Southern Charm (26 page)

“The reception is a whole other animal, Minty,” Mother explained. “I've practically slaved over the menu. We've got waiters standing in the reception area of the club offering mint juleps in silver cups when people walk in. Also, the martini bar will have a big ice sculpture martini glass. I thought that was cute, no?”

I nodded. “It all sounds amazing, Mother.”

“We'll have passed crab cakes and tea sandwiches,” she continued. “And when the main doors to the ballroom are opened, everyone will see the gorgeous Sylvia Weinstock cake in the center of the room. This cake is going to be incredible, taller than you and Tripp! And I have Sylvia doing lily-of-the-valley flowers wrapping around each tier.” She sat down, took a deep breath, and opened up her scrapbook. “And then we have this pale green moiré for the tables covered with this sheer overlay cloth. Each place setting will have a clear square box tied with ribbon and a clear sticker that says ‘With love from Minty and Tripp,' with mini three-tier wedding cakes inside.”

She showed me a picture of the mini cakes.

“Wow, Mommy, you're really outdoing yourself.”

She let out a little “ha!” because she would never think for a minute to not create the most extravagant, amazing, breathtaking wedding anyone had ever seen, including the most jaded New Yorkers. It comforted me to know that she understood how important it was to show them that we southerners were known for our hospitality for a reason. No one can throw a party or a wedding like a southern belle.

“And I've confirmed Peter Duchin, honey,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We're flying him and his orchestra down from New York. It's like I'm dealing with a rock star or something. Would you believe it?”

I laughed. “Yes.”

“Now,” she continued, “when everyone leaves at the end of the
night we'll do little cones of Smythson paper stamped with the family crest. We're going to fill them with rose petals and everyone will throw them in the air when you and Tripp leave for the honeymoon. It will be a real ‘moment.'”

Oh God, the honeymoon.

Tripp and I had discussed spending a few weeks in the Maldives, but we hadn't had a moment to iron out the main details. It felt like every time I had something crossed off my list, another thing was added!

“Sounds great,” I said.

She showed me an example of the Smythson paper, which was no less beautiful than everything else, even though some people might have treated it as a throwaway detail. “Mommy,” I said. “It's perfect.”

She closed the scrapbook and the buzzer rang. It was Jenny, Kevin's PR director. She was stopping by to drop off my outfit for the evening as well as some sketches for the bridesmaid dresses. I'd always dreamed of a wedding dress from Oscar de la Renta, so when I broke the news to Kevin, I asked him to design my bridesmaid dresses. He was completely gracious and understanding about the whole thing, and anyway, he had a lot of work cut out for him with the bridesmaid dresses alone.

There were twelve—count 'em—
twelve
bridesmaids: my sister, Emily, five cousins, three childhood friends, and two of my best friends from college. I was also mulling over the possibility of asking May to be the thirteenth bridesmaid. Tripp had mentioned a while back that it might be a nice gesture since Harry was his best man and oldest friend.

At first I'd recoiled at the idea. May hadn't exactly been the most welcoming person in Tripp's circle of friends. But in the last month or so (around the time I started working for Kevin) things had started to take a turn for the better. We'd run into each other a few times and she couldn't have been more lovely.

Of course, I had a feeling her recent interest in me had more to do with my rising profile than any heartfelt interest in being my friend,
but that was the way things worked in New York. One day, May acted like she could barely believe Tripp was dating someone like me. The next, we were gossiping over champagne.

When the front door opened, Jenny was standing there holding a garment bag and a portfolio. She looked like she hadn't slept in days.

“Oh my God, Jenny,” I said. “Aren't you supposed to be relaxing right now? The show is over!”

She laughed.

“The phone has been ringing off the hook since the
WWD
article,” she said. “You wouldn't believe it, the collection is such a success. Anyway,” she said, handing me the bag and the portfolio, “I have to get going. Kevin said he'll see you tonight.”

“Okay,” I said, waving her good-bye.

The door had barely shut when it opened again. I figured Jenny had forgotten something. Instead, Tripp was standing there, dressed in khakis, a button-down, and a battered white college hat. The engagement party was supposed to start in less than two hours.

“Tripp, what the hell are you doing here?!” I said.

“Scarlett,” he said, walking toward my mother, who was standing near the kitchen with her mouth hanging open. “How are you?”

He kissed her on the cheek.

“Tripp, honey, I'm just fine,” she said, her southern drawl a bit more pronounced than usual. That happened when she was either nervous or stressed out or both. “I must mirror my daughter's sentiments. What on earth are you doing here?”

“I just have a few things to discuss with Minty if you don't mind,” he said.

She pursed her lips.

“Of course, darlin',” she said, painting a sugary-sweet smile on her face. “I was just going to pop into the powder room anyway and start to pull myself together. You all right, baby girl?”

“I'm just fine, Mommy,” I said. “You go get ready.”

She disappeared toward the back of the apartment.

Tripp lowered himself into the sofa and rubbed his forehead.

“I know it's barely four
P.M
. but do you have any scotch?” he asked.

Of course I had scotch. I went over to the bar and poured him a glass. He took it from me, sipped slowly, and sighed.

“Tripp, Christ, tell me what's going on.”

“I thought the drama was over with my parents, but then something else came up of course. We just need to address something before tonight.”

My heart was in my throat.

“Anyway,” Tripp continued, “you've probably heard about this website already.”

“What website?”

“The social register one. Social something. I don't know. My mother told me about it. It's got all the girls on it. Even May's on it. And you're on there.”

I stared back at him.

“Social Roster?”

Tripp blinked. “Yes. How do you know about it?”

What was that supposed to mean?

“Spencer mentioned it at Kevin's show. What's going on?”

“Some woman from my mother's bridge club just sent her a bitchy e-mail about all of the stuff with ‘Page Six' and then mentioned the website, how the site says I'm making a mistake marrying you.”

I couldn't help but laugh.

“Minty, I'm serious,” Tripp said. “I only say this because I love you and I don't want these people to be saying such terrible things about you at all, let alone to my parents, who are not the most open-minded people, to say the least.”

I frowned.

“And,” he continued, “I should mention that there's another layer to the story, which, again, is ridiculous and totally unfounded, but you should know what people are saying.”

“All right,” I said. I steeled myself for part 2.

“There are some people,” he began, “who think you might have something to do with it. With the website, that is.”

“What?!”

Tripp sighed. “They have this ranking system on it, something having to do with how many times you show up in the press. I don't know. Anyway, some people, I'm not sure who, but this is all according to my mother, so take it with a grain of salt—”

“Tripp! On with it!”

“Some people,” he continued, “think that because you're number one on this ranking list, and apparently you've been number one since the site launched, you may have something to do with it. Or at the very least that you're friends with the people who started it and you're supporting it. Or something.”

I held my head in my hands. “What else does it say?” I asked.

Tripp just stared at the floor.

“Tripp, do I have to get online now and go through this thing myself or are you going to tell me? What else does it say?”

“There's bad stuff on there, babe,” he admitted. “There's a bio of you that has stuff about your family, how your mother claims to be FFV. What's FFV, anyway?”

“First Family of Virginia,” I said. (Didn't
everyone
know that?)

“Anyway,” he continued, “that story about your father being a door-to-door salesman of course. There's a whole paragraph about Tabitha, which I won't even get into. Then there's a whole other section where people can comment, and let's just say no one's pulling any punches when it comes to voicing their opinion about you.”

“Who? What are they saying?”

“All of the comments are anonymous,” Tripp said, “but they're just mean. One person went off about how you curse all the time and eat too much Domino's pizza. Oh, and how sometimes you sleep in your makeup from one party and wear it to a party the next night, or something?”

I gulped. All of those things were kinda true.

“Eyelashes!” I shouted. “I keep my eyelashes on!” I was actually pretty angry they didn't get that detail straight. I thought my false-eyelash trick was a pretty good one. “Oh my God, who cares?”

“Mints . . .” Tripp put his hand on my knee.

He looked so lost and upset, I almost felt bad for him when I
should
have been feeling bad for myself. “Like I said, I didn't come over to tell you this to upset you, but I didn't want you to come to the party unprepared. Maybe you should cool off on some of this stuff for a while?”

“What stuff?”

“I don't know,” he said. “The fashion stuff? All of the parties you've been attending? It's putting you in this very vulnerable position where people think they know things about you. It doesn't look good.”

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. “Babe,” I said, “the ‘fashion stuff' is kind of my job these days.”

Tripp sighed. “Maybe just keep a lower profile for a while. Especially before we get married. You know, my parents will probably lay off once we get through the wedding and the dust has settled a bit.”

I buried my face in one of the pillows. I couldn't understand what all of the fuss was about. Why did Tripp's parents care so much about what a few people were saying on the Internet?

“Point taken,” I said.

“I love you,” Tripp said.

“Love you too,” I said. “Make sure you tell your mother I plan on spending the rest of my life sitting in bed with a black veil over my face reading Jane Austen novels.”

“I think that's exactly what she had in mind,” Tripp said, shaking his head. “You know, I don't think anyone else in this world would handle the pressure of my family as gracefully as you have.”

We kissed the kind of kiss that happens only when one person is trying to assure the other person that everything is going to be all right. I walked him to the door.

Once he was gone, I'll admit it, I ran to my computer to check out this SocialRoster.com. I have to say, navigating through page after page of gossipy stories and personal details didn't make me feel any better. It was anonymously written (how convenient) and the home page featured a photo of me, along with nineteen other girls, ranked according to how many times our photo had appeared on Richard Fitzsimmons's website, how many mentions we received in the press each week, and so on.

I pushed myself away from the computer. My mother emerged fully dressed and coiffed from the powder room at that point, wearing her most innocent expression. I'd almost forgotten she was there. It was immediately clear that she'd heard some of Tripp's and my conversation. Luckily, she'd had the wherewithal to wait until he left to come out.

I glanced at the clock.

“Oh, fuck!”

“Minty Mercer Davenport, you watch your—”

Boys Will Be Boys

M
other always says that it's in good taste to arrive either on time or a few minutes early if you are the guest of honor at a party, but never more than that. Just to be safe, I'd told Bebe ahead of time that we would be there a few minutes before six o'clock. I didn't want to ruffle any more feathers.

The du Ponts' apartment reminded me of Baron Guggenheim's place. It was like everyone on the Upper East Side had gotten together at some point in the 1950s and decided on one acceptable way of decorating: dark wood, oriental rugs, chinoiserie lamps, oil paintings from the mid–nineteenth century, and so on. Not to say there was anything wrong with any of that. But there was no color! No flair! Standing in the living room, I felt like I was tucked away somewhere in the English countryside, not riding high over the glittering sidewalks of Park Avenue.