in a new salon. She got married, got divorced, and at some point, reclaimed her lifelong struggle with anorexia and bulimia.
After Tennyson and Melanie’s friendship ended, Tennyson tried to keep up with Hillary, but that was before social media was relevant. She hadn’t seen Hillary in many years.
Joseph cradled her face, leveling her gaze to his. “What’s wrong? I thought you wanted me to come by after the party?”
“I did. I do. It’s just I have some things on my mind,” she said.
“Maybe I could distract you?” he asked, his lips at her ear.
The words were meant as seduction, and Tennyson could easily let herself go where her wakening body wanted to go, but there was also part of her that needed to do something. It was this part of herself that she sometimes wished she could ignore, but once a stirring latched on to her thoughts, it became a bit bulldoggish and would give her no peace until she complied. Which was how she’d ended up back in Shreveport in the first place.
Stepping back from Joseph, she met his eyes. “Can you do me a favor?”
Joseph narrowed his eyes. “Why do I sense this favor won’t lead me to that really soft bed you have?”
Tennyson smiled. “Maybe later?”
“Definitely later,” he said, looping his arms about her waist. “What do you need, Tennyson?”
Loaded question indeed. She needed a shower. Pajamas. Multiple orgasms. Another martini. A man who would stay beside her and not be distracted by other women, more money, and her net worth. She settled on, “A ride to the hospital?”
“The hospital? Is there something I should know?” he asked, now looking concerned.
“I have a . . .” She couldn’t say friend because she and Melanie weren’t friends any longer. And Lord knew Anne Brevard would love to see her eviscerated and hanged by her own entrails, so it wasn’t like she was going to be welcomed by the family. Still, something about the way Melanie looked when she told her they had taken Hillary to the hospital made the hair on the back of Tennyson’s neck stand at attention. Something felt really wrong about the whole situation, and some intangible, weird impulse drove her to check on Melanie. “There’s just someone I need to be there for. I’ve had a few martinis, so I can’t drive. Would you?”
He released her. “Of course.”
“Let me settle things with Marc, and then we can go,” she said, rising on the aching balls of her feet and giving his cheek a light kiss. “You really are a good guy. You protect, serve, and give a gal a ride to the hospital.”
She felt him watch her as she walked toward the event planner, who was sitting with his bow tie untied, his top button undone, and his knees akimbo. That was about as disheveled as she’d ever seen the dapper Marc Mallow.
He looked up from his phone when she stopped in front of him. “We did good, Tennyson. Well, outside of the whole Cesar thing, but really, the man is a queen bee. If he would have stayed, he would have been screeching at us all night. Look at me. Hear me. Adore me. Better that he left. Don’t worry, I will demand he return half the fees paid to him, or I will write a scathing review on my blog and share it all over creation.”
Tennyson wanted to laugh at his antics, but she felt too sad to do so.
Marc gestured to the chair beside him. “Sit, darling. Unless you have better things to do? Like that handsome man wearing the absolute worst trousers I’ve ever seen. Where do you suppose he bought them? Sam’s Club?”
“He looks good in them.” Tennyson sat, eyeing Joseph, who had pulled his phone out and was no doubt checking baseball scores. She knew this because he’d checked the scores after the second time they’d had sex. He’d suggested it was his version of an after-sex cigarette. She hadn’t fallen for that one.
Marc smiled. “True.”
“I have to go. A friend needs me. Can you please oversee the cleanup? And let Prada out to potty?” Tennyson gave him her best “pretty please” face.
“How much will you pay me?” Marc asked.
Tennyson leveled an exasperated look at him. “I have a blog, too, you know.”
“Really? What’s it called?”
“Event Planners Who Hire Opera Singers Who Don’t Complete Their Gig.”
“Never heard of it, but I’m sure it would give MarshMallow Thoughts a run for its money. And I will let Prada out.