by Meg Cabot
“Oh, Shari, it sounds perfect. Can I bring anything?”
“Just your lovely self. Chaz is bringing a strawberry rhubarb pie, and maybe a blueberry pie too, if he can wing it—”
“Wait.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You invited Chaz?”
“Of course I invited Chaz,” Shari says. “You don’t think I’d let him be alone on Fourth of July—or go off with that horrible Valencia—do you?”
“No,” I say, thinking that there was no way, if Luke had been in town, she would have invited me to her place. Not if she thought there was a chance I’d bring him. Not in a million years. “I just didn’t know you guys were that tight.”
“Hey, I didn’t break up with the guy because I don’t like him anymore,” Shari reminds me. “I broke up with him because I fell in love with someone else. He’s a great guy. I just hope he finds somebody who can appreciate him, you know? He’s got a lot to offer.”
“I think he already found somebody,” I say gloomily. I don’t mention the loop-de-loop my heart gave earlier in the evening when I saw him. I still haven’t figured that part out. I’m not sure I want to, either.
“I mean somebody nice,” Shari says. “Not vile cellulite-free philosophy department skanks. Don’t tell him this, but there’s a cute new girl in my office I’m hoping to set him up with at my party. I specifically told him to come stag so I could fix them up together. I think they’ll get along great. She loves college basketball too. I don’t think she cares about baseball caps. And I know she’s never used the word ‘solipsistic’ in conversation.”
I feel as if Shari’s just shoved a steak knife through my heart. Really. My best friend. I can barely breathe, in fact, I’m so wounded.
“Is she pretty?” I hear myself wheeze. It’s surprisingly hard to talk with a steak knife in your chest.
“What?” Shari asks. “Did you just ask me if she’s pretty?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I said is she witty. Because you know Chaz likes only witty girls. Because he’s so… smart.”
Oh. God. What’s wrong with me? How can I even be worried about this? I’m possibly—okay, probably—breaking up with my long-term fiancé, the man of my dreams, right now. Why am I even giving a moment’s thought to the fact that Shari is setting up Chaz with some girl from her office?
I’m engaged to Chaz’s best friend. Even if we are on a break.
“That’s great,” I say with forced enthusiasm.
“I know. Anyway, so we’ll see you on the Fourth, around seven?”
“I’ll be there,” I say, and after Shari asks me one more time if I’m okay, and I assure her that I think I am, even though I’m pretty sure I’m not, we say our good-byes, and I hang up.
“Oh shit,” I say, remembering Gran when I hear her breathing.
“Yeah.” Her cranky voice fills my ear. “Still here. Remember me? The grandma?”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “That was Shari.”
“Of course it was,” Gran says in a bored voice. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why haven’t you shtupped him?”
“I did answer your question,” I say. “Because I’m engaged to his best friend. And where did you learn a word like ‘shtup’?”
“TV,” Gran says, sounding wounded. “Where else? And what should it matter who you’re engaged to? When it’s right, it’s right. And with that one, it’s right.”
“Gran,” I say tiredly. “How do you even know?”
“Because I’ve been alive a lot longer than you have. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, Gran,” I say. “He has a new girlfriend. She’s really pretty and smart. Her name is Valencia.”
“Isn’t that a type of orange?”
“Gran. You know what I mean. She’s perfect for him.”
“So?” Gran sounds offended. “And you’re not?”
“No, Gran,” I say miserably. “I’m not. I’m just… I… I—”
I don’t know how to go on, really, or what more there is to say. I find myself, for one of the first times in my life, at a loss for words. How can I explain to her just why it is that Valencia is so perfect for Chaz—for any guy, really—whereas I, on the other hand, am not? So not.
Gran, however, comes to my rescue.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says. “I know. You’re engaged. I heard. Engaged isn’t married, you know. Engaged isn’t dead. Listen, I gotta go. My show’s coming on. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen them all before. But that’s one of the good things about getting old. I can’t remember how a single one of these goddamned episodes turns out. I’ll talk to you later.”
She hangs up. I do the same and turn around to find Ava looking up at me with a wounded expression on her face.
“You’re going somewhere on the Fourth of July?” she asks sadly.
It takes me a minute to register what she’s saying. Then I shake my head.
“Just to a barbecue,” I say. “At my best friend’s house. In Brooklyn.” When Ava continues to look stricken, I add, “Ava… you can come, if you want to. But… won’t you have other plans? I mean, the Fourth of July isn’t for another week. You’ll probably have gotten a better invitation by then.” And, please God, you won’t still be staying at my place.
“I don’t know,” Ava says. “Maybe. Chaz is going to be there?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, wondering what she’s getting at.
“I kind of have been wanting to see this guy,” Ava says. “You talk about him so much. Maybe I’ll just stop by. Oh, there he is!” She points a French-manicured finger at the screen.
And I have the privilege of gazing, for the first time, at DJ Tippycat.
He is surprisingly normal looking—a bit on the short side, slightly balding, and wearing a shirt with the word “Wonderbread” written on it. In fact, if Shari were here, she’d accuse him of being a nebbish.
“Wow,” I say. “He’s… that’s… ”
“I know,” Ava says with a sigh. “Isn’t he hot?”
And I realize that there really is no accounting for taste. At least when it comes to DJs. And, I’m pretty sure, princes.
And philosophy Ph.D. candidates.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
When, during medieval times, marriages represented not only the joining of two people but of two families, or even two countries, it was necessary for the bride to dress to impress, meaning layering on the bling… not just jewels, but the costliest furs and materials that could be found, as she was representing her noble lineage.
So were introduced the first wedding gowns… the richer and more powerful the bride’s family, the wider the sleeves and the longer the train.
Obviously, those on the lower social rungs attempted to copy the richies until… well, everyone’s wedding gowns were long and flowing.
It wasn’t until Queen Victoria chose to wear white to her wedding to Prince Albert that the color became the most popular choice for wedding gowns. Until then it wasn’t thought to represent brides or purity—blue was!
But white has stood for brides ever since, and we have the Victorians to thank for it… along with the concept of evolution, free public education, and don’t forget Jack the Ripper!
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
While starlets such as Sarah Jessica Parker might be able to get away with a black wedding gown, a touch of white to acknowledge the special nature of the day is generally appreciated. Wearing all black on your wedding day is actually considered bad luck. While it hasn’t appeared to affect Sarah (as of this writing), really—why risk it?
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 13 •
There are three things that last: faith, hope and love, and the greatest of these is love.
I Corinthians 13:13
I wake the next morning to the sound of a horrified gasp.
I spring from the couch—ignoring the crick in my neck, brought about by having spent the night on a less than
comfortable sleeper sofa that does not, in fact, fold out—and lunge for the window, where Ava is standing.
“What?” I demand, expecting to find a dead body, at the very least. But all I see are a few dozen paparazzi lying in wait below.
Ava points a trembling finger at them. They haven’t yet noticed that she’s spotted them; they are leaning against parked cars, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee from Starbucks cups.
“How,” Ava demands, in a sleep-roughened voice, “did they find me?”
I blink down at the rough-and-tumble cameramen, with their beards and their cargo pants and their multiple lenses.
“How should I know?” I ask. I try not to sound as cranky as I feel. I’m not really a morning person, and feel even less so after my night on the couch. “I didn’t tell anyone you were here.”
“Well,” Ava says. She’s scooped up Snow White and is clutching her to one silk pajama—ed breast. “I certainly didn’t tell anyone I was here.”
“Little Joey?” I ask.
Ava shakes her head. “No way. Are you sure you didn’t tell anyone?” Ava has begun tearing about the apartment, gathering up her things and stuffing them back into her seven suitcases—as much as she can do so one-handed, since she’s still hanging on to her dog. “What about Luke? Could Luke have told anyone? Maybe he’s mad at you for breaking up with him.”
“We’re not broken up,” I remind her. “I told you, we’re just on a break. Besides, he doesn’t even know who you are.”
I notice Ava’s lower lip jut out a fraction of an inch, but she chooses to ignore this ill-timed reminder that not everyone is addicted to Google Entertainment News.
“Well, what about your friend Shari?” she asks. “You told her not to tell anyone I was here, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did,” I said. “She’d never say a word. What about your limo driver? Would he have told anyone?”
“Absolutely not. They all sign a confidentiality agreement with the company they work for. He’d never breathe a word, not if he didn’t want to lose his job.” Ava pauses as she’s jabbing numbers into her cell phone. “What about your grandmother?”
I immediately begin chewing my lower lip. Gran. I’d forgotten to tell Gran not to tell anyone that Ava Geck was staying in my apartment. But surely she wouldn’t—
“Yeah,” Ava says, looking away from me. “That’s what I figured.” Someone picks up on the other end of the line she’s dialing. “Joey?” she barks into the phone. “Code one. We’re compromised. Come now.”
“But she wouldn’t have told anyone,” I insist, trailing after Ava as she heads into the bathroom. “I mean, Gran didn’t even know for sure it was you. And she wouldn’t have known who to call. She doesn’t exactly have TMZ or whoever on speed dial!”
“Yeah,” Ava says, looking tight-faced. “Well, she sure seems to have caught on fast, hasn’t she?”
It’s all I can do not to burst out with, You’re the one who picked up the phone! You’re the one who taught her how to program the season pass on her TiVo!
It’s not Ava’s fault, though, I know. It’s mine. Me and my big mouth. As usual.
“Ava,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’m really just so, so sorry.”
“Whatever,” Ava says, with a shrug of her slim shoulders. I notice she can’t seem to make eye contact with me. “I’m going to take a shower. When Joey gets here, will you buzz him up? He’ll buzz three times quick in a row, then twice, real slow, so you’ll know it’s him. Okay?”
I nod. I feel terrible. “Ava—”
“Just let him in,” Ava says. “Okay?”
I nod again, then back out of the bathroom so she can close the door. A second later, I hear the water turn on.
I can’t believe this. What a disaster! The integrity of Chez Henri has been totally compromised. Not to mention my own personal integrity. Not that I had much of it to begin with.
Still, I can’t believe Gran of all people had been the one who’d called the paps on Ava. She wouldn’t even have known how to do it. It’s not as if it matters—the damage is done, obviously—but I have to know. I have to know if it’s really my fault. I pick up the phone and call my parents’ house. Gran picks up on the first ring.
“What?” she demands.
“Gran,” I say. I keep my voice low, in case Ava hasn’t gotten into the shower yet and is eavesdropping, as she is all too wont to do.
“Who is this?” Gran demands. “Lizzie? No one’s here. Your dad’s at work, and your mom’s at the Y. Your sisters are all God knows where—”
“That’s okay, it’s you I want to talk to, anyway,” I say. “Did you say anything to anyone about Ava Geck staying at my place?”
“Well, good morning to you too,” Gran says. “Did you shtup him yet?”
“Gran,” I whisper. “I’m serious. Did you tell anyone about Ava?”
“Of course not,” Gran says, sounding annoyed. “Who would I tell? No one talks to me except you. I’m just crazy old Gran, too drunk for anyone to take seriously—”
I feel myself begin to relax. It hadn’t been my fault after all. For once in my life, it hadn’t been me—
“Although,” Gran says, in a different tone, “your sister Rose was skulking around last night while I was talking to you.”
I feel my blood run cold. If it had been Sarah, I wouldn’t be worried. But Rose is a different story.
“Do you think she heard you?” I ask.
“I know she heard me,” Gran says. “She asked a lot of questions after I hung up, like why I was asking about Ava Geck, and what Ava Geck was doing at your place. I just told her what I knew—”
I let out the worst curse word I know. Gran, being Gran, is unimpressed.
“Well,” she says. “You can’t exactly blame her. It’s not like she doesn’t need the money, the way she’s maxed out her credit cards on clothes over at the discount places… especially that T.J. Maxx. Plus that no-good bohunk of a husband of hers got laid off again, and he’s not exactly impartial to the jewelry counter over at JCPenney. You should see how many gold neck chains I saw him wearing at the pool the other day.”
I close my eyes, trying to summon the strength I need not to burst into tears on the spot. I’m sure Rose is swimming in debt.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to hop on a plane to Ann Arbor and strangle her.
“If you see Rose today, Gran,” I say, “can you give her a swift kick in the pants for me?”
“Don’t worry,” Gran assures me, relishing, as usual, being in the middle of a cat fight between me and one of my sisters. “I’ll remind her of how fat her arms looked in that slutty dress she wore for her senior prom. That always makes her cry. Like goddamned Niagara Falls.”
“Thanks,” I say, and hang up feeling only slightly better. Really, could things get any worse?
And yet they do when, a half hour later, Ava emerges from my bathroom looking perfectly coiffed in a purple animal-print catsuit with bright orange stilettos, and finds Little Joey and me waiting for her on the couch.
“Ready?” she asks him, not even glancing at me.
“Ava,” I say, leaping up. “I’m sorry. It was me. I mean, I told my grandma. But it wasn’t her fault. My sister—”
“It’s okay,” Ava cuts me off. But I can tell from her pinched expression it’s not. It’s not okay. It’s far from okay. “We’re going now. Right, Joey?”
Joey heaves his three-hundred-pound girth up from the sofa. “You got it, Miss Geck. I already took down the suitcases.”
“Ava,” I say, trying again.
“It’s okay, Lizzie,” Ava insists.
But I know it isn’t. Nothing is okay.
Nothing is ever going to be okay—at least between me and Ava—again.
I watch them leave through the living room windows. The paparazzi throw down their cigarettes and coffee cups—I’m going to have to sweep them all up before the shop opens—and surges forward to virtually attack Ava the min
ute she walks through the front door of my building. Little Joey shields her the best that he can, using his elbows and sizable belly to forge a path for her to the waiting limo. Ava climbs inside, Little Joey follows, and they speed off, the photographers in hot pursuit.
And then my street is quiet again. If it weren’t for all the litter on the sidewalk—and the wad of blond hair in my drain—it would almost seem as if they hadn’t been there at all.
But I know I’ve just messed up an important client relationship. Worse, I’ve messed up a budding friendship.
And honestly, I have no one to blame for it but myself. Just like all the other messes in my life at the moment. Great.
Just great.
I had never been up to Shari and Pat’s roof before, but it turns out they’ve built a little garden oasis there. On a redwood deck, surrounded by overflowing flower boxes bursting with geraniums and delphiniums, you can stand and look out at the skyline of Manhattan, rising in all its glory out of the East River. It’s an amazing view. And it’s all theirs.
Well, along with all the other tenants in their building. And all the other neighboring rooftops along their street. All of whom are having Fourth of July parties at the same time as theirs.
But they aren’t about to let all the dueling stereo speakers bring them down. Shari, at least, has a lot of other issues to worry about.
“I can’t believe he brought her,” Shari keeps saying, casting dark looks in Chaz’s direction.
“I told you he would.” I’m downing ice cream like there’s nothing else being served, which isn’t true, because there are also burgers, hot dogs, chips, about ten different kinds of pasta salad, and, of course, the two pies Chaz brought.
But somehow, the only thing that is making me feel better is ice cream. It’s been a long week. A loooooooong week.
And the sight of Chaz sitting over there with Valencia—who is looking cool and serene, in spite of the ninety-degree heat, in white linen gauchos and a black tank top that shows off her perfectly toned arms—isn’t doing much to make me feel better.
