“But first, drinks,” Kit said, looking tired. And perhaps very aware of what just went down. Perhaps he was even seeing what happened when a man left the door open a crack. Because Charlotte had barreled through. Now he had to decide if he would fish or cut bait.
“We definitely need drinks,” Melanie said, feeling very much like a knife was swinging her way.
CHAPTER TEN
Tennyson watched as Emma walked from the dressing room toward the raised platform with the triple mirrors, wearing the Cristina Ottaviano gown she’d found online and fallen in love with.
The simple white gown wasn’t “the” dress, but it was very beautiful nonetheless.
Emma glowed as she lifted the detachable back drape, twirling slightly. “What do you think? I like that it’s so simple without any embellishment. Besides, the train comes off for the reception.”
Melanie sucked in a breath, reached for the box of Kleenex to Tennyson’s left, and pretty much dissolved into a ball of emotion. Her former friend would be little help in this endeavor. Every gown she’d seen on Emma’s Pinterest page, which they perused on the drive over from Shreveport, had been perfect for Emma. Tennyson was a bit more discerning on what would suit her son’s bride. Emma needed something that wasn’t so plain and unembellished.
“It’s a lovely gown, and I agree with you on the simplicity. The style suits your figure. But since we’re here, why not try on a few others. Becky?” Tennyson shot a look at the stylist who hovered on the perimeter, allowing the bride her spotlight.
The stylist nodded, and Tennyson could see that Becky understood Emma needed to try on something more . . . her. “We have a Serge Jevaguine trunk show coming in a week, but the gowns are already here. The dresses are, well, they’re wonderful and inspired by the ballet. Are you opposed to trying shades other than white?”
Emma looked to her mother.
“Well, I think she prefers a white or ivory, but she can try whatever she wants,” Melanie managed with a sniffle. Her eyes were red rimmed, which just matched the terrible patterned shirt she was wearing with a pair of very nontrendy capri pants. Melanie truly needed some fashion guidance. If the woman didn’t hate her so much, Tennyson would be willing to take her to the women’s department and help a bitch out. But she doubted Melanie would appreciate the opportunity.
“I have one I think will be lovely on her. Let’s try it and see what you think, Emma,” Becky said before disappearing into the depths of Stanley Korshak.
Emma studied herself in the mirror. “I mean, I really love this one. It’s so elegant and refined. But I don’t know. Is it too . . . severe for me?”
Tennyson stood and walked to her future daughter-in-law, eyeing the elegant fabric. Cristina Ottaviano was an excellent designer, but Emma had glimpsed exactly what Tennyson had seen plainly—the dress was too old for her with a sophistication that wasn’t Emma at all.
Becky came back with a fluffy ball gown. She saw Emma’s forehead crease. “I didn’t really want something so . . . big.”
The stylist grinned as she hooked the dress on the stand, unzipping the protective bag. “I understand, but I think it’s important to try a few styles. You look lovely in the trumpet gown, but I have a hunch this might suit you better. Note the cascading pale-pink silk-and-pearl flowers on the bodice, which spill down elegantly over the sheer organza. Your bosom is tastefully covered, but there’s some sexy sheerness, and then there is the skirt—multiple layers of the softest tulle. The back is the most magnificent one I’ve seen in a while. Enormous attention to detail in this dress that is youthful, elegant, and, well, one of my favorites.”
Emma eyed the gown and nodded. “Okay. I’ll try it.”
Off the two went, leaving Tennyson alone with Melanie. They hadn’t said much to each other all day, instead directing their conversation to Emma. It had been an awkward ride over, and Tennyson had several times over the course of the three-hour ride in the limo and the rushed luncheon at her favorite sushi restaurant thought she should have stayed at home. But she needed a mother-of-the-groom dress that didn’t make it look like she was sixty-five years old. And, Lord help her, but Melanie probably needed one, too.
Melanie had always had a tendency toward dressing conservatively. Mostly because her mother liked all things covered, so Melanie had followed that directive. Yet the sheer bad taste the woman had been displaying lately, in an effort to cover up the weight she’d gained or whatever, made Tennyson too nervous to leave her to decide one of the most important elements of the wedding—Emma’s dress.
Nope.
“Have you already found your dress for the wedding?” Tennyson asked after a good three tense minutes of silence, hoping Melanie hadn’t already bought a MeeMaw dress to wear with her favorite clodhoppers.
“Uh, I will probably pick up something at Dillard’s. I was hoping to lose a few pounds before . . . why am I even telling you this? I’m fine.” She wiped a finger beneath each lower lash and looked grumpy as a codfish.
“I’m going to look for mine while we’re here. The store carries a great selection of designers. You might be able to find something special,” Tennyson said, trying to be diplomatic. She was tired of Melanie’s anger. Okay, yeah, Tennyson deserved a lot of it, but wasn’t Melanie tired of being hostile? How much longer was she going to be a blazing bitch?
“I saw the price tags on the dresses when we came in. Two thousand dollars for a simple sundress? No thank you.” Melanie pulled out her phone and tapped on the screen.
“But it’s your daughter’s wedding. You’re not really going to wear an ugly dress off the sales rack from somewhere in Shreveport, are you?”
Melanie looked up at her. “Who are you anymore? What’s wrong with a dress from Dillard’s? You used to think Dillard’s was great, remember?”
Tennyson stared down at her. “I’m exactly who I want to be.”
“And that’s someone who does . . . what exactly? Flits around with no purpose? Have you even had a job? Or was your career merely marrying wealthy men and spending their money? Or maybe it’s marathon champagne drinking?” She glanced pointedly over at the empty flute on the table next to the seating area.
“I like champagne.”
“I think everyone knows that. Not to mention you’re a walking advertisement for plastic surgery. Oh, and particularly good at making everyone else feel cheap and . . . fat. If that was your goal for coming back to Shreveport—to show everyone how rich and tacky you are—mission accomplished.”
Tennyson laughed, even though deep inside Melanie’s words were a pair of brass knuckles delivered to her gut. Ouch. “Jealous much, Mel?”
“Of you?” Melanie asked, doing her best Anne Brevard impression, chin high, eyes cold. “Hardly.”
“But you are. I can see that as plain as a billboard. But I can also see you love being a martyr, don’t you? You probably get a hard-on from everyone in the PTA saying ‘Melanie can do it. She’s so good at doing all the things,’ and I bet secretly you enjoy bowing and scraping to your kids, setting out the perfectly cut watermelon in pretty glass bowls, planting herbs you’ll never use, hiding your smoking habit so everyone will think you’re the perfect wife and mother. But, God, Melly, you’re so boring.”