Southern Charm (10 page)

“Minty, calm yourself, I'll stay at the Plaza,” she said, holding up a menu. She perused it briefly, lips pursed and eyebrows raised, and then placed it down next to her plate. “Shall we share the Caesar salad?”

This was her way of saying, “Shall we
not
order the Frrrozen Hot Chocolate?”

“But, Mother,” I said. “We always get—”

“Focus, Minty,” she interrupted. “You're a New Yorker now. I won't have those girls in size double zero dresses outshining you at one of those charity events.”

God, I thought. She picks up on everything.

“Fine,” I said. “Boring Caesar salad.”

Mother flagged down the waitress. “We'll share the boring Caesar salad, sugar,” she said to the waitress, shooting me a glance. “Dressing on the side, please.”

Over dry lettuce and unsweetened iced teas, I filled her in on my new life. I admitted that New York was not the easiest place for a girl like me to adjust to. Everything was dirty, for one. I was going through shoes like they were disposable pedicure flip-flops and just the day before I'd almost been run over by a bike messenger. And then there was Tripp. Since the night he dropped me off in the town
car, he'd been calling me nonstop and was practically begging me to have dinner with him. But I was still feeling slightly hesitant.

Tripp was technically my first love, the first boy I ever kissed. He was sophisticated, confident, charming, and smart. He made me laugh. But he had hurt me, however long ago. If we had any chance of rekindling any kind of romance, we had a lot to talk about. And the Tabitha situation was still so unclear.

I asked Scarlett her opinion on the matter.

“I wouldn't even give this Tabitha business a second thought.” Mother paused, taking a sip of her tea and swallowing dramatically, like a motivational speaker taking a break in the middle of a speech. “God gave you a lot to work with, Minty Davenport. So start working with it!”

I couldn't help but smile.

“Thank you, Mommy.”

She flicked her wrist at me. “Enough of this ‘thank you, Mommy' and ‘I don't know' and ‘I guess.' Where has the Minty I raised run off to? The one who took the stage at the annual St. Gertrude's School recital when she was just eight years old and wowed the crowd by lip-syncing to ‘Material Girl' in a custom-made Madonna outfit? The Minty who led her debutante ball? The Minty who took the St. Gertrude's tennis team to three national championships and went on to captain the tennis team at one of the top Division One universities in the country?”

“I see what you're saying,” I began. “It's just—New York is a lot tougher than I think I was prepared for. It's a lot different.
I'm
a lot different. I'm used to fitting in somewhat easily. I've never had to think twice about what I was wearing and if it was appropriate and how much makeup I should be putting on. Here, it's like I can't get it right.”

As I was speaking, I noticed that Scarlett had checked out slightly. She was on her phone, texting away to someone. This was not a rare occurrence, especially when she felt that she had already made her point, but it was disconcerting nonetheless.

“Mommy.”

She looked up.

“Oh,” she said. “Of course, dear. You're different and . . . well . . . welcome to life.” Her phone buzzed and she picked it up, glanced at it, and tried to contain a smile. Then she put the phone down and focused again, staring directly at me. “You've got two choices here. You let this get the best of you and come home. Which, by all means, Minty, feel free.” I responded by rolling my eyes and sinking back into my chair. “Or, you can get up to the net and volley that ball right back in their faces before they can even anticipate what's coming for them.”

I smiled.

“Well, then.” Mother motioned to the waitress. “Shall we get going? I already have a few deliveries scheduled for this evening and I'm going to need to be there to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

“This evening?”

“Yes, Minty. Do you think I have nothing better to do than decorate your apartment? I have company arriving on Tuesday and three cocktail parties scheduled next week. If we're going to do this and do this right, we have no other choice but to work round the clock.”

“I see.”

We gathered our belongings and walked onto Sixtieth Street. The light was just starting to dim. There was a crisp, auburn glow that marks the calm before the weekend storm. Some of the higher buildings toward Lexington caught a bit of the sunset and looked as if they were illuminated by a spotlight, while at street level it seemed to be almost nighttime. Dusk had always been one of my favorite times of day, but dusk in New York is like something right out of a movie. As we walked west on Sixtieth, my mother surprised me by stopping on the corner to pull me toward her for a quick squeeze.

“What was that for, Mommy?” I asked.

She stepped back and gazed at me very dramatically. I was starting to feel a bit suspicious.

“I just want to have a good look at my little girl,” she said. I tried to pull away, but she kept me locked in front of her.

“I've never gone this long without seeing you,” she continued, staring at me so intently I thought she might go cross-eyed. “It's all going to come together,” she said. Then she stopped, her eyes widening with what was clearly mock surprise. She directed her gaze behind me and slightly to the right.

“Oh my, look who it is!” she exclaimed.

I turned around and there was Tripp, looking handsome as ever in a wool overcoat and jeans. He was also attempting to look surprised.

Was she serious? Was
he
serious? Did this kind of thing really happen outside of an eighties sitcom? When Scarlett Davenport is your mother, yes.

“Tripp,” I said.

“Minty,” he replied.

“Oh”—my mother cupped her face in her hands—“isn't this just crazy? Tripp, sweetheart, how are you? It's been years!” She leaned in and touched his arm, lowering her voice. “You know, Minty will have my head for telling you this but we were actually just talking about you! Can you believe it? So funny the way things happen.”

“Very funny,” I said.

If it were possible, Tripp had less acting ability than my mother, because he broke character and just started to laugh, as if the whole thing was a big joke and there was nothing strange or creepy about the fact that he'd been communicating with my mother behind my back.

“Minty, honey,” she said, stopping to get ahold of herself. “You have to admit we planned this all quite well.”

“Your mother's the mastermind of the whole operation,” Tripp said. His blue eyes twinkled once again, which annoyed me even more. He was like a little child who could get away with anything because he made it impossible to stay mad.

“Well, I really should be going,” Mother said.

What?!

“That armoire is being delivered at six
P.M
. and if I'm not there to sign for it we'll have one ticked-off doorman on our hands.”

“M-mommy, I,” I stuttered, “I should probably help you?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. She looked at me, then Tripp. “The night is young and you two obviously have some talking to do. Why don't y'all grab a drink around the corner and iron things out?”

Iron things out? I was starting to feel faint.

“Tripp, dear, don't make yourself a stranger, now, you hear? I don't want another seven years going by before our next chance meeting on a New York City street.” She winked at him. She actually had the nerve to wink at him. And then she swiveled around and scurried away as though if she just walked quickly enough, I would forget she had ever been standing there in the first place.

“I forgot how amusing your mother can be,” Tripp said.

“Amusing?”

“She's a pistol.”

“Oh, Tripp.”

“Anyway”—he looped his arm in mine—“she reminds me of someone I know.” He smiled. “One drink, Minty Davenport,” he said. “You owe me that much.”

It's All in the Details

I
believe in fate and just
knowing
within a short period of time that something is meant to be. In fact, my mother always swore she loved my father the moment she saw him, even though she also kind of hated him and definitely threw a drink in his face. She said that she was really just trying to get his attention at the end of the day, and she knew a man like Gharland Davenport wasn't exactly an easy target.

“Anyway,” she explained, “sometimes love and hate are the same thing.”

I understood what she was trying to say, but I never truly believed it until it happened to me.

Tripp took me to Nectar Coffee Shop on Madison Avenue. We ordered hot chocolate and apple pie. I was so in shock that it took me a good seven minutes to start talking, but there was nothing awkward about those first seven minutes of silence.

“I had to get your attention somehow,” he finally said.

I raised an eyebrow. “I'm not sure I would call this ‘getting my attention,'” I said. “It's more like, I don't know, cornering?”

He smiled. “A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

I stared back at him. That connection, however small, however
undeveloped, remained. We both knew it. But was I really ready to rewind seven years and admit how much he'd hurt me? It seemed silly now in the grand scheme of things, but the scars were still there.

“I have to say, Tripp,” I began, “I'm totally surprised by this.”

He looked taken aback.

“Well,” he said. “I'm not sure what you want me to say. I'm happy we ran into each other. I mean, I've been wondering about you for years. Probably since the last time I saw you. When was it? The Christmas party at the club?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was the Christmas party at the club. And my memories of that night aren't exactly . . . fond.”

“I see.” He bristled. “I'm—I'm sorry about that.”

“I know we were really young,” I said. “And yes—it was such a short period of time. But I liked you so much—I even thought I might be falling in love with you—and you lied to me.”

“I know,” he said. He stared at his cup of coffee. “What else can I say? I liked you a lot too. If it helps at all I broke up with my girlfriend that spring. It had been winding down for a while. And I wanted to contact you, but then I heard you were dating Ryerson Bigelow.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You know Ryerson?”

“I guess you could say that.” Tripp smirked. “We've been playing lacrosse against each other since camp in the seventh grade.” He rolled his eyes. “He was also UVA's top defenseman.”

“I see,” I said. Tripp was the top defenseman at Princeton.

“Anyway,” he continued, “my point is, I learned my lesson—I should have been honest with you from the get-go.”

Okay, I thought.

“Listen.” He paused for a moment. “You're too good for me, Minty Davenport.” He looked directly at me and smiled. “We both know that. And I screwed it up the first time around. But I want you to understand, I have no intentions of doing that again. I'm a different guy this time around. And all I ask is that you give me a chance.”

My heart raced. The Tripp I knew at fifteen would never have said something so forthright. He would have played it cool.

I thought for a minute.

“Okay,” I said, smiling softly.

Tripp exhaled. “Thank you.”

“Not to say you're off the hook just yet,” I continued, raising an eyebrow. “Tabitha Lipton. What exactly is going on there?”

It didn't take him long to unload the whole story. He admitted that he
had
been dating Tabitha Lipton, albeit casually, but when I came back into his life he couldn't pretend with her any longer.

“Listen, Minty,” he said. “I just have a feeling about you, about us, and I think it's worth exploring. I don't know what else to say.”

I didn't disagree with him.

That night, he dropped me off at my apartment and we kissed for the first time in seven years. Of course I'd kissed a few boys since Tripp, but what can I say? Every once in a while a person comes into your life and it's just . . . different. Years before, I was head over heels for Tripp. It was like I'd always pictured him in my mind and one day he appeared in front of me, an actual person. Now he'd come back into my life, new and improved. I wasn't going to question it anymore.

The next morning, he followed up with a text message, then a call the next day, and finally a delivery of a dozen white roses with a card that said: “Oh, hey.”