her cheek. “Tennyson is Tennyson. She hasn’t changed.”
“Yeah, she has. She’s got money now, and from what I understand, she has a lot of it. She makes sure everyone knows it, too.”
“Mel, you said you’d try,” Kit breathed, his words a sigh. He knew how she felt about Tennyson, but that didn’t mean he felt the same way. It wasn’t his family she’d ruined, and she knew by the tone of his voice when they talked about high school that he still had a small place of affection for his old love. It incensed her, but she never pursued it because she knew she, too, had a place that still longed for what once was. She trampled that feeling any time it came up with the image of Tennyson in that black dress on the night of their wedding. “I’m going to fix myself a scotch. You want a drink?”
“No, I need to keep my wits about me,” she said as her husband walked out.
Her mother appeared at Melanie’s elbow, and they both watched from the dining room window as Emma hugged Tennyson and then kissed Andrew. “She’s like a bitch cat.”
Melanie glanced at her mother. “Tennyson?”
Her mother’s steely gaze said everything she felt. “She looks fluffy and harmless, but her claws sink deep. And she’s not afraid to bite, is she?”
Anne would never forgive Tennyson for what she’d done that night. People in Shreveport still used the debacle as a cautionary tale for brides who were tempted to invite an ex-girlfriend or -boyfriend to their wedding as a token of goodwill. A lot of vodka and a tiny spark of anger couldn’t be dampened by a cheerful piece of wedding cake and a fun flirtation with a cute groomsman. No, that kind of angry wrecking ball of emotion plowed through good intention, destroying any wedded bliss in its path.
“And she’ll be part of Emma’s family now,” Melanie whispered, feeling hopeless.
“But not ours. She’ll never be part of ours, and I refuse to accept her as anything other than the trash she is.” Anne’s voice had grown frosty enough to freeze the windowpane they stood in front of.
“You should steer clear of Tennyson tonight, Mother,” Melanie said, giving her mother a firm look. “I’ll repeat Kit’s advice—this is about Emma and Andrew, not us. Em doesn’t know that Tennyson broke our family, and I want that knowledge to stay in the past where it belongs. The Brevards have to own our own mistakes. Tennyson didn’t cause what happened. She just lit the match. So let’s try. For Emma’s sake. Okay?”
Those were the words Kit had used on her earlier. Let’s try to ignore Tennyson. But she knew that ignoring anyone like Tennyson was akin to tearing a winning lottery ticket in half. Nothing easy about actually doing it.
Her mother looked at her, defiance and perhaps hate shimmering from her eyes. “I will try.”
Melanie started to quote Yoda but realized her mother would have no clue what she spoke of. Star Wars wasn’t something Anne Brevard would deem suitable entertainment. Instead Melanie walked to the buffet and looked for the cake knife, praying it wasn’t tarnished and could be set out as is. She didn’t have time to clean it properly.
“Hello, darlings,” Tennyson trilled from the open doorway, pausing for a moment in a vogue-like manner that suggested everyone look at her.
It worked.
Melanie and Anne turned to survey their guest. Kit walked in from the kitchen carrying a highball glass, his blue eyes on the woman standing in the doorway with leg pointed and hand on hip to showcase her figure.
Tennyson smiled brilliantly, sliding her sunglasses from her nose and folding them. Then she clacked into the house in impossibly high heels, a dress she’d obviously poured herself into, and an expensive-looking bag from which that stupid dog peeked out. Tennyson’s blonde hair had been swept up into something suitable for prom, diamond earrings dangled, and the large emerald on her finger couldn’t be real, but probably was because only Tennyson would choose something so obnoxious.
Melanie sucked in a deep breath and set the cake knife she’d just pulled from the depths of her buffet beside the cake. “Hello, Tennyson. Welcome to our home.”
Tennyson looked around, her eyes critical as she took in the space. Melanie had redecorated the public rooms in the fall. She’d had muted silver curtains custom made and painted the walls a dove-wing gray. Glossy, white trim, a slate hearth, and creamy velvet Chesterfield sofas sat facing