“A foot-long hot dog on a stick. That’s exactly what Kit said when we went to the Rangers game.” Yeeeheee, tee hee, haaahaaahaaa.
Please. It was nauseating.
Melanie and Kit used to have that psychic-connection thing where they could read each other’s mind, but that was a big ol’ fail at present because Kit hadn’t glanced her way in a while.
“Excuse me a minute, Janie. I have to attend to something,” Melanie said, setting her wineglass on the edge of the buffet. She slid past Janie, who had literally stopped midsentence and still had her mouth open. Poppy was skirting the table, and several people were smiling indulgently because Poppy was pretty darn cute. Of course they didn’t know what Melanie knew. Poppy was an expert counter surfer, and she’d just hit the Big Kahuna with the rows of delectable, meaty wondrousness spread before her.
Melanie caught Poppy’s collar just as she was about to go paws up on the table.
“Oh no, you don’t, missy,” Melanie said, tossing a smile to John Reeves and Ed Deemer, who were scarfing down Natchitoches meat pies like they were Skittles.
“Woo, she nearly got her some,” Ed joked.
“She’d give you a run for your money on hitting this spread, Ed,” Melanie said, teasing their across-the-street neighbor, tugging Poppy’s collar, and looking around desperately for Kit. Instead Tennyson appeared.
“So who’s that heifer trying to climb Kit?” Tennyson asked, not reading the situation with the dog at all.
“What?”
“The woman trying to mount your husband in the living room,” Tennyson said, her eyes finding Kit over by the piano. Charlotte had her hand on his arm and was smiling up at him. Melanie gritted her teeth.
“Oh, that’s his new business partner. Her name is Charlotte. She’s Heather Frommeyer’s cousin.”
Tennyson’s eyes widened. “Really? Does she know he’s married?”
Aggravation reared its head inside her. It wasn’t like Melanie didn’t know exactly what Charlotte was doing, but to have Tennyson, the best friend who had betrayed her, who had tossed their friendship into the flames, who had shown back up in town looking thinner, younger, and wealthier than Melanie ever hoped to look at nearing fifty years of age say such a thing made it worse. “Don’t worry about it.”
Tennyson looked down at her, where she crouched, holding on to Poppy. “Oh, I’m not worried about it. But maybe you should be.”
At that moment, Prada decided to make like a jack-in-the-box and pop from the depths of Tennyson’s bag. The dog gave a little yip, and Poppy turned like a serial killer sensing a nubile blonde tripping over a felled log.
Melanie opened her mouth to warn Tennyson, but it was too late.
In Poppy’s defense, Prada looked a lot like the squirrel that had been terrorizing her in the backyard all spring. Same color, same size, same big brown eyes. At that moment, Melanie had the most ridiculous thing pop into her head—that Ray Stevens song. The one where the squirrel went berserk in the First Self-Righteous Church. Both Melanie and Tennyson had loved that silly song when they were kids, but that was neither here nor there because what Poppy did next was . . . well, it was epic.
Prada chirped again when she caught sight of the big, fluffy retriever, perhaps in delight. Who really knew? It didn’t matter, because Poppy didn’t take anything about Prada as a delight.
Nope.
Her friendly, lovable family pet went into protect-and-kill mode, ripping from Melanie’s grasp and jumping on Tennyson. Tennyson wasn’t prepared, and she stumbled into Ed, who dropped the glass of bourbon he’d been drinking. Ed hit the buffet hard. Tennyson yelped as Poppy’s nails hooked her bodice, making the straps on her dress pop, and, well, at that point everyone got the chance to view the “works of art” created by no doubt one of Manhattan’s best breast guys.
Tennyson’s purse slipped from her arm, the puppy tumbled out, and Poppy went for the Yorkie with all the pent-up aggression she’d been harboring toward the squirrel. Meanwhile when Ed slammed into the buffet, it caused Melanie’s wineglass to spill all over Janie, who had followed Melanie to the table still expounding on the bridesmaid dresses she’d seen in Southern Living magazine. Janie had already told Melanie she’d just bought the dress she wore at Neiman’s and paid full price (sucker), so Melanie wasn’t surprised to hear Janie gasp. “My dress! Oh my God, it’s ruined.”
Prada wasn’t stupid. She knew a determined, fluffy golden retriever when she saw one,