Southern Charm (18 page)

“Going out and wearing your clothes?” I asked. I thought he must be joking.

“Well, yes,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “If you're going to all of the best parties, wearing my dresses and being photographed by Richard Fitzsimmons, appearing in
WWD
and getting mentions in ‘Page Six,' that kind of visibility is priceless for a small brand like mine.”

“Wow,” I said. “I really don't know what to say!”

Of course I
did
know what to say, and it was
Yes!
How could I pass up such an opportunity? I genuinely liked Kevin. He clearly wanted to support me and see me grow in a way that Ruth never would. This “job” he spoke of sounded like more fun than work. The thing was, I'd only ever heard about one person quitting RVPR for another job and the word “blacklisted” was used several times when her name came up. Ruth was great at firing people, but she was not so great at letting them move on.

“Just be honest with her,” Kevin said as we walked out of Morandi. “If there's one thing Ruth understands, it's ambition. You can't exactly remain her assistant forever.”

“True,” I said.

“So do you accept?”

“Of course!” I said. “Yes, I absolutely accept.”

“Great,” he said. “We'll discuss the details after the holidays.”

“Absolutely, Kevin,” I said. “I'll talk to you soon.”

He gave me a big hug and sent me on my way. Funny, regardless of Kevin's assurances, I felt like I was about to walk the gangplank.
Maybe I was being silly. After all, assistants weren't so hard to come by, especially in the fashion PR business.

W
hen I arrived back at the office, I had my game face on.

“Ruth's been looking for you,” Spencer said.

“It's not even two o'clock yet,” I said.

“Don't shoot the messenger,” he replied.

I didn't have a good feeling at all. As I knocked softly on Ruth's door, she screamed from inside for me to enter.

“Spencer said you were looking for me?” I asked, peeking my head inside.

She gestured toward the seat in front of her desk and I sat down.

“Over the course of a few months,” she began, “I've watched you morph from a simple, wide-eyed girl from Charleston into a self-absorbed . . . how shall I put this . . . party girl. And your priorities have become very skewed, to put it lightly.”

I scoffed. What was she talking about?

“Ruth, I'm sorry, but I just don't know where this is coming from,” I said. I felt my stomach flop and churn. Minutes before, I had been so confident and focused, ready to put my foot down, and now I felt like the tables were being turned. Could she possibly know that I was about to quit?

“Face it, Minty,” she continued, “you're not exactly dedicated to this job. You seem to be dedicated to attending charity events and cocktail parties though. And the whole doctor's-appointment thing? Do you really think I bought that?”

Oh God, I thought. Did she somehow know I had met Kevin for lunch? She was Ruthless Vine, after all.

“I know you were at Morandi today,” she said. “And don't even try to deny it or act surprised. You were there. With Kevin Park.”

“I—I—” I stuttered. “Ruth, I don't know what to say. He asked me to lunch and I wasn't sure how you would react. I actually wanted to talk to you,” I continued. As the words came out, I was amazed that
she was even allowing me to speak. “Kevin and I had a really good talk and—”

“Save it,” she said. “You think I'm going to let you quit before I tell you you're fired? Fat chance.” She picked up the phone and pressed one button. “Yes, as soon as possible. Thank you,” she said, hanging up the receiver.

I looked around. What the hell was going on?

Within thirty seconds, two large men were standing in Ruth's doorway.

It was like something out of a nightmare. Before I could even get out of my seat, they were “escorting” me toward my cubicle, where I was then ordered to empty the contents of my desk drawers into a cardboard box and exit the building as fast as humanly possible. Ruth stayed in her office the entire time. I think she may have even been on the phone laughing about something. It was all such a blur, all I can remember is Spencer staring at me, bug-eyed and drooling, like I had just been convicted of murder and was being carted off to Rikers Island.

“Do you have everything you need, ma'am?” the man to my right said.

Ma'am? Now I knew how Tabitha felt! I looked around my desk. No one else in the office seemed to be paying much attention to the spectacle. Even Spencer, at this point, was staring intently at his computer screen.

“Yes, yes, I think so,” I replied. My voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else, somewhere completely removed from my body.

For several minutes, I stood on the corner of Prince and Broadway holding my cardboard box, literally staring into space, dumbfounded. As I glanced at my BlackBerry out of habit, it started vibrating: Tripp.

“How was the meeting with Kevin?” he asked.

Kevin, I thought. It seemed like two years ago.

“It went really well,” I said, staring down West Broadway. “He offered me a job.”

“Babe,” he said, “that's great!”

“And then Ruth fired me.” I exhaled. Saying those words felt like both a relief and a disappointment.

He paused for a moment. “Well. Let's be honest, that's also great.”

I couldn't help but laugh. He certainly put things in perspective.

“Listen,” he continued, “they're letting us out of work early. I thought we could meet up before dinner with your parents. Have you been to see the tree yet at Rockefeller Center?”

I laughed again. I'd basically been sleeping at the office for the past month. I barely had time to breathe, let alone brave the crowds at Rockefeller Center. At the same time, I couldn't believe it was the day before Christmas and I hadn't seen the tree yet. When I was growing up, my mother always took me to see it during our yearly holiday shopping trip. Now I
lived
in New York and the thought hadn't even crossed my mind!

“No,” I said. “But I would love to.”

Tripp told me to meet him ASAP on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Forty-Eighth Street. The streets downtown were ridiculously crowded with last-minute holiday shoppers. After unsuccessfully trying to hail a cab for almost ten minutes, I gave up and hopped on the subway, something I'd never done before. I was kind of terrified.

I must have looked pretty pathetic on that train holding my cardboard box, because some random guy came up to me and stuck a dollar in it. He smiled as he walked away, which I guess meant he was joking, but I didn't find it funny.

As I stepped out of the subway and onto Sixth Avenue and saw Tripp standing on the corner, I felt an immediate sense of relief. Yes, my life was moving fast and changing even faster, but Tripp was a reassuring constant. As flighty, noncommittal, and distant as Ryerson had been in the end, Tripp was the opposite: steadfast, determined, and focused. He wasn't always totally supportive of my ambitions, but he made it clear that he wanted me in his life. And now he was taking me to see the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It was the perfect ending to a roller-coaster day.

“You all right?” he asked as I walked up and fell into his arms. He took the box for me and glanced inside. It contained nothing more
than some pens, a tape dispenser, and a few celebrity weeklies. “Do you really need this stuff?”

“Chuck it,” I said into his coat lapel.

He stepped away and threw the box into the nearest trash can.

“Better?”

“Much better,” I said.

W
e stood in Rockefeller Plaza amidst throngs of people holding up digital cameras, posing in front of the tree or just taking it all in with their families. As crowded as it was, there was a collective goodwill in the air, a spirit of generosity. People came from across the world to see the almost-one-hundred-foot-tall tree. And it's definitely worth experiencing in person. Seeing those thousands of tiny lights up close . . . there's nothing else like it. Tripp held my hand and all I could think was: I've never been happier.

I remembered the first time I visited the tree with my mother. It was our second trip to New York and she'd just taken me to get a pair of red patent leather Mary Janes. She took a picture of me in front of the tree wearing the new shoes. That photo is still in our house today, framed in the living room. I was caught up in this memory when I heard a woman next to me gasp.

“Oh my God!” she said.

I glanced over and realized she was pointing frantically in my direction. I wondered if I had a spider on me and started to swat at my coat reflexively. Then I realized what she was pointing at. Tripp had kneeled down in front of me and was holding a little red box. As I glanced down, he opened it to reveal a gigantic sparkling Cartier engagement ring.

“Holy shit,” I said, covering my mouth. “Tripp!”

“Minty Randolph Mercer Davenport—” he began.

I stared at him.

“I've thought about this moment since we were fifteen.”

Oh my God. I cupped my hand over my mouth.

“It took me seven years to find you again. I just don't see any point in waiting another minute.”

It was one of the most beautiful rings I've ever seen—emerald cut, flawless, platinum band. I actually had to turn away when I looked directly at the ring because one of its facets caught the light and nearly blinded me it was so dazzling. And then it hit me: Tripp was proposing. He was actually proposing marriage to me after three months of dating, in the middle of Rockefeller Center, no less. Part of me thought, This is ludicrous, but the rest of me felt like it was the most normal thing in the world. And that is when I knew what my answer would be.

“Yes!” I nearly screamed. “Yes, yes, yes!”

He looked up at me, bewildered but smiling. A small crowd had gathered around us. Someone started clapping.

“I haven't asked you the question yet,” he said.

“Go on and ask it!” a random male voice chimed in. Everyone laughed.

“Will you marry me?”

I almost screamed. “Oh my God, Tripp, absolutely, yes!”

He slipped the ring on my finger and I felt completely different. I'd officially finished the transformation from Minty Davenport of Charleston, South Carolina, to Minty du Pont of Manhattan. The ring was like a seal of approval stamped with a 10021 zip code.

Someone took our picture and before I knew it Tripp was ushering me into his town car. Zeke had somehow managed to pull up at exactly the right time.

“Your parents are waiting uptown,” Tripp said, taking my hand. We zoomed up Sixth Avenue to the Upper East Side.

Better to Be Overdressed Than Underdressed

W
hen Tripp and I walked into my apartment, my entire family—Scarlett, Gharland, and Darby—was waiting with expectant looks on their faces, each one of them decked out in a perfectly coordinated holiday outfit. I noticed immediately that Darby had on the coolest knee-high Isabel Marant boots that I'd been drooling over for months. She always had a knack for looking sexy without being over-the-top.