Free Southern Charm by Tinsley Mortimer Page A

I was wearing and if it was appropriate and how much makeup I should be putting on. Here, it’s like I can’t get it right.”
    As I was speaking, I noticed that Scarlett had checked out slightly. She was on her phone, texting away to someone. This was not a rare occurrence, especially when she felt that she had already made her point, but it was disconcerting nonetheless.
    â€œMommy.”
    She looked up.
    â€œOh,” she said. “Of course, dear. You’re different and . . . well . . . welcome to life.” Her phone buzzed and she picked it up, glanced at it, and tried to contain a smile. Then she put the phone down and focused again, staring directly at me. “You’ve got two choices here. You let this get the best of you and come home. Which, by all means, Minty, feel free.” I responded by rolling my eyes and sinking back into my chair. “Or, you can get up to the net and volley that ball right back in their faces before they can even anticipate what’s coming for them.”
    I smiled.
    â€œWell, then.” Mother motioned to the waitress. “Shall we get going? I already have a few deliveries scheduled for this evening and I’m going to need to be there to make sure everything runs smoothly.”
    â€œThis evening?”
    â€œYes, Minty. Do you think I have nothing better to do than decorate your apartment? I have company arriving on Tuesday and three cocktail parties scheduled next week. If we’re going to do this and do this right, we have no other choice but to work round the clock.”
    â€œI see.”
    We gathered our belongings and walked onto Sixtieth Street. The light was just starting to dim. There was a crisp, auburn glow that marks the calm before the weekend storm. Some of the higher buildings toward Lexington caught a bit of the sunset and looked as if they were illuminated by a spotlight, while at street level it seemed to be almost nighttime. Dusk had always been one of my favorite times of day, but dusk in New York is like something right out of a movie. As we walked west on Sixtieth, my mother surprised me by stopping on the corner to pull me toward her for a quick squeeze.
    â€œWhat was that for, Mommy?” I asked.
    She stepped back and gazed at me very dramatically. I was starting to feel a bit suspicious.
    â€œI just want to have a good look at my little girl,” she said. I tried to pull away, but she kept me locked in front of her.
    â€œI’ve never gone this long without seeing you,” she continued, staring at me so intently I thought she might go cross-eyed. “It’s all going to come together,” she said. Then she stopped, her eyes widening with what was clearly mock surprise. She directed her gaze behind me and slightly to the right.
    â€œOh my, look who it is!” she exclaimed.
    I turned around and there was Tripp, looking handsome as ever in a wool overcoat and jeans. He was also attempting to look surprised.
    Was she serious? Was he serious? Did this kind of thing really happen outside of an eighties sitcom? When Scarlett Davenport is your mother, yes.
    â€œTripp,” I said.
    â€œMinty,” he replied.
    â€œOh”—my mother cupped her face in her hands—“isn’t this just crazy? Tripp, sweetheart, how are you? It’s been years!” She leaned in and touched his arm, lowering her voice. “You know, Minty will have my head for telling you this but we were actually just talking about you! Can you believe it? So funny the way things happen.”
    â€œVery funny,” I said.
    If it were possible, Tripp had less acting ability than my mother, because he broke character and just started to laugh, as if the whole thing was a big joke and there was nothing strange or creepy about the fact that he’d been communicating with my mother behind my back.
    â€œMinty, honey,” she said, stopping to get ahold of herself. “You have to admit we