by Meg Cabot
I blink at him.
The thing is, I believe him. Mostly because of the details—he couldn’t make up that Dolce & Gabbana thing. Chaz doesn’t know anything about designers—look at his shorts. But also because of the incredibly coarse way he was putting it.
What he was actually saying is incredible.
But, given his bluntness, it might just be true.
“That’s not what I wanted,” Chaz goes on. There isn’t a hint of sarcasm or laughter in his tone now. His blue eyes look almost pained. “That’s the last thing I wanted. For the longest time—since way before New Year’s, since the day I helped you move into this place—I wanted you any way I could get you. And that’s the truth. But I wanted you for keeps, Lizzie. And you weren’t going to stick around if that’s all I was to you, a revenge screw, a way to hurt Luke. So… yeah, I didn’t tell you. Until now. So sue me.”
Then, his shoulders still hunched, he whips out his cell phone. “Besides. I can prove it to you.”
The next thing I know, he’s pressed a button on his keypad. A second later, he’s saying, “Luke?”
“Chaz,” I cry. “No—”
But it’s too late.
“Oh, hey, man,” Chaz says conversationally, into the phone. “Oh, sorry, did I wake you? Oh no? You’re in town? What are you doing in town?”
I cannot believe this is happening. I flop back against the couch, slapping my hands over my eyes. I can’t watch.
“Oh, you did? Really? Oh yeah? Oh, she did? Oh, really. Oh, that’s too bad.” Chaz leans over and pokes me, but I don’t take my hands from my eyes. Finally, after a few more “really”s, I hear Chaz say, “Yeah, so, if you and Lizzie are splitting up, I guess that means things are really going to heat up with Sophie.”
Chaz must have put the phone close to my ear, because I hear Luke’s voice saying, “Well, you know, I’m going to be moving to France, so I guess I won’t be seeing as much of Sophie. But you know there’s this fantastic woman I’ve been seeing in my new office, that one I was telling you about, Marie… ”
I take my hands away from my eyes and just look at him. Chaz’s expression is a beguiling mixture of anxiety—that my feelings are hurt—and laughter. It is kind of hard not to see the humor in the situation. It’s not as if I care who Luke’s been doing behind my back.
I just hope he, like me, has been using a condom.
When he sees that I’m smiling too, Chaz puts the phone back to his ear and says, “Uh, Luke? So, listen, since you and Lizzie aren’t seeing each other anymore, I was wondering… how would you feel if I asked her out? Because, you know, I think she’s a great girl, and I’ve always sort of—”
Even from where I’m sitting, three feet away, I can hear Luke’s voice curtly cutting Chaz off.
Chaz’s grin grows more broad.
“Oh,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling at me. “You don’t think that would be a very good idea? Why? You think you’re such a sex god you should just have all the great girls for yourself, even after you’re done with them, is that it?”
Laughing, I gasp, “Chaz, don’t!” and reach out to wrestle the phone away from him.
“No?” Chaz is saying into the phone, even as he wraps an arm around my waist and wrestles me noisily to the floor. “Oh, because she’s in a very fragile state right now? I don’t think she’s in quite as fragile a state as you might think. What was that noise? Oh, I think that was just… my upstairs neighbor. Yeah, he just brought home another trannie from that bar down the street. Hey, Johnny”—Chaz takes the phone away from his face and yells at the walls as he tickles me mercilessly, while I try not to blow our cover by laughing—“it’s called abstinence! You should give it try! Oops, Luke, I gotta go, he’s puking in the hallway. Yeah, he’s sliding around in his puke. I’ll call you later.”
Chaz hangs up, throws his cell phone over his shoulder, then dives on top of me, burying his face in my neck. I can barely breathe I’m laughing so hard.
And I realize something: I’ve never had such a good time in my entire life.
Which is a lot to say, considering the day I’ve had.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
Anyone familiar with her historical romances knows that any young bride worth her salt went to Scotland to elope in nineteenth-century Europe (even back then girls under eighteen weren’t allowed to wed without their parents’ permission). Even Elizabeth Bennet in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice despairs when she learns her flighty sister Lydia has not gone to Gretna Green with her lover, Wickham, for it meant he had no intention of marrying her.
Scotland is still a popular wedding destination for Americans, and many travel packages for that purpose can be purchased. Although care should be taken to fill out the necessary paperwork stateside before going, or the unwary bride could find herself in the same situation as poor, unhappy Lydia.
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
Eloping doesn’t necessarily mean a couple has to miss out on the fun of wedding gifts! The couple’s parents or other relatives or friends can still choose to host a reception for them upon their return. They can even still register for gifts and be within the confines of good taste and etiquette. With weddings growing to be so costly these days, some parents are finding it less expensive to pay their daughters to elope.
We should all be so lucky.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 24 •
There is nothing nobler or more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep House as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends.
Homer (eighth century B.C.), Greek poet
I find Monsieur Henri in his back garden the next morning, precisely where his wife said he’d be: practicing on his homemade pétanque lane.
He seems surprised to see me.
Well, I don’t suppose it’s often he receives visitors from Manhattan to his suburban Cranbury, New Jersey, home.
Especially while he’s still in his terrycloth bathrobe.
“Elizabeth!” he cries, dropping the pétanque ball in the dust and hurrying to close his robe. He casts an indignant look at his wife, coming up behind us with a tray of iced tea.
“I’m sorry, Jean,” she says. But if you ask me, she doesn’t look the least bit sorry. “Elizabeth phoned earlier this morning to say she was coming with something important to discuss with us. I did call out to you. But I suppose you didn’t hear me.”
Monsieur Henri watches, dumbfounded, as his wife sets the tray down on the small metal table beneath the rose-covered arbor at the end of his pétanque lane, then takes a seat on the bench beside it. Always a large man, her husband has lost a lot of weight since his surgery. But he is still sweating in the summer heat, even in the shade of the arbor. He looks down at the three glasses of iced tea before him.
“Well,” he says. “I suppose I can take a break. For a moment.”
“That would be nice,” I say. I flick a glance toward the house. Chaz is driving around the neighborhood, having assured me he’d be back in half an hour to pick me up in the car we rented from Avis that morning. “I’ll just cruise the strip malls,” he’d said. “Pick you up a thong from Victoria’s Secret. I’ve never seen you in a thong. Or anything from Victoria’s Secret, for that matter.”
There’s a reason for that, I’d assured him.
I take a seat on the bench beside Madame Henri, after carefully tucking my vintage Lilly Pulitzer wraparound skirt beneath me, waiting until Monsieur Henri has lowered himself carefully into the teak Adirondack chair opposite us before I speak.
“I’m so sorry to bother you here at your home, Monsieur Henri,” I say. “But it’s about the building—”
“Now, Elizabeth,” Monsieur Henri says with hearty kindness as he reaches for one of the glasses of iced tea and swirls around the twig of mint his wife has plopped into it. “I really don’t think there’s anything more we can say about that. We’re listing it with Goldmark, and that’s that
. I’m very sorry about your having to find another job and an apartment, but like we said, we’ll put in a good word for you with Maurice—you’ll have the best references there are… you’ll have no trouble at all finding a job—and you will just have to be satisfied with that. Really, this begging… it’s not attractive. I’m rather surprised at you, I must say.”
“Actually,” I say, reaching for my own glass of iced tea, pleased to see that my hand isn’t shaking at all as I hold it. Way to go, Lizzie! “I’m not here to beg for my job, Monsieur Henri. I’ve found another job. I’m here to make an offer on your building.”
Monsieur Henri nearly drops the glass he’s holding. Madame Henri chokes a little on the mouthful of iced tea she’s just taken.
“I… I beg your pardon, Elizabeth?” She coughs.
“I know I ought to have gone through your Realtor,” I say quickly. “But the thing is, I don’t have all the money. Yet. But I will. Soon. And the rest I can pay as we go along, but it will have to be over a period of a few years. Which I know isn’t exactly what you were hoping for, but”—I lean forward, speaking to both of them in a low, urgent voice, while somewhere off in the distance, a lawn mower roars to life and a bird begins a plaintive but still melodious song—“the advantage of selling to me, as opposed to some stranger, is that you won’t be paying any Realtor fees. We can cut out the middleman completely, and you’ll be saving yourself hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’m willing to make you an offer right now, here, today, no inspection, no nothing, of four point five million dollars. And before you say you think the building is worth more,” I say, cutting off both of them, since I hear them inhale, “allow me to point out that I live and work there. I don’t need an inspection because I know how much work the place needs. I’ve seen the cracks, plugged up the leaks, called the exterminator myself for the rats down in the basement more times than I can count. And I’m making my offer to you now, today, with my guarantee that you will have the whole amount five years from today. I’ll sign anything you want guaranteeing it. All I ask is that you remember where the two of you were when I first walked through your door a year ago. And where you both are now.”
I lean back against the bench and take a long swig from my iced tea. Even for a talker, I am spent after having given such a long speech. I eye the two of them as they stare uneasily back at me.
Then Madame Henri looks at her husband.
“The Realtor fees are a lot,” she says in French. Even though they both know perfectly well by now that I speak their native language more or less fluently, they still slip back into it when they don’t want me to overhear what they’re saying, out of force of habit. “We could save a lot of money.”
“But we’d have to wait for the money,” her husband says petulantly. “You heard her.”
“So?” his wife demands. “What are you planning on buying? A yacht?”
“Maybe,” Monsieur Henri says with a snort.
“You heard what the inspector said,” Madame Henri says. “About the asbestos in the basement.”
“He also said if we left it alone, it wouldn’t be a problem. All pipes in Manhattan are lined with asbestos.”
I listen to this without blinking. I already know about the asbestos. The plumber told me months ago. I’d planned on using it as leverage if they balked at my offer.
“It’s going to cost thousands to get it removed,” Madame Henri goes on. “Maybe tens of thousands. Do you want that hassle?”
“No,” Monsieur Henri pouts.
“This way,” his wife says, “we can be done with it in an afternoon. We don’t even have to pay to have our things moved out! She’ll keep them!”
Monsieur Henri brightens at this. “Eh! I didn’t think of this! But where’s she getting all this money? She’s not even thirty.”
“Who knows?” his wife asks with a Gallic shrug. “The dead grandmother, perhaps?”
“Ask her,” Monsieur Henri says.
Then they both turn to me. And Madame Henri asks in English, “Did you hear all that?”
“Of course,” I say testily. “I’m not deaf. And I speak French. Remember?”
“I know.” Madame Henri shakes her head. “The money is from your grandmother?”
“No,” I say. “It’s from a deal I made last night with Geck Industries. I’m going to be designing a line of wedding wear for their discount department stores.”
Monsieur Henri looks confused. “But if you are going to work for Geck, then why do you still want the shop?”
“Because I’m still going to be doing gowns for my own customers,” I said. “Independent of Geck. Besides, your shop… my shop, if you’ll agree to sell it to me… it’s home.”
I feel ridiculous, but as I say the word, tears fill my eyes. And yet… it’s true. That pokey little apartment—which I fully intend to renovate if it ever becomes mine—is the place where I’ve known some of the highest highs, and lowest lows, of my life. I can’t let it slip away from me. I won’t. Not without a fight.
Madame Henri blinks a few times. Then she looks at her husband. He arches his eyebrows.
“Well,” Monsieur Henri says. “In that case… I think we have to sell the building to Elizabeth. Do you not agree, chérie?”
Madame Henri’s face breaks into an enormous smile.
“I agree,” she says.
Which is how, a half hour later, I end up drinking champagne in the noonday sun with Madame Henri in her back garden, while the birds chirp all around us, and her husband shows Chaz, who’s returned from his odyssey at the mall, how to play pétanque—a sport at which, it soon becomes apparent, he excels…
Almost as much as he excels in coaching me in how to get my former bosses to sell me their place of business.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
It’s important to remember that many of the most sumptuous and expensive weddings in history didn’t always lead to romantic bliss. Look at Henry VIII and his many wives; Prince Charles and Princess Diana; and of course the always optimistic but unlucky in love Miss Elizabeth Taylor.
No matter how large or small your wedding, what’s crucial is that you’re marrying the right person, someone who loves you for who you are, not whether or not you can provide him with a male heir, how much money you have, or whether or not you look good in a bathing suit. Love is a many-splendored thing, it’s true. But there is nothing more important than making sure your life partner is someone who can make you laugh when you are feeling down, will bring you cinnamon toast when you’re feeling sick, and is willing to share the remote.
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
When the guests are gone, the gifts all unwrapped and put away, and the last thank-you note finally written, you might feel the tiniest bit depressed. This is normal! After all, you’ve just been through the most joyous time of your life—your (hopefully) only wedding! It’s natural that you feel a little sad it’s all over. But keep in mind you’re about to embark upon the most wonderful and joyous journey ever… married life!
Still, it’s okay to put your wedding gown on every now and then… even just to watch TV. Everybody does it.
Really.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 25 •
He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such a she;
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
William Shakespeare (1564–1616), English poet and playwright
Six months later
“Oh, you make the most beautiful bride ever!”
“No, I don’t,” Tiffany assures me. “I look fat.”
“Tiffany,” I say severely. “You’re four months’ pregnant. You’re supposed to look fat.”
“Is it odd that that still frightens me?” Monique asks no one in particular. “The fact that Tiffany is going to be a mum, I mean? Does it frighten anyone else?”
Shari raises her hand, along w
ith Sylvia and Marisol.
Tiffany glares at them. “I hate all of you,” she says.
“What’s nice about the fact that Tiffany is going to be a mum,” Monique goes on, “is that it’s turned her into such a sweet, caring person.”
“This gown is what’s making me look fat,” Tiffany says to her reflection in the gilt-framed full-length mirror in front of her.
“No, it isn’t,” I say indignantly, offended. “You’re pregnant. That’s what’s making you fat.”
“This is a fat dress,” Tiffany says, pouting. “You designed a fucking fat dress for my fucking wedding.”
“You know what’s awesome,” Shari says, slipping a Milk Dud into her mouth from the box she’s brought into the shop for the show she’s been anticipating for days. “When brides swear. Especially pregnant brides.”
Sylvia and Marisol making tsk-tsking noises and fuss over Tiffany, foofing out the train of the exquisite—and completely nonfat—original gown I’ve designed for her.
“I did not design a fat dress for you, Tiffany,” I say, restraining myself with an effort from strangling her. “And that’s not a very nice thing to say to the person who is responsible for paying you enough so you can work part-time for me and finally quit that job you hated at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn.”
Tiffany just glares at my reflection. “So? I’m just going to quit working for you in five months so I can stay home with Raoul Junior.”
