“I’m not. I wanted to peek. Is she standing in the foyer?” Melanie tried to sidestep her sister. She was so relieved Tennyson had come. Did this mean her friend had finally accepted Melanie and Kit together? Maybe they could get past this, laugh about it one day.
“No. She’s already inside. She sat right behind Kit’s mom and dad.” Hillary shot a look toward their mother. “I really wish you hadn’t invited her, Melly bean.”
“I had to. It’s Teeny. I mean, I know she’s mad, but maybe this is a peace offering. Maybe she wants to—”
The entire time Hillary had been shaking her head, so Melanie stopped talking. Hillary made a strange face. “I don’t think that’s why she’s here, Melly. She looks . . . well, she looks like trouble.”
Melanie shook her head. “No. I know she’s crazy dramatic, but Teeny has a big heart. Really. I’ve known her forever, and she’s just upholding the promise we both made to each other—that we would both be there for each other for all the important things. She wasn’t going to miss my wedding. She’s loyal to a fault. And we pinkie swore on it.”
Hillary didn’t look so certain, but Melanie didn’t have a chance to convince her sister because the planner started lining them up and going through a checklist to make sure all the wedding party remembered their marks, had her bouquet, and no one had lipstick on their teeth.
A minute later, Melanie was looping her arm through her father’s and trying to keep her bouquet from shaking in her trembling fingers.
“You ready, dumplin’?” her father said, beaming down at her with twinkling hazel eyes. Albert Brevard was still such a handsome man with his dark hair, smooth skin, and cleft chin. His silver temples made him look distinguished, and he smelled like the peppermints he always had in his pocket right beside the soft handkerchief he was quick to pull out for bloody noses or sad movies.
“I guess I have to be,” she said, giving him a smile.
“You’re one of the best things I’ve ever done, Melly bean. If this fella gives you any problems, I keep my granddaddy’s gun well oiled.”
“Daddy,” Melanie groaned.
He gave her a tender smile. “I’m not afraid to pull that trigger.”
Then it was time. The doors swooshed open, and everyone in the church rose, staring at her in her Italian lace gown with the cathedral-length train. She wore a circlet of silk flowers in her hair with a veil that trailed past her fingertips, so her view of the groom and the church filled with their friends and family was absolutely unobstructed.
Her first thought was that Kit looked nervous and ready to bolt.
However, when she got halfway down the aisle, her future husband smiled so sweetly at her that her heart swelled, and tears threatened to mar the elaborate makeup Hillary had so painstakingly applied. That smile was like sun breaking through dark clouds, and all was right with her world.
But then she saw Tennyson.
Melanie actually stutter-stepped when she saw the tight black dress and hat with the black netting swathing half her face. Tennyson had painted her lips a dark red . . . and she wasn’t smiling. The veil obscured her eyes, but Melanie could only imagine the fury in the glacial depths. The whole mourning ensemble was dramatic, ridiculous, and so very much what Tennyson would do that Melanie almost started laughing.
But she didn’t because her mother would turn up her toes and die if she did something so irreverent in the middle of a holy sacrament.
Several hours later, after taking more pictures than anyone could fathom and enduring the best man’s long-winded wedding toast, Melanie finally had a chance to take a breath. The country club ballroom had been turned into an elegant reception with sparkling crystal, white tablecloths, and vases of roses in shades of blush and bashful because she was a southern girl who had watched Steel Magnolias a good thirty or forty times and knew what her colors must be. She and Kit sat in the middle of the head table, and she felt like a queen next to her king. They drank Dom Pérignon from Waterford glasses and took quick bites in between the copious well wishes that came their way. She had just taken a bite of her coconut cream wedding cake when she noticed Tennyson.
The veil had vanished, but the tight dress displayed a good portion of her former friend. Unlike Melanie, Tennyson had a lot of goods. More than Melanie remembered, in fact. Her former friend held a half-filled martini glass and stared at them, taking little sips of the dirty martini, never letting her eyes stray. The table where she sat was empty, and Melanie could only imagine why.
Who wanted to sit with the ex-girlfriend of the groom . . . oh, who happened to be dressed to kill? Like, perhaps, literally to kill?
Obviously, no one.
But then one of Kit’s fraternity brothers plonked down and whispered something in her ear. He grinned like a jackanapes.
She saw Tennyson’s lips move.
The guy’s smile ran away as he rose and left.
“What are you looking at?” Kit said, dropping a kiss on her neck. The move was romantic, designed to make the guests swoon at the love between the two. Any other time, she would have enjoyed it, but the affectionate gesture had made Tennyson’s nostrils flare. Tennyson tossed back her drink and slammed the empty glass on the table.
Kit followed her line of vision. “I saw her earlier. We shouldn’t have invited her, you know.”
“I know that now. Lord, she’s dressed for a funeral. Or a whorehouse. Both?” Melanie tried to joke, pulling her attention from Tennyson and putting it on Kit. “She’s really angry. Do you think she’ll cause a scene?”
Kit gave her a smile. And a kiss on the nose. So adorable. “Nah. You know Tennyson. She loves drama, and this ‘statement’ is something everyone will be talking about. Bet she’s gone before the band strikes up.”
But that didn’t prove to be true. They had their first dance and then spent the next hour or so dancing with their college friends, Uncle James, and a few of the flower girls who seemed to enjoy the dance floor more than anyone else. In between it all, she caught glimpses of her former friend, always with a cocktail in hand and a frown affixed to her pretty face. Soon it was time for their send-off.
First, Melanie tossed her bouquet. Her second cousin Lydia caught it after shoving aside her own sister Deidre. Everyone laughed at the silly antics. Melanie noticed afterward that Tennyson hadn’t stood with the single women. She’d been off to the side, looking aloof and bothered by something so trivial as the tossing of the bouquet.
Then someone fetched a chair for Kit and handed him the microphone.
“Okay, fellas. Gather round. You know what all this means, right? The guy that catches the garter gets laid tonight? Oh, no. Wait, that’s me.” He laughed and pulled Melanie onto his lap, angling her legs to the side. She rolled her eyes, laughing along with him. Her mother was going to be upset about Kit saying something so inappropriate in front of their friends. But, hey, it was accurate. He was getting laid that night.
Kit pulled up the hem of her dress, revealing her legs. He did an eyebrow waggle thing that elicited more laughter from the crowd. “Here, hold this, honey.” He handed her the microphone as the band started playing something that sounded like a burlesque tune.
Her new husband played it up, snagging the satin garter and popping it against her thigh. He slowly started sliding it down, pretending to fan himself and wipe his brow. His fraternity brothers whistled catcalls, and Melanie turned the appropriate shade of vermillion. Kit leaned over and said into the microphone, “I’m a lucky, lucky man.”