in from right field, the realization had clonked her on the head. As a sixteen-year-old kid who had her own crap to deal with—mainly crushing pressure from her parents regarding her grades and being totally besotted with her best friend’s boyfriend—Melanie found she was ill equipped to address her sister’s binge-and-purge cycle. Even when she presented evidence of the harmful behavior to her parents, she was brushed off or set aside. Her parents didn’t want to dig beneath the foundation to look for the creepy-crawlies hiding beneath their suddenly popular and pretty eldest daughter. Instead they’d shifted their attention to Melanie’s faults, making her wish she’d kept her damned mouth shut.
Sorry. Had to go to the bathroom. I’m beat and off to bed.
Melanie gave an audible sigh at her sister’s words. Hill was okay. She paused before typing. You feeling okay?
I’m fine.
It was what her sister always said. But then Melanie realized it was what she always said, too. Hadn’t she just said as much to her husband when he’d asked if she was okay? But how did one say she was scared her world was about to fall apart when she was supposed to say she was fine?
Maybe that’s what Hillary had always understood—you didn’t tell the truth. You hid it because then everyone would leave you the hell alone.
Love you, Hilly Billy.
You too, Melly Bean.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tennyson wore the dress she’d worn to her first husband’s funeral to meet with the wedding planner. The navy St. John knit dress was classic, expensive, and easy to recognize. From what Tennyson knew about Marc Mallow, she understood he enjoyed a certain level of je ne sais quoi in a person . . . mostly because she read his Twitter feed last night, and that was part of his bio. She also knew that while the man professed to be obsessed with undefined elements, he very much would appreciate the very tangible quality of her dress.
Tennyson was prepared to like the diminutive man who seemed to be a cross of Martin Short’s character on Father of the Bride and the discerning Tim Gunn of Project Runway. That being said she knew he’d hailed from Sarepta, Louisiana, a virtual speck on the map, and had earned his way to being prima donna of Shreveport’s wedding scene only because the man knew how to play the game . . . and could get picky mamas and pouting brides on the same page in order to produce a wedding that everyone talked about for at least a good three days after the bride rode away in the carriage, limo, bicycle, or hot-air balloon. Whichever she chose.
And, really, he was the best they could get at this late juncture.
Tennyson parked her car and stepped carefully onto the rocky driveway. She’d worn a pair of neutral Stuart Weitzman heels because they were stylish enough to suit her and classic enough to match the dress.
Marc’s office sat in a picturesque garden behind his mother’s successful floral shop. He’d had a lovely, large gazebo constructed, which served as the entrance to his building. On Marc’s Facebook page he’d professed the unusual office was in order to aesthetically blend into the beauty of the roses and fragrant climbing jasmine beneath the spread arms of the mossed oaks. That, and he loved the gazebo scene from The Sound of Music. Whimsical garden statues and blown glass à la Chihuly studded the landscape, making the overall effect a mishmash that was more The Hobbit meets Alice in Wonderland.
“Charming,” Tennyson said, coming up behind Melanie and Emma, who both stood staring at a nude statuary of Pan in which certain parts had been overexaggerated.
“Are we sure we want this man to do the wedding?” Melanie asked, shooting a side-eye at her daughter.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Mom, you have been to the weddings he’s done. They are always suited to the couple and their vision. It’s what I want.”
Tennyson ran her gaze over Melanie. Whereas Tennyson had chosen to put her boring but stylish foot forward, Melanie had gone with middle-aged matron for her look. She wore black pants that did nothing to flatter her figure because they were too big, a top that was better suited for someone who was seventy-five and owned six cats, and hair that was so severely cut she looked somehow sad. Girlfriend needed a makeover in the worst way. Melly looked more and more like her hard-assed mama than Tennyson would have ever thought she could.
Melanie turned to