspicion. The child hadn’t graduated magna cum laude for nothing. It was as if the moment was wound tight, a clock with tension ticking at every second hand. “What’s he talking about? Like, you were best friends?”
Tennyson pressed her lips together and shrugged.
“Mama?” Emma’s voice sounded like a reprimand.
“She’s Teeny,” Melanie managed through lips drawn tight as a bowstring.
“Wait, Andrew’s mom is Teeny? That Teeny?”
Melanie looked away.
“The Teeny who put the hole in Gee Ma’s china hutch and talked you into painting the castle on your wall? The one who broke the Madame Alexander bride doll and sold your grandmother’s funeral urn in a garage sale? That Teeny?” Emma darted a wide-eyed look over to her with the question since Melanie wasn’t answering.
Tennyson stayed quiet.
Finally, Melanie made an annoyed face. “Yes. She would be that Teeny.”
“You said Teeny was dead,” Emma said, her expression changing into one of horror.
“To me she was,” Melanie said, brushing a piece of lint off her ugly pants.
Tennyson couldn’t stop the stab of pain at Melanie’s words. Melly had told her children that her former best friend was dead? How could she lie that way? How could she even think it?
“Well, surprise, everyone! I’m not dead,” Tennyson said, trying to lighten the mood, even though Melanie looked about as bitchy as she ever had. And she’d never been bitchy. Quite the opposite. She’d been the one to give her money to the Red Cross and sit with the unpopular kids at lunch upon occasion. Bitch and Melanie didn’t go together. Or they hadn’t. She still didn’t know this new Melanie.
Marc had been watching with fascination and more than a bit of glee. Perhaps he’d planned the entire thing because why not elicit more emotion than they already had going? There was fun in that drama.
Tennyson held up a finger. “In my defense, I did not know Gammy Mui was in that vase.”
“Oh, please, it wasn’t a vase.” Melanie rolled her eyes. “I told you that we could sell everything in the closet but the urn. I even put a sticky note on it so you wouldn’t forget. But you took it anyway. You made enough for the Six Flags tickets. Too bad I couldn’t go because I was punished for four months.”
“Jesus, let it go, Melly.”
“You let it go. You sold my dead grandmother,” Melanie said, the low heel of her ugly shoe clonking the tiled floor. “And you’re the one who always causes problems. You’re the definition of wreaking havoc in every circumstance. Take last night. I have to buy Janie a new dress, and we wasted perfectly good cake because someone had to have her dog there.”
“She’s an emo—”
“Don’t give me that crap, Teeny. That dog isn’t anything of the sort. You use that animal for attention. What emotional support do you need? Doesn’t the booze work anymore?” Melanie said.
Tennyson felt like Melanie had lobbed a knife at her head. “Fuck you, Melly.”
“I see you still use your words, Teeny.” Melanie sniffed and turned her head.
“Oh my God, what is happening here?” Emma asked, her gaze going from her mother back to Tennyson. Her eyes were as big as the gerbera daisies gathered in the Royal Doulton china vase on the table, and she looked like she might cry.
Marc even looked a bit shocked, but then he clapped his hands. “Now, now, ladies, weddings are an emotional ev—”
“This has nothing to do with the wedding, and everything to do with Tennyson getting her way. As always,” Melanie cut him off, delivering her best frigid stare. Déjà vu slammed into Tennyson because the woman looked just like her mother. Brrr.
“Oh, give me a break. You say that shit to make you feel better about what you did to me in the first place. Come to think of it, this has everything to do with a wedding. This bullshit has sat between us for too many years. If our children are going to have a prayer’s chance in hell of surviving the next two months, we need to clear the air between us.” Tennyson sat her teacup on the table and wished like hell Marc Mallow offered more than stupid tea. She could use a shot of vodka right now. Two shots. Or three.
“I don’t have to do anything. You caused all of this. You. Not me,” Melanie said.
“Mom, I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re acting totally crazy. We’re so behind on everything already, and Mr. Mallow has agreed to help us. Can’t we just put whatever this is aside for the next forty minutes of this appointment so we can make a few decisions?” Emma asked, pleading evident in her voice.
Melanie turned the color of the drapes—a wholesome pink—as if she had just realized she’d lost it in front of everyone. Her expression softened. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry about losing my composure. It’s a rarity, I assure you, Mr. Mallow.”
“It’s Marc, and as I said earlier, weddings bring forth many, many emotions.”
Melanie didn’t apologize to Tennyson. She didn’t even look her way.
So this was how they were going to play it—tit for tat? Seemed about right because that was how Melanie had always been. Passive-aggressive should be her middle name. That she had even lost her temper in front of Marc and her daughter, allowing herself to grow angry enough to even say “crap” was in itself a small victory for Tennyson. Not to mention, Melanie hated it when Tennyson used any affectation, so Tennyson’s playing it blasé earlier had likely driven Melanie right off the edge.
Good.
Melanie didn’t get to be any more comfortable than she was about this impending marriage. Tennyson adored Emma—it was hard not to—but she didn’t have to love that her son was marrying into Melanie’s screwed-up family, did she?
After all, Melanie had turned into her own worst nightmare—her mother.
And she’d told her children that Tennyson was dead.
Jesus.
“Yes, we’re sorry, Marc. Emma is right. We’re here for a wedding,” Tennyson said.
Emma gave a tremulous smile. “So let’s get started on the plans. I booked the church for August thirtieth and the Remington Hotel rooftop for the reception. It will be hot, but I like the idea of dancing on the rooftop. All the lights up there are so pretty, and it’s just fun.”