Love, Lies and Texas Dips (16 page)

Mac started coughing, bending head over knees like she was choking. Ginger patted her on the back until she stopped. Bootsie didn’t seem to notice. She’d already turned toward the doorway. There was a rustle of fabric and creak of chair legs as most of the room followed suit. Laura elbowed Ginger, and she looked away from a red-faced Mac to see Tincy Bell ushering someone into the room: a serious-looking woman in a chic Armani suit-dress.

“Well, look who’s here,” Tincy called out. “It’s the mother of our newest Rosebud and her—Wait a sec.” She paused, glancing behind her and waving an arm. “Hon, we’re right in here,” she said, which was when the slim girl in deep teal strolled through the door, her shiny black hair swinging as she moved.

“Welcome, Ambassador Chow and daughter, Cindy,” Bootsie said, taking the lead again. “The Glass Slipper Club is honored to have you both here tonight. Cindy, why don’t you settle in between Michelle and Prissy? And, Ambassador, why don’t you take a seat in the front row beside Tincy?”

Cindy Chow is the new Rosebud?

Mac let out a strangled “Uhhh.”

Ginger and Laura exchanged bug-eyed glances.

“Can you tell whoever’s got a voodoo doll with my name on it to stop sticking pins in me?” Mac said through gritted teeth.

“Shhh, she’s coming,” Ginger warned as Cindy walked their way, smiling and holding her white nosegay like a perky bridesmaid.

“My, oh, my,” Laura whispered from Ginger’s other side. “This just keeps getting more and more interesting.”

Cindy did a little wave and uttered a soft, “Hey, girls,” as she slid into the empty chair next to Mac, who slouched down in her seat, hardly looking very ladylike.

Poor Mac
, Ginger thought, hoping this wouldn’t be too hard on her. She patted her friend’s knee, which garnered a groan in response.

“All right then, Rosebuds, more about your duties as GSC debutantes,” Bootsie Bidwell said, resuming her monologue, waving the debutante handbook as she spoke.

“You’ll each be representing the Glass Slipper Club during your Rosebud season, so how you behave at each function, in public, or anywhere another clubber’s eyes may fall upon you will determine whether you make it through to the spring. If you should let us down in any way, there will be serious consequences.”

Was it Ginger’s imagination, or did Bootsie Bidwell stare right at her as she’d uttered the warning?

A blush crept high into Ginger’s cheeks. She wanted to lift her nosegay to her face and hide behind it.

Would she ever live down the embarrassment of crushing on a guy who’d used her? Even if Javier had good intentions, like saving a historic oak, it had felt like being stabbed
in the back
and
in the heart, and it might’ve cost her any chance to deb. Thank God it hadn’t come to that. Neither her mom nor Rose Dupree would’ve ever forgiven her. No boy was ever going to get the best of her again, not if she could help it, anyway.

*  *  *

Ginger arrived at her grandmother’s house right on time—because to do otherwise would be to incur the Wrath of Rose—though Deena had beat her there by a hair to lay out “The Dress,” as Ginger was beginning to think of it.

She hauled the Caldwell annual inside with her since she hadn’t gotten a chance to look at it yet—though she could see Mac had bookmarked a page with a sticky note. Unfortunately, her mother intercepted her the moment she walked through the door.

“C’mon, Ging, let’s get you changed into the Givenchy ASAP.”

“Can’t I even say hello to Grammy first?” she protested, but Deena just shooed her toward one of Rose’s guest rooms in the west wing of the house.

“Kent’s been here for a while already, and it’s going to take a good fifteen minutes to get you buttoned up in the dress,” her mother droned on as she guided Ginger past the library.

From behind the closed pocket doors, Ginger could hear her grandma’s molasses-slow drawl going back and forth in animated conversation with the deeper voice of Kent Wakefield. If only she could pop in …

“Ginger,
move it,”
Deena ordered, and poked her in the
shoulder, prodding her toward the large sitting room connected to the spare bedroom.

The Dress was laid out across a vast embroidered bedspread, the under-petticoats beside it. There was even a pair of sheer silk stockings, a strapless La Perla bra, white kidskin elbow-length gloves, and pristine white Christian Louboutin peep-toed pumps that Ginger had never seen before.

“They’re your size,” Deena said as she caught Ginger eyeing them. “Your grandmother wants this done right, and that’s how we’ll do it. So get undressed, sweetie, and I’ll help you into the gown.”

Ginger was left completely speechless, knowing that her mother had gone to the trouble of finding her lingerie, gloves, and the perfect shoes. She wondered how Deena had found the time, between her busy social life and selling expensive real estate to her expensive friends.

As her mother fluttered around the bed, gathering up the petticoats, Ginger sat down on a carved Victorian chair, unzipped her boots, and pulled them off, leaving them on the floor at her feet. She peeled off her tunic and leggings next and draped them over the chair’s back. As quickly as she could, she rolled on the silk stockings. She normally refused to wear panty hose, but figured getting dressed up for a portrait sitting merited an exception. Before pulling on the Louboutins, she ran a finger across the almost iridescent sheer chiffon and the matching satin trim. She felt like Cinderella as she slid her feet into each one. They fit perfectly, as if they’d been made for her.

Deena tapped a toe on the floor, waiting with the petticoats in hand, and Ginger went over to her, basically stepping into them and then standing still while her mother
fastened her in. The dress came next with Deena holding it wide over her head, leaving Ginger with nothing to do but raise her arms as her mother directed hands through sleeves and then guided the gown down Ginger’s hips and to the floor. It was undeniably breathtaking, and Ginger couldn’t suppress a tiny giggle of amazement, imagining walking into the Grande Ballroom at the Houstonian in Rose Dupree’s incredible gown.

Ginger swirled around in the gown, stopping when she spied her reflection in a floor-length oval mirror. She stood stock-still and looked at herself in the dress, her mind instantly popping back to the sleepover she’d had before school started when she, Laura, and Mac had played Truth or Deb. Ginger had picked “Deb”—meaning a deb-related dare—and Laura had dared her to don Rose Dupree’s priceless gown. It hadn’t fit then. Laura couldn’t even get all the buttons done. But Rose had agreed to have it altered, and Ginger couldn’t believe the way it fit. She cocked her head, studying her image in the mirror, deciding the Givenchy appeared as if it was made for her.

“The alterations were beautifully done,” Deena remarked as if she was reading her thoughts. Then she stood behind Ginger and began working on the tiny pearl buttons going up the back. “The seam work is flawless.”

“Yeah, flawless,” Ginger said with a grin. She still recalled all too clearly that it was her mother who’d been dead-set against Ginger wearing the Dress at her coming out. If Rose Dupree hadn’t insisted—and had her trusted seamstress do the alterations—the vintage Givenchy ball gown would have remained entombed in its archival box forever.

How quickly her mother had done a 180-degree turn
when Rose had put her dainty size-five foot down. Ginger could only imagine how it felt to have such power over people, though maybe it just took living longer than anyone else around you. Or else it was something in the water that made Texas matriarchs so potent they could silence a room with one look.

“Stand still, please,” Deena directed. Her nimble fingers had Ginger buttoned up in no time.

All too soon, Ginger found herself being plunked on a stool in front of a maple vanity so Deena could attempt to tame—with spit, ugh!—the short layers of her warm auburn hair. But when her mother brought out a makeup bag, Ginger pushed up from the stool, snatched up the cosmetics case, and said, “I’ll take it from here, okay? Just give me a minute or two alone.”

“Don’t forget the lipstick,” Deena told her.

“Yes, Mother.”

“And the gloves, of course.”

“I won’t,” Ginger promised, and Deena finally left the room—albeit reluctantly—closing the door behind her.

As soon as she was gone, Ginger pushed the makeup bag aside and retrieved the Caldwell yearbook, hastily flipping to the page Mac had earmarked with a bright pink Post-it.
Is this him? It’s the only Wakefield I could find in Alex’s sixth-grade class or any other class from that year
, Mac had written.

Ginger scanned the black-and-white faces, running her finger beneath the names until she came upon the only Wakefield, as Mac had written. Her brow wrinkled.

“William K. Wakefield,” she read aloud, studying the photograph from all angles. Surely that had to be him: same moody eyes and straight nose, same petulant lips.

Her gaze wandered to the opposite page, where a small feature touted Caldwell’s Budding Picasso. It displayed a slightly larger photograph of a lanky boy posing beside an abstract painting that nearly dwarfed him. The caption proclaimed,
William Wakefield with his prize-winning oil on canvas. Wakefield’s work stole the show at the annual citywide competition for middle school artists
.

Wait a second.

William Wakefield … prize-winning … competition for middle school arts.

She skimmed the article, pausing on one quote in particular:
“It’s cool being considered such a good artist at my age. I feel like I’m following in my grand father’s footsteps.”

That was Kent, all right. She had no doubt about it. And now she knew for sure why the name Wakefield had jogged something in her brain, beyond the fact that his grandfather had been infatuated with Rose Dupree. No wonder she’d had butterflies in her stomach when Rose had introduced them. It wasn’t because of his Gus Wakefield-esque charm, but because of the way he’d cut her down back when she was a sensitive and impressionable twelve-year-old. It flooded back to her, the things he’d said, every single word ….

It was a long time ago
, Ginger told herself, snapping the yearbook closed. She was older now, with a thicker skin. But that hardly made her feel better.

She tossed the yearbook on the bed, telling herself to chill as she grabbed the makeup bag and dug through it, pulling out a sheer pink lipstick and applying it with a trembling hand. She hastily dabbed some blush on her cheeks and a coat of mascara on her lashes, and that was that. If “prize-winning” artist Kent aka William Wakefield was going to paint her, he might as well paint her looking like herself.

She stood up, teetering a bit on the Louboutin heels as she crossed the bedroom and opened the door, holding up her skirt as she carefully walked up the hallway toward the library where her mother, Rose, and Mr. Wakefield awaited her. The rustle of silk petticoats filled her ears, and an anxious frown pursed her lips.

What if I jog his memory?
she asked herself, stepping into the room. Would he still deny they’d met before? Like his insult had meant nothing at all?

“My Lord, you look gorgeous!” Rose Dupree’s wrinkled hand went to her heart the moment Ginger came into view. “Why, you’re a vision!” she gushed, raising a glass of cognac in salute. “You look like a real princess.”

“The lipstick’s a definite improvement,” Deena remarked in her usual reserved fashion, but the way her face lit up told Ginger that she, too, approved.

Ginger blushed and said, “Thank you,” but her eyes were on Kent Wakefield.

Like Rose, he held a snifter of cognac, which he nearly dropped when he turned away from the mantel to gawk at her. He’d apparently been admiring Rose Dupree’s endless silver-framed photographs of her and Granddad Dupree posing with famous blue bloods and politicians from all over the world.

“Wow,” he uttered, and his gray eyes took her in. He looked pretty “wow” himself, Ginger thought, in a black jacket, gray T-shirt, and washed-out blue jeans, and the admiring look on his face made Ginger’s heart melt a little. “Your grandmother’s right,” he said, shifting his glass of amber liquor from one hand to the other. “You look every bit like royalty.”

Ginger glanced at the hand-cut crystal decanter filled with
Rose’s treasured Hennessy cognac, which was practically empty. She wondered how long ago Kent had arrived and how much brandy he’d been drinking. It got her guard up again, just as she’d begun to lower it.

“Is it against the law to get an underage artist liquored up before he paints?” she said, and headed toward him. “I’d hate to come out looking like a sixth grader’s attempt at a Picasso.”

If he caught the reference, he didn’t show it.

Instead, he laughed. “Do I look like a sixth grader? I’m eighteen,” he corrected her. The way his black hair was slicked back from his face gave his patrician features a vaguely rebellious bent. He had a wicked glint in his eyes and an amused smile on his lips. “And I’m not liquored up, just enjoying myself.”

“If the boy’s old enough to vote, he’s old enough to drink, I say,” Rose proclaimed.

“Hear, hear,” Kent said, and raised his snifter to her.

“Well, I’m not sure the police would feel the same, and I’d rather have him sober than silly, if that’s all right with you,” Ginger declared, rounding a tufted settee to close the gap between them.

“Seriously, Ginger, I’m fine, just relaxed and ready to get to work,” Kent assured her, though she was close enough now to notice that his eyes seemed just a little bloodshot.

“Look, Kent … oh, wait, or is it William?” she said as evenly as she could, nervously smoothing the skirt of the gown. “I finally know how we met before,” she announced as he raised his dark eyebrows. “You were the artistic savant in sixth grade who squashed everyone at the local art competitions. In fact”—she cocked her head, staring right at
him—“you’re pretty much solely responsible for my putting away my paints forever.”

“Me?” He brought the snifter to his chest. “How could I be responsible?”