Our Tripp is dressed in what Holly described as “derby chic”—blue blazer, button-down oxford, madras bow tie, loafers, and a matching brown belt. Holly completed the look with a pair of red-and-white striped shorts—currently the bane of Eli’s existence. They would be full-on hilarious if it weren’t for the verymasculine, very athletic legs they’re barely concealing. Like the long beard that was hiding his chiseled face, Eli’s ill-fitting jeans were concealing a pair of well-defined thighs over rock-hard calves. And yeah, I may have ogled a little when he arrived this morning.
“You look festive,” I say cheerfully.
“Festive?” he asks, giving me a death stare from under his new Ray-Bans.
“Festive,” Holly repeats. “And if you’re going to complain, please do it with that charming Mississippi accent.”
“Pee-can whai-ne tastes deh-vai-ne,” he practices earnestly.
“Pee-can whai-ne tastes like pee-can pah-ie,” Holly joins in, making us all laugh.
Eli pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and impishly grins, fully transforming into Tripp before our eyes.
“After you, Miss Simmons,” he says, gesturing for Holly to lead the way. He then turns to me and crooks his elbow. “May I?” he asks, and I loop my arm in his.
Tripp Bedford has arrived.
We follow the lively sounds of a zydeco band into the back gar-den, where dozens of people are decked in full derby regalia. They eat and drink, mill around in small groups, crowd around the Churchill Downs live stream, and play croquet on the lawn.
Every inch of this space has been transformed into an equestrian-themed bacchanalia. Red roses are gathered into wreaths, garlands and vases intersperse with vintage horseshoe and jockey decor.
About a dozen round tables have been arranged on the stone patio that’s spread under an ancient oak. An extravagant buffet sparkles with silver—ornate trays, serving spoons, forks, and delicate tongs. The menu is written in tight script on a betting chalkboard: hot browns, fried chicken, pickled shrimp, burgoo, deviled eggs, hush puppies, and for the more health conscious, a smattering of salads. The equally impressive dessert table boasts a towering chocolate fountain surrounded by tiers of derby pie, hummingbirdcake, bourbon balls, and banana pudding. The whole thing is wildly over-the-top.
A server comes around with a tray of the party’s signature mint juleps, poured into what Holly explains are traditional “pewter”—not silver!—cups. Each is individually monogrammed with Judy Swanson’s initials—because, why not? I take my first sip, praying a little bourbon will help me relax. Just as Holly told us to expect, there are tons of Southern country club types, but only a few are from Atlanta. And just as I suspected, it’s a mostly white crowd, except for a few outliers—myself included—and the waitstaff, which is mostly Black and Latine.
Tripp downs his mint julep like he’s gulping water. “Want another?” he asks me, searching for the bar, which seems to be tucked inside a remodeled carriage house. The triple garage doors are open to show off the custom mahogany bar and large TV screen.
“Easy there, tiger,” I say, elbowing him slightly. “We just got here.”
“May I remind you, you are not here to get wasted,” Holly whisper-yells.
“It’s hot,” Tripp grumbles. Then, taking in Holly’s sour expression, he goes all-out Mississippi: “Good Lord, it’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol!” And with that, he leaves to get himself another drink.
Holly exhales in one long, hard breath. She nods at a few passing guests, smiling through clenched teeth. Tripp orders a drink, then laughs about something with the bartender and a tall blond wearing a stylish, body-hugging tube dress and wide-brim hat embellished with a giant magnolia. She paws at the breast of his blazer, laughing as she leans into him.
My hand grips my cup a little tighter. Next to me, I sense Holly cringing. “Oh Lord,” she mutters. “That’s Virginia Thacker. Judge Thacker’s granddaughter. Why is she here? And why in God’s name is he flirting with her?”
“Looks like Virginia is flirting withhim,” I mutter.
We watch as she laughs, head tossed back, at whatever idiotic thing Tripp is saying.
“What the…” Holly trails off as Virginia slips her arm through Tripp’s, just where mine was minutes ago.
“Well, you told him to charm everyone,” I say, throwing back my drink until the cup is empty. “Technically, he’s followingyourinstructions.” Inexplicably, I’m rattled by the whole scene.
I’m a feminist, for fuck’s sake. What do I care if some hot, legs-for-days blond is flirting with the con man we’ve hired to deceive an entire club on our behalf? It’s not like Tripp, or Eli, or whatever his name is, owes me anything. It’s not like we set boundaries around his interactions with other women. But, as absurd and naive as it sounds, it didn’t occur to me—until right now—that Tripp would draw the attention of this world’s very young, very rich, very attractive women.
I need another drink.And these dainty pewter cups ain’t gonna cut it.
“Holly, darling!” Aunt Edna calls out, beckoning us from the plush sofa on the back porch, where the Southern Grande Dames appear to have gathered. She introduces us to our hostess, Judy Swanson, dressed in a flowery puff-sleeved muumuu and wearing so many glinting stones that she could partner with Aunt Edna to open a jewelry store. I know Holly keeps saying people in this world don’t show off their wealth, but let’s be honest—these ladies love their baubles.
Holly and I sit, sharing a wicker settee. Tripp joins us, Virginia dangling from his arm like a wet towel. My spine stiffens and the low-level throbbing in my head intensifies. The headband of my fascinator is actively digging holes into the sides of my scalp.
“And this…” Holly stutters, blinking a few times, “this is…”
Tripp and I watch in disbelief as Holly stammers. Did she just forget his name?
“Tripp Bedford,” Tripp smoothly interjects, reaching out his hand. “How do you do?”
