Love, Lies and Texas Dips (15 page)

Tincy scooped something up from a white box on the table, hunted for another item, then turned around. “Here you go, sweet pea, rosebuds for a new Rosebud,” she said, her voice molasses-sweet, as she proffered a nosegay of tiny white rosebuds, their stems wrapped in white ribbon.

Ginger held the small bouquet, which made her feel oddly bridelike. “Thank you,” she said, feeling like her cheeks might crack from smiling so big.

“Now let me pin this name tag on you. It’s silly, I know, since everybody knows who you are. But there you go!” She finished fastening the tag and gave Ginger’s shoulder a pat. “Now you can hightail it to the big meeting room on the second floor. Your mama’s already up there, and I’m sure Laura and Mac are dying to see you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. B, for everything,” Ginger said, clutching the nosegay and glancing down at the crookedly pinned name tag on her chest:
VIRGINIA DUPREE FORE
, it read. Then in smaller print below:
GLASS SLIPPER CLUB ROSEBUD (LEGACY)
.

A tiny shiver shot through her at seeing her deb status printed out in black and white.
It’s really happening
, she thought, wondering if this was how Rose and her mother had felt before her, like they could walk on clouds. She was doubly glad that she, Laura, and Mac would be going through it all together. Though getting Mac to accept the inevitable hadn’t been easy, and Ginger always thought
she’d
be the one to drag her feet. Things so often didn’t turn out the way she expected.

I’m here. … I’m here …. I’m here
echoed in her head as her boot heels tapped quickly up the marble stairs. She glimpsed Laura and Mac, waiting for her outside the “big meeting room,” which was really more like a small auditorium.

“Thank God!” Mac leapt away from the wall she’d been leaning against, lined with elegant black-and-white photographs of Rosebuds from years past. She looked rather girlish in her Anna Sui floral-print dress and braided sandals. Ginger wondered if Honey had anything to do with the outfit. “What took you so long?” Mac grilled her as she approached.

“Sorry, but traffic was terrible,” she lied, unwilling to admit she’d changed her clothes, like, five times before she’d left the house. She’d finally settled on an organic bamboo tunic in teal over organic cotton leggings from GREEN by Adeline. The black faux-leather Diba boots weren’t exactly eco-friendly, but she’d had them forever and loved them to death.

“Get off her case, Mac, at least we’re all here now,” Laura said, her smile wide and cheeks rosy-pink. “Can you believe we’re actually doing this? Isn’t it divine?” She kept lifting her flowers to her nose and inhaling, obviously enjoying the moment as much as Ginger.

Mac rolled her eyes at Laura then turned back to Ginger, shoving a shiny black and red book at her. “Here’s the Caldwell annual. Alex said just to give it back when you’re done.”

“Thanks.” Ginger juggled the yearbook, the flowers, and her hemp shoulder bag, hoping she didn’t drop something on her way in. She could hear the buzz of voices from inside, and it made her feel strangely light-headed.

“Should we make our grand entrance?” Laura prodded, shifting nervously on her retro black-and-white spectator pumps, which looked perfect with her simple black linen dress. “Everybody ready?”

“No,” Mac grumbled, and Laura gave her a stare that said “Yes.”

“Just let me take a deep breath first,” Ginger told them both, standing in place and inhaling before slowly letting out the air. Her nerves calmed enough so that she nodded. “Okay, I’m good. Let’s do it.”

“After you, Virginia Dupree Fore,” Laura teased, gesturing with her tiny white bouquet as Ginger took a step forward to lead them in.

Only her path was cut off abruptly by a cluster of girls who appeared out of nowhere.

“Excuse
me!” Camie Lindell sneered, nudging Ginger aside and making way for her and Trisha Hunt to pass. Like a queen expecting her handmaids to sprinkle flowers in her path, Jo Lynn Bidwell brought up the rear.

“Hey, who do y’all think you are?” Laura snapped as Ginger nearly toppled back into her and Mac.

Jo Lynn stopped in front of Laura and turned her head in a swish of pale blond hair. “No, you pathetic loser, who do you think
you
are? You’d better stay away from what’s mine, you hear me? Unless you want more trouble than you can handle.”

Ginger shuffled her armload so she could catch Laura’s wrist. “C’mon,” she quietly urged, but Laura shook off her grip.

“What do you mean
yours’
?” Laura moved in so that the two tall blondes stood nose to nose, although Jo Lynn’s
figure seemed twiglike compared to Laura’s curvy body. “Are you talking about Avery, by chance?” she drawled, and she set a hand on her hip, adding provocatively, “Or maybe it’s Dillon you’re worried about losing?”

Jo Lynn’s high-boned cheeks flushed, and she raised a hand, fingers pinched together. “You’re this close to being
over
, you hear me?” Her ice-blue gaze looked Laura up and down. “Good to see you’ve got a black dress that fits your fat ass, since you’ll need one soon … for your funeral.”

That said, Jo Lynn pushed past them into the meeting room, leaving Mac staring openmouthed, and Ginger trying hard to calm Laura down so she wouldn’t do anything rash.

“She’s not worth it,” Ginger reminded her. “Let it go.”

“I could snap her neck like a chicken,” Laura remarked under her breath, but the anger started to fade from her eyes.

“Is anyone game to spray Pam on the soles of her shoes so she falls on her butt in her fancy white gown?” Mac cracked, adding, “That would almost make debuting worth the headache.”

Ginger couldn’t help grinning.

Though Laura still seemed uptight from her encounter with Jo Lynn, there was the barest hint of a smile on her lips when she said, “C’mon, y’all, let’s go in,” clutching her skull bag and flowers, her head held high.

Ginger fell in step behind her, crossing the threshold into the Rosebud’s meeting room. The scent of roses mingled with expensive perfumes clouded the air, as vases filled with tall-stemmed white roses abounded, seeming to cover almost every surface. She spotted a fancy, catered spread of champagne and cheese atop a linen-clothed table in the back of the room, and Glass Slipper Club members milled
about, glasses in hand, mingling like they were at an elegant cocktail party.

“Ladies, if you’d please take your seats.” Bootsie Bidwell stood at the front of the room, gently clapping her hands to get things in motion.

Ginger scanned the chairs as the women began sitting down, singling out Deena and nodding as she waved. Separated from the rows where the GSC members took their places sat ten white Chiavari chairs in the front of the room. Each chair had a gauzy white silk chiffon ribbon tied around its back.

Ginger eyed the Bimbo Cartel, who had yet to sit down, hoping to keep as far away from them as possible. She’d hate for World War III to erupt in the middle of their deb orientation.

“We don’t have to sit alphabetically, do we, Mrs. Bidwell?” she approached Jo Lynn’s mother and asked politely.

“It’s not necessary, no,” Bootsie replied, her thin brows furrowed.

“Thank God,” Ginger said, and rejoined Mac and Laura, who’d already found three seats on the far side of the row from the ones that Jo, Camie, and Trisha had settled down in.

Before she took her place between Mac and Laura, she went over to the three girls positioned in between the Bimbos and the Three Amigas. She uttered warm hellos to Hailey Duffy, Prissy Schaeffer, and Courtney Millstadt, then she paused at the empty chair where Mindy Sue Mabry should have been sitting.

“Makes you wonder who’ll end up there, huh?” Laura remarked as Ginger plunked down beside her, balancing the yearbook and flowers on her lap.

“They’re sure keeping it secret,” Ginger said.

“According to Tincy, no one knows but the GSC selection committee, not even the other members,” Laura explained as she clutched her nosegay while carefully stowing her large bag with its skull design under her seat.

Ginger winced at the sight of the Shelly Litvak duffel from the Abejas boutique on Kirby that Laura had drooled over last time they’d gone shopping, though Ginger had begged her not to get it. It was elk skin with python.
Yuck
. PETA would kick Laura’s ass if they caught her carrying it.

“I wish they’d get this show on the road,” Mac whispered, glancing around them. “But I guess they’re waiting on the substitute deb, whoever she is.”

“So long as it’s not another bimbo, I’m cool,” Laura whispered, leaning across Ginger.

Bootsie Bidwell put an end to conversation in the room as she marched toward the center of the floor, between the GSC members and the debutantes.

“Welcome, everyone, or rather,
almost
everyone,” she said, looking cool and calm in an eggshell pink Chanel suit, her inky dark hair cut precisely at shoulder level, providing a dark contrast to the pale fabric. She held a slim book against her flat stomach and tapped it anxiously with French-manicured fingers. “Apparently we’re still missing a Rosebud, though I’m told she’ll be here shortly.”

A low murmur ran through the rows of women as heads bent together, and Ginger thought Bootsie Bidwell looked pleased to have so many on the edge of their seats, waiting for the mystery deb to show up.

Ginger realized she was digging her nails into Alex Bishop’s yearbook and forced herself to relax. It wouldn’t
look good for a new Rosebud to pass out on the floor during their first meeting, just because she’d forgotten to breathe.

“As chair of the debutante selection committee, I have a few introductory words for our moms and debs. First of all, I’d like to welcome our latest class of Rosebuds,” Bootsie said, and turned her focus on the girls. Ginger blushed when Mrs. Bidwell’s gaze touched on her. “Some say that debutante balls are archaic and irrelevant in today’s society, and to them I say, you’re so very, very wrong. Tradition is never irrelevant, and what we’re doing here at the GSC is encouraging young ladies to behave like ladies and continuing our tradition of philanthropy. I ask you, what’s more relevant than that?”

Tradition and philanthropy, yes
, Ginger thought, nodding, her skin tingling with goose bumps as she listened.

Bootsie held up the slim tome she’d been holding and patted it firmly. Its cover looked like parchment paper, and elegant calligraphy across the front read:

“Darling Rosebuds,
this
will be your bible for the next eight months,” she told them. “It’s your debutante handbook. In it are guidelines and guidance. You’ll find reminder dates for meetings, always the first Monday of the month unless there’s a holiday, as is the case with tonight’s meeting. You’ll have the Glass Slipper Club’s rules of decorum at your fingertips, and you’ll find a bit of history about this special rite of passage. There are requirements for volunteer service for any number of club-approved charities, and there are
rules regarding selection of your gown for the Rosebud Ball next May. It must be white, of course, and mustn’t be too revealing, among other things. And don’t forget, your gown must be registered by the November meeting, please, whether you provide a copy of your design or a photograph of the dress itself. Like snowflakes, no two can be alike.”

Ginger took a deep breath and glanced sideways at Mac, whose stoic expression implied that she’d rather be anywhere else, and then she looked at Laura, whose eyes sparkled with excitement. No matter how different they might feel, they were all in this together, she mused, and reached over for each girl’s hand, catching their pinkies with hers and holding on for a minute.

“I hope you’re all ready to be very, very busy,” Bootsie went on, pacing in front of the row of debs, her high-heeled Chanel pumps making soft sighs on the Berber carpeting. “Prepare yourselves for a bombardment of invitations to mother-daughter teas, chaperoned parties with your peer escorts, and various charity functions in the months ahead. You’ll have refresher courses in etiquette and deportment,” she added, grinning as some of the girls audibly sighed. “Oh, yes, and you’ll be coached exhaustively in how to properly curtsy, and I do mean the dreaded
Texas Dip,”
she intoned, garnering a twitter of laughter from the ladies of the club and groans from the girls.

“But we have a crackerjack instructor to whip y’all into shape, so no one need fear falling,” Bootsie finished, and gestured broadly toward the seated club members. “Honey Potts Mackenzie, will you stand up? Honey’s one of our newer members and had a lengthy career in the world of beauty pageants, as well as a background in ballet and dance,
so there’s no one better to teach you Rosebuds how to make your entrance and how to bow.”

Ginger watched Mac’s stepmom stand up, flip back her feathered blond hair, and wave perkily at everyone.

“Hey, y’all! First practice is Wednesday night at my house, ladies. That’s tomorrow, seven o’clock sharp, and wear flat shoes and something comfy,” she instructed in her Betty Boop drawl. “I’ll have to work y’all up to doing the Dip in high heels, but we’ve got plenty of time for that.”