Southern Charm (31 page)

Jenny was receptive to my ideas but she was also very busy. Sometimes I wondered if I was being a pest. So when Kevin asked that I stop by his office for a meeting one day, I wasn't sure what to think.

“Minty! How are you?” Kevin stood up and we double kissed. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the chair in front of his desk. He gazed at me. “I feel like I haven't seen you in years. But it's been, what? A week?”

“About a week and a half.” I smiled.

“Oh my God,” he said. “It's only been a week and a half since the show. I feel like I've aged ten years in that time.” He shook his head. “Barneys and Neiman Marcus are taking the line. Can you believe it!?”

“Kevin!” I exclaimed. “That's amazing!”

He nodded. “I owe a lot to you.”

I shook my head no.

“Really,” he said. “You can't imagine the amount of attention the line has been getting just as a result of being associated with your name and all of the amazing girls you've introduced to the line. It's unbelievable.”

“Kevin,” I said, “the clothes really speak for themselves.”

He grinned. “Well, of course they do, honey. But there have been many talented designers before me who have struggled to get noticed. It takes more than talent to make it these days. I found my muse in you!”

I didn't know what to say. I was so flattered. “You're making me blush, Kev!”

“Well,” he began, “I called you in here today because I want to discuss a proposition with you. A business proposition.”

My eyes widened. “Go on!”

“I've been lucky enough to secure some additional investors as a result of the success of my show. The clothes are doing well. Saks is already a major account, as you know. But the next step is a solid accessories line.” He thought for a moment. “I've done clutches or a scarf or something here and there, but I really want to commit to it this time around, and thankfully now I have the capital to work with.”

“I see,” I said. What was he saying exactly?

“So I was wondering, would you be interested in designing a line for me?”

I sat up in the chair. “Are you kidding?!”

“Not in the slightest,” he laughed. “I'm not saying the entire line, of course. We'd launch with a Kevin Park line of handbags and clutches and whatnot. But I think it would be cute if we had, say, three or four special Minty Davenport designs. They could be limited edition, maybe only sold in the boutique? Something to really get the buzz going. Maybe you could even do a cute dog bag inspired by Mrs. Jelly Belly.”

“Oh my God!” I nearly screamed. “And you'd let me design them myself?!” I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

“Well, yes,” Kevin said. “In theory. You'd work with a more established accessories designer, someone on my team, to come up with your own designs. You'll need your hand held just a little, especially the first time around. What do you say?”

“Oh. My. God. Kevin!” I squealed. “I would die! I mean, I can't believe you're even saying what you're saying right now! I have so many ideas! When can I start?”

He laughed. “I had a feeling you'd be enthusiastic,” he said. “So then it's a deal?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “One hundred percent.”

A
fter my meeting with Kevin, I had plans to see Spencer for a drink at the Waverly Inn, a restaurant that was owned by Spencer's new boss at
Vanity Fair
. I couldn't wait to see him, tell him the news, and catch up on all of the gossip since we'd last seen each other at the engagement party.

The restaurant looked like it hadn't been touched since the early twentieth century, and yet it still had the vibe of a downtown hot spot. A mural along one wall depicted various famous New Yorkers, including Woody Allen and Fran Lebowitz.

Spencer was sitting at the bar looking every bit the
Vanity Fair
-ite he'd become in the last couple of weeks. He had on a dark gray tailored suit that could only have been Dior Homme and a white shirt open at the collar.

“Spencer Goldin,” I said, kissing him on the cheek, “you look like you just popped over in your Alfa Romeo or something.”

“I'm not screwing around, Davenport—er, du Pont,” Spencer said. He was sipping a Dewar's on the rocks. “I'm at
Vanity Fair
now. I have to represent.”

“You really look dashing.”

“Why thank you, darlin'.”

“So,” I began.

“So.”

“Tabitha!”

“I know,” he said.

“Crazy.”

“I'll say.” He took a sip of his drink. “Have you talked to the Trippster?”

I rolled my eyes. “He's in London.”

“And? Have you talked to him?”

“It's been hard to get ahold of him.”

“Really.”

The bartender came over and took my order, a glass of rosé Moët. In spite of my absentee husband, I was in the mood for celebrating.

“I haven't seen you since the engagement party, and we barely had a moment to talk,” Spencer said.

“I know.” I rolled my eyes and took a sip of champagne.

“So what's going on? You haven't gotten divorced yet, have you?”

The look on my face must have signaled he'd said the exact thing he shouldn't have said.

“Oh my God.” He placed his hand on my knee. “Totally kidding. Are you okay? Did something happen?”

I sighed. “I wasn't planning on getting into this, but yes, something happened the night of the party.”

“The same day Tabitha hurled herself over the side of the yacht?”

Spencer mimed a swan dive with his arms and crossed his eyes. He looked more like a crazy cheerleader forming the letter “A” than a glamorous socialite.

“Yes,” I said. “It has something to do with that actually.”

“Noooo,” Spencer said. “She didn't do that because of Tripp, did she?”

“I have a feeling she was trying to get
someone's
attention,” I said.

“Holy shit. Do you think he's cheating on you?”

I closed my eyes. “I don't know. It's a big mess.”

“So is he?”

“Let's just say I'm at the end of my rope.” I looked at him. “He says he's not. He says she's crazy and he wants nothing to do with her. But the pieces don't add up.”

He sat there for a moment. And really, it would have been nice if Spencer had told me to let it go and move on, that Tripp was a great guy and I should drown out the noise and live my life. But there was something strange about his reaction. It was almost like he was attempting to hide the fact that he did not approve.

“What is it?” he asked, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“You don't think I should have agreed to marry Tripp in the first place,” I said.

Spencer gulped. “I did not say that.”

“And it's not even the whole Tabitha thing, is it?” I swallowed. “It's the general concept of Tripp being my husband.”

“Minty,” Spencer began, “I barely know the guy. I can't possibly have an educated opinion. It's just, it is what it is.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Tripp is who he is, and if you're okay with that, then so be it.”

I was silent. The whole world knew that Tripp was the kind of husband who went on long business trips to London and rarely returned his wife's calls. The kind of husband who said one thing and did another. I'd given him the benefit of the doubt, but he hadn't changed a bit.

I guess the hurt I felt showed on my face.

“Mints, are you okay, sweetie? I didn't mean to—”

“No, no.” I took a sip of champagne. “It's just, sometimes you're the last to show up to a party, you know?”

“Sweetheart.” Spencer looked sad. “All relationships are different. They are all complicated. If you're happy, that's all that matters. You shouldn't care what anyone else thinks.”

I pursed my lips and managed a smile.

“Tell me something happy,” Spencer said. “I mean, something happier than Tabitha throwing herself off a yacht.”

I couldn't help but laugh.

“Well, let me think,” I began. “Kevin asked me to design a line of handbags for him.”

At first, Spencer just looked relieved I'd so willingly changed the subject. Then he literally almost fell off his bar stool with excitement.

“No!”

“Yes!” I said.

“Holy crap!” he shouted. “This is huge!”

“I know,” I said. “The bags are going to say my name on them and everything.”

“Not to bring up a sore subject, but did you tell Tripp yet?”

“Nah,” I said, “I just got out of the meeting and it's already so late there, he's probably asleep.”

Spencer took a sip of his drink. “Yeah.”

“Screw it,” I said, “I'm calling him now.”

The phone rang in that funny, droning, echo-y way they do abroad. “Hello?”

He picked up! And he sounded groggy! I sighed. It was nice to know that my husband was actually doing some sleeping, in his room, while he was in London.

“Tripp?” I said.

“Mints?” He groaned. “It's two o'clock in the morning here.”

“I know,” I said, “but I've been trying to reach you!”

“Work gets crazy when I'm in London; can we talk about this later?”

I frowned. “I have some exciting news.”

Spencer looked on, his glass to his lips. “Yup,” he said.

I told him about how Kevin wanted me to become more involved with the company. About how he wanted me to actually design my own line of handbags as part of the Kevin Park accessories line. Could he believe it? How exciting was that?

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“A handbag line?” he said.

I felt my heart begin to deflate like a sad balloon, twirling slowly toward the ground and finally settling in a muddy patch somewhere.

“Yes!” I tried to maintain my enthusiasm. I looked back at Spencer, who was nodding along and smiling. “I'm starting next week. I'm working alongside his head of accessories and everything. He's going to let me do a dog bag for Belly. The bags will have my name on them!”

“Wow, handbags,” he said. “Really. My parents are going to just have a
field day
with that.”

And then, somewhere in my psyche, a grimy boot stomped on my sad little balloon heart until it was so flat and dirty there was no more balloon to be seen.

“Anyway”—I smiled at Spencer as I talked—“you're tired. We'll talk tomorrow?”

“I'm back in a few days, Mints,” he said. What was
that
supposed to mean? “But yes, we can talk tomorrow if you'd like.”

“Okay!” I continued on in my fake-peppy voice. “Love you. Bye.”

I hung up.

“At least Tabitha's in the hospital so you know she's not with him now,” Spencer said, half-joking.

I took a sip of champagne and punched him in the arm.

We sat for a few more minutes and made small talk, but I was in another place. Tripp had not exactly reacted the way I expected him to react, to say the least.

After we finished our drinks, Spencer said he was heading over to SoHo for a cocktail party at a friend's house. We hugged good-bye. “I know I joke around with you a lot,” he said. “And God, if anyone wants you to be a du Pont—excuse me, to
stay
a du Pont, it's me.” He smiled. “But if he fucks up again, in any way, shape, or form, don't let him get away with it. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

In the cab on the way uptown, I gazed out the window at the sprawl of Sixth Avenue in its mishmash of mom-and-pop hardware stores, fast food restaurants, and big-name retailers. Every person walking down that street had something on their mind. My “something” was Tripp. At some point—now or years from now—I knew I would have to decide if it was worth it. But I hadn't come to that fork in the road yet.