wish.”
She disappeared quickly for a large woman, and Marc shook his head. “My apologies. The woman is incorrigible, but magnificent at her job. I would fire her for her insolence, but then I couldn’t reach the vases on the top shelf of my storage, so . . .” He gave a shrug.
Tennyson laughed. “I think I love Donna.”
Marc sighed and passed around the small box with assorted teas. “Everyone does.”
After the tea was poured and scones sent around, Marc leaned forward and looked at Emma. “So, my dear, tell me why you want to marry this man.”
Tennyson thought it a stretch to call her boy a man, but she let that go because the why seemed rather important at the moment.
Emma tried to swallow the last of her scone but sort of choked. She lifted her tea and looked desperately at her mother as if she expected Melanie to answer. Tennyson’s once upon a time friend had been taking all this oddness in stride but didn’t seem eager to help her daughter out. Melanie likely also wanted to know the answer to why.
“Um, because I love him,” Emma finally managed after a large sip of Earl Grey.
“Well, yes, but loving someone is not a requirement for marriage, is it? One can be in love and never marry. Why do you want to don a fancy dress, spend your parents’ hard-earned money, and say vows in front of people who quibbled over whether to buy you the toaster or the crystal on your registry?”
“I . . . well, I want to marry him. I mean, we want to make that commitment to each other because we know we belong together. We knew from almost the beginning. It was like we were meant to be.”
Melanie glanced briefly at Tennyson and looked away.
Marc made a moue of his mouth and nodded. “Just so, just so.”
Melanie uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her “I’m about to take charge” posture. “Mr. Mallow, I’m sure you have other things to do this afternoon, so let’s not waste time. My daughter is marrying, and you are the person who has agreed to make that happen. We are putting our money and trust in you, so this is more about the hows and not the whys.”
Marc tsk-tsked. “My mama goat. You don’t waste time. I like that. Yes, yes, let’s get down to it.”
Emma pulled her MacBook Air from the depths of the large tote she’d brought with her. “I have my vision board.”
Marc arched a brow. “These brides and their damned Pinterest. I do believe the internet would put me out of business if it could. Let me see, dear.”
He took the opened computer and looked it over, making little noises as he clicked and scrolled. “Lavender and absinthe. Very southern. Perhaps flaxen seersucker mixed in with the linens, even a bit of wisteria in the bouquet. Yes, yes, I like the raw linen for the table, leveled floating candles, maybe even some country ceramic vases for a more grounded feel.” He looked up at Emma and narrowed his eyes.
Her soon-to-be daughter-in-law fidgeted slightly. An uncomfortable silence sat like a fart in a PTA meeting. Finally, Marc sat the computer down and folded his hands.
“The colors are lovely, and I’m seeing a bit of nostalgia tied to this wedding. Ties to the past of who you are, who your mamas were. I think this overall feel is very fitting since your mothers were once best friends, yes?” He spread his hands, a diamond pinkie ring winking at them.
So the bastard knew about her and Melanie. Of course he did. He would have a line into the Shreveport gossip circuit, of course.
Tennyson glanced over at Melanie, and damned if it didn’t look like she had swallowed a bullfrog. Seemed their time of keeping their past from their children was over. Wasn’t like it could go on much longer, anyway. Emma and Andrew were bound to discover the truth.
“Well, uh,” Emma said, looking from Tennyson back to her mother with suspicion. The child hadn’t graduated magna cum laude for nothing. It was as if the moment was wound tight, a clock with tension ticking at every second hand. “What’s he talking about? Like, you were best friends?”
Tennyson pressed her lips together and shrugged.
“Mama?” Emma’s voice sounded like a reprimand.
“She’s Teeny,” Melanie managed through lips drawn tight as a bowstring.
“Wait, Andrew’s mom is Teeny? That Teeny?”
Melanie looked away.
“The Teeny who put the hole in Gee Ma’s china hutch and