by Meg Cabot
“But it is especially nice to see a young person with a passion for something,” he goes on. “Too many young people today—they care for nothing but making money!”
I glance nervously at Luke. Because of course if what Dominique said is true about Luke choosing a business degree over medicine, he is one of the “young people” his dad is talking about.
But Luke is showing no guilt that I can see.
“I’ll take you up into the attic if you really want to see it,” Luke volunteers. “But don’t get your hopes up that any of it’s in decent condition. We had a pretty bad leak last year and a lot of the stuff stored up there got ruined.”
“It’s not ruined,” Monsieur de Villiers says. “Just a little moldy, perhaps.”
But I’ll take moldy Lilly Pulitzer over no Lilly Pulitzer any day.
Luke must sense my eagerness since he says, with a laugh, “Okay. Let’s go.” To his father, he adds, “Don’t you think you’d better go inside and have some coffee? You might want to sober up before Mom gets here.”
“Your mother.” Monsieur de Villiers rolls his eyes. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”
Which is how a few minutes later, after thanking the elder Monsieur de Villiers profusely for the lovely tour and dropping him off in the château’s enormous—but, as Dominique mentioned, hardly high tech—kitchen, I find myself in the cobweb-filled attic with the younger Monsieur de Villiers, riffling through old trunks of clothes and trying unsuccessfully to contain my excitement.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim as I open the first trunk and find, beneath a bone china tea set, an Emilio Pucci slip skirt. “Whose stuff did your dad say this is? His mother’s?”
“There’s no telling, really,” Luke says. He’s examining the rafters above our heads, ostensibly for more leaks. “Some of these trunks have been here since well before I was born. The de Villiers, I’m sorry to say, are definite pack rats. Help yourself to whatever you like.”
“I couldn’t,” I say—even as I’m holding the skirt to my hips to see if it might fit. “I mean, this skirt right here? You could get two hundred bucks for it on eBay, easy.” Then I gasp and dive incredulously back into the trunk.
But it’s true. I’ve found the rarest of rare—Lilly Pulitzer’s elusive tiger-print housedress…with matching kerchief.
“Well, I’m not going to go to the trouble of selling it,” Luke is saying. “So it might as well go to someone who can appreciate it. Which, from the way things look, is you.”
“Seriously,” I say, bending down and finding what appears to be a wadded-up—but genuine—John Frederics blue velvet hat, “you have some great stuff in here, Luke. All it needs is a little TLC.”
“That’s a pretty good description”—Luke spins a wooden chair around and straddles it, backward, leaning his elbows on its back while he watches me—“for Mirac in general.”
“No,” I say, “this place is gorgeous. You guys have done a fantastic job of keeping it up all these years.”
“Well, it hasn’t been easy,” Luke says. “When the Crash came—in 1929—my grandfather lost nearly everything—including that year’s crop, to a blight. We had to sell off a lot of the land just to afford to pay the taxes on the place that year.”
“Really?” Suddenly the unopened trunks all around me aren’t nearly as interesting anymore. At least, not as interesting as what Luke is saying. “That’s amazing.”
“Then came the Nazi occupation—my grandfather avoided having SS officers housed in the place by claiming my father had contagious yellow fever…which he didn’t, but it tricked the Germans into going elsewhere. Still, the war years weren’t the best for winemaking.”
I sink down onto the top of a trunk next to the one I’ve just plundered. There’s something lumpy beneath me, but I hardly notice.
“It must be so weird,” I say, “to own something that has such a history. Especially if…”
“If?”
“Well,” I say hesitantly, “if owning a château isn’t exactly your dream job. Dominique was saying something about how you actually wanted to be a, um, doctor.”
“What?” His back straightens and his gaze, in the golden light that flows in from the diamond-shaped panes on either end of the long, sloped ceiling, is impenetrably dark. “When did she say that?”
“Today,” I say innocently. Because I am innocent. Dominique didn’t say it was a secret. Not that, given my history, it would have made a difference if she had. “By the pool. Why? Is it not true?”
“No, it’s not true,” Luke says. “Well, I mean, sure, at one time—Jesus, what else did she say?”
That you’re an attentive and thoughtful lover in bed, I want to say. That a girl doesn’t have to worry about taking care of her own needs when she’s with you because you are totally willing to take care of them for her.
“Nothing,” is what I say instead. Because of course Dominique didn’t say any of those things. That’s just my totally dirty, filthy imagination talking. “Oh, except some stuff about how she wants to turn Mirac into a hotel or a spa for people to go to while they’re recovering from plastic surgery.”
Luke looks even more startled. “Plastic surgery?”
Oops.
“Nothing,” I say, turning crimson. Oh. No. I. Did. Not. Just. Do. It. Again. I turn back to the trunks to hide my blush. “Gosh, Luke. This stuff is amazing.”
“Wait. What did Dominique say?”
I fling him a guilt-stricken look.
“Nothing,” I say. “Really. I shouldn’t have—I mean, it’s between you and her. I…I know it’s none of my business—”
But it all comes spilling out anyway.
“—but I don’t think you ought to turn this place into a hotel,” I say all in a rush. “Mirac just seems so special. Commercializing it like that would just ruin it, I think.”
“Plastic surgery?” Luke repeats, still looking incredulous.
“I guess I can understand the appeal,” I say. “Since you wanted to be a doctor and all, but—”
“I didn’t—” Luke springs up from the chair and takes a few quick steps toward the far end of the attic, raking one hand through his thick, curly hair. “I told her I wanted to be a doctor when I was a kid. Then I grew up and realized I’d have to be in school for another four years after college…plus three more years as a resident. And I don’t like school that much.”
“Oh,” I say, sinking back down onto the lumpy trunk-top. “Then it’s not just because doctors don’t make as much money as investment bankers these days?”
“Did she—” He spins around to face me. “Is that what she told you I said?”
I can see I am treading on rocky terrain here. I hop up and, eager to change the subject, say, “What is this lumpy thing I’ve been sitting on?”
“Because it’s not true,” Luke says, striding toward me as I bend to lift up the long white object. “It had nothing to do with the money. I mean, it’s true that for the years I’d be in school, there’d be no money coming in. And, yeah, okay, that’s a concern. I’m not going to lie. I like having my own money so I don’t have to depend on my parents for support. A guy wants to be able to pay his own bills, you know?”
“Oh,” I say, unwinding what appears to be a length of white satin from the long, hard object it’s been wrapped around. “Totally.”
“And, okay, I looked into the postbaccalaureate premedical programs at a few schools—because, you know, not having been premed in college, even if I wanted to try to get into med school now, I’d have to take some postgrad science classes.”
“Sure,” I say, still working at unraveling whatever’s been wrapped inside what appears to be some kind of tablecloth.
“And, yeah, okay, maybe I applied to a few of them. And maybe I got into the ones at Columbia and New York University. But I mean even if I go full-time, with summers included, that’s another year in school that doesn’t even count toward whatever medical degree I eventually go for. Is th
at really what I want? To be in school for another five years? When I don’t have to be?”
“Oh my God,” I say. Because I have finally unraveled the long, hard thing. And gotten a good look at what was being used to wrap it.
“That,” Luke says, looking alarmed, “is my dad’s hunting rifle. Don’t—Lizzie, don’t hold it like that. Jesus Christ.” He hastily takes the long thing from my hands, then opens it and looks down the barrel.
“It’s still loaded,” he says in a small voice.
Now that Luke’s taken the gun from me, I have both hands free and can give the thing the gun was wrapped in a good shaking.
“Lizzie.” Luke sounds kind of stressed. “In the future, when you’re holding a hunting rifle—even an unloaded one—don’t fling it around like that. And definitely don’t point it at your own head. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
His voice seems far away. All my concentration is on the dress I’m holding. Even in its wrinkled, rust-stained state, I can see that it’s a cream-colored full-length satin gown with slender spaghetti straps (complete with tiny snapped loops on the underside, for hiding the wearer’s bra straps), fine gathers over the double-lined molded breast cups, and a row of buttons down the back that can only be real pearls.
“Luke, whose dress is this?” I ask, searching inside for a label.
“Did you hear me?” Luke says. “This thing is loaded. You could have taken the top of your head off.”
Then I find them. The words that nearly cause my heart to stop, though they are discreetly stitched in black on a small white label: Givenchy Couture.
I feel as if someone has kicked me.
“Givenchy—” I stagger backward, to sink back down onto the top of the trunk, because my knees no longer appear to be working. “Givenchy Couture!”
“Jesus Christ,” Luke says again. He’s unloaded the rifle, and now he sets it down on the chair he’d abandoned and hurries across the room to bend over me solicitously. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right,” I say, reaching up and grabbing a handful of his shirt, pulling him down until he’s kneeling by my chair, his face just inches from mine.
He doesn’t understand. He just doesn’t understand. I have to make him understand.
“This is a Hubert de Givenchy evening gown. A priceless, one-of-a-kind couture evening gown from one of the most innovative and classic fashion designers in the world. And someone used it to wrap up an old gun that…that…”
Luke gazes down at me, concern in his dark eyes. “Yes?”
“That RUSTED on it!”
Something causes Luke’s lips to twist upward a little. He’s smiling. How can he be smiling? I can tell he still doesn’t get it.
“RUST, Luke,” I say desperately. “RUST. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get rust out of fine fabrics like silk? And look, look here…one of the straps is broken. And the hem—there’s a tear here. And here. Luke, how could someone have done something like this? How could someone have…MURDERED a beautiful vintage gown like this?”
“I don’t know,” Luke says. He’s still smiling, which means he still isn’t getting it.
But he’s also laid a hand over mine, where I’m still clutching his shirt. His fingers are warm and reassuring.
“But I have a feeling if there’s anyone in the world who can resuscitate the victim,” he goes on in his deep, quiet voice—which sounds even deeper and quieter in the stillness of the long attic—“it’s you.”
His eyes, as I gaze into them, look very dark, and very friendly…just as his lips, as always, look eminently kissable.
HOW CAN HE HAVE A GIRLFRIEND? It’s not fair. It’s just not.
I do the only thing I can, under the circumstances. I gently release his shirt and drop my hand—and my gaze—away from his.
“I guess…” I say, looking down at the yards of stained fabric in my lap, hoping he doesn’t notice my blush—or the sudden speeding up of my heartbeat, which I can feel slamming against my ribs. “I guess I could try. I mean…if it’s okay with you, I’d like to try.”
“Lizzie,” Luke says, “that dress has been up in this attic for God knows how long, and, as you mentioned, wasn’t exactly treated very nicely. I think it deserves to belong to someone who will give it the care and attention it needs.”
Just like you, Luke! I want to cry. You deserve to belong to someone who will give YOU the care and attention YOU need…someone who will support your dream of being a doctor, and not nag you to move to Paris, who will stick by you for those five more years of school, and who will promise never to turn your ancestral home into a spa for people recovering from plastic surgery, even if it would bring in more money than weddings.
But of course I can’t say this.
Instead I say, “You know, Chaz is going to New York University in the fall. Maybe if you do decide to go to that postbacca-whatever-it is thingie, you two could find a place to live together.”
That is, I add silently, if Dominique doesn’t insist on coming with you…
“Yeah,” Luke says, still smiling. “It’d be just like old times.”
“Because,” I go on, keeping my hands strictly away from him, and on the silky smoothness of the dress in my lap, “I think, if there’s something you really want to do—like being a doctor—you should go for it. I mean, because otherwise you’ll never know. And you might regret it your whole life.”
Luke, I can’t help noticing, is still kneeling beside my chair, his face still way too close to mine for comfort. I’m trying not to think about how my advice—about how he should go for it—could also apply to my kissing him. Because, you know, I might never get another chance to see what it would be like.
But kissing a guy who has a girlfriend is just wrong. Even a girlfriend who doesn’t necessarily have his best interests in mind, like I do. It’s the kind of thing Brianna Dunleavy, back at McCracken Hall, would do.
And no one liked Brianna.
“I don’t know,” Luke says. Is it my imagination, or is his gaze on my mouth? Do I have something stuck to my lip gloss? Or—oh God—are my teeth purple from all that red wine? “It’s a really big step. A life-changing one. A risky one.”
“Sometimes,” I say, my gaze on his own lips—his teeth, I note, are not purple at all, “we need to take big risks if we want to find out who we are, and what we were put on this planet for. Like me, jumping on that train and coming to France, instead of staying in England.”
Okay, he is definitely leaning in. He’s leaning in toward me. What does this mean? Does he want to kiss me? How can he want to kiss me when he has the world’s most gorgeous girlfriend lying half naked out there by the pool?
I can’t let him kiss me. Even if he wants to. Because that would be wrong. He is taken.
And besides, I’m sure I still have stinky wine breath.
“Was the risk worth it?” he wants to know.
I can’t seem to tear my gaze from his lips, which are coming closer and closer toward mine.
“Totally,” I say. And close my eyes.
He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me! Oh no!
Oh. Yes.
It was an American woman named Amelia Bloomer who first spoke out against the dangers of the crinoline (and also the unhygienic practice of wearing skirts that swept the earth and floor). She encouraged women to adopt the “bloomer,” a baggy-legged pant worn beneath a knee-length skirt that would not in any way be considered immodest today. The Victorians, however, objected strongly to women wearing the pants in the family, and “bloomers” went the way of Members Only jackets and Hall & Oates.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
Chapter 16
A lover without indiscretion is no lover at all. Circumspection and devotion are a contradiction in terms.
—Thomas Hardy (1840–1928), British author and poet
Jean-Luc?”
Wait. Who said that?
&n
bsp; “Jean-Luc?”
My eyes fly open. Luke is already on his feet and rushing for the attic door.
“I’m up here,” he calls down the narrow staircase to the third floor. “In the attic!”
Okay. What just happened? One minute he was about to kiss me—I’m almost sure of it—and the next—
“Well, you had better come down now.” Dominique’s voice sounds prim. “Your mother’s just arrived.”
“Shit,” Luke says. But not to Dominique. To Dominique, he calls, “Right. I’ll be down in a second.”
He turns around to look at me. I’m sitting there, the Givenchy evening gown still spilling off my lap, feeling as if something was just ripped from me. My heart, maybe?
But that’s ridiculous. I didn’t want him to kiss me. I didn’t. Even if he was going to.
Which he wasn’t.
“We should go,” Luke says. “Unless you want to stay up here. You’re welcome to anything you want to take—”
Except the one thing I’m starting to realize I want most.
“Oh,” I say, standing up. I’m mildly surprised to find that my knees can still support me. “No. I couldn’t.”
But I haven’t let go of the evening dress, a fact Luke notices, and which causes one corner of his mouth to go up in a knowing way.
“I mean,” I say, looking down guiltily at the armful of silk I’m holding, “if I could just take this and maybe try to restore it—”
“By all means,” Luke says, still trying to hide his smile.
He’s laughing at me. But I don’t care, because now we have another secret together. Soon I’ll have more secrets with Luke de Villiers than I do with anyone else.
Although, thanks to the Lizzie Broadcasting System, I don’t have secrets with anyone else. This is definitely something I need to work on.
