Southern Charm (12 page)

B
y nine that morning, word of the item had already spread. I ignored several calls from my mother, two e-mails from Emily, and a text message from Spencer, who was en route to work and had just picked up his copy of the
Post
. But when Tripp's number came up on my caller ID, I had to answer.

“Hello?”

“Minty.”

I could hear car horns honking and various voices passing by. He was definitely on the street somewhere, navigating through a crowd and probably clutching a copy of the
Post
.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said.

“Listen,” he continued. “I'm assuming you've seen this ‘Page Six' thing?”

“Ruth just showed it to me.”

He sighed loudly.

“This is bad, Minty,” he said.

“I don't know what to say, Tripp.”

“Do you have any idea how they could have gotten this information?”

I felt my stomach churn. If he was, like Ruth, even
intimating
that I might have planted the story on my own, I wasn't sure I could handle it. My relationship with Tripp was so new. We'd never even had a fight. But he had to know that I would never do something so calculated, so desperate. What kind of person did he think I was?

“Are you serious?”

He paused. “I just . . . I thought I was getting away from this stuff the minute I ended things with Tabitha. Now they're picking up on you like you're fresh meat. It's the last thing I wanted to deal with today, that's all.”

A siren zoomed by in the background. I couldn't help but wonder: Was seeking out press, even
negative
press, a frequent occurrence in New York?

“Listen.” I took a deep breath. “It is unfortunate, but what are we going to do? People will have forgotten about it by tomorrow anyway.”

I felt like I was lying not only to Tripp, but to myself as well.

“You're meeting all of my friends tonight.”

“I know, Tripp.”

“I just want everything to go smoothly.”

If I could have made the article go away, I would have. But wasn't he supposed to support me? Wasn't it kind of his job, as my boyfriend, to make me feel at ease about the whole thing?

Thankfully, my mother's voice chimed in:
Chin up
.
Smile!

“Honey, listen,” I said, my tone of voice turning from defensive to conciliatory, “it's a little article in a newspaper. I can handle it, and I know you can, too. I imagine your friends are intelligent people who don't believe everything they read. And if, for whatever reason, they
do
believe everything they read, I'll just have to work extra hard to win them over.”

When Tripp started talking again, I could tell he was smiling.

“Fair enough,” he finally said. “But, Mints?”

“Yes, babe?”

“Promise me one thing.”

“Of course.”

“Promise me you'll never let this stuff get to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“The gossip and the lies.” He paused as a loud truck rumbled by. “This world can be vicious. I know it's all new to you, and I just want you to promise me that you won't believe everything you hear or everything you read.”

I thought about this for a moment. Of course I wouldn't believe everything I heard or read, but why did he feel the need to get so specific? I didn't want to dwell on it, but there was already a tiny knot in my stomach. Was Tripp anticipating the fact that, in the future, he might have something to hide?

“Of course not, honey,” I said. “Of course not.”

“Good.” His voice was sturdier, more assured. “Okay then, I really should be going. I'll pick you up at eight?”

“Can't wait,” I said.

As I hung up the phone, Spencer walked in. He was wearing a dark navy overcoat, a scarf tied around his neck, and a 1930s-style fedora. Somehow, he pulled off the look. I couldn't help but smile.

“It was my grandfather's,” he explained before I could even mention the hat. “It's legit.”

“It sure is,” I said, smiling.

“Anyway, stop trying to take the attention away from yourself, Miss Sassy Southern Deb.”

I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, Spencer, I really don't want to talk about that right now.”

“Just saying, I have a feeling one day I'm going to be writing about you.”

“Spencer, please.”

“No, I mean it,” he said, his eyes traveling to the ceiling. “It won't be my Kennedy masterpiece. But it will be one of my career-cementing assignments en route to the Kennedy masterpiece. There
will be lots of intrigue and extravagance and maybe a little bit of scandal, just for good measure.” He paused and thought for a moment. “But I won't slaughter you. I'll put on the kid gloves. Because we'll still be friends.”

Spencer was being totally serious and I couldn't help but laugh.

Never Let Them See You Sweat

B
efore dinner, I learned that Baron Guggenheim's family was
that
Guggenheim, the one with the museum. Tripp said that Baron's great-grandfather was a major art collector and his family were still patrons of the museum but they didn't have any real ownership anymore.

In the South, everyone claims to be part of some “old family,” but they don't have names like Bloomingdale or Lauren or Trump. They have names like Winterthur and Piedmont and Carter, which are not necessarily connected to anything you can visit or buy in a store. There probably was a time when the Winterthur name was well-known because Mr. Winterthur owned a lot of land in South Carolina and Virginia, but that time is long gone. Southerners think it's better to have an “old” family name than a name currently being traded on the stock exchange.

In New York, “Guggenheim” was good enough, and Baron had certainly made good use of his name. According to Tripp, Mr. and Mrs. Guggenheim began spending December through March in St. Barth's when Baron was about seventeen years old, leaving Baron, who was an only child, to fend for himself in New York.

This could have been a sad, lonely story, but New York is not a sad, lonely place if you are a teenager of means. Baron loved the freedom and began throwing a “celebratory” dinner every year to kick off his parents' departure. Tripp had been attending the dinners for years now, and what had started as a thrown-together gathering of boys with pizza and beer purchased with fake IDs had morphed into a semiformal, catered event complete with an after-party at the club of the moment.

Hence, my anxiety.

By five thirty, I hadn't yet mustered up the courage to tell Ruth about the party and was nearly pulling my hair out over the fear that she would keep me there late. She never exactly told me I was free to go, but a little bit before six
P.M
., I heard her pass by one of the senior account executives' desks and mention she was leaving for a client dinner.

I waited seven minutes and then made my way toward the elevator, making Spencer promise he would call me if there were any emergencies or if Ruth returned for one reason or another looking for me.

Finally at home, I could focus on my grooming. The dress I chose was a light gray Peter Som. I figured it was feminine, but it wasn't pink or prissy. I paired it with my black patent Louboutin Mary Janes. One of my mother's favorite quotes is from Bette Midler: “Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world.” I always keep that in mind when putting together an outfit.

Next, I edited down the accessories: simple hoops, a vintage cocktail ring, and a set of bangles. In the end, I left the cocktail ring at home and instead wore the gold family crest ring my mother gave me when I graduated from high school. I like to keep my accessories as simple as possible.

I had a sudden inspiration for my hair and set some curls with a bit of hairspray, parted my hair on the side, and pinned it over. I was ready to go!

Just before I walked out of the door, I picked up the fifteen-layer caramel cake that I'd ordered specially from Caroline's, a bakery in
South Carolina that thankfully shipped to New York. I'd always been taught to arrive at a party with a present for the host, and caramel cake was my favorite.

As I lowered myself into Tripp's town car, I wondered out loud if the cake was too much.

Tripp looked up from his BlackBerry and placed his hand on my knee.

“They'll probably already have dessert at the party,” he said. “It's catered and all.”

I nodded, feeling slightly foolish. He was trying to be nice about it, but he was definitely suggesting I should probably do away with the cake.

“Why don't we just leave it here with Zeke,” he said, stroking my face. “We can enjoy it later.”

We pulled up in front of Baron's building at 812 Park Avenue. Tripp helped me out of the car and guided me through the lobby. The elevator opened up directly into the Guggenheims' apartment. Having an elevator that opens up into your apartment is the New York equivalent of a mile-long driveway lined with magnolia trees. The foyer smelled like priceless oriental rugs and dark wood, which was no surprise, as the entire place seemed to be covered in one or the other. In the center of the main room, visible from where we stood, was a gorgeous Christmas tree decorated in coordinating ornaments.

I stood aside as Tripp and Baron exchanged a familiar hug. Baron took my hands in his and stepped back, his eyes traveling over me.

“Minty, finally, what a pleasure,” he said.

He was short, maybe my height if I didn't happen to be wearing four-inch Louboutins. In my heels I nearly towered over him, and I am no Amazon. He had a little belly, as if a can of beer took a pit stop just above his belt buckle, and round, ruddy cheeks. His hair was styled like a little boy's: straight, short, and parted to the side. He had the mischievous look of a person who was not exactly familiar with consequences or rules.

“Please, come in.”

As Tripp and I handed our coats to the housekeeper, we saw
flashes going off to the right of the foyer, where people seemed to be gathering.

“You'll have to excuse the photographer,” Baron said, guiding us toward the living room. “A friend of mine is an editor at
Harper's Bazaar
and she's been wanting to cover this party for years. I finally gave in.”

Finally gave in? Wow, I thought, nonchalance is the unofficial currency of New York. As if having
Harper's Bazaar
at the party was a burden! I wondered if that grumpy Julie Greene girl was the editor. And then I saw her, hovering in the background looking unamused. She glanced in my direction briefly and turned away.

“I'm surprised we never met in Palm Beach,” Baron said as we entered the living room. “I spent every Christmas down there until my parents bought a place in St. Barth's.”

I wasn't that surprised we'd never met in Palm Beach. I was always too busy playing tennis or spending time with my extended family to really pay much attention to other kids. Besides Tripp, of course.

“Come in, come in.”

We followed Baron into the large living room, which had views of Park Avenue and, beyond, the tops of the trees in Central Park. The camera flashed at Tripp and me, nearly blinding us, and I realized the photographer was Richard Fitzsimmons, who had taken that first photo of me at the Saks luncheon, the one that ran in
WWD
. It really is a small world, I thought.

“Richard!” I said.

Tripp looked at me like I was hallucinating as Richard lowered his camera and squinted in my direction.

“Hey, darlin', looking good,” he said, stepping back to take another shot.

I posed this time, putting a hand on my hip. I'd practiced this in the mirror a few times since that first time at Saks, determined not to take another unflattering photo.

I wasn't sure if he actually remembered me, the greeting was so quick. But then he asked for my name and I immediately felt a bit foolish. What was I thinking?

“Minty,” I reminded him. “Minty Davenport. It's great to see you!”

“Of course,” he said, nodding probably just to be polite. “How could I forget a name like that?”

Tripp took my hand and pulled me away, looking a bit bewildered.

“Come on,” he said. “There are some people you should meet.”

I looked around the room. To the left was a cluster of six or seven girls, each holding a glass of champagne. They looked very hungry and very glum. I smiled at them and instead of smiling back, they just stared until I looked away.

In the center of the room, the boys stood around wearing dinner jackets, one hand holding a glass of dark liquor and the other jammed in their pockets. They probably would have been happier at a sports bar like the Ainsworth drinking beer and shouting at a TV, but they knew deep down that parties like this were their future.

Tripp guided me over to the group of girls and began introductions. It happened so fast that the names were initially kind of a blur, but I remember Perry Hammerstein, a tiny, pixielike girl with a raspy voice and smudged eyeliner; Catherine Dorson, an alabaster-skinned former ballerina who was getting her business degree at Harvard; and, finally, May Abernathy, a gazelle-like creature with wispy auburn hair and saucer eyes. She was clearly the queen bee of the group, the way she stood with her shoulders back, like she should be holding a very long cigarette at all times. She was the only one who smiled at me, but the smile was tight and quick.