Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  I follow Luke down the stairs. Dominique is waiting at the bottom. She’s changed from her bathing suit into a cream-colored, very contemporary linen dress that leaves her shoulders bare and makes her waist look tiny. On her feet, I’m quick to note, are a pair of slides with wickedly pointy toes.

  “Well,” she says when she sees me trailing behind Luke, “you certainly got the full tour, didn’t you, Lizzie?”

  “Luke and his father were very thorough,” I say, trying to hide my guilt. Why should I feel guilty, though? Nothing happened. And nothing was going to happen.

  Probably.

  “I’m sure they were,” Dominique says in a bored voice. Then she casts a critical eye over Luke. “Look at you. You’re all dusty. You cannot greet your mother like this. Go and change.”

  If Luke doesn’t like being bossed around like this, he doesn’t show it. Instead he heads off down the hall, calling, “Tell Mom I’ll be there in a minute,” over his shoulder.

  I start for my own room, where I intend to stash the evening gown until I can find some lemons or, even better, cream of tartar to soak it in. I’ve had luck in the past getting rust stains out of silk with both.

  But Dominique stops me before I can take a single step.

  “What is it that you have there?” Dominique asks.

  “Oh,” I say. I unfold the dress and hold it up for her to see. “It’s just an old dress I found up there. It’s such a shame, it’s covered in rust stains now. I’m going to see if I can get them out.”

  Dominique casts a critical eye up and down the garment. If she recognizes its significance as a piece of fashion history, she doesn’t let on.

  “It is very old, I think,” she says.

  “Not that old,” I say. “Sixties. Maybe early seventies.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “It smells.”

  “Well,” I say, “it’s been sitting in a moldy attic. I’m going to soak it for a while to see if I can get the stains out. That will help with the smell as well.”

  Dominique reaches out to finger the smooth silk. A second later she’s reaching for the label.

  Uh-oh. She’s seen it.

  She doesn’t squeal, though, the way I did. That’s because Dominique can actually control herself.

  “You are good at sewing?” she asks very calmly. “I thought I heard your friend Shari say so…”

  “Oh, I’m just okay,” I say modestly.

  “If you cut off the skirt here,” Dominique says, indicating a place where, if I were to cut off the skirt, the hem would hit her just above the knee, “it would be a cute cocktail dress. I would have to dye it black, of course. Otherwise it looks too much like an evening gown, I think.”

  Whoa. Wait a minute.

  “Because it is an evening gown,” I say. “And I’m sure it belongs to someone. I’m just going to try to restore it. I’m sure whoever it belongs to would love to have it back.”

  “But that could be anyone,” Dominique says. “And if whoever it belongs to really cared for it, she would not have left it here. If it is a matter of cost, I will gladly pay you—”

  I snatch the dress from her fingers. I can’t help it. It’s like she’s turned into Cruella De Vil, and the gown is a dalmatian puppy. I can’t believe anyone would be so vicious as to suggest cutting—not to mention dyeing—a Givenchy original.

  “Why don’t we see if I can get the stains out first,” I say as calmly as I’m able to, seeing as how I am practically hyperventilating in shock.

  Dominique shrugs in her French Canadian way. At least, I suppose it’s French Canadian, since I’ve never met one before.

  “Fine,” she says. “I suppose we can just let Jean-Luc decide what to do with it since it’s his house…”

  She doesn’t add, …and I’m his girlfriend, and therefore all couture spoils in his house should rightfully go to me.

  Because she doesn’t have to.

  “I’ll just go put it away,” I say, “and then come down to meet Mrs. de Villiers.”

  Mention of the name seems to remind Dominique that she’s wanted elsewhere.

  “Yes, of course,” she says, and hurries to the stairs.

  Hideously relieved, I dart into my room and close the door behind me, then lean against it as if I have to catch my breath. Cut a Givenchy! Dye a Givenchy! What kind of sick, twisted…

  But I don’t have time to worry about that now. I want to go see what Luke’s mother is like. I gently hang the evening gown from a peg in the wall (my room not having a closet), then strip off the swimsuit and dress I’ve been wearing all day. Then I throw on my robe and zip into the bathroom for a quick wash, makeup reapplication, and hair combing before coming back into my room to throw on my Suzy Perette party dress (I finally got the paint out).

  Then, following the sounds of conversation drifting up from downstairs, I hurry to meet Bibi de Villiers.

  Who turns out to be nothing like what I expected. Having met Luke’s father, I had built up a picture in my head of the kind of woman he would marry—diminutive, dark, and soft-spoken, to go with his dreamy absentmindedness.

  But none of the women I see from the second-floor landing when I reach it fit this description. There are three women standing in the foyer—not including Shari, Dominique, and Agnès—and none of them is dark or diminutive.

  And they’re DEFINITELY not soft-spoken.

  “But then where are Lauren and Nicole going to stay?” a girl about my own age, only considerably blonder, is demanding in a heavy Southern accent.

  “Vicky darlin’, I told you.” Another blonde, who has to be the girl’s mother, since the resemblance between the two is uncanny (except that Mom has about twenty pounds on her daughter), is speaking in long-suffering, but still distinctly Texan, tones. “They’re just going to have to stay in Sarlat. Aunt Bibi told you she could only fit so many people here in Mirac—”

  “But why do Blaine’s friends get to stay here,” Vicky is whining, “and my friends have to go to a hotel? And what about Craig? Where are his friends going to stay?”

  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 Agnès, 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 Agnès, 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 ou
t 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. “Agnès’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.

  “Crème 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

  Chapter 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 Agnès’s mother, Madame Laurent, has prepared for us than on Mrs. Thibodaux’s complaints about the bumpiness of the driveway.
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  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…”