To my—and Holly’s—absolute shock, Aunt Edna joins him, falling into a Kentucky hillbilly holler. My jaw drops, nearly scratching the floor.
“Dig in there, Queenie,” she yelps, waving her betting slip in the air. “Shoo, shoo, shoo! Bring it on home, girl!”
“Make it rain,” Tripp yowls in unison with Aunt Edna.
“The Queen’s Curse is exploding through the rail!” the voice on the TV shouts as the horses round a corner. The announcer is now tripping over his words. The man can’t seem to speak fastenough to keep up with the action. “She’s taking the lead as she comes down to the finish. A spectacular, spectacular, monumental upset at fifty to one!”
“Well, hot damn! Hotdiggitydamn!” I hear Eli shout as the announcer declares, “The Queen’s Curse has won the Kentucky Derby.”
I don’t have to look at Holly to know it. “Hot diggity damn” is not going to fly.
But none of it matters. Virginia throws her arms over Tripp’s shoulders and plants a pink-stained kiss on his lips. Tripp pulls back in surprise, his smile stiffening in mild shock.
Without warning, my heart sinks to my feet. Instinctively, I walk back, arms folded over myself, eager to put distance between us, eager to get my head on straight. In the process, I almost trip into a waiter carrying a tray of Kentucky mules. Eli searches for me over the horde, his apologetic gaze landing on my bewildered expression. I turn away fast, trudging my way out of the commotion, desperate for fresh air.
Why do I feel so wrecked by that kiss?
CHAPTER 20Holly
Setting aside the unfortunate “hot diggity damn” outburst, Eli proved himself at the derby party. And so, despite my extreme jitters, the time has come to put our plan in motion. Our Tripp will make his society debut this evening at the Altamaha Country Club, Atlanta’s second-most-exclusive private club. With its rolling lawns, pristine gardens, and string of beautiful small lakes, it’s an enticing venue for large outdoor gatherings. Many Dogwood Hills members elect to hold their wedding receptions here, after a tasteful, intimate rehearsal dinner at the Dogwood Hills Club. I’m often called in to help ensure a smooth thematic transition between the two signature wedding events.
This long-standing connection offered me the perfect in. When I called Diana, the events manager at the Altamaha Club, offering to be “on the ground” for this evening’s reception, she enthusiastically accepted the extra help, thereby proffering the perfect opportunity. My only official responsibility here is to stroll through the reception all evening, making sure that guests are enjoying themselves and potential crises are averted. Fortuitously, the “on the ground” staff wear headsets—allowing for my smooth, undetected communication with Luisa and Eli. They’ll be the “plus-twos” of dear Aunt Edna, who enthusiastically scored invites for both of her new besties.
In the right tux, I knew our Tripp would blend right in. But we didn’t plan on the bride and groom bucking Southern tradition and going for a seated dinner, and now we’re scrambling to improvise at the last minute. Guests are already trickling in fromthe ceremony, and I’m staring up at a champagne tower, trying very hard not to freak out.
“Why couldn’t they just stick with place cards?” Luisa asks me, anxiously surveying the hundreds of champagne glasses before us, searching for Griggs’s name. She looks fantastic in a glitzy designer gown, her hair pulled into a sleek updo. She also lookspissed.
The grand reception is about to get underway, but in lieu of a printed seating chart, the couple has opted for a “Sip & Seat” display. Guests’ names and their table numbers are displayed on stirrers inside crystal champagne flutes, officially throwing a Dom Pérignon–labeled grenade into our carefully laid plans.
“Don’t even get me started,” I say, wiping clean the table numbers written in delicate calligraphy on the surface of two acrylic stirrers. We’re hastily playing a game of musical chairs in which Aunt Edna and Tripp will end up seated beside Griggs, with Luisa at the table directly behind them. “The bride is from California, and she clearly doesn’t care much for Southern wedding traditions. The whole seated dinner thing is very unconventional,” I huff, moving down to a new shelf, speed-reading names while Luisa keeps watch.
“The cocktail hour is almost over,” Luisa warns.
I peer back across the lawn at the country club’s massive French doors, where guests are busy enjoying copious amounts of alcohol and, in my humble opinion, a somewhat over-the-top buffet, complete with an ice sculpture raw bar.We’re a long way from Malibu, honey.That’s what I’d have told the sweet bride, had I been the one to help her plan this event.
“Found it!” I call out triumphantly, brandishing a champagne flute just as the guests start to stroll down the lawn, among them Griggs and Anna-Byrd, drinking and laughing as if they don’t have a care in the world. Because, really… do they?
I see Tripp make his way across the lawn with the other guests, Virginia beside him. She is carrying one of the wedding’s signature pineapple mule cocktails and has pulled off looking both Southern-wedding-appropriate and sexy in a silky, powder-pink dress with a V-neck plunge. Meanwhile, Tripp is casuallysipping a bourbon on the rocks and somehow standing out in the very best way, wearing a most inconspicuous tux. Luisa’s mom really is a miracle worker.
“What is she doing here?” Luisa grumbles.
“That girl is our golden ticket,” I admonish, passing Luisa one of the champagne flutes.
“Or our undoing,” she mutters, as if speaking to herself.
“You’re at lucky table seven, by the way,” I add.
Luisa takes the bubbly without even a nod of thanks, and I can’t help noticing the wistful look in her eyes as she watches Virginia cling to Tripp. I guess Justine was onto something after all.
For the first time in a long time, I can relate. Every time my phone screen lights up with Hugh’s name, my stomach fills with butterflies, like I’m some lovesick teenager. Just this morning, he sent a photo of a London street under gray skies, crowded with grimacing people, heads down, in a sea of black umbrellas.
Good morning! Did I happen to mention how dreary it is here? And they say this is the best season to visit London.
I rushed outside in my PJs, to my pollen-drenched car, and I used my finger to write in loopy cursive through the chartreuse dust:Atlanta misses you!I even dared to make the dot below the exclamation point a silly little heart before texting him the photo.
To my surprise, he replied with another photo: this one of him looking into the camera with sad puppy-dog eyes, his dark hair slick with rain and the collar of a trench coat turned up around his neck.
I dashed over to Joel and Peter’s riotously blooming pink dogwood and, before I could lose my nerve, took a PJ selfie, grinning madly with the flowering tree and sun-drenched sky behind me. His simple response made my heart stutter.
