by Meg Cabot
Soon it seems the entire chateau is under attack by what appears to be the upper crust of Houston society, stylishly clad matrons with their navy-blue-blazer-wearing husbands in tow, with whom Dominique mingles and laughs.
These Houstonians, in turn, raise their eyebrows at the arrival of the remaining members of Satan’s Shadow, who show up in an extremely disreputable-looking van and are greeted by Blaine with their signature Satanic cry, which involves tipping back the head and ululating (which causes Vicky to run inside, screaming, “Mo-o-o-om!” and Shari, as she helps me spread a tablecloth over the last of the twenty-five or so tables on the lawn, to shake her head and go, “God, am I glad I’m an only child”).
I’m happy when the staff from the restaurant takes over and begins setting the tables. This leaves us free to run inside to change before the cocktails are served-a necessity since we’re going to be manning the bar for the event, opening the bottles of wine and champagne Monsieur de Villiers will be supplying, and I personally don’t want to gross anyone out with my sweat stains. I don’t exactly have the most experience opening wine bottles, either, so I’m suspecting the evening should be pretty interesting, on the whole.
I’m just coming back down the stairs, feeling refreshed and semi-presentable in a black sleeveless Anne Fogarty linen dress, when I nearly collide with a group of people coming up the stairs, led by Luke, who is hauling a couple of really heavy-looking suitcases.
“I’m telling you, son,” a portly bald gentleman in khaki pants and a black polo shirt is saying to Luke. “It’s an opportunity you can’t afford to miss. You were the first person I thought of when I heard.”
Behind the balding man hovers Ginny Thibodaux, looking flustered.
“Gerald,” she says, “did you hear me? I said I think Blaine’s smoking again. I could swear I smelled cigarettes on him just now. That funny foreign kind he and all his friends like so much…”
Behind Mrs. Thibodaux, Vicky is saying, “Mom, you have got to talk to him. Now he’s saying his stupid band won’t play covers. Mom, he swore they’d play covers. Now he’s saying they’re only doing their songs. How am I supposed to have my father-daughter dance to some song called ‘Cheetah Whip’?”
“I don’t know, dear,” Mrs. Thibodaux says. “Your brother just hasn’t been the same since that Nancy left him. I wish he’d meet a nice girl. Wouldn’t any of your friends-”
“Jesus, Mom. Would you worry about something that actually matters for a change? What are we going to do about the fact that he won’t play any covers? Craig and I are not having our first dance as a married couple to a song called ‘I Wanna Bang Your Box’…”
“Well, hello,” Luke says with a grin as I make room for him and the Thibodauxes to pass me. “Don’t you look nice.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking carefully at the bald man. This, I assume, is Vicky’s long-awaited dad.
“Think about it, son,” Mr. Thibodaux is saying eagerly to Luke. “It’s a tremendous opportunity.”
Luke says, “Thanks, Uncle Gerald,” with a wink at me, and continues up the stairs, with the Thibodauxes trailing along after him, still talking a mile a minute, and none of them listening to the other. Hurrying the rest of the way down the stairs, I find Mrs. de Villiers and Dominique in the foyer having a little tete-a-tete of their own…
But not in voices low enough for me not to overhear what they’re saying.
“-opening a branch in Paris,” Dominique is going on excitedly. “Gerald says he thought of Jean-Luc immediately. It’s an incredible offer. Far more responsibility-and money-than Jean-Luc is getting at Lazard Freres. Thibodaux, Davies, and Stern is one of the most exclusive private-client investment companies in the world!”
“I’m familiar with my brother-in-law’s company,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a hint of irony in her voice. “What I’m not so sure of is just when Luke decided he wanted to move to Paris.”
“Are you joking?” Dominique asks. “It’s always been our dream!”
I am rooted to the spot by the words. Our dream.
And then Dominique is racing excitedly up the stairs after Luke, barely acknowledging me as she hurries past, except to give me a tight little smile.
So Luke’s uncle has offered him a job. An investment banking job. In Paris. For a lot more money than he’s making now.
It’s ridiculous that I should feel so physically affected by the news. I mean, I only met Luke two days ago. All I have is a tiny crush on him. Just a crush. That thing in the car this morning-that thing I thought I felt pass between us…that was probably just my undying gratitude to him for buying me that six-pack of diet Coke. That’s all.
But there’s no denying that a lump has formed in my throat. Paris! He can’t move to Paris! It’s bad enough that he lives in Houston! But a whole ocean away from me? No.
What am I thinking? What’s wrong with me? It’s none of my business. None of my business.
I tell myself that firmly as I come the rest of the way down the stairs…
…and find that Mrs. de Villiers has sunk onto one of the velvet couches in the foyer and is looking perturbed. She smiles briefly when she sees me, then continues to look troubled, lost in her own thoughts.
I start to walk by. I know I’m probably wanted outside. I can hear the murmur of all the guests gathering on the lawn for aperitifs. I’m sure there are champagne bottles that need uncorking. And I did, after all, promise to help.
But suddenly I’m wondering if there’s someone else I need to help first. Maybe this is my business. I mean, why else was it that Luke and I ended up sitting next to each other on that train? Granted, there were no other seats available. But why were there no other seats available?
Maybe because I was supposed to sit by him. So that I can do what I’m doing now.
Which is save him.
And so, before I can change my mind, I turn around and come back to where Mrs. de Villiers is sitting.
Seeing me standing in front of her, Luke’s mother looks up.
“Yes, dear?” she says with a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name…”
“Lizzie,” I say. My heart has begun beating very hard within my chest. I can’t believe I’m doing what I’m about to do. But on the other hand, I feel it’s my duty, as lead anchor of the Lizzie Broadcasting System. “Lizzie Nichols. I couldn’t help overhearing what Dominique told you just now”-I nod my head toward the stairs Dominique has just taken-“and I just wanted to say, strictly between you and me, that I’m not sure it’s entirely true.”
Mrs. de Villiers blinks. She really is a very attractive woman. I can totally see why Monsieur de Villiers fell so much in love with her and is so depressed about her not feeling the same way about him.
“What’s not entirely true, honey?” she asks me.
“About Luke, wanting to move to Paris,” I say in a rush, to get it all out before someone interrupts us. Or I come to my senses. “I know Dominique wants to move there, but I’m not so sure Luke does. In fact, he’s playing with the idea of going to medical school. He’s already applied to a program at NYU and gotten in. He hasn’t told anyone, I guess-anyone but me-because he’s not sure it’s what he wants to do. But I personally think if he doesn’t go, he’ll always regret it. He told me he used to dream of being a doctor, but that he couldn’t imagine going to school for four more years-well, five, counting the program he’d have to take to get all the science credits he’d need before he can even start…”
My voice trails off as I realize, from her stunned expression, how stupid what I’m saying must sound to her.
“Medical school?” Mrs. de Villiers’s eyes are lined in pale blue. It brings out the green in her hazel eyes. The green is even more noticeable when she widens her eyes at me, which she does now.
“Luke always did want to be a doctor when he was a little boy,” she says in a breathy, excited way. “He was forever bringing home sick and injured animals to try to cure, both here and
back in Houston…”
“I think medicine is really what he would have preferred to go into,” I say, nodding eagerly. “But I don’t think converting Mirac into a place for plastic surgery patients to recover from their liposuction is necessarily a substitute for-”
“What?” A look of horror crosses Luke’s mother’s face.
Oh. No. Please don’t tell me I’ve done it again.
But it’s clear from the look on Mrs. de Villiers’s face that I have. She looks as shocked as if I’d just told her that Jimmy Choo doesn’t design the shoes with his name on them anymore. Which he doesn’t.
Okay. So the lipo thing isn’t something Dominique has run by Luke’s parents yet.
“Um,” I say. This is definitely not what I’d intended when I approached Luke’s mom. I had never meant to rat out Dominique. All I’d wanted to do was let Mrs. de Villiers know that her son had a secret dream…a dream that, now that I think about it, he’d probably meant to stay secret. But, of course, I’d blown that.
“I’m just…I mean-if the vineyard really isn’t doing all that well,” I stammer, trying to change the subject, “I was thinking that a better alternative might be to rent Mirac out to people-rich people, obviously-who want a nice chateau to vacation in for a month, or maybe for a family or college reunion or something…”
“Plastic surgery?” Mrs. de Villiers repeats, in a stunned tone not unlike the one Luke had employed when I’d mentioned Dominique’s idea to him. I can see that my attempt to change the subject hadn’t gone over too well. “Who on earth ever suggested-”
“No one,” I assure her quickly. “It was just an idea I heard being kicked around-”
“By whom?” Mrs. de Villiers wants to know, still looking horrified.
“You know what,” I say, wanting to die. “I think I hear my friend Shari calling. I have to go-”
And then I do just that, jumping up and darting out of the house just as quickly as I can.
I’m dead. I’m so dead. I can’t believe I did that. Why did I do that? Why did I open my big mouth? Especially about something that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. NOTHING. God, I’m such an idiot.
My cheeks flaming scarlet, I hurry across the lawn to where Chaz is already manning the bar (a long folding table covered with a white cloth). There is a long line of thirsty Houstonians, eager for their first cocktail of the day, in front of him.
“There you are,” Chaz says when he sees me. He seems to notice neither my flaming cheeks nor my advanced state of nervous paranoia. “Thank God. Start cracking open some of those champagne bottles. Where’s Shari?”
“I thought she was out here with you,” I say, reaching for a bottle with trembling fingers.
“What, she’s still inside changing?” Chaz shakes his head, then looks at the frat-boy type standing in front of him. “What can I get for you?”
“Stoli on the rocks,” Frat Boy says.
“Sorry,” Chaz says. “Beer and wine only, man.”
“What the fuck?” cries Frat Boy.
Chaz levels him with a look. “You’re on a vineyard, pal. What did you expect?”
“Fine.” Frat Boy is sulking. “Beer, then.”
Chaz all but throws a bottle at him, then looks at me. I’ve gotten the little metal cage off the champagne bottle, but the cork is eluding me. I don’t want it to pop off and hit anyone.
Why did I tell Mrs. de Villiers that Luke wants to be a doctor? Why did I let slip that thing about the lipo? Why am I physically incapable of keeping my mouth shut?
“Use a napkin,” Chaz says, throwing me one.
I give him a blank look. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Am I drooling now, on top of everything else?
“To pull the cork,” Chaz says impatiently.
Oh! Looking down, I wrap the napkin around the cork and pull-and it comes out easily, with a gentle pop, and no bodily harm to anyone.
Sweet. Okay. So there’s one thing I can do right, anyway.
I am totally getting the hang of this. Chaz and I have a nice little rhythm going…that is, until Shari suddenly appears.
“Where have you been?” Chaz wants to know.
Shari ignores him. It’s only then that I notice her eyes are blazing. And that she’s staring straight at me.
“So just when,” Shari demands, “were you going to tell me you didn’t actually graduate yet, huh, Lizzie?”
The dawning of World War I found women’s fashion going through a change almost as hot as the political climate. Corsets were abandoned as waistlines dropped and hemlines rose, sometimes to ankle length. For the first time in modern history, it became stylish not to have a bustline. Small-breasted women everywhere rejoiced as their more endowed sisters were forced to purchase chest “flatteners” in order to fit into the most popular fashions.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
20
If you can’t say something good about someone,
sit right here by me.
– Alice Roosevelt Longworth (1884-1980), U.S. author and wit
Ican’t believe he told. I trusted him and he completely betrayed me!
“I…I was going to tell you,” I say to Shari.
“Kir royale, please,” says a woman who looks as if she might be regretting her decision to wear long sleeves in such warm weather.
“When?” Shari demands.
“You know,” I say, pouring a glass of champagne for the woman, then adding a splash of cassis. “Soon. I mean, I only just found out myself! How was I supposed to know I had to write a thesis?”
“If you paid a little more attention,” Shari says, “to your studies, and a little less to clothes and a certain Englishman, you might have realized it.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, passing the woman her kir royale and only splashing a little of it down on her hand. “My field of study is clothes.”
“You’re impossible,” Shari spits. “How are you going to move to New York City with Chaz and me if you don’t even have a degree?”
“I never said I was going to move to New York with you and Chaz!”
“Well, you’re definitely not now,” Shari declares.
“Hey,” Chaz says, looking annoyed, “would you two cool it? We have a lot of Texans here who want their liquor and you’re holding up the line.”
Shari steps in front of me and says, “May I help you?” to the large woman I’d just been about to wait on.
“Hey,” I say, hurt. “That’s where I was standing.”
“Why don’t you go do something useful,” Shari says, “and go finish your thesis.”
“Shari, that’s not fair. I am finishing it. I’ve been working on it all-”
It’s right then that a shriek rends the stillness of the evening. It seems to be coming from the second floor of the house. It is followed by the words “No, no, no,” uttered at the unmistakably high decibel achieved by one person, and only one person, staying at Mirac:
Vicky Thibodaux.
Craig, who is standing in front of the table where we’re serving, glances at the house. Blaine, behind him in line, says, “Don’t do it, man. Don’t go. Whatever it is, you do not want to know.”
But Craig looks resigned.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, and starts toward the house.
“You’ll regret it,” Blaine calls after him. Then, to me, he says, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”
“Did it ever occur to you that there might be something seriously wrong?” Shari, who is clearly in no joking mood, asks him. It’s clear she’s not sharing Blaine’s unconcern-though she’s one of the few. Everyone else on the lawn, seemingly used to Vicky’s outbursts, is steadfastly ignoring what they’ve just heard.
“With my sister?” Blaine nods. “There’s been something seriously wrong with her since the day she was born. It’s called being a spoiled brat.”
It’s right then that Agnes comes running up to me,
out of breath and panting, and says, “Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle. They want you to come. You must come now.”
“Who wants me to come?” I ask in wonder.
“Madame Thibodaux,” Agnes replies. “And her daughter. In the house. They say it is an emergency…”
“All right,” I say, putting down my napkin. “I’ll come. But-” Then, stunned, I gasp. “Wait. Agnes, you spoke English!”
Agnes blanches, then realizes she’s been caught.
“Don’t tell Mademoiselle Desautels,” Agnes begs.
Chaz, amused, grins at her. “But if you speak English, why did you pretend you didn’t?”
Now Agnes, instead of being pale, is blushing.
“Because I do not like her,” she says with a shrug. “And my not understanding English annoys her very much. And I like to annoy her.”
Whoa.
“Um,” I say, “okay.” To Chaz and Shari, I say, “I’ll be back in a minute. Is that okay?”
Shari, her lips pressed into a thin line, refuses to comment. But Chaz, rapidly filling glasses, looks at me and says, “Go on. Agnes can take over for you. Can’t you, Agnes?”
“Oh yes,” Agnes says, and begins opening champagne bottles with the ease of someone who happens to be an old hand at it.
I don’t hesitate a moment longer. I race around the table and head for the house, relieved to be out from under Shari’s glare…but also furious that Luke told her. Why? Why did he say anything when only just this morning he promised he wouldn’t?
And okay, I may not exactly have kept his secret…
But his secret isn’t guaranteed to make anyone mad at him, the way mine was.
I should have known, of course. Men can’t be trusted to keep a secret. Well, okay, I can’t be trusted to keep one, either. But I thought Luke was different from other guys. I thought I could tell him anything…
Oh my God! What else did he tell Shari? Did he tell her about the you-know-what? No, surely not. If he had, she’d have said something. She wouldn’t have cared about shocking all those Daughters of the American Revolution. She’d have been like, “YOU GAVE ANDY A PITY BLOW JOB? ARE YOU INSANE?”
