pale-pink silk-and-pearl flowers on the bodice, which spill down elegantly over the sheer organza. Your bosom is tastefully covered, but there’s some sexy sheerness, and then there is the skirt—multiple layers of the softest tulle. The back is the most magnificent one I’ve seen in a while. Enormous attention to detail in this dress that is youthful, elegant, and, well, one of my favorites.”
Emma eyed the gown and nodded. “Okay. I’ll try it.”
Off the two went, leaving Tennyson alone with Melanie. They hadn’t said much to each other all day, instead directing their conversation to Emma. It had been an awkward ride over, and Tennyson had several times over the course of the three-hour ride in the limo and the rushed luncheon at her favorite sushi restaurant thought she should have stayed at home. But she needed a mother-of-the-groom dress that didn’t make it look like she was sixty-five years old. And, Lord help her, but Melanie probably needed one, too.
Melanie had always had a tendency toward dressing conservatively. Mostly because her mother liked all things covered, so Melanie had followed that directive. Yet the sheer bad taste the woman had been displaying lately, in an effort to cover up the weight she’d gained or whatever, made Tennyson too nervous to leave her to decide one of the most important elements of the wedding—Emma’s dress.
Nope.
“Have you already found your dress for the wedding?” Tennyson asked after a good three tense minutes of silence, hoping Melanie hadn’t already bought a MeeMaw dress to wear with her favorite clodhoppers.
“Uh, I will probably pick up something at Dillard’s. I was hoping to lose a few pounds before . . . why am I even telling you this? I’m fine.” She wiped a finger beneath each lower lash and looked grumpy as a codfish.
“I’m going to look for mine while we’re here. The store carries a great selection of designers. You might be able to find something special,” Tennyson said, trying to be diplomatic. She was tired of Melanie’s anger. Okay, yeah, Tennyson deserved a lot of it, but wasn’t Melanie tired of being hostile? How much longer was she going to be a blazing bitch?
“I saw the price tags on the dresses when we came in. Two thousand dollars for a simple sundress? No thank you.” Melanie pulled out her phone and tapped on the screen.
“But it’s your daughter’s wedding. You’re not really going to wear an ugly dress off the sales rack from somewhere in Shreveport, are you?”
Melanie looked up at her. “Who are you anymore? What’s wrong with a dress from Dillard’s? You used to think Dillard’s was great, remember?”
Tennyson stared down at her. “I’m exactly who I want to be.”
“And that’s someone who does . . . what exactly? Flits around with no purpose? Have you even had a job? Or was your career merely marrying wealthy men and spending their money? Or maybe it’s marathon champagne drinking?” She glanced pointedly over at the empty flute on the table next to the seating area.
“I like champagne.”
“I think everyone knows that. Not to mention you’re a walking advertisement for plastic surgery. Oh, and particularly good at making everyone else feel cheap and . . . fat. If that was your goal for coming back to Shreveport—to show everyone how rich and tacky you are—mission accomplished.”
Tennyson laughed, even though deep inside Melanie’s words were a pair of brass knuckles delivered to her gut. Ouch. “Jealous much, Mel?”
“Of you?” Melanie asked, doing her best Anne Brevard impression, chin high, eyes cold. “Hardly.”
“But you are. I can see that as plain as a billboard. But I can also see you love being a martyr, don’t you? You probably get a hard-on from everyone in the PTA saying ‘Melanie can do it. She’s so good at doing all the things,’ and I bet secretly you enjoy bowing and scraping to your kids, setting out the perfectly cut watermelon in pretty glass bowls, planting herbs you’ll never use, hiding your smoking habit so everyone will think you’re the perfect wife and mother. But, God, Melly, you’re so boring.”
Melanie’s cheeks suffused with color. “And you’re a blow-up, plastic wannabe who likes to flaunt money. But then again, that’s what the nouveau riche do. Bless your heart, you just don’t know any better, do you?”
Okay, gloves off. “At least I get laid. I bet you haven’t given Kit a blow job since the Obama administration.”
Melanie’s whole face turned red. “But I bet you’d like to, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, sugar,