I heave a sigh. “Poor Emma.”
“It wasn’t really anybody’s fault,” says Darcy. “Talk about bad timing! Who could have guessed that Jeremy’s girlfriend would choose the middle of prom to try and get him back?”
We get out of the car and wander over to the fence by the back pasture. It’s a beautiful warm May evening, and the sky overhead is thick with stars. Over by the pond, the crickets are out in full force.
“So that was prom,” says Darcy, resting his chin on top of my head.
“That was prom,” I reply.
“What a disaster! It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.”
“I know.”
We both laugh softly, so as not to wake anybody inside the house. Or inside the nearby coop. All we need to top off the evening is to set off the chicken alarm.
“I think you still owe me a dance or two,” says Darcy.
“Good thing there’s a ballroom handy,” I tell him, leading him to the barn. “It’s not the Plaza, but it will do in a pinch.”
Inside, the radio is playing softly for my brother’s 4-H chicken. “Hey, Taylor,” I say, squatting down by the brooding pen and clucking softly. The chick, who is now about half-grown, comes scampering over, hoping for a snack.
“Taylor?” asks Darcy.
“Swift,” I tell him.
He grins. “You Delaneys and your goofy chicken names!”
“You got a problem with country, boy?” Straightening up, I reach over the pen and crank up the radio—not loud enough to startle any of the livestock but loud enough to dance to—and find a good boot-stomping station. Darcy smiles as I lift the hem of my dress and do a little two-step.
We both kick up our heels for a couple of numbers, laughing and goofing off, then Darcy pulls me closer as a slow tune comes on. It’s Patsy Cline’s “Tennessee Waltz,” one of my mother’s favorites. I sing along softly, faltering a bit when I get to the line, “My friend stole my sweetheart from me.”
I should call Emma and see how she’s doing, I think, pulling away.
“A little too close to home?” Darcy asks, and I nod. That’s one of the things I like best about Darcy—he almost always knows what I’m thinking.
He walks me to the back porch, and we pause by the steps. “Thanks for going to prom with me,” he says.
“Thanks for asking me.”
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow for brunch at the Wongs’?”
I nod. I’m looking forward to meeting Gigi’s fiancé, but not to any more drama with Mrs. Wong or Sophie Fairfax.
“Brace yourself for fireworks,” I tell him.
“Tomorrow, or right now?” he teases.
“Both,” I reply, tilting my face up for a kiss. It’s a nice one, well worth putting in my scrapbook with our prom pictures.
After he leaves, I slip inside and up to my room. I try calling Emma, but there’s no answer. She doesn’t return my text messages, and when I go online there’s no sign of her there, either. I send her an e-mail and leave her a voice mail, but in the end I have no choice but to go to bed.
Next morning, my parents let me sleep in and skip church. I try Emma again; still no answer. I text Darcy in frustration to see if he knows anything; he texts me back to say that she’s okay, but not acting like herself. By the time we head to the Wongs’, I’m starting to get seriously worried.
“I can’t wait to meet this beau of Gigi’s,” says my mother as we pull into the driveway. “It’s so romantic, falling in love later in life like that!”
“It’s romantic falling in love early in life, too,” says my father, reaching for her hand. My parents were college sweethearts.
I look out the window and smile. I’ll vote for romance early in life any time. High school, even.
Gigi and Monsieur de Roches are waiting by the front door to greet everyone. Gigi’s arm is tucked through his, and she looks radiant.
“I am delighted to meet the famous Delaneys of Half Moon Farm,” says Sophie’s grandfather after we’re introduced. Megan’s right; he does sort of look like a slim French Santa, I think. It’s the whole twinkle in the eye/white mustache thing.
“Et nous sommes enchantés de faire votre connaissance aussi,” says my mother, whipping out her high school French. “We’re delighted to meet you too.”
Monsieur de Roches bows to my brothers, who think that’s hilarious. They rush inside and spend the next few minutes bowing to all our friends—and chasing Coco.
Cassidy and Megan and Becca pounce on me the second they spot me.
“What the heck happened last night?” asks Megan, pulling me over to a quiet corner of the living room. “Sophie came home in tears and refused to talk about it. She hasn’t been out of her room all morning.”
I look around. The Hawthornes aren’t here yet, and I’m beginning to wonder if maybe Emma’s not coming. Stewart is standing by the big picture window, pointedly ignoring us.
“Didn’t your brother tell you?” I ask Becca.
She shakes her head. “Total silence. He almost didn’t come today. My mother practically had to force him.”
I give them a quick rundown of the disaster at the Plaza.
Cassidy lets out a low whistle. “Wow. What a mess.”
“So has your mother said anything to Gigi yet?” I ask Megan. “About the private detective, I mean?”
“Not as far as I can tell. She probably wanted to get a good look at Monsieur de Roches first.”
“He seems really nice,” says Becca.
I nod. “Yeah, I agree. I mean, I’ve only said hello and everything, but there’s something about him that’s—”
“Charming?” asks Megan, and I nod.
She sighs. “I know. The thing is, if it weren’t for Mademoiselle Velcro, I’d love to have him for a grandfather, you know?”
The doorbell rings again. It’s the Hawthornes.
“You’re here!” says Gigi happily, introducing them to Sophie’s grandfather. “Now the party can really begin.”
From the look on Emma’s face, a party is the last thing she wants. Keeping her eyes carefully averted from Stewart, she makes her way over to us.
“How are you doing today?” I ask, giving her a hug.
“Horribly,” she replies. “I don’t think I slept a wink.”
“Sophie should be ashamed of herself, ruining prom for you like that,” says Cassidy, glowering.
“To be fair, it’s not like she planned it or anything,” I tell her. “I mean, come on, you have to admit—wouldn’t you have been mortified, too, if some blind date’s obsessed ex-girlfriend showed up and gave you the heave-ho like that?”
Cassidy grunts. “I suppose.”
“Still, Stewart didn’t have to rush in like the white knight,” says Emma bitterly. “And she could have found another ride home.”
The “she” in question emerges from the hallway just then, looking as pale and unhappy as Emma. She reddens when she sees us, and goes straight over to her grandfather. My twin brothers rush up to her and bow.
“Brunch is served!” announces Gigi. “I made dim sum.”
Cassidy brightens. “Oh yeah, baby!” Food always cheers Cassidy up.
“Aren’t you going to go sit with your friends?” Sophie’s grandfather asks her a few minutes later, gesturing to where the five of us are clustered around the coffee table with our heaping plates of food.
She shakes her head and takes a seat beside him at the dining room table. “I’d rather sit here with you.”
Megan’s grandmother looks over at us, pursing her lips. It’s pretty hard to pull the wool over Gigi’s eyes, and a few minutes later she marches over with a plate of cookies in one hand and Sophie in the other.
“Here, girls,” she says. “Why don’t you take these down to Megan’s room.”
“Uh—” Megan replies, hesitating.
“Now,” says Gigi firmly.
“Okay, okay.” Megan takes the plate from her. She looks over at us, shrugs
, then starts down the hall. Feeling Gigi’s eyes on us, we all stand up and follow.
There’s an awkward silence when we get to Megan’s room. Nobody quite knows what to say. Coco provides the spark that ignites the bonfire when she squirms out of my arms and runs over to Sophie.
Megan snorts. “Figures.”
“What?” says Sophie.
“Nothing.”
Sophie reddens. “Don’t say nothing when you really mean something. Just go ahead and say it.”
Megan is silent.
Sophie looks around at us. “Je ne comprendes pas—I don’t understand,” she says. “Why are you all so mean to me?”
“What’s not to understand?” says Emma. “You come over here, uninvited, and steal our boyfriends—”
“—and our kittens!” adds Megan.
“I didn’t steal anything from anybody!” Sophie protests.
I don’t know if it’s lack of sleep, or pent-up emotion, or a combination of both or what, but Emma explodes. “If you didn’t steal anything, it’s because it’s always handed to you on a platter!” she snaps. “You’re just a spoiled rich girl who thinks she can have anything she wants. Why don’t you just go back to your chateau?”
Sophie gapes at her. “What are you talking about? What chateau?”
“The one in the picture you showed us!”
“You know,” says Megan. “That picture on your dresser.”
Sophie still looks puzzled. Then her brow clears and she laughs. “Oh, I get it now. The chateau! But wait, you think it’s my home? I thought you knew! I live above the garage there with my grandfather—he’s the chauffeur.”
Megan’s bedroom goes dead silent.
We must all look surprised, because she laughs again, bitterly this time. “Je comprends maintenant,” she says. “Now I understand. All this time, this is what you thought of me. That I’m just a wealthy spoiled brat. Do you have any idea how lucky you are? All of you!” She looks around at us, her eyes brimming with tears. “You have parents who love you. Mine are so busy fighting that they barely have time to talk to me. I might as well be an orphan!”
We stare at her, stunned. But she isn’t done yet.
“Don’t you know I would give anything—tout le monde! all the world!—to have families like yours? My father is more interested in his work than his family. We haven’t had a real conversation in years! My mother isn’t like your mothers, someone who would want to spend time with me in a book club, or spend time with me at all. I have no one but my grandfather. And I thought, perhaps, your grandmother, too, Megan, who has been so kind and made me feel so welcome here.”
“I didn’t know,” whispers Megan.
“Of course you didn’t,” snaps Sophie. “You didn’t bother to take the time to find out anything about me.”
“I—I had no idea,” stammers Emma. “But you—and Stewart—”
“Ah yes, Stewart. Your boyfriend—your boyfriend, not mine—is one of the nicest people I know. He has been a true friend to me. I wish I could say the same for you. He deserves better.” She turns to go. “My cousin was right about you—about all of you.”
“Stinkerbelle?” says Cassidy.
“You’re the ones who stink,” mutters Sophie.
“Girls?” We whirl around to see Gigi standing in the doorway. Monsieur de Roches is with her, and behind the two of them are our parents. The noise from our argument must have drawn them down the hall. It’s obvious from the uncomfortable expressions on their faces that they’ve just overheard a good chunk of what’s been said.
The only one who looks remotely pleased is Mrs. Wong. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag, then,” she says. “Did you know this, mother? Did you know that your fiancé is actually a chauffeur? I just found out myself from the private detective—”
“You hired a private detective?” The color drains from Gigi’s face.
Mrs. Wong suddenly looks a little less sure of herself. “I had to, don’t you see? I had to protect you!” Her voice quivers, and it occurs to me that Megan was right. Her mother is afraid. Afraid that Gigi will be taken advantage of somehow, but probably even more afraid that she’ll leave Concord—and her.
“I don’t need protecting,” Gigi says stiffly. “And yes, of course I knew Edouard is a chauffeur. Why on earth would that matter?”
“Mother, you’re so naive! You’re a wealthy woman, in case you’ve forgotten, and—”
“—and ‘gentlemen in his station are not accustomed to marry their governesses,’ oui?” says Sophie in a small voice. “Yes, I read Jane Eyre, too.” She turns and walks out of the room, pushing blindly past Gigi and her grandfather. We hear her door slam across the hall.
“It seems perhaps I have made a mistake in allowing my granddaughter to come here,” says Monsieur de Roches in his quiet, dignified voice. “I will take her back to France—I can see she is not wanted.” He gives us a sorrowful look as he, too, leaves the room.
My friends and I stare at each other, aghast.
What have we done?
CASSIDY
“ . . . his presence in a room was more cheering than the brightest fire.”
—Jane Eyre
Forget about V for Velcro. How about V for Very Big Mess?
“The wedding can’t be off—it can’t be!” moans Megan, flopping down onto the window seat of the turret. After the showdown at the Wongs, the brunch party ended pretty quickly. Sophie and her grandfather retreated to a hotel, Gigi locked herself in her room in tears, and my friends and I—who are in the doghouse again big-time—fled here to my house to regroup. Darcy was nice enough to drive us. “We have to do something!”
“Like what?” says Emma, who’s more upset than I’ve ever seen her. We all feel badly, but this has hit her especially hard, I guess because of the whole Stewart thing. “I doubt Sophie will ever speak to us again. I can’t say that I blame her either. Not after the way we misjudged her.”
Beside me, Becca stiffens. “Omigosh!”
“What?” asks Jess.
“Cooking with Clementine! Isn’t our prank episode supposed to run tomorrow?”
I leap to my feet. I can’t believe I forgot about it! “If that episode airs, we can kiss this wedding good-bye for sure.”
We look at each other, stricken. This is one time in my life when I don’t need Dr. Weisman’s advice, or my mother’s or my older sister’s or anybody else’s. I know in my heart what we have to do.
It’s not going to be easy, though. We’re going to need every ounce of backbone we can muster.
“It’s time to get our Jane on,” I tell my friends, pausing for a moment, before I deliver the bad news: “We have to go talk to my mother.”
We find her downstairs, sitting at the kitchen counter with Mrs. Hawthorne and Mrs. Delaney and Mrs. Chadwick.
“Yes, girls?” she says coolly as we troop in. She’s got her Queen Clementine face on, which is not a good sign. It’s one thing to face off against my mother; it’s another thing entirely to go up against the Queen.
“Where’s my mother?” asks Megan, looking around.
“Last we saw her, she was lying facedown in the hallway by your grandmother’s room, trying to reason with her through the crack under the door,” says Mrs. Delaney. “But I don’t suppose you girls would know anything about that.”
We shift uncomfortably. My friends look over at me, obviously waiting for me to take the lead. They’re right; the prank was my idea. I’m team captain here—I need to take responsibility.
“Um, can we talk?” I say, feeling like I’m stepping in front of a firing squad. At best, I’m probably going to be grounded for life. At worst—actually, I don’t even want to think about “at worst.”
“Seems like maybe you girls have been doing a little too much talking lately,” says Mrs. Hawthorne crisply.
“We’re sorry,” Emma whispers. “We never meant—”
My mother interrupts her. “What is it you want to talk about?”
I take a deep breath. “Well, you know that ice cream sundae episode?” I begin. “The one that’s scheduled to air tomorrow?”
Her forehead creases. “Uh-huh.”
I hesitate, and the realization of what’s coming dawns on her face.
“Uh-oh,” she says. “What did you do?”
When I finish explaining about piqueuse de mec, I brace myself for an explosion. Surprisingly, it doesn’t come.
“Right,” says my mother, standing up. “I’m going to call Fred Goldberg and see if I can catch him at home. Phoebe, Shannon, Calliope—how about if two of you go back to the Wongs to give Lily some moral support, and one of you makes sure that the girls get over to the hotel immediately to try and talk to Sophie and her grandfather?”
She turns to us. “Don’t breathe a word about any of this to them.”
As if we would, I think, but wisely hold my tongue. I don’t want to push my luck.
“What if we’re too late?” says Jess.
“Then we’ll have to deal with the consequences,” my mother tells her. “For now, you have some bridge-building to do, and I have a phone call to make.”
She leaves the room along with Mrs. Delaney and Mrs. Chadwick. Mrs. Hawthorne turns to us and shakes her head. “I’d ask what you girls were thinking, pulling a stunt like that, but I don’t even want to know.”
“We got the idea from The Scarlet Letter,” says Emma miserably, like somehow that’s going to make it better. “It made sense at the time.”
We follow her mother out to the car. None of us says a word on the drive over to the hotel. I know we did the right thing fessing up, and that we’re doing the right thing by going to talk to Sophie, but I feel like I’ve had my nose rubbed in the whole backbone thing this week. I haven’t said anything to my friends, but last night, while Emma and Jess were at prom, I finally mustered the courage to have a talk with Zach Norton.
What I had to say didn’t go over too well, and I ended up really, really hurting his feelings.
“You just want to be friends?” he said, gaping at me when I was finished. We were sitting in his car in the parking lot outside the movie theater. I could barely concentrate on the dumb action flick we’d seen, because I was so nervous about the conversation ahead. But it had become unavoidable. “Are you kidding me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Wish You Were Eyre Page 31
