Southern Charm (37 page)

T
he morning of the Met Ball, I woke up calm, centered, and ready to face the world. The day before, I'd received an e-mail from Tripp informing me that he would be at the Met Ball, that he'd recently heard I was attending too, and that he wanted me to know he was merely
sitting
at Tabitha's table as one of several guests she'd invited. He was not attending as her “date.”

All I could do was sigh. I had moved on. I knew Tripp wasn't a bad person. He was just a spoiled kid who acted on his impulses. I needed a man who was confident and strong enough to make the right decisions, even when faced with temptation, and Tripp was clearly not that man. I thought of my chance meeting with Ryerson at the country club almost two months before. Ryerson was the wild card in my life. He'd hurt me too, but he'd hurt me because he was being honest—at the time, he wasn't ready to settle down. Ryerson had good values. He had character. I needed more of that in my life.

I did not respond to Tripp.

I
always start the day of a big event with coffee. I steer away from Diet Coke and anything else with even the slightest hint of bubbles. It's best to keep my blood sugar up without ever feeling full. Honestly, all of those actresses who say they ate a cheeseburger before hitting the red carpet are either superhuman or not telling the truth.

At six forty-five
P.M
., when I had exactly fifteen minutes before
Kevin was supposed to pick me up, my phone rang. I didn't even say hello before my mother started talking.

“Just remember, Minty, hand on the hip. No one wants to see an arm flat up against your side doing nothing. And smile, smile!” she said. “But not too big. You don't want to come across as enthusiastic. Think something naughty.”

“Mother!”

“And if you see that Tripp, you tell him I'm coming for him!”

I couldn't help but laugh. “I'll try to mention it to him if we run into each other at the bar,” I said.

“All right, baby, I love you,” she said.

“Love you too, Mommy.”

“Now knock 'em dead!”

V
isiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art is special enough when you're squished in with the throngs of tourists and students that come to visit on any given day. But when you're invited to the Met Ball, and you walk up those steps just past dusk with thousands of camera flashes going off, the feeling is indescribable. I'd obviously been on a red carpet before, but this was another level.

“Minty! Kevin!” the photographers screamed.

“We're famous,” Kevin whispered, half-joking.

As we walked, I noticed a girl who was holding up cue cards with the name of the designer or actress or model currently walking the carpet so the photographers knew what name to scream: Isaac Mizrahi and Coco Rocha, Oscar de la Renta and Anne Hathaway, Karl Lagerfeld and Blake Lively. I spotted the card for Kevin and me on the ground next to her feet. Ha, I thought, I guess Kevin and I aren't that famous after all.

As I was making my way up the stairs, I saw a woman in a gorgeous, nude-colored dress twenty feet or so ahead of me.

“Emily!” I shouted.

Emily turned around, smiled, and waited for Kevin and me to catch up. She was with the guy from the Frick ball, Nate. They
looked cute together, I thought. Perhaps a little romance was blooming after all?

“Minty, you remember Nate,” Emily said, winking.

“Of course,” I said, introducing Kevin as well.

I nudged Emily in the ribs as we entered the museum.

“Later,” she said coyly.

The theme of the evening was inspired by the upcoming fashion exhibit “Neo Victorian.” Once we entered the American Wing, which was decorated in moody shades of aubergine and garnet, we were shown to our table, which was in close proximity to the Saks Fifth Avenue table, where Emily and Nate were seated. As Kevin and I got situated, I saw May and Harry making their way through the crowd. May was definitely in her element, air-kissing and laughing and pointing. Just as I was about to sit down, she scooted by my table and patted me on the behind, promising to swing back around in a minute. As I waved her off, I glanced over at the seating card next to me: Spencer Goldin! I breathed a sigh of relief as Spencer appeared, looking dashing in a deep navy blue Tom Ford tuxedo with a crisp black bow tie.

“I pulled some strings so we could sit together,” he said as he sat down.

I felt more at ease just seeing him.

“Tripp's over there, BTW,” Spencer said, nodding in the direction of a neighboring table.

I spotted him almost immediately. He looked a bit stiff and self-conscious in his usual Ralph Lauren tux. He was standing over a table that included the actress Emmy Rossum, her date, and a few people who looked like fashion executives. Just before I turned away, Tabitha appeared at the table looking slightly unsteady. I was about to make a comment to Spencer about her being drunk when I realized she was on crutches. I spotted an air cast on her left leg. Yikes. On one hand, I felt terrible. On the other hand, she looked completely ridiculous wobbling around on crutches in a ball gown.

“Do you think she'll let me sign her cast?” Spencer asked.

I punched him in the arm and glanced back at Tripp, who was already looking in my direction.

“Shit, he totally just caught me looking at him,” I said. When I glanced back in Tripp's direction, all I could make out was the top of his head. I couldn't even see Tabitha anymore.

“Well,” I said, “that wasn't so bad.”

“Music to my ears,” Spencer replied.

He picked up one of the pre-poured glasses of champagne that were in front of each place setting and raised it in the air.

“To finally getting a clue,” he said.

I looked back at him and narrowed my eyes.

“To finally getting a clue,” I repeated.

A
fter four courses, three different types of wine, and a “sublime” (this was Spencer's description) performance by Florence and the Machine, I realized we'd been sitting for nearly three hours straight. Kevin was engrossed in a conversation with the supermodel Karolina Kurkova and Spencer was desperately trying to make his way into the conversation. I figured I'd grab a drink and maybe wander around some of the exhibits and get some air.

As I passed through the Egyptian Wing, I stopped for a closer look at one of the mummies encased in glass. A man was standing on the other side of the glass case, his hands clasped behind his back and a sly smile on his face like he'd been there longer than I noticed.

I focused in on the five o'clock shadow, the messy crop of hair, the cool green eyes now starting to twinkle a bit as I slowly came to a realization.

“Ryerson?!”

He tilted his head to the side.

“Minty, we meet again,” he said.

A shiver went up my spine. I exhaled.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I said.

He laughed. “Well, I'm going to be up here for a few days checking out some art history programs. You know it's always been an interest of mine even though I got that econ degree at UVA. If I'm going to get a job at a gallery I kind of have to start over.” He paused. “Anyway, a
friend of mine from Buenos Aires had an extra seat at his table and he said I should come along.” He stopped and grinned at me. “I have to admit, I had a feeling I might see you here.”

“Wait,” I said. “Art history? New York?”

“Yeah,” he said. He shook his head. “I don't know, it's never been my favorite place, but if I'm going to break into the art world, it's really the only place to be. I've been struggling with the decision for a while. And then, recently, something just kind of clicked.” He held my gaze for an extended moment. “It's exactly where I should be.”

“Is that right?” I asked.

“That's right,” he said.

We both laughed nervously and stared at the ground.

“You know,” I finally said, breaking the silence, “it will be nice to have another southerner in the city. My sorority sister Emily has really been my only connection to the South so far, and she's originally from New York!”

“Don't tell me these Yankees have been giving you a hard time?”

I thought for a moment. Maybe he didn't know the whole story with Tripp? I wouldn't have been surprised. He wasn't exactly the type to be up on society gossip.

“Let's just say,” I began, “going from a southern girl to a jaded Manhattanite hasn't exactly been the smoothest of transitions.”

Ryerson laughed. “I don't know how to break it to you, Mints, but you don't exactly look like a jaded Manhattanite just yet.”

I looked down at my frilly dress and patted my perfectly curled platinum-blond hair. “Oh,” I said, frowning a bit. “I guess you're right.”

He came around the side of the case and put his hand on my arm. A few people breezed past us in their gowns, holding glasses of champagne and laughing. Not even the security guards at either end of the room were paying us much attention. “But, wow, look at how far you've come,” he said shyly. “You're like a—what do they call it—a socializer or something here? I saw everyone taking your picture.”

“A socialite,” I corrected him, smiling.

“Socialite,” he repeated. He looked down and touched my face.
“Whatever they're calling you these days, to me you'll always be the girl I threw into a pile of leaves in high school.”

I blushed. “You remember.”

T
hat night, I didn't exactly make it back to my table. With Ryerson gazing down at me, talking about moving to New York, acting like maybe I had something to do with it, suddenly sitting in a room full of fashion designers and celebrities was the last place I wanted to be. The old Ryerson would never have been so brave.

“Do you want to get out of here?” I asked him.

“God, yes,” he said.

Ryerson and I walked out of the Met, unnoticed by the paparazzi and press, down step after step until we finally reached the sidewalk, where we hailed a cab in record time.