Sigh. So lovely
I can’t possibly know whether he meant the dogwood tree or me, but I’m pretty sure he meant both, at the very least.
It’s been fun to see Hugh at this angle—still the Esteemed Professor Pridmore, but also just a normal guy who’s a little bit goofy and sweet. There’s something so real and honest about him, beneath all the big words and fancy titles. I think he’s revealing a part of himself that most people fail to notice, behind the big-shot-professor mask—the part that once got a regrettable Mohawk and stole nerdy books; the part that hates rain and longs for sunshine, that can be so gloriously optimistic that he actually enjoys pollen season. He even textedLOLthe other day, when I randomly sent him a baby ducks meme. That was a real shocker.
I keep itching to pull my phone from its perch inside my bra and stare at that photo of Hugh standing on a street corner in the drizzle, managing to look both very sexy and utterly pathetic. But I shake off the urge. Like the Dogwood Hills Country Club, this place has a “no cell phones” policy. And even if I could use my phone, I can’t exactly dig around in my bra while greeting guests. Plus, I need to focus.
“First off…” I say, returning to the task at hand, “I’m certain that, thanks to Virginia, news has already spread about the cute Phi Delt from Ole Miss planning to spend the summer in Atlanta.”
“Fine,” Luisa says begrudgingly. “I guess that helps our cause.”
“And second…” I continue as we spot Virginia taking a sip of Tripp’s cocktail, “having the judge’s favorite granddaughter in our pocket is the quickest way into that golf quartet. Plus, Tripp doesn’t seem to mind.”
“You mean, he doesn’t mind stringing her along?” Luisa replies. “Isn’t that a little anti-feminist?”
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug, “but also highly effective. And we’re not asking him to do anythingphysicalwith her—”
“Other than the kiss at the derby party, you mean?” Luisa blurts out. “Not to mention today’s spit swapping.” She gestures toward the two of them, now passing the mule back and forth.
“In his defense,” I jump in, “shekissedhim.”
Luisa opens her mouth to respond, but we are cut off by Diane’s stressed-out voice blaring through my headset, reminding us that I’m on the clock. We put a mic on Tripp, too, so if I switch channels on my walkie-talkie, I can hear him. The whole thing feels very James Bond.
“On my way,” I say into the microphone, wondering if I should have picked a code name. I’m feeling Honey Badger for me. Sweet and ferocious at the same time.
“Don’t let Griggs see you,” Luisa reminds me.
“Ten-four, Jade Jackal,” I say.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Luisa demands.
“We need code names,” I say. “I’m Honey Badger. Eli is Wolf Man, and with that fabulous green dress, you have to be Jade Jackal.”
There’s silence on the channel, and I’m thinking maybe she turned off her walkie-talkie?
“Okay fine,” she admits hesitantly. “Jade Jackal sounds badass.”
“Over and out,” I say, pretty proud of myself. We’re so cool.
Then I hurry toward the back of the tent where a small army of service workers are laboring behind the scenes to make every detail of the event flawless. I can’t help thinking that none of these drunken revelers will pause for even a second to acknowledge the hard work of so many underpaid and overworked people, myself included. All they will see is a high tent strewn with floor-to-ceiling greenery, including a twenty-foot-wide botanical wreath floating above us like a halo. There’s a stage for an eighteen-piece band, a custom-painted dance floor, and an artist set up in the corner, working on an oil painting of the bride and groom. Every table is covered in stunning floral centerpieces, candles, glassware, silverware, and monogrammed napkins. Each gorgeous detail has been seamlessly executed. I remind myself that, even if no one else notices, that’s what counts.
I jump in to help the waiters wipe down the rims of plates, peeking out every so often to see how things are progressing. I spot Griggs, Anna-Byrd, Aunt Edna, and Tripp sliding into their seats. Luisa is at the table behind them. I click over to a differentchannel on my walkie-talkie, and Tripp’s voice comes in loud and clear.
“Theodore Reynolds Bedford III,” he says, introducing himself to the table. “But my friends call me Tripp.” He pauses, and muffled sounds indicate that he’s shaking Griggs’s hand. Then Griggs introduces himself, and his “lovely bride, Anna-Byrd.”
As if in a classic movie montage, my mind races through all the work that brought us to this moment. I feel a swell of pride, observing the Tripp that we created, followed by a rush of anxiety that he may not be ready. What if he forgets the Bedford family tree? What if he botches the diphthongs? What if—God forbid!—he calls Anna-Byrd “ma’am”?
“Our young Tripp here’s visiting from Mississippi for the summer,” Aunt Edna offers helpfully. Bless that woman. “We had quite the run at Judy Swanson’s derby party. Emptied out everyone’s pockets.”
“So, you’re a Mississippi Bedford?” Griggs asks, his interest immediately piqued. “I thought that might be the case.”
As the salad course is served, Tripp lets Griggs take the lead in the conversation, but he carefully drops crumbs of his family history, his Ole Miss days, and his newfound love of Atlanta. Griggs puts on his charm offensive, aided by the freely flowing wine and easy conversation. The servers deliver the second course—a small lobster tail in a white lemon sauce. Tripp takes a few bites, and as far as I can tell from the audio feed, he manages to balance conversation with tiny-forked lobster-eating remarkably well. By the time the steak course arrives, I’m straining to hear over the spirited cacophony of laughter, music, and the constant clink of silverware, dishes, and glasses. But when I poke my head out of the tent and lock eyes with Luisa, she gives me a covert nod, confirming what my gut tells me: all is proceeding according to plan.
The noise dies down as the servers clear the dinner plates, and I hear Tripp divulge in that glorious Mississippi Delta accent, “I’m a country boy at heart. But there’s so much damn investment opportunity here in Atlanta, I’d be a fool not to stay awhile.”
Our happy hooker has dropped the bait.
But before Griggs has a chance to respond, Tripp abruptly excuses himself. “Enough business talk,” he adds dismissively, “time for a bourbon intermission.” He abandons his monogrammed napkin on the table, stands, and walks away.
