in front of everyone, but she sure had wanted the attention.
Wish granted, bitch.
Five minutes later, after having found Janie a dress that pretty much swamped her petite figure, Melanie slid out of the bedroom to address the mess in the dining room. She was met with apologetic smiles and a couple of pats from friends and family. Emma and Andrew had done an admirable job of distracting everyone from the disaster. When Melanie finally rounded the corner into the dining room, she found Charlotte and her neighbor Coco, a most unlikely duo, cleaning up the cake and spilled bourbon. Thankfully, neither of the glasses had shattered and sent splinters of glass careening.
“Such a shame because it really was a pretty cake,” Coco said. The woman wore a miniskirt and stilettos, but her blouse fully covered her enhanced breasts. Small wonder.
“Thank you, ladies,” Melanie said, giving Coco’s arm a squeeze. She was surprised to find her older neighbor’s arms were pretty well defined. More so than her own. Which was kind of sad since Coco was a good twenty-five years older than Melanie. God, she needed to start working out.
“You’re welcome. I’m always happy to help. Goodness, I’m like family to Kit, anyway,” Charlotte said, wiping up the last of the frosting and tossing it in the white kitchen trash bag. Kit came into the dining room with more towels and a bottle of kitchen cleaner. He handed it to Charlotte wordlessly.
“Teeny’s dog peed in the kitchen,” he said, matter of factly.
“Where is that woman?” Melanie asked, looking around for Tennyson.
“It’s okay, Mel,” Kit said, pressing his hands toward her in the manner she hated. She despised when he tried to tell her how to think and feel. Like he was the voice of reason.
“It’s not okay. It’s our children’s celebration. This is not the occasion for a dog in a purse, for heaven’s sake. She should know better.”
“You just said the important words—it’s our children’s celebration. Let it go. No one was hurt, and who needs cake, anyway?” he said, trying to smile and lighten the mood.
“I never eat cake,” Charlotte said, drawing the bag’s ties together.
“Of course you don’t,” Melanie said, turning on her heel so she didn’t say or do something she regretted. She needed a moment. She needed a drink. Or Xanax. She wondered if she had any left from the root canal. Or was that some other drug they’d given her to relax? Whatever. She felt tight as a snare drum.
She moved through the kitchen, where the staff had gathered to replenish hors d’oeuvres, and then snuck onto the small back patio that seemed to have no real purpose since it wasn’t attached to the larger one. One of her friends had suggested it was specifically for a kitchen garden, so she, with the help of Hillary, had dutifully installed oregano, mint, and basil in containers. No one came out here, so it was the perfect place for her to escape when she needed something more than a glass of wine.
Lifting the ceramic frog Noah and Emma had given her for Mother’s Day ten years ago, she fished out the Ziploc bag containing her contraband pack of smokes and a lighter. She tapped one out, stuck it in her mouth, lit it, and sucked in the sweet nicotine that would soothe her jagged nerves.
“I’ll have one of those,” Tennyson said from the darkness, startling her.
“You can go to hell,” Melanie said, shoving the plastic bag back up the frog’s ass.
Tennyson’s smile split the darkness. “You first.”
CHAPTER SIX
Tennyson had been hiding from Melanie’s wrath on the small screened porch right off the kitchen. She’d first gone to the powder room to pin her straps, then she’d come back and scooped up her troublesome puppy on the way out. She had every intention of returning to clean up the piddle Prada had delivered to Melanie’s kitchen rug, but over the past week she’d learned Prada often did her business back to back. When she’d picked up the terrified puppy, Prada had clamored up her bodice, making the torn dress sag again. Thankfully, it did not pull it down to give her boobs an encore performance. The pup had immediately tried to hide beneath Tennyson’s chin, which turned her irritation at the dog to sympathy. Poor Prada. Golden retrievers were usually friendly, but then again, Tennyson had seen Cujo.
Eventually, Prada calmed and struggled to be free of Tennyson’s grasp. Independent little cuss. Tennyson set her on the brick pavers