How many people got invited?
I look back up at Deuce to see a devilish smile on his face. My heart is still pounding, fueled by the kind of hope that will crush me if I lose Betsy a second time. Waving the invitation between us, I ask the only question that matters.
“How many people got invited?”
Deuce’s grin intensifies. “I happen to know that’s a custom invite. One of a kind. No other in the world like it.”
Now I’m grinning too. “Fuck yeah.”
Deuce slaps me on the shoulder. “Now you see why I’m saving the day by getting here early. You look like shit, brother.”
Normally I’d hit back with a comment about his stupid suit and what he’s trying to hide behind being Mr. Perfect, but I don’t have time for that today. I’m pretty sure Betsy is making a gesture with this debutante dance, and I’ll be there for it no matter what.
“Quit the compliments and tell me you brought a tuxedo.”
Deuce grabs the clothing off the counter and unzips the bag, revealing a black tuxedo with a dark gray paisley-print vest, matching socks, starched white shirt, and dress shoes in my size. I reach for the hanger but he slaps me away.
“Don’t touch perfection until you’ve showered, shaved, and exfoliated.”
I shake my head at his nonsense. My brain is still spinning with what all this could mean and he wants me to hit the spa? “I’m a man. I don’t exfoliate.”
He makes a face. “Well, there’s your problem. Exfoliation is not just for women.”
“Yes, it is.” The growl comes from behind us.
We both spin to see Mr. Barrett glaring at us.
“You young people are idiots. Betsy Mae doesn’t want soft skin.
She wants him to sweep her off her feet, make her his top priority, and spend every day of the rest of her life making her feel like the queen that she is.
Fuck the loofah.” He harrumphs, then grumbles. “Pardon my language.”
Deuce snaps his gaping mouth shut, heads over to Mr. Barrett, and puts his hands on his shoulders. “You’re an institution in this town, sir. And I, for one, hope you never mellow out.”
“Get your soft hands off me,” Mr. Barrett barks.
Deuce does take his hands off, but he also laughs until I think he might pull an ab muscle. Considering the direction this day is now heading, I’m able to laugh with him and it feels damn good.
“You able to cover the boutique if I go home to shower?” I ask Mr. Barrett.
“No.”
“I’ve got you covered.” Deuce steps into the gap, like he always does. He’s a pain in my ass most of the time, but he’s always been there for me when it counts. “You’re the guest of honor tonight and I can’t be best friends with a guy who shows up like that.” He waves his hand in my direction.
I hold the invitation to my chest like it’s pure gold, snatch the hanger of clothes off the counter, and rush out of the boutique.
The echoes of Mr. Barrett grousing at Deuce carry outside.
I suck in a lungful of hot steamy air and feel like things might just turn out alright after all. And then I run for my truck.
I straighten my bowtie for the hundredth time.
Mr. Barrett left an hour ago when the stream of customers died down a bit.
Things got a little crazy when I came back to the boutique in a tuxedo just before lunchtime.
Women were coming in just to ogle me, I think.
Not often a guy wears a full tuxedo in the middle of summer on a random Friday in Heaven, Mississippi.
I’m about to lock the door and flip the sign to closed when the door opens again. Mary London waltzes in with a shit-eating grin.
“Whatcha so dressed up for, brother dear?”
“Who assigned my helpers this week, sister darling?”
She motions zipping her lips. “I can never tell. Some things in life should remain a mystery, don’t you think?”
I pat down my suit, feel the flat box in the inner breast pocket, and wonder if I’ve forgotten anything. “I don’t mean to rush you out, but I have a very important dance to get to.”
Mary London puts her hand on my arm, making me still. “I just wanted to make sure you’re listening to your heart and not Dad. I know he’s been pressuring you lately. Or maybe constantly. But Mama would be so proud of what you’ve done with Harp and Hemline. She’d also love Betsy Mae.”
I nod, heart squeezing thinking about Mama. “Yeah, she would. And you don’t have to worry about Dad. We came to…an agreement the other day. There was more to the story about the boutique, and now that I know, I understand him a bit better. Plus, he’s agreed to back off.”
Mary London nods. “Well, that’s good news. What’s the story about the boutique?”
I pat her on the head, which I know she hates, but what are big brothers for? “Some things in life should remain a mystery, don’t you think?”
She growls and it sounds like a disgruntled kitten. “Fine, be that way. I just wanted to make sure you’re in the right headspace for the dance.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Okay. And what headspace is that?”
“The one where I’ve never seen you as happy as when you’re with Betsy.”
I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. “I know. I plan to be very happy for the rest of my life with Betsy. If she’ll have me.”
Mary London’s eyes fill with tears. Then she reaches into the huge purse hanging off her shoulder and produces a clear box with a corsage inside.
“Then you might want these. A true Southern girl loves flowers.” She dangles it between us.
“You know, if you happen to see a woman you like at the dance.”
I grab the flowers and rush us both out the door. I refuse to be late. “Love you, Mary London.”
“Love you, Silas Grey.”
And then I’m running across the street and the patch of grass in front of the pavilion, dead center in the Square. One white chair sits directly in front if the pavilion. A folded card sits on the chair with my name in that fancy gold cursive. I snatch it up and sit down, corsage in my lap.
Deuce’s voice comes from somewhere to my left. I squint but can’t see him. He must be in the thick bushes over there. What the hell is he doing?
“Tonight’s debutante ball is a special one. Please sit back, relax, and enjoy the presentation of Heaven, Mississippi’s most illustrious woman.”
He pauses, and I’m not sure where to look. I crane my neck but can’t see Betsy anywhere.
“All the way from Auburn Hill, California, we have a thirty-four-year-old professional barista, double major, and all-around grump. She stands at only five foot four, but what she lacks in height she makes up for in frowns and bad temper.”
“That’s not in the script!” I hear Betsy whisper-hiss from somewhere behind the pavilion. Deuce’s only answer is a choked laugh. He clears his throat and tries to keep going. Betsy cuts him off.
“For heaven’s sake, just let me do it.”
Heels clomp against the ground and I finally see her. Betsy’s got her skirt bunched in both hands as she makes her way up the stairs to the pavilion to stand in the center. She lets the skirt fall and looks up, locking eyes with me. Time stands still and my heart quits beating altogether.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful. Her sun-streaked brunette hair is curled with a section pinned back on the side by a dark red rosebud.
Her dress is frothy white with tulle on top, a dress fit for Cinderella.
Except a black belt cinches it in and the skirt falls to the floor in a sea of more white tulle, this time embroidered with a bramble of black flowers.
Her lips are lined in red and her eyelashes are creating a breeze I can feel all the way over here.
Her piercings twinkle up both ears in the golden setting sun.
She’s a true Southern belle.
Betsy style.