Really? She lost five pounds from stress? If that were true, Melanie should be a veritable waif. Didn’t stress make you eat? Like whole sleeves of Oreos and tubs of ice cream?
Guess everyone dealt with stress differently.
“Well, don’t worry. We’ll be getting away from the grind in Destin. You can drink piña coladas and chill at the pool when we’re not in sessions,” Kit said, handing Charlotte a menu.
Melanie went hot and then cold in a matter of seconds. Destin? What?
“Wait, when are you going to Destin?” Emma asked, dropping the menu and looking at her father.
“In two weeks. It’s the Sky Com Conference for NARED. It’s on our family calendar. Char and I will be gone for four days. We’re actually presenting a program on climate adaptations for new developments.” Kit looked pleased. He loved to present his knowledge to his colleagues; thus, he put in to host workshops every year. Last year it had been in Las Vegas. Melanie hadn’t gone because Noah had his wisdom teeth out that week.
She vaguely remembered Kit mentioning it, but then all this wedding stuff happened, and she’d forgotten all about it. Melanie wasn’t concerned about Kit going to the conference—he went almost every year. She’d even gone with him a few times, calling it a getaway from the stress of being a SAHM. Nope, the conference wasn’t the problem at all.
It was the five-pounds-lighter, hungry-for-another-woman’s-husband hussy who sat next to him nibbling a chip who was the problem.
“I just bought two new bikinis on sale at Dillard’s. I will find time to hit the beach,” Charlotte said, tossing a smile at them all before picking up her menu and scanning the offerings.
Melanie looked over at Kit. The man had to know her concerns. They’d been discussing ad nauseam their relationship and Melanie’s concern that Kit secretly desired to dump his sane, stable life and pursue something less . . . confining. Being honest was the therapist’s constant decree, and Kit hadn’t held back on admitting he was flattered by the attention the younger women bestowed on him and troubled by Melanie’s refusal of him, particularly in the bedroom. His words, not hers. So why hadn’t he thought to mention that he was plopping himself down in the land of temptation in two weeks’ time? With a younger woman who seemed to have set her cap for him? Wouldn’t that have been flipping honest? Wouldn’t that have been worth addressing with their marriage counselor?
“I guess I forgot about this conference. The wedding has seemed to dominate the conversations lately. I can go with you. I haven’t been to the beach in years,” Melanie said, sliding a look to her mother, who she could feel tightening with suspicion. If anyone had cause to safeguard against potential scandal, it was her mother.
“When is the conference again?” Emma asked, her brow furrowed.
Kit pulled out his phone. “June twenty-fifth through the thirtieth.”
“The shower Tennyson is hosting for me is on the twenty-eighth,” Emma said.
“Well, pumpkin, I can’t be there. I’m sorry. This has been on my calendar for eight months. Our presentation is on the morning of the twenty-ninth. No way can I be in both places, and as much as I love celebrating these nuptials, I have to pay for them. So . . . I have to mind my career. Lots of big names roll into this conference.” Kit spread his hands out in an apologetic manner. “But your mom will be there.”
Melanie couldn’t believe what was happening. Her husband was going off to the beach with Miss Hot Pants, and she was stuck with Tennyson and her Tour of Italy shower? At that moment all she could think about was the bridal-shower scene from the movie Bridesmaids where Kristen Wiig’s character punched the giant cookie and tried to empty the giant chocolate fountain. Because Melanie felt really close to losing it herself. Just punching whatever came her way.
Maybe it would be Charlotte.
She’d really love to punch Charlotte.
“Mom? You have to come to my shower. You’re my mom,” Emma said, doing that hurt-puppy look that wasn’t totally pathetic but was still very effective.
“Of course I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Emma smiled and went back to deciding on her dinner, but her mother caught her eye. Anne’s mouth was a hard line, and as she slid her glance to Charlotte, Melanie knew exactly what her mother was conveying—a snake is in your henhouse.
The snake in question set her hand lightly on Kit’s forearm. “Have you had the margaritas here? Should I get the mango or the traditional? You always know the perfect thing to order.”
Kit literally preened. “I know my way around tequila. Now this one”—he leaned over and pointed to something on her menu—“is a top-shelf reposado. I had it in Cabo once, but this one is a good añejo tequila. It’s been aged longer than the reposado. But in margaritas it doesn’t matter because the quality of the tequila is masked by the citrus fruit.”
“See? How do you just know this stuff?” Charlotte marveled.
Melanie wanted to gag. Like, literally gag at the ridiculousness in front of her. But the thing was, she didn’t know how to deal with it. She could be direct and ask Charlotte why she was constantly hitting on her husband, but Charlotte was clever and never did anything overt—just light touches and adoration. Melanie could come off looking like a jealous shrew and perhaps a bit crazy. Or she could play dirty with Charlotte, going toe to toe with the seduction and flirtation, but the thing was, she didn’t know how. She and Kit had grown together over the years with a steadfastness that was true, solid, and deep. She’d never had to use her wiles or trickery to make him fall in love with her. She’d never learned to flirt.
But she couldn’t let this go on.
“You know what? I’ll come to Destin with you on Wednesday night and leave Friday morning . . . as long as everything is good here. Tennyson is hosting this shower, and all I have to do is show up. It will be nice to sink my toes into the sand. You two can work, and I’ll play. You said swimsuits were on sale at Dillard’s?” Melanie directed the question to Charlotte, who looked . . . perturbed.
Good.
Kit was hers. She’d taken him from one conniving woman, and she could damned sure keep him from another. If Charlotte wanted to play this game, Melanie was ready. She might not be a size 4 who lost weight when stressed and never ate cake (and climbed effing mountains in her spare time), but she was the mother of Kit’s children, the keeper of the fires, and the person with a prenup that would require Mr. Christopher Layton to give up a substantial amount of money if he jumped ship.
And Kit liked money.
“Oh, yeah, they do have them on sale, and I’m sure they have one-pieces in your size,” Charlotte said with a smile.
Melanie curled her fist.
Emma tilted her head and looked at Charlotte. “Um, my mom wears regular sizes. They have her size everywhere.”
“I didn’t mean anything like that. I just remember that she prefers one-pieces. She wore one to the Fourth of July party last year, so I was just confirming that they have a lot of different sizes on sale. You know, so she could find one. I didn’t mean it as an insult, Melanie.”
Right.
“That’s fine. Let’s order.” Melanie lifted a hand and waved to Juan, who was setting their drinks on his tray.