“Hon, Emma’s twenty-two years old and about to be twenty-three. She’s a grown-up.”
Melanie shoved the basket away and set her hands on her hips. “She’s not a grown-up. Not if we still pay her bills.”
A ball of aggravation curled tight in her gut. Kit always took their kids’ side, leaving her to be the heavy-handed parent. Ol’ Melanie, permanent stick-in-the-mud. He gave the kids too much free rein to do what they thought was best. That was not parenting. That was taking the easy (and more popular) way out.
“Can we shelve this argument? You know I have a big day today. Meeting with Hal is always nerve-racking. That old bastard doesn’t let go of the purse strings easily. I need this to go through so I can retire before I’m dead.”
“You know that’s not true. You could retire today.”
He gave her an alligator grin. “My kind of retirement will be expensive.”
Melanie sank onto the bed and tried to calm herself. Emma was set to graduate next week from the University of Arkansas, where she’d excelled in her studies (and, if Snapchat was to be believed, keg stands) and now was heading back home to attend medical school at LSU in Shreveport. But while she was in Arkansas, Emma had managed to fall in love with the one person Melanie would have wanted her to steer clear of.
Melanie hadn’t realized that Tennyson’s son, Andrew Abernathy, had gone to the University of Arkansas—she’d lost track of Tennyson’s whereabouts years ago. Of course, U of A was Tennyson’s father’s alma mater, but the woman had been living on the East Coast. Or so she’d heard. Anyway, it was surprising her son would eschew a plethora of blue-blooded schools to go to Arkansas. Even more surprising was that Emma had sat next to him in microbiology. Two weeks later the two sophomores met at Marley’s for pizza. Two weeks after that, Emma took Andrew to Chi Omega’s spring semiformal. And then, the two were as inseparable as Melly and Teeny had once been.
When it came to incalculable odds, Melanie would have rather had the bad luck to lose her leg in a shark attack than have her daughter date her mortal enemy’s son.
God had a sense of humor.
Obviously.
Melanie hadn’t actually seen Tennyson since running into her when Bronte got married fifteen years ago. Even then they’d stared at one another and disappeared to the opposite sides of East Ridge Country Club. This past year, when Kit and Melanie went to parents’ weekend, Tennyson went to Saint Croix. When they’d traipsed up to Fayetteville to see the LSU Tigers take on the Hogs, Tennyson had skipped the game and gone skiing in Park City. Tennyson had taken Emma and Andrew to Jackson Hole right after Christmas that past December, and Melanie had seen pictures of her once-upon-a-time best friend, but she hadn’t had to actually face her.
But that would change next week when they went to graduation. Emma and Andrew had planned a big party for after the ceremony. Tennyson would be there.
“Wish me luck,” Kit said, emerging from the bathroom looking as handsome as ever, even if his eyes were slightly squinty and his hairline a bit thinned. Time had been gracious to Kit Layton, that was for certain. He still turned heads when he entered a room, his blue eyes vibrant against the craggy, tan face, his lean physique commanding, his teeth bright when he flashed a smile.
“You don’t need luck,” she said, allowing her lips to curve as she slid her gaze over her husband in his best suit. Still such a babe.
“You always say that,” he said with a chuckle.
“Because I believe it. You’re good at what you do.”
Thanks to her father gifting her money and the acreage right off the Red River before he died and Kit’s innate talent for developing property into profitable ventures, the company she and Kit had started when they’d first married was flourishing. Early on, Melanie had worked elbow to elbow with her husband to build their property-development company. With her degree in accounting and Kit’s marketing acumen, they’d given birth to some of the most successful housing developments in South Shreveport. The venture Kit was currently working on encompassed a development based on their favorite beach-vacation community, harkening back to days of old when neighbors met in a common area and activities promoted tight-knit relationships. Instead of going for the pastels-and-beach vibe, Kit had envisioned something more native to northwest Louisiana, focusing on natural flora and fauna with hints of rustica, like a “farmers’ market colliding with an upscale state park.”
Right as Kit turned to say something to her, his phone rang. His mouth twitched into something pleasing as he clicked the button. “Hey, Char, I’m about to leave now. You pick up the boards from the printers? They do them right this time?”
Melanie watched as his face reflected his approval at what the other person was saying on the line. Charlotte Mullins was his administrative right-hand woman, who he’d hired last year when his longtime assistant had retired to New Mexico to be closer to her grandchildren. Charlotte was the cousin of one of Melanie’s Junior League friends and had moved to Shreveport to start her life over after a bitter divorce. With a degree from Wharton’s business school and a desire to not be part of corporate America with its impossible demands on time and energy, Charlotte had agreed to work for Kit part time. That part-time job had morphed into a full-time pseudo partnership, with Kit agreeing to a hefty bonus for her if this deal went through.
Melanie liked Charlotte. Or at least she had at first.
Charlotte was thirty-two with long, dark hair and fit legs that came from daily tennis. Pair that with her crackling energy and sexy Carly Simon vibe, and the younger woman made Melanie feel like two-week-old cheese—once desired but now avoided when rooting in the refrigerator. It didn’t help that at times Kit seemed to anticipate Charlotte’s company more than he did that of his own wife. Melanie quickly grew tired of hearing about how smart the woman was, how men hit on her when they were out to lunch, and how Char had hiked some mountain in Colorado. Blah, blah, blah.
So she was young, fit, and pretty? Whoop-de-freakin’-do.
“Yeah, Heritage Woods is going to blow their minds. I can’t see how Hal wouldn’t want a piece of this. You did good, Char. After we seal this deal, we’ll have dinner and toast your brilliance.”
Melanie turned away from Kit and rolled her eyes so hard she had a moment of dizziness.
Kit pocketed his phone. “That was Char. We’re good to go.”
“Her name is Charlotte,” Melanie said, trying not to sound testy but failing. Use the person’s given name, for heaven’s sake.
Her husband made a frowny face. “I know. Anyway, I’m out of here. I’ll call you once I know something. Do you want to join me and Charlotte after the presentation? I’ll spring for the good champagne.”
“Noah has a baseball game. It’s on your calendar.”
Kit slid his wallet and keys into his pocket. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’ll try to make the game before it’s over.”
“I know he’ll appreciate seeing you in the stands.”
When Noah first started playing his freshman year, he’d been an incredible pitcher with a curve and slider that fooled the batter almost every time, but then he’d injured his shoulder in football the next year and hadn’t been able to pitch that spring. So far, his junior year had been rocky with him sitting the bench a lot and not making the travel team. Kit had gone from being involved in the dads’ booster club to barely mentioning the sport he’d once thought his son would excel in. Noah had asked to quit the team. Melanie responded with hiring a pitching coach and getting him better physical therapy for his shoulder. She didn’t raise quitters. Even if every game now felt like watching an execution—starting with hope, ending in a solemn ride home.