but once,
You might as well be amusing.
—Coco Chanel
Preparing for tea at Rose Dupree’s
means putting on my best manners and
accessorizing with a sense of humor.
—Ginger Fore
Four
If there was one thing Ginger figured could spoil a Monday off from Pine Forest Prep entirely, it was being summoned to her grandmother’s house in River Oaks for afternoon tea.
Tea at Rose Dupree’s boded ill for so many reasons. Usually when Rose invited Ginger and her mother to appear at her pillared mansion on Piping Rock (or rather, summoned them), it meant Rose had something up her lace-edged sleeve, some Old South-inspired, matriarchal agenda she wanted to push. And as much as Ginger’s mom, Deena Dupree Fore, liked to play the independent divorcée with her constant round of cocktail parties and her residential real estate career, she couldn’t seem to say no to her domineering mother, in the way that most well-bred daughters of Texas women never could. Ginger usually ended up suffering the consequences.
Deena had even made Ginger change out of her shorts and flip-flops into “something more presentable,” which Ginger interpreted as “put on a dress and real shoes.” Grudgingly, she’d donned her rose-colored Earth Creations tank dress and sandals. As if dressing up on Labor Daywasn’t punishment enough, before they’d passed through Rose’s front door, Deena had used spit in a futile attempt to flatten Ginger’s spiky auburn hair and she’d pulled out her Dior compact to powder Ginger’s freckled nose. But Ginger had flatly refused to swipe on any of Deena’s bloodred lipstick.
“For heaven’s sake, it wouldn’t kill you or the environment if you put on makeup,” her mother had chided before Rose’s housekeeper, Serena, had let them in. “Somebody must make eco-friendly mascara. You’ve got such lovely green eyes, Ging. I don’t understand why you try to hide the fact that you’re a beautiful girl. Is it anti-Earth to be pretty?”
Once they’d all been seated and the tea had been poured, Ginger considered grabbing a poker from the set by the fireplace to stab herself in one of her “lovely” green eyes, anything to get her out of this. But instead she acted like a well-reared blue blood, sitting primly in a stiff-backed Victorian chair in the stuffy formal parlor, sure that the hot buttered scones would go cold before her grandmother got around to explaining why they were there. Until that time came, Ginger stirred her cup of Earl Grey and listened to her mother and Rose Dupree blather on about the latest shenanigans of the Junior League set.
“Did you see that obnoxious Amanda Pepper driving around town in that god-awful tank?” Rose remarked, and Deena cleared her throat before correcting her.
“It’s a Hummer, Mother, not a tank.”
“Well, it certainly looks like a tank. Is she afraid of a mortar attack while she’s drivin’ her kids to soccer practice?” Rose’s laid-back drawl took on a sharp edge. “Whatever’s wrong with a good, solid Cadillac? Your father drove his El Dorado till he drew his last breath.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a Cadillac, Mother,” Deena replied, holding her voice remarkably level. “It’s just some folks find them old-fashioned.”
“So driving a tank through the streets makes more sense?”
Oh, Lord, here we go again , Ginger mused, and rolled her eyes as she balanced the Sevres cup and saucer on her knee and escaped the inane conversation by taking in the room around her. She was surrounded by ornately carved Eastlake furnishings with overstuffed cushions and cranberry-colored walls smothered in period paintings, mostly landscapes of gloomy-looking glades in Scotland or bleak portraits of relatives who seemed to glower at her from within the gilded frames. The only portrait of interest was an enormous one situated over the marble mantel of a fireplace that was rarely used—Houston wasn’t exactly known for its chilly winters-showing
You might as well be amusing.
—Coco Chanel
Preparing for tea at Rose Dupree’s
means putting on my best manners and
accessorizing with a sense of humor.
—Ginger Fore
Four
If there was one thing Ginger figured could spoil a Monday off from Pine Forest Prep entirely, it was being summoned to her grandmother’s house in River Oaks for afternoon tea.
Tea at Rose Dupree’s boded ill for so many reasons. Usually when Rose invited Ginger and her mother to appear at her pillared mansion on Piping Rock (or rather, summoned them), it meant Rose had something up her lace-edged sleeve, some Old South-inspired, matriarchal agenda she wanted to push. And as much as Ginger’s mom, Deena Dupree Fore, liked to play the independent divorcée with her constant round of cocktail parties and her residential real estate career, she couldn’t seem to say no to her domineering mother, in the way that most well-bred daughters of Texas women never could. Ginger usually ended up suffering the consequences.
Deena had even made Ginger change out of her shorts and flip-flops into “something more presentable,” which Ginger interpreted as “put on a dress and real shoes.” Grudgingly, she’d donned her rose-colored Earth Creations tank dress and sandals. As if dressing up on Labor Daywasn’t punishment enough, before they’d passed through Rose’s front door, Deena had used spit in a futile attempt to flatten Ginger’s spiky auburn hair and she’d pulled out her Dior compact to powder Ginger’s freckled nose. But Ginger had flatly refused to swipe on any of Deena’s bloodred lipstick.
“For heaven’s sake, it wouldn’t kill you or the environment if you put on makeup,” her mother had chided before Rose’s housekeeper, Serena, had let them in. “Somebody must make eco-friendly mascara. You’ve got such lovely green eyes, Ging. I don’t understand why you try to hide the fact that you’re a beautiful girl. Is it anti-Earth to be pretty?”
Once they’d all been seated and the tea had been poured, Ginger considered grabbing a poker from the set by the fireplace to stab herself in one of her “lovely” green eyes, anything to get her out of this. But instead she acted like a well-reared blue blood, sitting primly in a stiff-backed Victorian chair in the stuffy formal parlor, sure that the hot buttered scones would go cold before her grandmother got around to explaining why they were there. Until that time came, Ginger stirred her cup of Earl Grey and listened to her mother and Rose Dupree blather on about the latest shenanigans of the Junior League set.
“Did you see that obnoxious Amanda Pepper driving around town in that god-awful tank?” Rose remarked, and Deena cleared her throat before correcting her.
“It’s a Hummer, Mother, not a tank.”
“Well, it certainly looks like a tank. Is she afraid of a mortar attack while she’s drivin’ her kids to soccer practice?” Rose’s laid-back drawl took on a sharp edge. “Whatever’s wrong with a good, solid Cadillac? Your father drove his El Dorado till he drew his last breath.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a Cadillac, Mother,” Deena replied, holding her voice remarkably level. “It’s just some folks find them old-fashioned.”
“So driving a tank through the streets makes more sense?”
Oh, Lord, here we go again , Ginger mused, and rolled her eyes as she balanced the Sevres cup and saucer on her knee and escaped the inane conversation by taking in the room around her. She was surrounded by ornately carved Eastlake furnishings with overstuffed cushions and cranberry-colored walls smothered in period paintings, mostly landscapes of gloomy-looking glades in Scotland or bleak portraits of relatives who seemed to glower at her from within the gilded frames. The only portrait of interest was an enormous one situated over the marble mantel of a fireplace that was rarely used—Houston wasn’t exactly known for its chilly winters-showing
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