“Out here,” she called to her daughter, spraying a little bug spray into the air.
“Hey,” Emma said from the open door. “Wow, it’s hot out here. Why are you gardening in the heat of the day?”
“I guess it’s not the best time, but I saw the blooms on this basil and couldn’t remember if Hillary told me to wait and let it seed or pinch it off and dry it. I just couldn’t remember.”
Emma gave her a soft smile. “Why don’t you leave it? We can look up how best to regrow basil on the internet. Besides, I have some things to go over with you if you have the time.”
Melanie brushed her hands on her old shorts and walked into the blessedly cool kitchen. “I need to get ready for the lingerie shower, though I’m not sure if I will ever be ready for that.”
Emma chuckled. “Um, I’m not sure I will be, either. My friends have promised to keep it rated R and not rated X. I reminded Julianna that you and Tennyson would be there. Of course, who knows what Tennyson might bring. She’s very big on sexual empowerment. Those were her exact words, so I’m a bit frightened to open her gift.”
Melanie had bought her daughter some soft PJ Harlow camisoles and matching satin boxers. They were pretty and functional. She was certain that Emma would love them because she’d been wanting some since she’d spied them at a local boutique. Melanie knew people would think her gift was boring, but sometimes a girl needed a bit of practicality. “I heard her saying something about a dildo collection, so . . .”
Emma nearly dropped her teacup. “Oh my God. You’re not serious?”
“Just kidding.”
“Mom,” Emma said, her eyes all googly. “You didn’t just make that joke.”
Melanie started to apologize, but then realized she didn’t need to. She had a freaking sense of humor, and her daughter was an adult. “I did. Is Tennyson still dating that cop? She seems extraordinarily, well, happy. Maybe because she no longer has to use her collection.”
“My ears are bleeding,” Emma joked, her blue eyes sparkling. Melanie hadn’t seen her truly look light and happy in weeks. Losing one’s aunt and making a million decisions all the while balancing medical school wasn’t exactly a breeze. “Yeah, she’s still seeing him, though Tennyson balked at calling it dating. Still, he’s over at the house a lot. And I don’t think it’s all sexy times. He grilled some steaks for us the other night, and it was fun seeing her rendered speechless by him. Joseph’s a really nice guy, and he totally calls her out on her bullshit. Uh, pardon my language.”
“Good. She needs a guy like that, and I’m happy she’s happy.” Melanie couldn’t believe she felt that way about Tennyson, but she did. For the last seven weeks, the wedding preparations had taken a back seat to Melanie’s grief. Suddenly besting Tennyson didn’t seem so important. Honestly, not many of the decisions they’d been making—a deep lilac or a periwinkle for the ribbon on the groom’s boutonniere?—seemed super important. Who the hell would even remember? Who really cared?
When one’s sister died, superfluous things like deciding between tuberoses or calla lilies don’t seem so life-altering. Not that Emma truly understood this. She still cared very much about the preparations and all the little details that took a wedding from “ho-hum to fabulous.” Out of the mouth of Marc Mallow, no doubt.
“Yeah, she’s been a little bit easier to deal with here lately. I guess with Aunt Hilly and everything, Tennyson decided to lay off being the supreme diva she is,” Emma said, unwrapping a tea bag and plopping it into the cup. She set the kettle to boiling and pulled a stool up to the counter. “How are you doing? You seemed a little lost in the kitchen garden. You do that a lot lately.”
Did her daughter suspect about the smoking? No, she was super careful to hide the evidence and spray Deep Woods bug spray around the area after she smoked. “It’s been hard to concentrate. I miss Hillary. We talked almost every day, and she was . . . well, you know things between me and your Gee Ma aren’t the best.”
“Gee Ma loves you, Mom.”
“I know she does, but our relationship has always been . . . difficult. I guess sometimes it’s like that between mothers and daughters. Not us, I hope.”
Emma smiled. “You’ve always been such a good mother to me.”
Melanie had tried so hard to be a good mother, mostly because her own hadn’t been there for her when she was growing up. Anne had worked as a partner in a law firm specializing in taxes and bankruptcy. Her mother had been very diligent in her work, spending long hours at the office and bringing even more work home. She’d never bought a minivan so she could run carpool or brought snacks to any of Melanie’s softball practices. Vacation had been a week in a Mediterranean resort with someone to mind Hillary and Melanie while she and Albert relaxed on the beach. Hands-on had never been a descriptor for Anne Brevard.
So Melanie had busted her ass to be the opposite, minivan and all.
“Thanks. I tried.”
The back door opened, and Kit came in, his head pinning his cell phone to his shoulder as he muttered, “Yeah, yeah, okay, sounds good.”
He plopped his briefcase down on the counter and clicked off his phone. “Whew, what a day.”
“Hey, Daddy.”
“Hello, pumpkin. You aren’t here for more money, are you?” Kit asked.
Emma laughed. “No, but if you’ve got extra, I’m not opposed.”
“So what are you two doing?” he asked, snagging a banana from the top of the fruit basket, knocking an apple off the counter. It hit the floor and lob-rolled to Melanie’s feet. She picked it up, noting the damage, and walked it to the trash can.
“Just finished class and about to go over my list. One last time. Marc is frantically trying to get everything confirmed before the rehearsal tomorrow. Mom and I just need to record final numbers on everything, and we should be set. I still can’t believe I’ll be a married woman in a few days. So weird, but exciting.” Emma pulled the chirping teapot off the stove and poured the water into her cup. A fragrant curl of steam escaped. Chai.
“I’m not sure either your mother or I are ready to let you grow up. Can’t you play Barbies or something instead?” Kit joked.
“If you build me a Barbie DreamHouse,” Emma said, taking a sip.
Kit smiled before glancing toward the stained-glass turtle Emma made in the third grade that hung in the kitchen window. Her husband looked a little . . . something. Disturbed would be the closest description. Or maybe more like off-kilter. “Tennyson brought by a check today. She was downtown for something and came by with it.”
“A check? For what? I told her we would pay for our daughter’s wedding,” Melanie said, feeling aggravation rear its head. Why did the woman have to have her hand in everything? Just because she had lots of money didn’t mean everyone else depended on her to pay their way. The woman was too much. The floral spray Tennyson sent for Hillary’s funeral had to be carried in by two people. The monstrosity had loomed over all the other arrangements, asserting Tennyson even in the somber occasion. The woman needed someone to dial her down a few notches on all levels. “She’s just ridicu—”