by Meg Cabot
“I totally understand,” Luke says, his grip on my wrists even firmer now that I’ve dropped my hands from my face. He’s essentially holding them in his big warm hands. And it feels nice. Really nice. “You have my complete and total word. I won’t say a thing. Your blow job is totally safe with me.”
“Ack!” I cry. “I mean it! Don’t mention those words again!”
“What words?” he asks. Now his dark eyes are as lit up as the smattering of stars I see winking down at us, like sequins on a blue cashmere sweater set. “Blow job?”
“Stop it,” I say, and let myself sway toward him.
Just in case, you know, he wants to kiss me.
Because I’m starting to realize that the fact that Luke is Jean-Luc is hardly what anyone can call bad news. Considering that now I don’t have to worry about getting hold of Shari. And about where I’m going to stay tonight.
Not to mention the fact that he’s the nicest, hottest guy I’ve met in a really long time. Who doesn’t have an addiction to Texas Hold’em…that I know of, anyway.
And that he seems to like me.
And that I’m going to be spending the rest of the summer with him.
And that he’s holding my hands.
Suddenly things are looking up. Way up.
“So,” Luke says, “am I forgiven?”
“You’re forgiven,” I say. I can’t help smiling up at him like the moron he claims I’m not. He’s just so…cute.
And not just cute, either. He’s nice, too. I mean, he bought me dinner.
And he was totally sympathetic when I was crying like a maniac.
Plus he’s an investment banker. He’s working hard to…protect rich people’s money. Or something.
And he made me laugh instead of cry after I got off the phone with Andy.
And I’m going to be with him. All summer. All-
“Good,” Luke says. “Because I’d hate for you to think you were wrong. You know, about my character assessment. The one you made based on my clothes.”
“I don’t think,” I say, lowering my gaze to the opening of his shirt, where I see a few promising-looking chest hairs poking out, “that I’m wrong.”
“Good,” he says again. “I think you’re really going to like Mirac.”
I know I’m going to like it, I think-but for once restrain myself from saying out loud-if you’re there, Luke.
“Thanks,” I say. And wonder if he’s going to kiss me now.
And then we both hear a car coming and Luke says, “Oh, great. Here’s our ride.” And abruptly drops my wrists.
And an ancient butter-yellow convertible Mercedes pulls into the parking lot, driven by a honey-colored blonde who calls out in a French accent, “Sorry I’m late, cheri!”
And I know, even before he hurries down to kiss her, who she is.
His girlfriend.
It so figures.
Women were not the only ones who were interested in showing off their figures in the early 1800s. This period saw the introduction of the “dandy,” followers of the fashion icon George “Beau” Brummell, a gentleman who insisted his trousers fit tightly as a second skin and could not abide a wrinkle in his waistcoat. A dandy’s neckwear consisted of a collar so high he could not turn his head from side to side.
It is not known how many gentlemen met their deaths from stepping out in front of oncoming carriages they failed to see.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
12
Gossip is the opiate of the oppressed.
– Erica Jong (1942-), U.S. educator and author
Because of course he has a girlfriend. He’s way too fabulous not to-that little keeping-his-true-identity-a-secret-from-me thing aside.
The thing is, she seems really nice. She’s definitely gorgeous, with all that hair and her slim tanned shoulders and long, equally tanned legs. She’s wearing a very simple black tank top and a longish peasant skirt (new, not vintage, and expensive-looking, too) with jeweled flip-flops. She’s definitely in vacation mode.
Although my fashion radar may be off, because Dominique Desautels-that’s her name-like Andy, is foreign. She’s Canadian. French Canadian. She works at the same investment banking company in Houston that Luke does.
And they’ve been going out for six months.
At least that’s what I’m able to gather from my careful questioning of them both from the backseat of the Mercedes before my voice dies.
Because it’s very hard to concentrate on gathering information about the two of them when we’re whizzing past such beautiful scenery. The sun has set, but the moon’s rising, so I can still make out enormous oaks, their branches twisting across the road to make a sort of canopy of leaves above us. We’re careening down a twisting two-lane country road that winds alongside a wide, burbling river. It’s hard to tell, judging by the scenery, where, exactly, we are.
Or even when we are. Judging by the lack of telephone poles and streetlights, this could be any century, not just the twenty-first. We even pass an old-fashioned mill-a mill! With one of those big paddle wheels on the side of it!-with a thatched roof and beautiful garden.
There are electric lights on in the windows of the mill, though, indicating that this isn’t the 1800s.
Still, I see a family in there, sitting down to dinner.
In a millhouse!
It’s very hard to remember that I am depressed about my boyfriend turning out to have a gambling problem when the scenery whizzing past me is so picturesque.
Then we pass out from beneath the canopy of trees and I see towering cliffs above us, with castles on top of them, and Luke explains that this area of France (known as the Dordogne, after the river) is famous for its castles, having over a thousand of them, as well as for its caves, on the walls of some of which are paintings dating back to 15,000 BCE.
Then Dominique adds that Perigord, which is the part of the Dordogne we are in, is also known for its black truffles and foie gras. I am barely listening, though. It’s hard not to be distracted by the sight of a set of high-fortified walls-Luke says they belong to the ancient medieval village of Sarlat, and that we can go there to shop if I want to.
Shop! They couldn’t possibly have a vintage store there. But maybe a thrift shop…God, could you imagine the finds just waiting for someone like me? Givenchy, Dior, Chanel…who KNOWS?
Then we turn off the road onto what appears to be a very steep gravel-covered mountain track, barely wide enough for the car to pass. Branches, in fact, are whipping the side of it-and nearly me, as well, until I move into the middle of the backseat.
Dominique notices when I move and says, “You’ve got to get the men to trim that back before your mother gets here, Jean-Luc. You know how she is.”
Luke says, “I know, I know,” and then, to me, says, “You all right back there?”
“I’m good,” I say, clutching the back of the seats in front of me. I am being bounced around quite a bit. The driveway-if that’s what it is-needs some maintenance.
And then, just when I think the shuddering car can’t take it anymore-and am starting to wonder if we’ll ever reach the top of this hill, or if tree limbs are going to whip our heads off first-we burst through the last of the trees onto a wide, grassy plateau overlooking the valley below. Bright torches line the driveway, leading up to what appears to be-if my eyes are not deceiving me-the same house Mr. Darcy lived in in the A amp;E version of Pride and Prejudice.
Only this mansion is bigger. And more elegant-looking. With more outbuildings.
And it has electric light, which is making what looks like hundreds of windows blaze brightly against the blue satin sky. Arcing out from the circular driveway is a wide lawn dotted with huge, elegant oak trees, a massive swimming pool-lit up and gleaming like a sapphire in the night-and a scattering of white wrought-iron lawn furniture.
It is the most perfect place for a wedding that I have ever seen. The entire well-manicured lawn is
fenced in with a low stone wall. All I can see beyond the wall, which appears to drop off into thin air, is a vast expanse of moonlit trees, far below, and then, off in the distance, another cliff like the one we’re on, topped by a chateau that could be a sister to this one, its own lights blazing in the night sky.
It is breathtaking. Literally. I find I’ve stopped breathing, gazing at it all.
Luke pulls the car into the circular driveway and switches the motor off. All I can hear is crickets.
“Well?” he says, turning around in his seat. “What do you think?”
I am, for the first time in my life, speechless. It is an historic occasion, but Luke doesn’t even know it.
The crickets sound very loud in the silence that follows Luke’s question. I still can’t breathe.
“Yes,” Dominique says, getting out of the car and heading toward the chateau’s massive oak doors, the garment bag with the wedding gown in it in both her hands. “It tends to have that effect on people. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
Pretty? Pretty? That’s like calling the Grand Canyon big.
“It’s,” I say, not finally finding my voice until Dominique has gone inside and Luke is helping me pull my suitcases from the trunk, “the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
“Really?” Luke looks down at me, his dark eyes hooded in the moonlight. “Do you think so?”
He keeps saying he’s bad at telling jokes. But he has to be kidding me. There can’t be any more beautiful place on the entire planet.
“Completely,” I say, though even that seems like a total understatement.
And then I hear familiar voices from the grassy terrace overlooking the valley.
“Is that Monsieur de Villiers, returned from Paris?” Chaz, striding out from the shadows of one of the massive trees, demands. “Why, yes, it is. And who is that with him?”
Then, midway across the circular drive, Chaz stops, recognizing me. It’s hard to tell, with the moon at his back-and the bill of his University of Michigan baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, as always-but I think he’s smiling.
“Well, well, well,” he says in a pleased way. “Look what the cat drug in.”
“What?” And Shari appears behind him. “Oh, hi, Luke. Did you get the-”
Then her voice trails off. And a second later she shrieks, “LIZZIE? IS THAT YOU?”
Then she’s leaping across the driveway and all over me, and shouting, “You came! You came! I can’t believe you came! How did you get here? Luke, where did you find her?”
“On the train,” Luke says, smiling at the panicky look I throw him over Shari’s shoulder as she’s hugging me.
But he doesn’t elaborate. Just like I’d asked him not to.
“But that’s amazing,” Shari cries. “I mean, that you two, of all people, would run into each other-”
“Not really,” Chaz says mildly. “I mean, considering they were probably the only two Americans heading for Souillac-”
“Oh, not another one of your philosophical speeches on the nature of randomness,” Shari says to Chaz. “PLEASE.” To me, she cries, “But why didn’t you call? We’d have met you at the station.”
“I did call,” I say. “About a hundred times. But I kept getting your voice mail.”
“That’s impossible,” Shari says, pulling her cell phone out of the pocket of her shorts. “I have my…Oh.” She squints at the screen in the moonlight. “I forgot to turn it on this morning.”
“I figured you’d dropped it in the toilet,” I said.
“Not this time,” Chaz says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders to give me a quick welcoming hug. As he does so, he whispers, “Is there anybody back in England that I have to beat up? Because, with God as my witness, I’ll go over there and kick his scrawny naked ass for you. Just say the word.”
“No,” I assure him, laughing a little painfully. “It’s okay. Really. It’s as much my fault as it is his. I should have listened to you. You were right. You’re always right.”
“Not always,” Chaz says, dropping his arm. “It’s just that the times I’m wrong don’t register in your memory with as much clarity as the times I’m right. Still, go right ahead thinking I’m always right if you want to.”
“Cut it out, Chaz,” Shari says. “Who cares about what happened in England, anyway? She’s here now. It’s okay if she stays, right, Luke?”
“I don’t know,” Luke says teasingly. “Can she pull her weight? We don’t need any more slackers around here. We’ve already got this one.” He slaps Chaz on the shoulder.
“Hey,” Chaz says, “I’m helping out. I’m testing all the alcohol for purity and freshness before Luke’s mom gets here.”
Shari shakes her head at her boyfriend and says, “You’re insufferable.” To Luke, she says, “Lizzie’s superhandy. Well, with a needle. If you’ve got any seamstressy stuff to do…”
Luke seems surprised to learn that I can actually sew. Most people are. It’s not something many people know how to do anymore.
“I just might,” he says. “I’ll check with, ahem, Mom when she gets here tomorrow. But right now I think we have more pressing concerns-helping Chaz with the alcohol testing.”
“This way, ladies,” Chaz says, indicating, with a courtly bow, the path to the outdoor bar he’s apparently set up, “and gentleman.”
Shari and I follow the guys into the cool, slightly damp grass. As we get closer to the low stone wall, I glance over it and see the valley stretched below, the river-just as Chaz promised-winking in the moonlight like a long, silver snake. It is so beautiful my throat catches. I feel as if I am in a daze. Or a dream.
And I am not the only one.
“I can’t believe this,” Shari whispers, still hanging on to my arm. “What happened? I know I was pretty drunk last time I talked to you, but I thought you said you were going to try to work things out with Andy.”
“Yeah,” I whisper back. “Well, I did try. But then I found out-well, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime when”-I nod my head in Luke and Chaz’s direction-“they’re not around.”
Although of course Luke already knows most of it.
Well, okay. All of it.
And I do mean all.
“Was it bad?” Shari asks, concern creasing her pretty face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Really. I wasn’t before, but…” I glance in Luke’s direction again. “Well, I had a very sympathetic shoulder to cry on.”
Shari’s dark-eyed gaze follows mine. I see her eyebrows go up beneath her curly bangs. I wonder what she’s thinking. Not, I hope, Oh, poor little Lizzie, in love with a guy so out of her league.
Because I’m not. In love with him, I mean.
But all she says is, “Well, I’m glad about that. So your heart’s not broken?”
“You know,” I say thoughtfully, “I don’t think it is. A little bruised, is all. Is it really all right that I’m here? What’s Chaz talking about, Luke’s mom coming tomorrow?”
Shari grimaces. “Luke’s mom and dad are getting divorced, but apparently she-Mrs. de Villiers-promised her niece a long time ago that she could get married at Mirac. So she-Mrs. de Villiers, I mean-is arriving tomorrow, with her sister, the niece, the groom-the whole family. It should be a helluva party. Especially considering Luke’s parents are barely speaking, and he’s caught up in the middle of the whole thing. According to Chaz, Luke’s mom is some kind of battle-ax.”
I wince, remembering Dominique’s warning about Luke needing to get the brush along the driveway cleared before his mom’s arrival.
“So they won’t want me here,” I whisper, to make sure Luke doesn’t overhear us. I say they, but I mean Luke, of course. “I mean, I don’t want to crash-”
“Lizzie, it’s totally okay,” Shari says. “This place is huge, and there’s plenty of room. Even with Luke’s entire extended family here, there are rooms to spare. And there’ll be plenty to do. It’s actually good you’re h
ere. We could use the help. Apparently this niece-Luke’s cousin, Vicky-is some kind of Texas socialite. She already browbeat Luke into making the trip to Paris and back just to pick up her dress from the fancy Parisian seamstress who made it, and she’s not even here yet. Plus, she’s apparently invited half of Houston for this wedding, including her brother’s garage band, who just got some kind of recording contract and are supposed to be the Next Hot Thing. So it’s not exactly going to be intimate.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, good. Because I really couldn’t think what else to do other than come here. I couldn’t go home-”
“Of course you couldn’t,” Shari says, sounding horrified. “Your sisters would have had a field day!”
“I know,” I say. “So I just figured…well, you’d said it was okay to come here-”
“I’m so glad you did. I mean, look at the two of them.” She nods toward her boyfriend and Luke, who’ve drifted over to one of the wrought-iron tables and are mixing up some kind of concoction in fluted champagne glasses. “They’re like long-lost twins. All they do is yak, yak, yak about everything under the sun-Nietzsche, Tiger Woods, beer, the probability of coincident birth dates, the good old days at prep school. I’ve been feeling like a total third wheel.” She puts her arm around me. “But now I’ve got my own friend to yak with.”
“Well,” I say with a grin, “you know I’m always good for a bit of yaking. But what about Luke’s girlfriend, Dominique? You can’t yak with her?”
Shari makes a face. “Sure. If you want to yak about Dominique.”
“Oh,” I say. “I sort of got the idea, what with the flip-flops.”
“Really?” Shari looks interested. She’s always valued my fashion analyses. “They give you a bad vibe?”
“No,” I say hastily. “Nothing like that. Just sort of like she’s trying too hard. But then she’s Canadian. I think my radar is off when it comes to foreigners.”
