wanted, but even he would stroke out over what she estimated this wedding might cost, even if it were done as something “simple” as her daughter requested. The thing was, Emma had no clue what things actually cost. Melanie had discovered this when she took Emma shopping for prom dresses. Conclusion—her firstborn had champagne tastes. Simple didn’t mean cheap. “I’m not sure. Don’t worry. Emma says she wants something simple and elegant.”
Kit sighed and looked back down at his magazine, effectively dismissing her.
Melanie padded into the living room and then the kitchen, avoiding the still damp patch created by Tennyson’s puppy. She turned on the kitchen light and nearly screamed when she saw Noah sitting at the kitchen island eating a bowl of cereal.
“Oh my goodness.”
“Hey, Mom,” he said, crunching away.
“I thought you were at Matt’s.”
“I was at Matt’s, but it was boring, so I came home.”
“Oh, well, I wish you would have texted. Your father has a gun, you know.”
Noah raised his eyebrows. “How was the deal?”
“Your sister’s party was nice. I wish you would have come, especially now that I know your prior obligation was something ‘boring.’”
“Mom, I had to be at the kickball tournament. I’m the best one on the team.” Noah then tilted the bowl, drank the milk, and poured another big bowl of something that would rot his teeth out if given the chance. It was the one thing she bought him that was absolute crap for his diet. A mother had to choose her battles.
“So humble, too,” she said, fishing a delicate china cup from the cabinet and starting the fire under the kettle.
“Why is Emma getting married so fast? Just seems weird, you know?”
At last someone who agreed with her. She’d spent all night expecting someone to remark on how young Emma was to be getting married, but no one had said diddly. And here was her voice of reason—a man-child who smelled his dirty socks before putting them on and existed solely on peanut butter cups and Cap’n Crunch.
“She’s in love,” Melanie said, reaching for the chamomile tea and scooping some into the tea ball.
Noah rolled his eyes. “I’m never getting married. Don’t need no chick telling me every move to make.”
“Use correct grammar, please,” she said. Then she realized she sounded exactly like her own mother and wanted to snatch the words back. This was likely the longest conversation she’d had with her son in two months, and she had to go all Japanese mother on him.
“I don’t need no female telling me what to do,” he amended with a smart-ass grin.
Melanie chuckled. “You already have one telling you what to do.”
“Touché,” he said, slurping up the cereal, swiping at the milk dribbling down his chin with his bare hand. Melanie stopped herself from going to the paper towel holder and tearing off a sheet. If Noah wanted milky hands, he could dang well have them.
“Emma told me about Mrs. Janie falling in the cake. I bet that was dope.”
Melanie looked up. “It was actually dangerous.”
Noah didn’t seem to care. He shrugged. “She said Andrew’s mom brought her dog in a purse. I met that woman at graduation. She’s totally bougie. And drama.”
And again, someone who saw exactly what she did. Of course, what Noah didn’t know was that Tennyson had always been that way. He also didn’t know that half of it was an act because Tennyson was afraid people might see the real person beneath the carefully manicured surface. Beneath was the girl she’d grown up with, the one who wore brand-name clothes she’d scored at the secondhand store, the one who stood outside the country club fence and looked inside, the one who never learned to drive in high school because she didn’t want to get the hand-me-down Pinto. But Melanie didn’t say that. She settled for, “Yeah, Tennyson is a piece of work, all right.”
“Does this mean she’s going to be, like, coming to Christmas and stuff?” He looked horrified.
Melanie rather felt like that herself. It wasn’t like once the wedding was over, Tennyson would be out of her life. The woman had moved to Shreveport. Why exactly, Melanie wasn’t certain. And now Emma and Andrew would be living in her backyard. Holidays would be on them before she could blink. She tried to envision Tennyson at Thanksgiving or sitting next to her during the Christmas Eve candlelight service singing “Silent Night.” Then there was the thought of grandchildren.
Dear Lord, one day they would be grandmothers, fighting