Southern Charm (16 page)

“I have a really good feeling about this, Minty,” Emily had said. “If this goes well, Kevin could be an instrumental person for you.”

I wasn't so sure what she meant by this.

“The fashion industry is New York's answer to Hollywood,” she continued. “Designers hold a ton of power in this town. If you've got one in your corner—better yet, by your
side
—you're pretty much golden. I mean, name one social girl who hasn't served as a ‘muse' to a designer. And let's face it, Kevin's style is perfect for you. His last collection was inspired by Eloise, of all people!”

“Really?” I probably should have known that already.

By the time I made it to Ruth's office to go over the guest list, I was already four minutes late. She grabbed the list from me and scanned it in record time. I sat across from her desk, leaning forward slightly, praying to God that I'd done something right.

“What the hell is your boyfriend doing on here?”

But I guess God wasn't answering my prayers that day.

I'd invited Tripp at the last minute, thinking it might be nice for him to experience one of my first big events, but his lack of enthusiasm was surprising. He'd said something about “trying” to make it, then when I called him that morning to ask again, he said he was sorry but it wasn't really “his scene.” As a concession, he said he'd head to my apartment straight from work and would be waiting for me when I was done with my event. I was lukewarm on the compromise. If our relationship had one roadblock so far, it centered on the fact that he was not entirely supportive of my career. Sometimes I felt like he was a little threatened that I was going out a lot, meeting new people, and starting to carve out a niche for myself in New York.

Whatever his issue was, I guess it worked out for the best.

“Oh, sorry, that must be a mistake,” I said.

She crossed his name off the list, pulled out a highlighter, and started marking up the list. Shoot, I thought. Ruth had told me it was “my” list to manage, but I guess she didn't exactly mean I could invite whomever I wanted.

“What is this, Minty's New York coming-out party?” She slammed the list onto her desk and several other pieces of paper flew up around it.

I gulped.

“I mean, seriously, Minty, I love Emily to death but she is no A-lister.” She shook her head. “And this plus-two bullshit? Plus fucking two who?”

“Sorry,” was all I could manage.

Ruth buried her face in her hands.

“I have
The New York
fucking
Times
and
Gotham
magazine covering this party exclusively, Minty. I can't have a bunch of nobodies showing up and making it look like a second-rate event.” She put the list down and glanced at the clock. “Go back to your desk and tell your grade school friends and their third cousins once removed they're not coming.” She glanced at the list again. “Tamsen Little is a good add. But I want to see at least three additional notable fucking people at this party who have accomplished something beyond taking you to dinner.”

Back at my desk, I logged onto my Gmail Chat account so I could send Spencer a quick download of my meeting with Ruth. It was our way of communicating at the office without being overheard. I had just finished typing the word “bitch” when a message popped up.

Taking New York by storm, I see?

I gasped. It was Ryerson.

“Oh my God,” I said out loud.

I honestly had no idea what to say. I hadn't heard from him in over a year. Why would he contact me now when we were thousands of miles away from each other? Come to think of it, I didn't even know where he was.

He continued with a second message when I didn't respond:
I saw your photo somewhere. I know it's been a while . . . but maybe the next time I fly through New York we can get a drink.

And, finally:
I miss you, Minty.

What?! I stepped away from my computer.

Spencer popped his head up from his cubicle. “All okay?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, shaking my head. Spencer looked back at me, puzzled. “I'm just, um, kind of under the gun with this list.”

I was partly telling the truth, of course. I didn't have a clue as to how I was going to confirm more top people at such a late hour. I picked up the phone and called Emily. Luckily, she said she had two people in mind—Georgia Bennetton, a socialite, and Olive Hudson, an up-and-coming actress. She thought she could get them to come if we would “gift” (a term for giving free things to celebrities) them a Kevin Park dress. It turned out Saks had just picked up Kevin's line, so Emily was able to pull directly from the floor. It really was the perfect solution. I was able to wrap up the list and make it down to the Kevin Park boutique just in time for the start of the event, all the while thinking in the back of my head, What the hell does Ryerson Bigelow want?

T
he boutique, located on Mulberry Street in Nolita, was a modest (by fashion-empire standards), austere space finished in smooth concrete and bright white paint. The clothes were feminine—frilly almost—in bright, whimsical shades of pink, lavender, powder blue, and yellow. It was almost as if he'd stepped inside my head and created the perfect wardrobe.

When I walked in, everything seemed to be in good shape. Kevin and his team were en route from the showroom and all we had to do was make a few final adjustments to the flowers and wait for the guests to show up. Besides the fact that Emily was still coming (I couldn't exactly disinvite her when she was the reason we'd confirmed two more amazing guests), I was feeling pretty confident this time. All I could do was hope that Ruth saw the trade-off and respected my decision.

Thankfully, things were going so well from the get-go that Ruth took me off the door and asked that I circulate and make sure everything was running smoothly. Kevin, whom I hadn't met yet, caught my gaze through the crowd and motioned for me to come over.

“You work for Ruth, right?” he said.

“Yes! I'm Minty.” I extended my hand. “It's so nice to meet you. I'm such a fan of your designs. I hope you're happy with everything . . . ?”

Kevin smiled. “Yes, I was just looking for Ruth.” He glanced around the room. “You guys are doing an amazing job—I just saw Olive Hudson come in. I mean, she is one of my favorite girls! I have been dying to dress her. Please let Ruth know if I don't find her first.”

Just then, Emily walked over with Olive and Georgia.

“Emily!” Kevin exclaimed, pulling her toward him. “Oh my God, I didn't know you were coming, this is amazing! Did you have a hand in getting these amazing girls in my clothes?”

Olive and Georgia smiled and Emily made introductions. As I was standing there—feeling relieved and proud—I saw Ruth come out from the back of the store. She immediately zeroed in on Emily and started making her way through the crowd, her expression tight-lipped and focused.

“Actually”—Emily smiled—“I have to give the credit to Minty here. It really was all her idea.”

Kevin looked at me and beamed. “Genius, Minty. Just genius. I knew I liked you.” He examined me closely, taking in my simple black sheath (ugh) and ankle boots. “Have I seen you somewhere before? You look familiar but . . . different.”

“She's in work mode,” Emily said, beaming, “but Minty's usually dressed like a Kevin Park ad. I mean, she could practically be your muse!”

His eyes narrowed and he lifted a finger to his lips. Then his face lit up with recognition.

“Oh, you're that southern belle! I'm always reading about you in ‘Page Six.'”

I shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

“Yes,” Emily said. “That's her.”

“Kevin, honey, I see you've met Olive and Georgia?” Ruth asked.

“Yes, yes, I have,” Kevin said. “Aren't they gorgeous? Dressed in the spring collection, no less.”

“Genius,” Ruth said. She turned to me. “Minty—”

“And I have to say, your girl Minty here is a lifesaver,” Kevin continued. “Emily tells me she pulled some strings to get the girls here and even made sure they were wearing my designs.”

Ruth paused, and for a moment I thought she might lose it. All right, so Emily was there, but I had technically pulled through in the end. And Kevin—Ruth's most important client at the time—seemed thrilled. Wasn't that really the only thing we cared about?

“She's my little protégée,” she finally said, patting me on the shoulder.

I managed a strained smile in return, half-expecting her hands to travel up to my neck and strangle me right then and there. Okay, so she was basically bringing the credit back on herself, but at least she hadn't blown up in front of everyone.

“We've got to get her in some Kevin Park,” he said, eyeing me again and putting a hand on his hip.

“Definitely,” Ruth said. “Definitely.”

“D
arling, how was the party?”

I jumped when I opened my door. I'd been expecting to see Tripp in my apartment, not Scarlett.

She was wearing a Ralph Lauren jacket and wool pants with a silky white blouse. Her hair was pulled back with a red headband.

“Mother, what are you—”

“You just missed Tripp, darling, we had the nicest conversation,” she began, waltzing into the living room. “He said to tell you he'd speak to you in the morning.” She paused. “Mind you, I didn't know he had a key to your apartment!” She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Mother, please.”

“Anyway, it was so good to see him again, I feel like it's been ages. We got to talking about the holidays and I've been thinking. You know, Thanksgiving is going to be blink-and-you'll-miss-it.”

We were planning on spending Thanksgiving in Charleston, but with my work schedule I would only be able to spend a grand total of twenty-four hours there.

“And then Christmas is right round the corner,” she said. “We'll see all of the extended family at Thanksgiving, of course. So I was thinking we could maybe do Christmas in New York with just our immediate family. We could invite your father. It would probably be a lot more relaxing than boarding a flight to Palm Beach for another whirlwind trip.”

But I loved spending Christmas in Palm Beach. It was a family tradition after all.

“Christmas in New York?! Dad?! What the hell are you talking about?”

Even though my parents were divorced, they were still close friends. Dad usually spent the holidays with his third wife. So if he was to be invited to spend Christmas with us, it could only mean one thing: marriage number three was headed down the tubes.

“We could even include Tripp somehow,” she continued, ignoring me. “Maybe for Christmas Eve dinner? Didn't you say something about how his family only celebrates on Christmas Day?”

“Mother.”

“It's just that, I'm here and you're here and God knows you're so busy with this public relating business you've gotten yourself wrapped up in. Darby has four goddamn weeks off from Ole Miss; I barely know what I'm going to do with her and I imagine your father will be no help at all.”

“Mommy, I'm not so sure that this is the best idea.”

“Well, why on earth not?”

There were many reasons why on earth not. Tripp had met my parents before, of course, but the thought of his joining us for Christmas Eve dinner was still intimidating. They were not exactly Norman Rockwell normal. My father, for one, had an uncanny ability to make my mother look like the most stable, least manipulative person on the planet. And then there was Darby, who would definitely spend the
entire time asking Tripp if he had any single friends and then would force us to go out after dinner. I was getting a headache already just thinking about it.

“I just feel like it would be a lot.”

“Five people? A lot? Sweetheart, you act as if we're not going to be in Charleston in a few days with approximately fifty of our closest relatives.”