by Meg Cabot
“Okay,” I say, hurrying behind her to lift the four-foot train I’ve attached to the back of the gown. “This hooks up, you know, into a sort of drapy bustle off the back for when you’re dancing. I didn’t want it to get in your way. But I wanted you to have some presence, you know, because St. Patrick’s Cathedral is so huge—”
But she’s already tearing out of the back room and into the front of the shop, where her mother and the Henris are waiting.
“Mom!” Jill cries when she bursts through the curtain separating the shop from the back room. “Look!”
Mrs. Higgins chokes on the champagne she is in the act of swallowing. Madame Henri wallops her on the back a few times and the woman is finally able to recover enough to say, her eyes glistening as much as her daughter’s, “Oh, honey. You look gorgeous.”
“I do,” Jill says, sounding shocked. “I do, don’t I?”
“You really do,” Mrs. Higgins says, hurrying over to get a closer look. “That’s the dress she gave you? The old battle-axe—I mean, John’s mother?”
“This is the dress,” I say. I feel funny inside. I can’t really explain it. But it’s like a combination of excitement and joy at the same time. Really, the only appropriate way to describe it would be to say it feels like someone’s opened up a bottle of champagne—insideme. Or, as Tiffany would say, up my cootchy. “Obviously, I modified it a bit.”
“A bit!” Jill echoes with a giggle. Yes! A giggle! From Blubber! This is big.Really big.
“It’s just so lovely,” Mrs. Higgins coos. “She looks like… well, like a princess!”
“Speaking of which, we need to talk headpieces,” I say. “I was telling her she should wear her hair up, with just a few curly tendrils hanging down in back. So maybe a tiara isn’t a bad idea. I think it would look really pretty against her hair—”
But it’s clear no one is listening to me. The two Higgins ladies are staring at Jill’s reflection in the shop mirror, murmuring softly to each other, and giggling. To look at them, it would be hard to imagine that just weeks ago the bride had been weeping in a ladies’ room and often showed up for her fittings smelling of seal poo.
“Well,” Madame Henri says to me, when I walk over to join the couple, since it’s clear neither client nor her mother is listening to me. “You did it.”
“I did,” I say, still feeling a little bit dazed.
Then Madame Henri does something that surprises me. She reaches down and clasps my hand in hers. “For you,” she says with a smile.
Then Madame Henri slips something into my hand. I look down and see a check. With a lot of zeroes on it.
A thousand dollars!
When I look up again, I see that Monsieur Henri is looking embarrassed but pleased.
“Consider it your Christmas bonus,” he says in French.
Touched, I rush over to hug him—and his wife—spontaneously. “Thank you!” I cry. “You’re both just—fantastique!”
“So, you’re coming, right?” Jill asks me later as I’m carefully helping her out of the dress. “To the wedding, right? And the reception? You know you’re invited. You and a guest. You can bring that boyfriend of yours I’ve heard so much about.”
“Oh, Jill,” I say, smiling. “That is so sweet of you. I’d love to come. Only Luke won’t be able to make it. He’s going to France for the holidays.”
Jill looks confused. “Without you?”
I make sure my smile stays in place. “Sure. To visit his parents. But don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world.”
“Great,” Jill says. “So I know I’ll have at least one friend. Besides my family and the guys from the zoo, I mean.”
“I think you’ll be finding out soon that you have a lot more friends than you know,” I say, meaning it.
Walking home that night, I feel as if I’m floating on a cloud. The thousand-dollar check and wedding invitation are the least of it. The fact that she’d liked it—really liked it! — is all I can think about.
And she’d looked so good! Just like I’d known she would. Mrs. MacDowell was going to DIE when she saw Jill coming down the aisle. Just die. She had given her future daughter-in-law that dress to humiliate her, because she didn’t approve of her son’s choice.
Well, who was going to be humiliated now, when “Blubber” turned out to be the most beautiful bride of the season?
And I was going to be there to watch it all take place! Honestly, I have the best job in the entire world. Even, you know, if it doesn’t pay what you’d call a regular salary.
I’m still floating as I head into our building and up the elevator to our apartment. I’m still floating when I unlock the door and find Luke inside, with the Christmas tree’s lights lit, holding a bottle of wine and going, “There you are! Finally!”
“Oh, Luke!” I cry. “You won’t believe it. But she loved it. Absolutely loved it. And Monsieur and Madame Henri gave me a Christmas bonus, and Jill invited me to her wedding—too bad you’re going to miss it. But the important thing is, she really, really loved the dress. And she looked great in it, too. No one will be calling her ‘Blubber’ ever again.”
“That’s great, Lizzie!” Luke has poured us each a glass of wine. It’s only then that I realize the lights are off—all except the Christmas-tree lights and a few candles. He’s set up a cheese board and some bowls of snacks he knows I like—spicy nuts and candied orange peel. It’s so festive—and romantic.
Then he says, as he hands me one of the glasses of wine he’s poured, “I couldn’t have picked a more perfect gift for you then. Do you want to open it now?”
Couldn’t have picked a more perfect gift for me? Because everything else is going so perfectly and proposing to me will just make my evening that much better? That’s the only thing I can think of that he could mean.
“Of course I want to open it now,” I cry. “You know I’ve been dying to ever since you put it there!”
“Well, have at it,” Luke says. Which is a strange thing to say to someone you’re about to propose to under a Christmas tree. But whatever.
Taking my wineglass with me, I go to sit on the parquet beside my gift and wait until he’s seated by his.
“Do you want to go first?” I ask, thinking that my gift to him is really going to be a letdown after the tears of joy that are going to follow his to me. But he says, “No, you first. I’m so excited to see what you think,” so I shrug and dig in.
When I peel off the wrapping paper to find beneath it a giant box that says “Quantum-Futura CE-200” on it, I begin to lose my happy, floaty feeling. But when I see that the picture on the box is of a sewing machine, the floating feeling goes away entirely.
And when I look up questioningly and see Luke beaming at me from across his wineglass, not looking at all like he’s about to propose, I actually start feeling… well. Pretty bad.
“It’s a sewing machine!” he cries. “To replace the one my dad broke. But this one is way better than the one he kicked. The lady at the store said it’s the top of the line. You can do all sorts of embroidery and stuff with it. It comes with a minicomputer inside!”
I blink down at the gigantic box. An investment for my future. That’s what he’d said.
And that’s what he’d given me, all right.
And before I know what’s happening, I’m crying.
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
Weddings are supposed to be a happy time. That’s why no one, least of all the bride, ever wants to admit that sometimes—well, weddings just don’t happen. Maybe the groom gets cold feet. Maybe the bride does. Maybe the couple decides the timing isn’t right after all. Maybe a beloved family member passes away, making everyone uncomfortable with the idea of holding a celebration during a time of mourning. In any event, things happen.
That’s why the savvy bride purchases wedding insurance. Like travel insurance, wedding insurance will guarantee that you don’t lose the entirety of your deposits on things like venues,
cakes, photographers, food suppliers, wedding limos, flowers, honeymoon, even your gown…
It’s your wedding day—often the most important day of any girl’s life. Don’t you want the comfort of knowing that if something goes wrong, you won’t be out a fortune? You’ve already lost the guy… why lose your hard-earned money, too?
I advise all my clients to purchase wedding insurance… and you should, too.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 23
Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.
— Henry Fielding (1707–1754), English writer
“What’s the matter?” Luke cries, watching me break down. “What… did I get the wrong one? Why are you crying?”
“No—” I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m crying in front of him. I can’t believe I don’t have better control of myself. This is ridiculous. It’s not his fault. It’s my fault. I’m the one who got the ridiculous idea that when he said my gift was an investment for my future, that he meant… that he meant…
“That I meant what?” he asks bewilderedly.
And then, to my horror, I realize I’ve been speaking out loud. No! I’ve been so good! I’ve been so careful! I’ve laid out so many tiny bread crumbs for him to follow! I can’t bash him over the head with a mallet now. Not when he’s come so close—
“That you were giving me an engagement ring,” I hear myself sob, “and that you were going to ask me to marry you!”
There. I’ve done it. It’s out. It’s floating out in the universe now, for anyone to hear—even Luke.
And, just as I’d known, deep down—just as I’d always known, somehow, even before Shari and Chaz tried to warn me—he’s horrified.
“Marry you?” he bursts out. “Lizzie… I mean, you know I love you. But… we’ve only been going out for six months!”
Six months. Six years. It doesn’t make any difference. I realize that now. There are some woodland creatures that, no matter how many bread crumbs you leave out for them… no matter how patiently you wait… are never going to be yours. They’ll never let themselves be tamed. Because they prefer to run wild and free in the forest.
And that’s what Luke is. Everyone else could see it. Just not me. I’m the only idiot who refused to acknowledge the truth. That he’s happy to live with me now. But not forever. Six months. Six years. He’s never going to let himself get tied down.
At least not by me.
“I thought we were having fun,” Luke is saying. He appears to be genuinely upset. “I love living with you, it’s been great—but marriage. I mean, Lizzie, I can’t even see where I’m going to be next year, let alone four years from now, when I’m finished with medical school—if I even get into medical school! Which I don’t even know if I will! How can I ask you to marry me? How can I ask anyone to marry me? I’m not even sure—I mean, I can’t say for sure if I’ll ever get married. I don’t know if marriage is something that will ever even be on my radar.”
“Oh,” I say quietly.
Because what else can I say to this? Obviously, this is a conversation we ought to have had some time ago. I mean, if he isn’t even sure marriage is something he wants down the line… not just with me, but with anyone …
Except that maybe he might have realized it was something he wanted if I’d played it cooler. But of course now I’ve ruined everything by opening my big mouth. If I had just hung on for a bit longer…
But no. A year from now… two… he’ll still be saying the same thing. I can see that by the panic in his eyes. It’s completely different than what I see in John MacDowell’s eyes when he looks at Jill. Or even what I used to see in Chaz’s eyes when he looked at Shari.
How could I have been so blind? How could I not have seen that that look was never in Luke’s eyes?
“It’s okay,” I say gently. I’m so tired. So, so tired. I’ve been working so hard. And tomorrow I have to get on a plane and fly home.
Thank God. All I want, at that moment, is to be home and in my mother’s arms… the way Jill flew to her mother’s arms, only for a different reason. Jill’s was joyful.
Mine? Not so joyful.
“God, Lizzie,” Luke is saying. “I feel so terrible. If there was ever anything, anything I did to make you think—but I mean, you told me that thing, about how you want to open your own shop. So I just assumed you felt the same way. That marriage wasn’t even in the equation. Because supposing we get married and I get into medical school out in California? You’d have to give up the shop! You wouldn’t want to do that. Give up your business, for me? Of course not. Or supposing after I graduate, I get some job in like Vermont or something… Would you want to go to Vermont with me?”
The answer, of course, is yes. Yes, actually, I would. I would go anywhere, Luke. Anywhere. And give up anything. As long as we could be together.
But clearly he doesn’t feel this way about me.
“I just… ” Luke is going around, turning on the lights. I blink in the sudden brightness. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry. Oh God. I’ve really fucked everything up, haven’t I?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, and using the back of my wrist to dry the tears from my cheeks. “No, you haven’t. I’m sorry. I’m the silly one. I just have weddings on the brain, or something. A hazard of the profession. It’s just—”
“It’s just what?” he asks, coming up to me and putting his arms around my waist. “Lizzie—what can I do to make this right between us? Because I want to. I want to keep having fun, like we were—”
“Yeah,” I say. I’m about to shrug it off. Because what’s the point, really?
But somehow this time… I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe because of the joy I’d just seen on Jill’s face. Maybe because I’m realizing I’m not actually going to get to casually reply, when one of my sisters asks if that’s an engagement ring on my finger, “Why, yes. Yes, it is,” when I go home tomorrow. I don’t know.
But it’s time, I realize, to be honest. With Luke. And with myself.
“Fun’s great,” I say. “But, you know, Luke… I want to get married someday. I really do. And if you don’t… well, what’s the point of even being together? I mean, don’t you think it’d be better for us to break up, so we can get back out there and try to find the person we can picture a future with?”
“Hey,” Luke says, pressing his lips to my hair. “Hey, don’t talk like that. I didn’t say I can’t picture a future with you. I’m just saying that right now I can’t picture a future for myself—let alone with anyone else! So how can I presume to put you in it, as well… much as I might like to see you there?”
I rest my cheek against his chest. I can feel the crisp starch of his white button-down, and smell the light scent of the eau de cologne he wears as aftershave. It’s a smell I’ve come to associate with sex and laughter.
Until now.
“I know,” I say, gently pushing him away. “And I’m really sorry. But I have to go.”
And I turn and head into the bedroom, where my suitcase for tomorrow’s trip sits. The only thing I haven’t packed yet is my toiletries. I go into the bathroom to do that now.
“You’re kidding me with this, right?” Luke’s followed me. “This is a joke.”
“It’s not a joke,” I say, slipping my toothbrush and facial soap into my Luscious Lana toiletries bag. I can barely see what I’m doing, because my eyes are so filled with tears. Stupid eyes.
I brush past him to stuff my toiletry bag and cosmetics bag into my suitcase. Then I wrench up the little pull handle and begin dragging my bag to the door.
“Lizzie.” Luke darts in front of me. His expression is anxious. “What is the matter with you? I’ve never seen you like this—”
“What?” I demand, a little more sharply than I mean to. “You’ve never seen me angry before? You’re right. That’s because I’ve been trying to be on my best behavior with you, Luke. Because I’ve been trying to prove to you that I’m worthy of you. Worthy o
f being with a guy as great as you. It’s like… it’s like this apartment. This beautiful apartment. I’ve been trying to act like the kind of person who would live in a place like this… a place with a little Renoir girl on the wall. But you know what I figured out? I don’t want to be the kind of person who would live in a place like this. Because I don’t like the kind of people who live in places like this—people who cheat on their husbands and lead girls to believe they’ve got a future together when they don’t because they’re not interested in marriage, only in having fun. Because I think I’m worth more than that.”
Luke blinks at me. “Who’s cheating on their husband?” he asks, puzzled.
“Ask your mother who she met for lunch the day after Thanksgiving!” I say before I can stop myself. Inwardly, I groan. Okay, that’s it. I have to get out. Now. “Good-bye, Luke.”
But Luke doesn’t take the hint and get out of my way. Instead, he sets his jaw.
“Lizzie,” he says in a different tone from before. “You’re being ridiculous. It’s ten o’clock at night. Where do you even think you’re going?”
“What do you even care?” I demand.
“Lizzie. I care. You know I care. How can you just walk out like this?”
“Because,” I say. “I can’t do for now. I need forever. I deserve forever.”
I shove past him, unlock the door, and pull my suitcase out into the hallway, stopping only to grab my coat and purse along the way.
It’s sort of hard to make a super-dramatic exit like that, though, when you have to stand there and wait for the elevator to come. Luke leans in the doorway, staring at me.
“You know I’m not going to run after you,” he says.
I don’t say anything.
“And I’m leaving for France tomorrow,” he goes on.
I stare at the numbers above the door of the elevator as they light up, one by one. They’re a bit blurry, because of my unshed tears.
“Lizzie,” he says in his infuriatingly reasonable tone. “Where are you going to go, huh? You’re going to find a new place over Christmas vacation? This city shuts down the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Look, let’s just use this time apart to cool off a little, okay? Just… just be here when I get back. So we can talk. Okay?”
