Southern Charm (17 page)

“I'm just . . . ,” I began tentatively, “I'm just not sure it's the right timing. I mean Tripp and I have only been together a few months and I don't want to overwhelm him or anything, especially in the middle of Christmas when he'd probably rather be spending time with his family.”

The look on my mother's face was one of utter disappointment.

“So, we embarrass you? Is that what you're trying to say?”

I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

“You can roll your eyes at me all you want, miss, but if this boy is even slightly serious about you, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to join us for Christmas Eve dinner.”

“I'm not saying he wouldn't be thrilled, Mother,” I began. “It's just . . . a lot to throw his way. I don't want to overwhelm him.”

“Overwhelm him?” She was the one to roll her eyes this time. “Your father and I were married after six months together. I think I knew within the first few weeks of dating he'd be the father of my children. And I was younger than you!”

“Mommy, that was a different time.”

“Oh please,” she said. “Not that much has changed about falling in love. You must have some idea about how you feel about him. About whether or not you see a future with him.”

I was quiet. Of course I did.

“So it's settled, then,” she said, reading the look in my eyes. “We'll have a Christmas Eve dinner with Tripp.”

I gulped.

In Charleston, I knew Ryerson's entire family before we were even dating. But New York was different. I was worried the invitation would scare Tripp away. I was thinking I could just lie and say I'd invited
him and he was unable to attend. But then I remembered Tripp and my mother were already in cahoots.

“Mother . . . ,” I began, my voice tempered and calm.

I walked farther into the living room until I was standing over her. I attempted to maintain my composure.

“Yes, honey?”

The way she raised both eyebrows, cocked her head, and smiled sweetly told me I already knew the answer to my question.

“You didn't
already
invite Tripp to Christmas Eve dinner, did you?”

She tilted her head back and opened her mouth slightly. It was a classic Scarlett Davenport stall tactic, as if she was trying to recall, amongst the thousands of invites to Christmas Eve dinner, if she had extended one to my boyfriend. She pressed a finger to her lips and hummed.

“Well, I believe I may have,” she finally said.

“Mother!” I threw my hands up in the air.

“Oh, Minty.” She waved a hand in my direction. “You have got to stop being so dramatic. I will have you know that Tripp was ecstatic to know we were planning—excuse me, thinking about—spending Christmas in New York and responded immediately to my invitation.”

“Unbelievable, Mother. Truly unbelievable.”

The thing with my mother is, you can fight her and lose or you can just surrender to whatever master plan she's cooked up and hope for the best. I was done fighting with my mother. We would have Christmas in New York.

A
s I was going to bed that night, Tripp called.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry I missed you earlier.”

“Sorry my mother is a crazy stalker!” I said.

He laughed. “Listen,” he began, “I was hanging out before Scarlett got there and I went to log on to my Gmail account. For some reason your Gmail account was open and I guess I saw something I shouldn't have.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was so brain-dead at that point I couldn't even begin to imagine what he was talking about.

“Ryerson Bigelow?” he said.

I racked my brain. Oh my God, I'd totally forgotten about Ryerson's messages!

“Oh, Tripp,” I said. “Please. That was so long ago. I honestly don't know why he's contacting me after all of this time.”

“He clearly ‘misses you,'” he said in a singsong voice.

I rolled my eyes. Something about Ryerson—beyond the fact that he was my ex—really got to Tripp. Boys could be so competitive.

“Tripp,” I said. “Please. Ryerson and I are ancient history. Do we really have to talk about this now?” I was afraid I was going to fall asleep midconversation.

“Ancient history or not,” he said, “you wanted to marry the guy at one point.”

“But I didn't,” I groaned. “And now I'm with you.”

He was silent.

“Listen, sweetie,” I said, “I'm exhausted. It's so dumb. I didn't even respond!”

He sighed. “All right,” he said. “I'm sorry I even saw it in the first place.”

“Well, try to forget it,” I said. “I know I have.” I thought for a minute. “Besides, I can promise you Ryerson is not invited to Davenport Christmas Eve dinner.”

Tripp laughed. “He better not be!”

“I'm glad you're coming,” I said.

“Me too.”

“I have to be up early to fly to Charleston tomorrow,” I reminded him, yawning.

“Okay,” he said. “I love you.”

My eyes popped open. Tripp had said “I love you” that night at the Boom Boom Room, but this was the first time he'd said it, well, not under the influence. If it hadn't happened to be past eleven o'clock at night, it was what I would have called a “daytime I-love-you.” Either way, I could tell he was sincere. It felt good.

“I love you too,” I said.

Never Keep a Lady Waiting

I
n New York, when it rains it doesn't just pour, it torrential-downpours for five minutes straight then stops, leaving you soaked, shocked, and standing in the middle of the street with a broken umbrella.

After the Thanksgiving holiday, it was like someone pressed the “fast-forward” button at work. While we were always focused on pleasing the journalists who helped make our clients' brands successful, we became obsessed with making sure they were very, very happy during the holidays.

Like with everything else in New York, there was a class system when it came to giving presents to the writers, editors, TV reporters, and producers at the media outlets we worked with. A-list presents (typically the designer bag of the season or an expensive watch) went to top editors like Julie Greene and producers at programs like the
Today
show, while lesser-value B- and C-list items (scarves, fragrances, spa gift certificates) went to newspapers, general-interest magazines, and, finally, a short list of freelancers who happened to have great relationships with Ruth.

We were so busy organizing the presents that I basically blinked
and Christmas Eve was literally two days away. I was so preoccupied that I almost missed a very important e-mail sent to my personal account. Luckily, my mother had just called and was eagerly awaiting my approval on some jpegs of fabrics she'd sent, so I quickly logged on. And there it was, an e-mail from someone named Laila Zimmerman.

“Dear Minty,” it began, “I'm writing on behalf of Kevin Park. He enjoyed meeting you at the boutique opening back in November and was curious if you'd be available to join him for lunch tomorrow before he leaves for St. Barth's. Apologies for the late notice, but please let me know ASAP if you are able to make it. Also, Kevin would appreciate it if you refrain from mentioning this meeting to Ms. Vine.” It was signed, “Laila Zimmerman, Assistant to Kevin Park.”

I stared at the e-mail as I held a glossy white bag in one hand and a metallic gold pen in the other. What on earth could Kevin Park possibly want from me? Of course I was incredibly flattered, but either way, how was I going to manage sneaking out of the office for two hours unnoticed on Christmas Eve?

I solicited Spencer for some advice.

“Just tell Ruth you have a doctor's appointment.” He grinned. “Like, the
lady
doctor or something—it will throw her off.”

“Gross,” I said.

I was skeptical, but Ruth must have been distracted because she gave me the go-ahead. And thank goodness, because I wasn't going to pass up an opportunity at one-on-one time with New York's hottest up-and-coming designer. I e-mailed Laila back and told her I was thrilled and would love to meet with Kevin. She responded immediately and said she'd made a reservation for the two of us at Morandi, a restaurant near the Kevin Park showroom in the West Village.

T
hat night, I ran out and bought a pale lavender dress from Kevin's resort collection. I paired it with gray suede booties from Brian Atwood, light gray wool tights, and a charcoal-gray wool coat. I even called my mother over from the Plaza for final approval. I wanted
everything to be perfect. I had no idea what he wanted to discuss, but I had a feeling it wasn't the weather.

When I arrived at Morandi, a Tuscan-inspired restaurant situated on a tiny sliver of Waverly Place, Kevin was already seated.

He noticed my dress immediately.

“You see,” he said. “You're exactly the kind of girl I design for. You live a cosmopolitan life but you're not afraid of color. You're not afraid to be feminine.”

I was flattered.

He didn't waste any time in getting to his point.

“So,” he began, “in a nutshell, I've been looking for a new brand ambassador, someone who's not a celebrity but has a bit of a . . . higher profile than your regular girl-about-town.” He took a bite of his fish and looked at me.

I raised an eyebrow. Was he suggesting that I fit the bill? I was out and about more than ever now, and the invitations—to product launches, trunk shows, store openings, charity cocktail parties—were definitely starting to increase, but I didn't know if anyone would say that I was “high profile” just yet.

“You're on the verge of It Girldom,” Kevin said. He laughed. “Okay, so that's not even a word, but you know what I mean. I could help take you to the next level. And you could help
me
sell some clothes.”

“Gosh, Kevin,” I began. “I am so flattered. I mean, the only thing in the world that would make me hesitate for one second is . . .”

Kevin waved a hand in the air.

“Ruth? Let's be honest, you've got to be miserable there.”

I was silent. Of course I thought about quitting RVPR at least twice a day. I had regular breakdowns and my mother thought I was crazy for staying as long as I had. Tripp was acting as my on-call therapist and had already talked me off the ledge more than a dozen times. Lately, if I called him hysterically crying because Ruth had berated me in front of the entire office for answering her phone the wrong way or had sent me back to the salad place for the third time because the
arugula wasn't crisp enough, he just told me to quit. It was becoming pretty clear that maybe RVPR wasn't the right fit for me.

“Ruth can be very demanding,” I finally said.

“We all know that's an understatement.” Kevin smiled. “I guess my point is, a girl like you needs to be out and about in fabulous clothes, not sitting in a cubicle slaving away on a guest list. And this position would allow you to do that. In fact, that's pretty much the job description.”