Southern Charm

by Tinsley Mortimer

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Is everyone naked?”

  That’s when Tripp started pushing me toward the elevator bank.

  “Minty, we need to get you out of here,” he said.

  “Get your hands off of me!” I shrieked. I squirmed and struggled. “Why is everyone naked?”

  “Minty,” he said, still holding me by the shoulders. I’d never seen him so mortified. He could barely breathe. “They’re naked because they’re supposed to be. It’s a tradition. That’s why they don’t allow women up here.”

  I’d not only managed to break into one of the most exclusive clubs in New York, I’d probably just laid eyes on some of the most powerful you-know-whats in the city, as well. And I’d barely even noticed because I was so busy yelling at Tripp.

  I started laughing. No, I really started laughing. Like, huge, hearty, bellowing, no-holds-barred laughter. I laughed so hard that I had to steady myself against Tripp, who was pretty wet and slippery.

  He just shook his head. “We’ve got to get you home,” he said.

  More laughing.

  “Listen.” He shook me gently, but enough that I gulped and stared up at him. “You make your way down to the main hall and I’ll be there in less than five minutes. Got it?”

  I nodded, stifling a huge grin.

  “I just have to put some pants on,” he said.

  “I’ll say,” I squealed, snorting inadvertently. I burst into another fit of laughter. I couldn’t help it. I’d flipped a switch.

  And, anyway, it was Tripp’s fault to begin with. So there.

  I agreed to wait for Tripp in the foyer under the condition that he prove that the “Page Six” article was an unfounded, nasty rumor and nothing else. He was furious about the spectacle I’d made, yes, but what could he say? I had reason to be angry. And when I got angry (which was not often, mind you), I committed to the role.

  “Thank you for taking care of my fiancée, Jim,” Tripp said to the man behind the front desk as he retrieved me.

  Jim responded with a withering smile. However, several men whom I recognized from the pool walked by (fully dressed, thankfully) and actually nodded and waved at me!

  Tripp suggested we walk to my apartment.

  “Listen,” he finally said after several silent blocks. “First and foremost, you have to believe me, none of this stuff is true. I’m going to fix this, but I need a moment to regroup. I’m going to drop you off at your place and we’ll meet up for dinner at Philippe at nine o’clock.”

  I began to protest. I was in no mood for a romantic dinner.

  “Please, Mints,” he said, “give me a chance to explain.”

  I groaned. I was so exhausted, all I wanted to do was curl up in bed, but if Tripp promised this dinner was going to make things right, then, I decided, I might as well give it a shot.

  Philippe was the restaurant Tripp took me to on our first “real” date, a few nights after the ambush coffee date my mother managed to arrange. There are several things I love about Philippe, besides the fact that it reminds me of Tripp and me. It’s dark, romantic, and decorated in shades of deep red, white, and black. The food is so yummy. They have the most amazing lobster spring rolls I’ve ever tasted.

  I walked in a few minutes after nine (southern girls are never exactly on time for a date, but never more than fifteen minutes late!). I was wearing a little black Diane von Furstenberg dress I’d had for ages. It was one of my favorites, just short enough without showing too much leg. I’d paired it with four-inch silver metallic Brian Atwood pumps and a colorful Miu Miu clutch. I kept the jewelry simple. I didn’t want any piece competing with the real point of my being there in the first place: my engagement ring.

  Tripp was seated at “our table” toward the back of the restaurant. It was pretty late and a Sunday night so it wasn’t very crowded. Seeing him for the second time that day was confusing. He looked so handsome that my first reaction was to run away and hide; I couldn’t believe I’d made such a fool of myself at the racquet club! But he deserved it, didn’t he? Even if the rumor wasn’t true, Emily had seen him with Tabitha. There was something going on, and if Tripp and I were actually going to go ahead with this marriage, I needed to know that he was capable of telling me the whole truth.

  “Hey,” I said, sitting down.

  “You look a little better than this afternoon,” he said, laughing.

  I scoffed.

  He laughed again. “You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “By the way,” he continued, “I’m pretty sure every guy at that pool went home smiling tonight. Most of them probably can’t remember the last time they were naked in front of a chick.”

  “Eww.” I groaned. “I didn’t know they were going to be naked!”

  “Sure,” he said, “sure.”

  Our waiter came over and took our drink orders.

  “I know what I want to eat,” I said. “Should we just order now?”

  Tripp waved the waiter away. “Let’s wait a minute,” he said. “I need a moment to try to redeem myself here.”

  “A moment?”

  “Okay, more than a moment, but just hear me out, all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “I already said this in the five thousand text messages I sent this morning, but, first and foremost, the ‘Page Six’ thing is a lie,” he began. “Obviously, this isn’t the first time they’ve printed something about me that’s unfounded and just mean, but it’s starting to look suspicious.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What are you saying?”

  “I know you’re kind of new to this game,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “But,” he continued, “‘Page Six’ doesn’t just make things up. They have sources. So, nine times out of ten if they keep going with a certain rumor, it’s coming from a person who they believe to be a reputable source. And the only person I could think of who has both the means and the will to trash me like this is Tabitha.”

  “Well,” I said, “duh.”

  Tripp looked at me and shook his head. He was bouncing his right leg up and down so feverishly the table was rattling.

  “Mints,” he said, “I’ve always been honest with you about Tabitha. Yes, there was a moment in time where we casually dated. But, like I’ve said in the past, it was never serious and it ended the second I saw you.”

  I admit it: that part melted me just a little.

  “The thing is, May Abernathy had some people at her apartment and Tabitha showed up. You were working late for Ruth and I spent the whole night wishing you were there.”

  There it was! Okay, maybe he was planning on telling me the truth.

  “I didn’t speak to her all night. In fact I actively avoided speaking to her. I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. I didn’t want anyone at the party to get the wrong idea.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, when it came time to leave, I slipped out without anyone noticing. Or at least I thought no one noticed. But as I was waiting for the elevator, Tabitha came over with her coat on and it was clear that she wanted to come with me. I told her absolutely not. I reminded her that I was engaged to you and she had to respect that.”

  I nodded.

  “And, well, she agreed,” he said. “She said she just wanted things to be normal between us, the way they were before you came along, even before she and I dated, when we were just friends.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Now,” Tripp continued, “we did leave together. I dropped her off at her apartment on my way uptown. But we did not go home together.” He took a sip of water.

  I nodded again.

  “Will you please believe me?” he said, pouting a little.

  I sighed. “I just feel like everyone in the whole world thinks I’m an idiot, staying with you while you’re running around behind my back.”

  “But you realize,” he said, “all that matters in the end is the truth. And I’m telling you the truth.�
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  Maybe it wasn’t as bad as “Page Six” was making it out to be. Maybe it just looked like something was going on.

  “Mints, you’ve gotta believe me,” Tripp continued.

  Who was I going to believe? The man I was about to marry? Or a gossip column? I knew who I wanted to believe.

  “What do I have to do to prove to you that nothing is going on?” he asked.

  “Oh, Tripp,” I finally said.

  The funny thing is, I wasn’t really angry anymore. I just felt . . . spent.

  “Seriously.” He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “I’ll do anything. I’ll marry you right here and now if that’s what it takes.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I’ll get up tomorrow and go down to city hall and marry you, first thing,” he said. “If that’s what it takes to prove to you that Tabitha means nothing and you mean everything and”—he paused—“that I want to be with you, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “City hall?” I asked. “Do people actually do that?”

  “All the time.” Tripp smiled.

  I stared back at him. Part of me did find it kind of romantic. And an even bigger part of me was flattered Tripp was willing to do something so drastic, so spontaneous, to prove his love. But was he serious or just trying to appease me?

  “You’re not serious, are you?” I asked.

  “Dead serious,” he said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “First thing tomorrow,” he said.

  The look in his eyes was calm, focused, centered. He seemed so confident. Part of me just wanted to see if he’d actually go through with it.

  “Fine,” I said. My stomach flip-flopped. “Let’s do it then.”

  I expected my answer to throw Tripp for a loop, but instead he cracked a tiny smile, like he’d won.

  “Really?” He grinned.

  I thought for a moment. Honestly, no, not really. For one, my mother would have a fit. She was in the midst of planning an over-the-top Charleston wedding and Tripp and I were about to go behind her back in the worst of ways. What would we tell his parents at the cocktail party we were supposed to attend in a few days? Would we smile and thank people when they congratulated us on our “engagement” and then tell them, oh yeah, we were actually already married? Minor detail?

  I shook my head.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  It was almost like he was daring me, and somehow I was feeling more and more up to the dare. In the end, I couldn’t help but think that maybe getting married—and having it be “our secret,” our one thing we could really call our own in the midst of the frenzy that was becoming our lives—was the answer. Maybe it was a step toward warding off the Tabithas of Tripp’s past. Maybe it was my way of securing my future, a binding contract to ensure that Tripp would magically morph into the man I needed him to be. He would become someone I could rely on, someone I could trust. What can I say? I was young and naïve. I was in love.

  “What do you say?” he asked. “We got a deal?”

  “Deal,” I said.

  Mother Knows Best?

  Sure, a lot of engaged couples live together, but in my family—and Tripp’s family—living together before marriage is a no-no. So Tripp and I ferried back and forth between each other’s apartments.

  After Philippe, Tripp and I went back to his place and went to bed in silence. There had been the initial excitement, the adrenaline rush after he suggested a city hall marriage. But the walk home was a different story. I couldn’t help but wonder, how was I going to explain this to Emily, who clearly had her doubts? To my mother, one of the most traditional people on the planet? And was this really the best solution for all of the problems we’d been having?

  The sun streamed in through the window of Tripp’s bedroom and I groaned. Could the city hall idea have been a dream? Or the result of two glasses of wine too many?

  I sat up in bed. Tripp was sitting at his desk on the other side of the room in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, scrolling through something on the Internet.

  “Babe, what are you doing?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  He turned around with a Cheshire Cat smile on his face.

  “Oh, you know,” he said, “just perusing the New York Department of Health website. There’s something about waiting twenty-four hours after you get the license to do the actual ceremony, but I found a loophole. So I’m just working that out and then we should be all set.” He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “I’ve already called in sick to work. Oh! And I ordered breakfast in, by the way.”

  I guess I wasn’t dreaming. I guess it wasn’t the wine talking. “You’re crazy,” I said.

  He turned around, a serious look on his face.

  “Crazy about you,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  He got up, came over to the bed, and leaned over me, his arms on either side of my waist. “Come on,” he said. “This will be fun.”

  I thought about it for a minute. “You’re still crazy.”

  He leaned in and started tickling me.

  I yelped and squirmed.

  “Stop it!” I screamed. “I will not marry a tickler!”

  He pulled away.

  “Will you marry someone who does this?”

  He kissed my neck.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Will you marry someone who does this?”

  He moved down my chest.

  “Maybe,” I said, giggling.

  “And what about someone who does this?”

  His hands traveled underneath the elastic waistband of my boxer shorts.

  “Oh . . . um . . . yes . . . definitely,” I said.

  The buzzer rang and Tripp jogged out of the bedroom. I watched him disappear. He had the broad shoulders of a star quarterback. No complaints here.

  When he returned, he was carrying a tray overflowing with waffles and bacon and eggs. He’d even managed to pour two glasses of orange juice.

  I was famished and immediately dove into the waffles. “So I’m thinking we get up in a bit and get dressed,” he said. “And just hop in a cab. Apparently it’s kind of a first-come, first-served basis.”

  “Okay,” I said through a mouthful of waffle. It all felt kind of fun, make-believe. I started brainstorming my outfit. What did they do in the movies again? For some reason I was picturing a woman in a chic little white suit and a tiny veil. I kept only a few items of clothing at Tripp’s—a little work-appropriate dress from Theory, a few Vince sweaters, and some J Brand jeans. I guessed I was wearing a work-appropriate dress to get married. There was no time to scour the city for a tiny veil. I frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” Tripp asked, looking up at me.

  “I won’t get to wear a tiny little veil,” I said. “Like in the fifties? Those little hats with the veil attached? I feel like that would be perfect for this type of thing.”

  He shook his head.

  “Now you’re the crazy one,” he said. “You’ll have plenty of time to wear a veil in a few months.”

  About an hour later, we stepped out of a taxi in front of the city clerk’s office. I didn’t realize the inside of the courthouse was so expansive. A nice lady in a uniform directed us to the third floor, where we filled out forms, paid a fee, received our marriage license, and were promptly told we had to wait twenty-four hours to get married.

  “What?!” I said.

  The woman behind the desk did little more than look back at me and make a face.

  “Policy, ma’am,” she said.

  “Actually,” Tripp said, looking assured, “we have a judicial waiver. It was called in this morning by Judge Beekman.”

  She raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Give me a moment,” she said. “I’ll go check in the back.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tripp whispered as we were waiting, “Beekman’s a cool guy. I gave him the long and short of it and he took pity on me and promised to keep it hushed. I thi
nk he enjoys knowing more than my father or something. Old squash-team rivalry.”

  When the woman returned, she had a blank look on her face. “Nothing from Beekman’s office,” she said.

  Tripp rolled his eyes.

  “You’re sure, ma’am? I’m sorry, what is your name?” he asked. His voice was an octave lower.

  “Barbara,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “Barbara,” Tripp repeated, holding out his hand.

  She shook it halfheartedly.

  “I’m Tripp and this is my fiancée, Minty.”

  I smiled my biggest, brightest smile.

  “Tripp and Minty?” She raised an eyebrow. “Priceless.”

  “Barbara,” Tripp continued, “I’m going to try to get Judge Beekman on the phone. Hopefully, it’s just a mistake and he can call it in. Is there a direct number he can call? Just to speed up the process a little?”

  Barbara wrote a number down on a piece of paper and slid it toward Tripp. “Be my guest,” she said.

  Tripp and Judge Beekman had a brief, heated discussion over the phone while I stood to the side wringing my hands and wondering if this little delay was a sign that we shouldn’t get married like this. I could only make out a few words like “trust” and “fair” and “old enough.” By the end of the conversation, Tripp was red in the face and exasperated. Then there was a brief silence. Finally, Tripp said, “Okay” and “Thank you,” which was semi-promising, I guessed. He hung up the phone.

  “He tried to talk me out of it,” he said.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why?” I asked. “Didn’t you just talk to him this morning?”

  “He said the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn’t a good idea. He called it a ‘hasty move.’”

  “I see,” I said, gulping. It was hasty. But that didn’t necessarily mean it was bad. “Maybe,” I continued. “But ‘hasty’ is also a word old people use when young people are trying to do something romantic.”