Southern Charm (29 page)

I loved him too. But I also hated him. I hated the fact that I had ever met him in the first place, that I'd fallen in love with him when
I was fifteen. I hated that he'd suddenly reappeared in my life. I hated that part of me believed his stories. Part of me rationalized that it was a normal thing for Tabitha's sister to call Tripp in a panic, that it was a normal thing for Tripp to call anyone other than me “sweetie.” I had no control over these feelings. They just came to me and I gave in.

He frowned and looked at me, waiting for some sort of reaction, probably hoping that I would reassure him that I believed him and everything was going to be okay. But I couldn't bring myself to go that far.

“I just hate that all of this is happening and I have to leave in a few hours for London,” he said.

I sat up, startled.

“Oh my God,” I said, “that's right.”

“I know,” he said, “it's a mess but I have no choice. They're expecting me first thing in the morning. You understand, don't you?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“I promise this will work itself out,” he said, stroking my face. “Do you believe me?”

“Of course,” I said. It was an outright lie.

After Tripp left, I did what any self-respecting southern girl does when she's feeling like her world is crashing in around her. I packed up my new Chihuahua in a Chanel handbag and went shopping.

O
n the corner of Sixty-sixth and Madison, the Oscar de la Renta boutique loomed. Just days before, my mother and I had mapped out a plan to spend all of Monday tackling the best ateliers in the city: Vera Wang, Carolina Herrera, Reem Acra, and, yes, Oscar. So many people I knew had gone to large stores to find their wedding dress, but my mother insisted on the personal experience of the New York flagship boutique. You had to make an appointment, of course.

I stopped in front of the window. The clothes were impeccably styled and tailored, right down to the most delicate buttons and nearly undetectable seams. I peered past the dress forms and into the
shop. And there, in the center of the room, was one of the most gorgeous wedding gowns I had ever seen.

At first it reminded me of a tulip upside down, the way the skirt bloomed from the pink satin sash at the waist and cascaded toward the floor. The top portion of the dress was sheer, sleeveless, and covered in delicate embroidery. It was love at first sight.

I stood there and stared.

I was standing in front of the window, daydreaming about the dress, when I heard an all-too-familiar voice coming up behind me.

“Why, don't you look like a sad, lost puppy.”

“Mother!” I swiveled around and Belly popped her head out of the bag.

“My lord, you've got to be kidding me,” she said, glaring at Belly.

“Tripp's guilt present,” I explained.

“Christ.” She rolled her eyes, looking up at the Oscar de la Renta sign. “What are you going to do with a dog?”

I sighed. “I don't know. I should be furious he got it for me, but there's something comforting about having her around.”

My mother's eyes softened.

“Your doorman said you were headed up Madison, so I figured I'd find you here.”

“Mommy.” My lower lip quivered. She knew me too well.

“It's going to be all right, sweetheart.” She put her arm around me.

“No it's not,” I said. “I really don't think it's going to be all right.”

“We'll make it better.”

“How?”

She peered through the window. Her eyes focused directly on the gown.

“By trying on that dress to start,” she said, pointing through the window.

“I'd marry pretty much anyone if it meant I could wear this dress,” I said.

“Don't say that.”

I closed my eyes. “I love him,” I said. “I really do. I want this to work, but things are not good.”

“Well, every couple hits bumps along the road, especially in the beginning,” she said. “Anyway, you do have a wedding in the works that, God willing, will happen. So you need a dress. Better to be overprepared than underprepared.” She opened the door to the boutique. “Shall we?”

Stepping into the Oscar de la Renta boutique on Madison Avenue feels like stepping into an enchanted kingdom. There is glamour, of course, but also a personal touch, as if Mr. de la Renta himself has invited you into his home.

We were immediately greeted by Geny, a petite saleswoman with an Eastern European accent. She had spied us gazing at the dress from the street and knew exactly where to begin.

“A bride-to-be, I see,” she said, arranging for the gown to be placed in the private dressing suite.

I deposited the Chanel bag with Belly in it on the floor of the dressing suite (she was sound asleep, already so well behaved!) and we spent a few moments perusing the wedding dresses displayed in the salon. How could we not? It was like standing in the middle of the Costume Institute at the Met. Some of the dresses were so structured and voluminous that they stood up on their own. They made the debutante gown I wore to the Frick look like a fancy nightgown. But I'd always been decisive, and the second I saw the dress with the pink sash in the window, I knew it was exactly what I was looking for. Now I just had to try it on.

The dressing room had its own little settee. The lighting was flawless. I made a mental note to ask Geny what kind of bulbs they used so I could get them for my apartment.

She helped me fasten the dress, which had a teeny tiny corset and a hidden zipper up the side. I poked my head out of the room. As much as I loved the dress and felt amazing wearing it, I knew Mother was the final test.

Her initial reaction was hard to read. She pursed her lips, then scrunched them to the side. Then she turned her head and her eyes narrowed into tiny little slits. But I knew the coast was clear when she started nodding. It was a subtle nod at first, almost as if she was
trying to keep herself from nodding too enthusiastically. But then she was smiling and clapping her hands. She stood up, ran over, and made me twirl around a million times in order to catch every angle.

She turned to Geny.

“There will be a few alterations of course,” she said. “Minty's wedding dress needs to be one-of-a-kind.”

Geny jotted down some notes. “Of course, Mrs. Davenport,” she said. “Of course.”

As Geny walked away, I felt the initial rush of wearing the dress peak and plummet. What was I doing, standing in the middle of Oscar de la Renta in a wedding gown when just a few hours before I was questioning whether or not I wanted to go through with the wedding in the first place? A lump formed in my throat and within seconds I was crying.

“Sweetheart,” my mother said, rushing to my side. “The dress is breathtaking, I know, but there's no use crying about it.”

“Mother, give me a break,” I gulped through the tears.

She cupped my face in her hands. “All I'm saying is, let's not jump to too many conclusions.”

“I'm just feeling so unsure right now,” I said, pulling away. “I don't even know where to begin to make this better.”

“Well, I'm not sure if this makes you feel any better,” she said, “but Tripp called me crying last night. He said he couldn't live without you, that he was worried he'd screwed it all up. I would have had to have a heart of stone not to listen to him.”

I gulped. “And what did you say?”

“I told him to be honest with you. He said you wouldn't believe him. So I told him he should sit you down, face-to-face, once everyone had cooled down a bit and discuss it. I had no idea that floozy was off on a boat somewhere trying to draw attention to herself.”

“Mommy, let's at least try to be civil,” I said.

“‘Floozy' is the civil option compared to everything else I want to call her. So, were you able to talk to him as well?” she asked.

I frowned. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I'm not sure I believe him. Actually, I think he's lying.”

“I see,” Mother said.

Geny returned. She consulted with my mother about the dress for a few minutes as I pulled myself together in the dressing room and changed back into my clothes. When I came out, my mother was standing there looking very focused, with just a touch of concern. As suffocating as she could be, I knew that she wanted nothing more than the best for her daughters. I trusted her opinion more than anyone's.

“Well,” she began, “look at it this way. Tripp is off to London. You have yourself some time to think. Take a few days, breathe a little. And when he's back, hopefully y'all will figure this out.”

I nodded. “Okay.” I picked up Belly and stroked her head.

As we walked out of Oscar de la Renta, Geny was putting the dress back on display.

I glanced at my mother.

“I told her we have a little more shopping around to do,” she said.

Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Closer

M
ay scored an invite to the Marc Jacobs show
and
after-party and she was nice enough to invite me. It was one of the final shows of Fashion Week, on Sunday night. I spent the entire weekend preparing. From what I'd heard, it was nearly impossible to get an invite to Marc unless you were a top fashion editor or a celebrity, so the fact that May had been able to convince her friend in the PR department to give me a seat was a huge deal. Even Emily was impressed.

“I reminded her about the Kevin Park story in
WWD
and she realized you'd be an asset to the front row,” May said.

“Wow,” I said. “Thank you!”

When I arrived at the Armory on Lexington Avenue, I was horrified to see Ruth standing at the front of the house overseeing the check-in. A long line had already started to snake around the front of the building.

“Minty!”

I turned around and saw May making her way toward me. She was
waving dramatically, drawing a lot of attention to herself. She towered over the crowd in amazing Marc Jacobs platform heels.

“Minty, what are you
doing
on that line?” She grabbed me by the arm. “You shouldn't be standing on a line.”

She ushered me toward the front—past the bewildered-looking girls from RVPR—without getting so much as a second glance from Ruth. The word “no” was not in May's vocabulary, probably because she had never heard it. May lived in her own world, and that world was filled with last-minute trips to Paris on private jets, multimillion-dollar real estate, a wardrobe of couture, and never having to wash your own hair.

“Excuse me, Ms. Abernathy,” one of the RVPR girls said, running after us as we made our way toward the entrance of the show. “We're actually not ready yet. We're going to start letting in VIP guests in the next five minutes or so if you don't mind waiting?”

May shot the girl a withering look and kept walking.

“Oh, it's okay, honey,” she said over her shoulder, waving a willowy hand in the air. “Marc won't mind.” She burst through the doors, dragging me behind her.

We stood at the end of the runway, where packs of photographers had already set up shop. There was still a long piece of black fabric covering the runway. Girls in black T-shirts were placing gift bags on the first- and second-row seats.

“Every season it's like, blah, blah, blah, we're not ready yet. Well, I'm ready.” She turned to me. “Do you know what I mean?”

I didn't really know what she meant. “These shows always start so late, it's annoying!”

“Not Marc,” May said, making her way toward our assigned seats, which were thankfully next to each other. “Not anymore. There was a ton of drama one year about how Marc was almost an hour late. Anna got up and left, she was so annoyed,” she said, referring to Anna Wintour, the editor in chief of
Vogue,
“and God knows you don't piss Anna off. Anyway, he starts on time now and that's that. But really . . .” She trailed off, glancing around the cavernous space. “OMG, where is the
after-party again? I'm pretty sure it's at the Jane. We'll have to ask Judy from PR backstage. Remind me.”