Read Online Southern Charm by Tinsley Mortimer - Free Book Online

pulled away. And he was gone.

Get Up to the Net
    M y mother was named after Scarlett O’Hara from Gone With the Wind, and she takes the role of Scarlett O’Hara’s namesake very seriously. She is an old-school southern belle with old-school-southern-belle values.
    My mother’s dream for me was not only that I get married as soon as possible but that I marry “well.” Tripp probably qualified as “well.” My mother had always had a soft spot for him (I think he reminded her of my father, both the good and the bad), but she was also skeptical about my reconnecting with him, and for good reason. She stressed that I had to play my cards close to my chest.
    â€œI’m just saying, I know what this boy does to you,” she said to me during one phone conversation. “And I understand that he is a capital-C catch, but it’s important you play this very carefully.”
    â€œMother,” I said, “calm down. We haven’t even been on a date yet.”
    â€œBut you want to go on a date with him, am I right?”
    I was silent for a moment. “Yes.”
    â€œAll right,” she said, wheels turning. “Look at it this way. That boy has always had a thing for you. Let’s say the first go-around wasn’t the best timing. Maybe there’s a reason you’ve found each other again.And if you insist on carrying on with this New York City nonsense for longer than a few months, you should probably find yourself someone to make it worth your while.”
    â€œMother, you’re getting ahead of yourself, as always.”
    â€œKeep in mind, Minty,” she continued, “I was married by the time I was your age. If you’re going to spend all of your time daydreaming about making dresses, one of us has to focus on the practical things in life. Finding a husband. Having children. You’re not a college kid anymore. It’s time to get serious.”
    â€œGetting serious,” it turned out, included a full overhaul of my lifestyle. My mother became borderline obsessed with decorating my apartment and it wasn’t long before I was being bombarded with FedEx packages filled with fabric swatches and mood boards.
    On the phone one night in early November, I let it slip that Ruth was closing the offices on Friday for some renovations. I immediately cursed myself, knowing my mother would jump at the opportunity to fly up to New York and spend the day with me. She’d been campaigning for weeks for us to visit the Decoration & Design Building so we could get started decorating my apartment. The D & D Building wasn’t open on weekends, and it was the only place she would shop. As excited as I was to make my apartment a more comfortable place to come home to, I was also desperate to catch up on all of the sleep I’d missed in the process of trying to impress Ruth in the aftermath of the Hermès debacle. But she jumped at the chance to make a plan.
    â€œIt will be painless,” she said. “Maybe even fun!”
    â€œMother, I need sleep!” I protested. “Please. We’ll do it another day.”
    â€œThere are no ‘other’ days, Minty,” she said. “You told me yourself that Ruth woman won’t let you take a day off before the holidays.”
    I pleaded with her to let me have the day to myself, but she showed up anyway. At seven A.M ., no less.
    â€œGood God, Minty, what have you been doing in this place?” Her signature drawl, high-pitched and twangy with a touch of an aristocratic lilt, jolted me from sleep.
    When my eyes finally came into focus, I realized I wasn’t dreaming. No. She was actually standing over my bed, perfectly dressed and accessorized in a Chanel tweed suit, tapping her foot on the parquet and humming to herself.
    I grumbled and slowly came to. No call, no key, no doorbell ringing. How the hell did she get in? I turned over and buried my face in my pillow as I came to a