Southern Charm (19 page)

The entire living room was decorated to perfection, right down to the fresh spruce garland lining the fireplace and Christmas tree lit up in the corner. I gasped, overwhelmed. Scarlett must have been working on all of those finishing touches while I was at work.

“Hi,” I said sheepishly, walking into the living room.

Everyone stared back at me blankly.

“Well,” Mother began, breaking the silence. “I'm going to grab us each a drink. And when I come back let's have a look at that diamond! Even though I've seen it already, of course.” She winked and disappeared into the kitchen.

I glanced at Darby and my father, who just smiled and shrugged.

“Y'all knew?!”

My father frowned. “You think Tripp would have asked for your hand in marriage without checking with me first?”

Of course, I thought. Wow. I just couldn't believe he'd been planning this and I had no clue.

“Daddy, it's so good to see you,” I said, running over to him. In the excitement of the moment I'd completely forgotten to even greet him. We hadn't seen each other in months!

He wrapped me in his arms and picked me up off the ground so that my feet, platform booties and all, were left dangling over the carpet. I inhaled his familiar scent: cigars and bourbon. He placed me back on the ground and twirled me around, just like he did when I was a little girl.

There was a prolonged silence, which was typically my mother's cue to make a grand entrance. I looked over my shoulder and, like clockwork, the kitchen door opened. I was sure she'd been standing on the other side for the last five minutes waiting for our conversation to die down; her timing was too perfect.

She was carrying a tray of vodka sodas and two bourbons. She distributed each drink to its rightful owner and we each took a seat in the living room.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked. “Y'all haven't started planning the wedding without me, have you?”

“No, Mother,” Darby said, rolling her eyes. She turned to me and whispered, “Congratulations, Tripp's a stud.”

I poked her in the ribs.

“BTW,” she continued, “I think I got fat. Mom barely gave me a hug.”

I couldn't help but laugh. It was a running joke between my sister and me that the skinnier we were, the bigger the hug. She was being ridiculous though—she looked exactly the same.

“Darby,” Tripp said. “I haven't seen you since you were, what, maybe thirteen?”

He went in for a hug.

She made eye contact with me over his shoulder and I almost burst out laughing, her expression was so priceless.

“Shall we toast to Minty and Tripp?” Mother said, raising her glass in the air. We followed suit. My father pointed his glass of bourbon in Tripp's direction.

“Just keep in mind,” he began, “I had my eye on you back when you were a seventeen-year-old smart-ass and I've got my eye on you now.”

Everyone laughed nervously.

“To Minty and Tripp,” he finally said.

I couldn't believe it; Tripp and I were engaged.

O
ver dinner that evening, my mother suggested we set the wedding date for the second weekend in June. June! That gave us about five months to plan, and five months in wedding time is equal to about three minutes.

Since my eighteenth birthday, Scarlett had booked the Charleston church and country club for the second weekend in June each year. Of course, she had been canceling (and rescheduling) steadily for the last several years, but she happened to be close friends with both our priest and the manager of the club, so they paid no mind. Of course, there were about a million other things to do. There was the engagement party, which Tripp said his parents, Phillip and Bebe, had already offered to host. Let's be honest, the very concept of anyone else sticking their nose into my mother's wedding-of-the-century extravaganza turned her alabaster skin a deep shade of crimson and warranted some alone time in the powder room, but when she emerged, she seemed gracious and accepting.

“I'm sure Phillip and Bebe will do a lovely job,” she said over a dessert of chocolate mousse. “Perhaps Bebe and I could meet for some coffee in the next week or so to discuss?”

“Mother,” I said.

Tripp raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“Fine.” She patted her lips gingerly with her napkin and placed it
back in her lap. “I will leave the engagement party up to the du Ponts.”

Which was a blessing in disguise, because if my mother were going to pull off the wedding she'd always envisioned, there was a lot to accomplish in a short period of time. Such as booking a roster of names that read like the Who's Who of weddings, including the famed Peter Duchin band for music; the photographer Denis Reggie, who captured JFK Jr.'s wedding to Carolyn Bessette; a show-stopping cake by Sylvia Weinstock; calligrapher Bernard Maisner to place the finishing touches on the save-the-dates, invitations, escort cards, and place cards; and Glorious Food for the catering. Oh! And there was the dress, of course.

Within days of Tripp's proposal, I was receiving regular e-mail updates from my mother about the status of anything and everything, right down to the glassware, napkins, and chair covers. It was enough to put even a bridezilla over the edge, and I was teetering. It's not that I wasn't genuinely interested in making my wedding the most magical night of my life, but I was also overwhelmed. The wallpaper glue in my apartment was probably still drying and already I had to start thinking about the reality of finding a new place with Tripp. I was about to start my new job with Kevin Park. It was a lot to take in, but at the end of the day, I wouldn't have had it any other way. I was marrying the man of my dreams. So what if it wasn't the most convenient timing? Is there even such a thing?

I
n the midst of all of the craziness, the night of the Frick ball snuck up on me. It turned out Spencer was right; it was extremely hard to score an invite to the Frick. Guests were chosen by a committee of “young fellows” of the museum, which consisted of some of the most powerful young men and women in Manhattan. As I ran through the list of names on the invitation, many of them jumped out at me: Trump, Rockefeller, Charriol, Aston. I was so flattered to be included as part of that group!

I wanted the evening to be perfect. Tripp and I hadn't attended
an event together since we got engaged, and while some of our close friends obviously knew, the Frick would be our first official “coming out” as a couple.

The theme was the French Revolution and I planned on taking it seriously. I checked with Kevin about borrowing one of his dresses, but most of the spring collection had been lent out to various celebrities for awards season and everything that was left wouldn't have been appropriate for the theme anyway. The style of that era was pretty specific: corseted bodice, full skirt, exposed shoulders, very dramatic. Luckily I already owned a gown that fit that exact description. It happened to be my debutante gown. I figured no one in New York had seen me in the dress, so why not?

I made an afternoon appointment at the Oscar Blandi salon, where my stylist Ludmilla created what she referred to as a “deconstructed Marie Antoinette.” It was one of the most over-the-top updos I'd ever seen, complete with carefully placed roses that matched my gown. I couldn't wait to get dressed!

As I was walking through my front door, Tripp called.

“I'm not sure I'm going to be able to make it tonight, Mints,” he said.

What!?

“Um, excuse me . . . ,” I said, “why not?”

I was trying to remain calm. I had an updo to maintain, after all.

“Something's come up,” he said. “Work is crazy. I just don't think it's going to happen. I'm really sorry.”

“You've got to be kidding me.” I took a deep breath. “What am I going to do, go alone?”

I could hear him typing, which meant he was only half-listening to me.

“Isn't Emily going?”

Yes, Emily was going. But, like the majority of the people going to this thing, she had a date! What was I supposed to do, walk around the Frick Museum with Emily and her date and—oh—my engagement ring? How was I going to explain to people that my new fiancé had better things to do?

“Tripp, this is one night, a few hours. You've known about it for weeks!” I said, trying to control my temper.

“Give me a second.” He put me on hold.

Of all things he could have done in that very moment, he put me on hold.

When he came back, I was at my wit's end.

“Mints, I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm just . . . swamped here. See if Emily can pick you up on her way or something. Mints?”

What could I do? He clearly wasn't leaving me with any other choice.

“Fine,” I said.

I know I should have said something far stronger, but I was so surprised and confused—all I could come up with was a weak, limp “fine.” Not to mention, I wasn't brought up that way. In stressful times like this, I reverted to my upbringing, falling back on politeness when I should have stood up for myself.

I looked in the mirror and took a deep breath. Black mascara tears were streaming down my cheeks. “Deconstructed Marie Antoinette” was a
nice
way of putting it. I looked more like Marie Antoinette after the guillotine. How was I supposed to show up to the Frick without someone to lean on?

I called Emily. Maybe she could explain to her date that I was having a mental breakdown and she had no other choice but to come to my rescue.

“Ugh, Minty, Nate is going to be pissed,” Emily said in an exasperated tone, referring to her date.

“Emily, I don't know what else to do,” I whined. “I really need your help.”

She huffed and puffed for a moment, but she eventually came around. “All right,” she finally said. “I'm going to tell Nate I'll meet him there. I'll be over in a few.”

“I owe you, Em!” I said.

“You do.”

Emily arrived at my apartment wearing a breathtaking, dove-gray
J. Mendel floor-length gown. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she'd applied the prettiest shade of petal-pink lipstick. She was like something out of an iconic painting that inspires entire fashion shows.

“Oh, your hair,” she said.

I patted my updo.

“I wanted to look authentic! Am I going to look stupid?”

“You are too much,” she said. “I have to be honest, not everyone dresses in theme for this thing, but why not? It will get people's attention, that's for sure. By the way, Nate was a good sport about meeting us there.”

“Oh, Emily,” I began, “I'm so sorry I got so wrapped up in my little catastrophe that I didn't properly thank you.”

Emily looked like she was tolerating me, but just barely. “Minty, we have about ten minutes to get this show on the road,” she said. “Attending the Frick ball is like your societal debut. I'm here to help you get it right. So let's see your dress.”

My debutante gown was a white silk princess style with a cinched waist, cap sleeves, and a skirt so full I kind of felt like the lady in the large dress from
The Nutcracker
. After I put it on, I turned around in the mirror and glanced at the back, which dipped down to just above my waist. Emily nodded approvingly, but at the same time I could tell she was a little amused with my choice.

“That dress will
definitely
get you noticed.”

I shrugged.

“Come on,” she said. “Your subjects are waiting.”