by Meg Cabot
A sullen-looking young man lurking in the corner by a marble pillar says, “I didn’t know Craig had any friends.”
“Shut up, you retard,” Vicky hurls at him.
“Well,” declares the other blond middle-aged woman, “I know I could sure use a drink. Anybody with me on that one?”
“Here, Bibi.” Monsieur de Villiers is quick to move in with a tray of champagne flutes he’s had standing by, apparently in case of an emergency just like this one.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” says Luke’s mother, quickly taking hold of a glass. Nearly a head taller than her French soon-to-be-ex-husband (although maybe that’s just because her hair is so big), she is a striking woman in a brightly patterned Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that shows off her still-trim figure to advantage.
“Here, Ginny,” she says, taking another glass of champagne and handing it to her sister. “You need one of these even more than I do, I’ll bet.”
Vicky’s mother doesn’t even wait until everyone else is served before downing the contents of her glass. She looks like a woman on the verge of…well, something not very good.
Dominique, I see, has already made her way back downstairs and is standing at Mrs. de Villiers’s elbow, supervising the handing out of the champagne. When Monsieur de Villiers gets to Agnes, Dominique says something rather sharp in French and Luke’s dad looks startled.
“Oh, surely just a taste,” he says. “It’s my new demi-sec…”
Dominique looks disapproving.
But this apparently doesn’t bother Luke, who steps forward, plucks a champagne glass off the tray his father is holding, and hands it to Agnes, who looks surprised and thrilled.
“It’s a special occasion,” Luke says, seemingly to everyone in general. But I can’t help thinking his remark is directed at Dominique. “My cousin is here for her wedding. Everyone needs to be in on the celebration.”
I see Shari-changed out of her swimsuit into a neat white blouse and olive capris-exchange glances with Chaz, who’s also changed-into khakis and a clean polo shirt-since I last saw him. Her look seems to say, See? I told you so.
Told you so about what, though? What’s going on?
“Well,” Mrs. de Villiers says, holding up her glass, “let’s toast, then. To the bride and groom. Who isn’t here yet. The lucky bastard.” She throws back her head and laughs. “Just kidding.”
Then, having spied me when she threw her head back, Mrs. de Villiers adds, “Oops, Guillaume, one more. There’s one more comin’.” And Monsieur de Villiers turns, spots me coming down the stairs, and breaks into a wide grin.
“Ah, there she is,” he says, holding the last glass of champagne out to me. “Better late than never. And definitely worth waiting for.”
Blushing, I take the glass and say, speaking to the room in general, the way Luke had, “Hello. I’m Lizzie Nichols. Thank you so much for having me here,” as if I’d actually been an invited guest and not the complete party crasher that I am.
Then I stand there wishing something heavy would fall on my head and knock me unconscious.
“Lizzie, how do you do?” Mrs. de Villiers steps forward to shake my hand. “You must be the friend of Chaz’s I’ve been hearing about. So nice to meet you. Any friend of Chaz’s is a friend of ours. He was just so sweet to our Luke when he was at school. Always helping him get into trouble.”
I glance at Chaz, who is grinning. “I’m sure,” I say, “knowing Chaz.”
“Not true,” Chaz is saying. “Not true. Luke got into plenty of trouble on his own with no help from me.”
“This is my sister, Ginny Thibodaux, and her daughter Vicky,” Bibi de Villiers is saying as she steers me around the foyer to meet her family. Mrs. Thibodaux’s handshake, compared to her sister’s hearty one, is like holding a wet sponge, and Vicky’s is only a little better. “And this is Blaine, Vicky’s not-so-little-anymore brother-” Blaine’s handshake is a little better than his sister’s, but his face seems to be molded into a permanent sneer and he has a letter of the alphabet tattooed on each of his fingers. I can’t tell what they spell when seen in a row, though.
“Well,” Bibi says when she’s done introducing me, “here’s to the lovely couple.”
Then she polishes off her champagne. Fortunately, her husband is standing nearby with a new bottle, ready to freshen everybody’s glass.
“It’s good, no?” he’s asking eagerly of anyone who will reply. “The demi-sec? They don’t make many demi-secs anymore. Everyone is always clamoring for the bruts. But I think to myself, why not?”
“Way to think outside the box, Guillaume,” Chaz says amiably. I sidle over toward him and Shari and lean over to ask, “Do you have any idea what a demi-sec is?”
“Oh, hell, no,” Chaz says, just as amiably, and drains his glass. “Hey, I’ll take some more,” he says, hurrying after Luke’s father.
Shari looks up at me-she’s never gotten over being only five four, whereas I’ve never gotten over having a butt that’s twice as big as hers (until recently)-and says, “Where did you disappear to all afternoon? And how come you’re so dressed up?”
“Luke and his dad gave me a tour of the vineyard,” I say. “And I’m not dressed up. This dress got downgraded to everyday wear after Maggie got paint on it. Remember?”
“There’s no paint on it now,” Shari observes.
“Well, it was water-soluble. Nobody gives a four-year-old non-water-soluble paint. Not even my sister.”
“Whatever,” Shari says. She’s never understood my complicated wardrobe rules, though I’ve offered to explain them multiple times. “We’re invited to dinner tonight. It’ll just be the bride’s family, which is why. Groom’s family and the rest of the guests get here tomorrow. You up for helping out in the kitchen?”
“Totally,” I say, picturing me with a cute apron on, preparing spaghetti due for everyone.
“Great,” Shari says. “Agnes’s mother is making it. She’s supposed to be a fantastic cook. We’ll be on dish patrol. Let’s get nice and toasted to make it go faster.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I say, and follow her over to where Luke is standing, having taken over champagne-pouring duties from his dad, for refills.
“Ah,” Luke says when he notices me. “There she is. Nice dress.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You don’t clean up so badly yourself. Do you know if you have any cream of tartar in your kitchen?”
Shari chokes on the sip of champagne she’s just taken. Luke, however, calmly replies, “I have no idea. Tell me what cream of tartar would be called in French and I’ll ask.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re the Frenchman.”
“Half,” Luke says, casting a glance at his mother, who is throwing her head back and laughing at something else Chaz has said.
“Creme de tartre?” Shari suggests.
“I’ll ask,” Luke says, and goes to refill his aunt’s glass.
“What was that all about?” Shari wants to know when he’s out of earshot.
“Oh, nothing,” I say innocently. It’s kind of fun, I’m discovering, keeping secrets from her. It’s something I’ve never done before in my life.
But there are quite a few things I’ve never done before in my life that I’ve been trying lately. Some without success, but some…well, time would tell.
“Lizzie.” Shari narrows her eyes at me. “Is there something going on between you and Luke?”
“No! God, no.”
But I can’t help blushing, thinking about that near-kiss in the attic. And what about last night at the train station? Had Luke been about to kiss me then? Somehow I had sort of thought he might…if Dominique hadn’t showed up. Both times.
“He has a girlfriend,” I remind Shari, hoping saying it out loud will also help me remind myself. “Like I would ever make a move on a guy who has a girlfriend. Who do you think I am, anyway? Brianna Dunleavy?”
“No need to get huffy,” Shari says. “I was just asking
.”
“I’m not huffy,” I say, trying to sound very unhuffy. “Did I seem huffy? Because I didn’t mean to.”
“Whatever you say, psycho.” Shari shoots me an amused glance. “I’m gonna get another refill. Care to join me?”
I look in the direction she’s nodding toward. Luke is just opening a new bottle of his dad’s champagne. He happens to lift his head and see us looking at him from across the room. He smiles.
“Um,” I say. “Well, okay. Maybe one more.”
The mid-1870s saw something of a fashion revolution, thanks to the invention of the sewing machine and the introduction of synthetic dyes. While mass manufacturing meant inexpensive, stylish clothes were available to everyone, it also meant that, for the first time in recorded history, you could be walking down the street and actually see someone wearing your exact same outfit. The hoop skirt disappeared, transformed into the “bustle,” the last time it was stylish to look as if one had a big butt until the birth of J.Lo.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
17
Talk is a pure art. Its only limits are the patience of listeners who, when they get tired, can always pay for their coffee or change it with a friendly waiter and walk out.
– John Dos Passos (1896-1970),
U.S. novelist, poet, playwright, and painter
Dinner isn’t so much a meal as it is a war council.
That’s because Vicky and her mother want to make sure everything is ready for when the guests-and Vicky’s future husband and in-laws-start arriving tomorrow.
I guess I can understand their concern. I mean, you only have one wedding (hopefully). So you want to make sure you do it right.
Still, it would be nice if we could concentrate more on the food Agnes’s mother, Madame Laurent, has prepared for us than on Mrs. Thibodaux’s complaints about the bumpiness of the driveway.
Because this is possibly one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever had, starting with a creamy fish cassoulet (which means stew) with slices of apple in it as a starter; then duck caramelized in some kind of delicious sweet sauce; a salad of baby lettuce in a garlicky dressing; and an enormous cheese platter, all of it accompanied by huge chunks of perfectly baked bread-crunchy and golden on the outside, soft and warm in the middle-and a wine to go with each course, poured by Monsieur de Villiers, who tries to tell us about each glass we’re sampling but who keeps getting interrupted by Luke’s aunt Ginny, who says things like “Speaking of bouquet, has anyone talked to that florist over in Sarlat? She knows we changed to the white roses from the white lilies, right? What’s the French word for rose again?”
To which Luke replies dryly, “Rose,” causing some of the water I’ve just sipped to go up my nose, I start laughing so hard.
Fortunately he doesn’t notice-Luke, I mean-because he’s sitting all the way down at the opposite end of the enormous dining table-which Dominique informed me (on our way into the impressively high-ceilinged and dramatically decorated dining room) seats twenty-six-with his mother on one side and Dominique at the other. I’m at the other end, by Luke’s father, with the surly Blaine on my other side.
Not that I mind. Especially since I don’t even like Luke that way. Or so I am telling myself, now that Shari is on to me.
At least I got the opportunity to observe up close what the letters tattooed on Blaine’s fingers spell: F-U-C-K Y-O-U!
I think the exclamation mark is a nice touch. I imagine his mother must be very proud of him.
If she thinks anything about him at all, which seems unlikely given the amount of gushing she is doing over her daughter, who isn’t, to put it mildly, a very happy bride. Nothing, apparently, has been done right so far, and Vicky doesn’t seem to have much faith that anything is going to be done right in the future, despite protestations to the contrary from her mother, Luke, and even Monsieur de Villiers.
“Darlin’, I already called the hotel and the concierge assures me there’s plenty of space there for your sorority sisters. Or there will be tomorrow after some German tourists check out. At least”-Mrs. Thibodaux shoots her sister a look-“I think that’s what he said. It was hard to tell with that accent…”
“But why can’t Blaine’s friends stay in the hotel?” Vicky wants to know. “Why do mine have to? I’m the bride!”
“Blaine’s friends are in the wedding party,” her mother reminds her. “You’re the one who wanted them to play at the reception.”
“Huh,” Blaine, beside me, grunts as he stabs a piece of Camembert over and over with his butter knife. “Yeah, only after we landed that recording contract.”
“You guys aren’t celebrity recording artists yet,” Vicky hurls at him from the far end of the table. “I don’t see where you get off acting like one. Your stupid friends could stay in their VAN and not know the difference.”
“My stupid friends,” Blaine hurls back, “are the only remotely cool thing about your wedding, and you know it.”
“Um, excuse me. I think getting married at a French chateau is plenty cool enough,” Vicky snaps.
“Oh, right,” Blaine says, rolling his eyes. “Like having the hottest band on the Houston music scene right now play at your wedding isn’t something you’ve been bragging about to every publicist in town.”
“Would you two kindly shut the hell up?” their aunt Bibi asks in a voice I suspect is even more slurry than usual, thanks to all the champagne she put back earlier, while stonily ignoring her estranged husband, who continues to make every effort possible to sit or stand near her and include her in the conversation. It is kind of sad, actually, to watch how excited Monsieur de Villiers is to have his wife back-even if only temporarily and even if only for her niece’s wedding-and how totally unexcited she is to be back.
“Really, you two,” Mrs. Thibodaux says, looking close to tears, “now is not a time for bickering. It’s a time for pulling together, to try to weather this crisis as best we can.”
“Crisis?” Monsieur de Villiers looks confused. “What crisis? Victoria is getting married! How is this a crisis? It is a joyous occasion, no?”
Both Bibi and her sister look at him and say at the same time, “No.”
Vicky, after looking from one woman to the other, suddenly pushes her chair back, leaps to her feet, and runs from the dining room, a hand flung dramatically over her face.
Which is when Shari stands up and says, “On that note…thank you so much. We’ve had a lovely evening. And I’m pretty sure we’re all clear on what we’ll be needed to do tomorrow when the rest of your guests start arriving. But right now I think Lizzie and I will just get a head start on the dishes.”
“I’ll help you,” Chaz says, springing to his feet, obviously eager to get away from the fighting and talk of floral arrangements.
“Me, too,” Luke says.
But the minute he starts to get up, his mother lays a restraining hand upon his wrist and says, not slurring the word at all now, “Sit.”
Luke sinks slowly back into his chair, a pained expression on his face.
I start clearing the empty plates around my end of the table. I don’t think I can get out of that tense silence fast enough.
As I come into the high-ceilinged-but still old-fashioned-kitchen, I smile at Agnes and her mother when they look up from the supper they’re sharing at the massive butcher-block table.
“Ne pas se lever,” I say to them, not sure if this is the right way of saying “Don’t get up.” But I guess it is, since it has the desired effect-they both sit back down to finish their meal.
“Oh my God,” Shari says to me after smiling at the Laurents. “Oh my God. Oh my God. What was that out there?”
Chaz looks visibly shaken. “I feel violated,” he says.
“Oh, whatever,” I say, grabbing a trash can and beginning to scrape the remains on the plates off into it. “My own family is way more embarrassing.”
“Well,” Shari says, “I hadn’t thought of it
quite like that. But that is a good point.”
“Weddings are just stressful, you guys,” I say, reaching for the plates Chaz has carried in and scraping them as well. “I mean, the expectations are so high, and then if things don’t go perfectly, people melt down.”
“Sure,” Shari says. “Melt down. But not spontaneously combust. You know what her problem is, don’t you? Vicky’s, I mean?”
“She’s a Bridezilla?” Chaz asks.
“No,” Shari says. “She’s marrying beneath her.”
“Shut up,” I say, laughing.
“I’m serious,” Shari says. “Dominique was telling us all about it at the pool today after you left for your little vineyard tour, Lizzie. Vicky’s marrying some computer software programmer whose family all comes from Minnesota or something, instead of the rich Texas oil baron her mom had all picked out for her. Mrs. Thibodaux is fit to be tied about it, but there’s nothing she can do to change Vicky’s mind. It’s lurve.”
“Where’s Mr. Thibodaux in all this?” Chaz wants to know. “Vicky’s dad?”
“Oh, he has some big important meeting to go to in New York for his investment company or something. He’ll be here just in time to walk her down the aisle, and not a minute before, if he’s smart.” Shari hands Chaz a dish towel. “Here. I’ll rinse. You dry.”
“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty dishes to me,” Chaz says.
I gaze at the two of them as they bicker at each other over the sink, thinking how lucky they are to have found each other. It hasn’t all been funny one-liners and trips to France for them, of course. There was the time Shari had to kill and dissect Mr. Jingles, her university-assigned lab rat, in order to pass advanced behavioral neuroscience, and Chaz urged her to spare Mr. Jingles by surreptitiously replacing him with a look-alike rat he found at PetSmart in the mall.
But Shari wouldn’t swap rats because she said as a scientist she needed to learn how to distance herself from her subjects…after which Chaz wouldn’t speak to her for two weeks.
Still. Overall, they are the cutest couple I know. Besides my mom and dad.
