Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  “Oh yeah,” Baz says. “Good idea.”

  And he shuffles off, leaving Luke and me standing awkwardly alone together—an opportunity I seize before Luke has a chance to slip away.

  “Luke,” I say, my voice sounding very soft compared to the drum of my heartbeat in my ears, “I just wanted to say…about last night…Shari told me—”

  “Let’s forget about it, okay?” Luke says tersely.

  Tears spring to my eyes.

  Shari had said he was bitter. And he has a right to be.

  But won’t he even let me apologize?

  But before I have a chance to say another word, Monsieur de Villiers, looking spry in a cream-colored suit and tie, comes up to me, holding a bottle of champagne.

  “Lizzie, Lizzie,” he chastises me merrily, “I see empty glasses on this tray. I think you need to go back to Madame Laurent for a refill.”

  “Here.” Luke tries to take the tray from me. “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll do it,” I say, snatching the tray back. Only the fact that there are three glasses sitting on it, including Baz’s two empty ones, keeps disaster from ensuing.

  “I said,” Luke says, reaching out again, “I’ll do it.”

  “And I said, I will—”

  “Lizzie!”

  Luke, his father, and I all turn at the sound of Bibi de Villiers’s excited voice. Looking stunning in butter yellow, with a picture hat framing her face, she exclaims, “Lizzie, where did you find that dress?”

  I look down at myself. I have on the mandarin dress I last wore at Heathrow, when I’d been hoping to impress Andy…a million years ago. It’s the only thing I brought with me that seems remotely appropriate for a wedding. Well, the fact that I can’t wear panties with it aside. Besides, no one has to know about that but me.

  “Um,” I say, “at this shop where I work back in Michigan called Vin—”

  “Not that dress,” Luke’s mother says. Her expression is a strange combination of excited and anxious. Not that that seems to matter to Luke’s dad, who’s staring at her as if she were something Santa had just dropped down the chimney.

  “I mean the dress Vicky is wearing,” Mrs. de Villiers says. “The one she says you fitted for her overnight.”

  Beside me, Luke grows very still. His father, on the other hand, is still staring at his wife in a thoroughly besotted manner.

  Alerted by Luke’s stiffness that something is up, I answer his mother’s question very carefully.

  “I found it here at Mirac,” I say. “In the attic.”

  “The attic?” Mrs. de Villiers looks stunned. “Where in the attic?”

  I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on. But I do know that Mrs. de Villiers’s interest in the Givenchy isn’t casual. Was the dress hers? The size is right…it fit Vicky, and Vicky is Bibi’s niece, so…

  I’m not taking any chances. No way am I telling her the horrifying condition in which I found her dress. That’s one secret I’ll take with me to the grave.

  Unlike all the rest I know.

  “I found it in a special box,” I say, fabricating rapidly. “It was wrapped in tissue. I would almost say lovingly wrapped—”

  I know I’ve said the right thing when Mrs. de Villiers turns toward her husband and cries, “You saved it! After all these years!”

  And suddenly she’s thrown her arms around the neck of Luke’s father, who is glowing with pleasure.

  “Why, yes,” Monsieur de Villiers is saying, “of course I saved it! What do you think, Bibi?”

  Though it’s clear—to me, anyway—he has no idea what his wife is talking about. He’s just happy to be holding her in his arms again.

  Beside me, I hear Luke swear beneath his breath.

  But when I look up at him, alarmed that I’ve done the wrong thing—again—I see that he’s smiling.

  “What’s this all about?” I ask him out of the corner of my mouth.

  “I knew that dress looked familiar,” Luke says in a low voice so his parents—who are nuzzling each other—won’t overhear. “But I’ve only seen it in black-and-white pictures, so I never…That dress you found? The one you took to get the rust out of? That was her wedding gown.”

  I gasp. I can’t help it. “But—”

  “I know,” Luke says, taking me by the arm and steering me away from his parents, “I know.”

  “But…a gun! It was wrapped around—”

  “I know,” Luke says again as he guides me across the lawn, toward the table where Madame Laurent has the orange juice pitcher. “That dress has been a bone of contention between them for years. She thought he threw it out along with everything else after the attic leaked—”

  “But he didn’t. He—”

  “I know,” Luke says again. He stops walking and—much to my disappointment—drops his hand from my elbow. “Look, he really loves her. But he’s not exactly the sentimental type. Mom means a lot to him. But so does his hunting rifle. I doubt he even realized what that dress was. He just saw that it was the perfect size to wrap his gun in and…well, there you go.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, horror clutching my heart, “and I moved the darts to make it fit Vicky!”

  “Somehow,” Luke says, turning around to gaze at his parents, who are still practically making out in front of everybody across the lawn, “I don’t think my mom minds.”

  We stand there watching his parents for almost a full thirty seconds before I remember I’m supposed to be apologizing to him. Even though last time I tried, I didn’t exactly have the best results.

  I open my mouth, wondering how I’m going to say this—will a simple sorry suffice? Shari had said something about groveling. Do I need to drop to my knees?

  But before I can say anything, he asks, in a voice that’s very different from the terse one in which, a few minutes earlier, he suggested we just forget about it, “How did you know? Not to mention the way you really found it? That dress, I mean?”

  “Oh,” I say, suddenly unable to meet his eye. I keep my gaze on my retro kitten heels, which are slowly sinking deeper and deeper into the grass the longer I stand still. “Well, you know. I could tell that dress meant something to your mom, so I just tried to imagine how I’d want a Givenchy of mine to be treated…”

  It’s then that Luke takes the tray of glasses from my hands, puts it down at the table Madame Laurent and Agnès have commandeered, and grabs my fingers in his own.

  “Lizzie,” he says in a deep voice.

  And I have to look up from my French pedicure. I have to.

  This is it, I realize. This is when he forgives me.

  Or not.

  “Luke,” I say, “I’m so—”

  But then, before I can say another word, the string quartet, seated in the shade of a nearby oak tree, suddenly breaks into those four familiar notes:

  Dum dum da-dum.

  The end of World War II brought about a new beginning in fashion. The hourglass silhouette was back, and suddenly even top designers were producing ready-to-wear styles—particularly for teenagers, who, in the economic boom following the war, had enough disposable allowance finally to afford to buy their own clothes. How else to explain the rise of the “poodle skirt”? Like today’s “low-rise jeans,” the appeal seemed known only to the wearers themselves.

  History of Fashion

  SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

  Chapter 24

  Love is only chatter,

  Friends are all that matter.

  —Gelett Burgess (1866–1951), U.S. artist, critic, and poet

  Vicky’s wedding to Craig is lovely.

  And I’m not just saying that because I’m one of the people who helped make it that way, by ensuring that the bride wore a gown of such stunning beauty. It would have been lovely even if Vicky had worn her original dress.

  Just, you know. More lacy.

  Shari and Chaz and Madame Laurent and Agnès and I sit in the back, watching the exchange of vows, while Madame Laure
nt and I dab at our eyes and Chaz smirks (what is it with guys and weddings?).

  And the whole time, I keep a surreptitious eye on Luke, sitting near the front row of chairs, on the bride’s side (they’re actually both the bride’s side, given that, with the exception of his parents, his sister, and three former college buddies, the groom’s side was pretty much empty until the bride’s guests were urged to fill in the seats). Luke, I can see, glances often in the direction of his parents, who are still giggling with each other and smooching like high school sweethearts.

  There is no sign, that I can see, of Dominique. Either she’s refusing to come down from her room or she’s left the château altogether.

  Then, suddenly, the minister is saying, “Craig, you may kiss the bride,” and Mrs. Thibodaux lets out a huge happy sob, and it’s over.

  “Come on,” Shari says, plucking my arm. “We’re in charge of the bar again.”

  I look longingly after Luke. Am I ever going to get to tell him I’m sorry? Even if I can get him alone—will he actually listen?

  We hurry to beat the rush of hot, thirsty wedding guests and immediately start popping (or, in my case, carefully pulling off) champagne corks. Everyone seems to be in a much better mood now that the ceremony is over. Men are loosening their ties and removing their jackets, and women, fearful of getting grass stains on their fabric shoes, are going barefoot. Patapouf and Minouche, the farm dogs, are hanging around, directly in the path of the caterers with their trays of canapés. Everything seems to be going exactly as planned…

  …until Luke comes by and asks us, in a low voice, “Have any of you seen Blaine?”

  I look across the yard and see the stage that had been set up yesterday for the band. Baz and Kurt are at the drums and keyboard, respectively. The bass player is there (I’ve forgotten his name), tuning up. Even a group of Vicky’s friends are standing on the wooden dance floor, eagerly awaiting the concert.

  But there’s no one standing in front of the microphone in the middle of the stage.

  “Satan’s Shadow seems to have lost its lead singer,” Shari observes.

  It’s right then that Agnès comes running up, looking angelic in what has to be her best party dress, a pink organza number better suited to the prom than a wedding.

  But that’s what makes it so cute.

  She says something in breathless, rapid French to Luke, whose eyebrows go up.

  “Oh no,” he says. And hurries off in the direction of his aunt and uncle.

  “Agnès,” I say, hurrying to fill the glasses that are being handed to me, “what is it? What’d you just say to Luke?”

  “Oh,” Agnès says, brushing some of her hair from her face, “only that the room of Blaine is empty. His suitcase, everything, is gone. And so is the room of Dominique. The van of the Satan’s Shadow is gone as well.”

  I feel something cold and wet on my hand, and look down to see that I’ve poured champagne all over my arm.

  “Shit,” Chaz is saying, having overheard. He can’t seem to stop laughing. “Oh, shit!”

  “What?” Shari looks annoyed. She’s never coped well in food service situations. “What’s so funny?”

  “Blaine and Dominique,” I say, through lips that have gone suddenly numb. Because I’m remembering the conversation I had in the kitchen that night with Blaine—assuring him that somewhere out there, there was a girl who wouldn’t mind his newfound wealth.

  And my conversation with Dominique last night, about Blaine and his new recording contract…not to mention his Lexus commercial.

  It looks as if Blaine’s found his new girlfriend, and Dominique a man who might actually listen to her get-even-richer schemes.

  “Yes,” Shari says impatiently. “Blaine and Dominique, what?”

  “It looks like they’ve run off together,” I say.

  And it’s all my fault.

  Again.

  It’s Shari’s turn to spill champagne. She’s so startled she jerks the bottle she’s holding, pouring sparkling wine all over Chaz’s high-tops.

  “Hey, watch it!” he cries.

  “Blaine and Dominique?” Shari echoes. “Are you sure?”

  “He’s not here, and neither is she,” I say. I glance in the direction of the stage. “Things are not looking good for Satan’s Shadow.”

  Vicky’s friends have been joined by Vicky, who, resplendent in her bridal gown and veil, seems to be noticing for the first time that her brother has skipped out on her nuptials.

  “Hope Blaine wasn’t the only one who knows how to sing,” Chaz says.

  “Can we get the string quartet back?” Shari wonders.

  “You can’t have a father-daughter dance to Tchaikovsky,” I say.

  I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe Blaine would do this to his own sister!

  Well, actually, considering the fact that Dominique is involved, I sort of can.

  But that doesn’t make it any less my fault. Why did I tell her about Blaine? He was clearly in a vulnerable state, romantically. Of course he’d have no resistance to her wiles!

  And after Luke dumped her, she must have been smarting…of course she’d need the kind of therapeutic balm only a guy with a trust fund can provide a girl like Dominique.

  And no matter what Shari might think, it’s my fault Luke and Dominique broke up. Not because he secretly loves me or anything. But because of my encouraging Luke to pursue his medical school dream, instead of Dominique’s living-in-Paris dream…

  It really is all my fault.

  There’s only one thing, I realize, that I can do. If I want to make things right again for everyone, that is.

  The only question is, am I brave enough to do it?

  I guess I have to be.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, throwing down my cork-unscrewing napkin.

  And I begin marching toward the stage.

  “Hey,” Shari calls after me, “where ya going?”

  I keep moving. I don’t want to do this. But it’s not like I have a choice. Vicky, I see, is crying now. Craig is attempting to comfort her, as are her parents. The wedding guests are milling around, more concerned about the fact that Vicky seems so upset than about the fact that there’s no music.

  “How could he do this to me?” Vicky is wailing. “How?”

  “Darling,” Mrs. Thibodaux says comfortingly, “it’s all right. The boys will find something to play. Won’t you, boys?”

  Baz, Kurt, and the bass player exchange glances. Baz is the only one with the guts to go, “Um. None of us can sing.”

  “But you can still play,” Mrs. Thibodaux snaps. “Your fingers aren’t broken, are they?”

  Baz actually looks down at his fingers. “No. But, like…what should we play? Blaine took the playlist.”

  “Play something appropriate for the couple’s first dance,” Mrs. Thibodaux hisses.

  Baz and Kurt look at each other. “‘Cheetah Whip’?” Baz asks.

  “I don’t know, man,” Kurt says, looking alarmed. Or as alarmed as a twenty-year-old who is aggressively stoned can look. “We say ‘fuck’ a lot in that one.”

  “Yeah,” Baz says, “but if no one is singing—”

  I glance at Luke. He is gazing with concern at his sobbing cousin.

  That’s it. I know what I have to do.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I step up onto the stage. Baz and Kurt look at me. The bass player—what’s his name again?—says, “Hey,” and grins at my bare legs.

  “Is this on?” I ask, and grab the microphone from its stand.

  Is this on Is this on Is this on? My voice seems to reverberate across the valley.

  “Oh,” I say. “I guess it is.”

  is is is is is.

  Everyone on the lawn before me turns to stare up at me…including, I see, an openmouthed Vicky.

  And Luke.

  Who looks like someone just kicked him.

  Great.

  “Hi,” I say into the microphone. What
am I doing? And why am I doing it again?

  Oh yeah. It’s all my fault.

  I wonder if they can see that my knees are shaking.

  “I’m Lizzie Nichols. Blaine Thibodaux was supposed to be up here—not me—but he had, ahem, an emergency—” I glance behind me for support. Baz nods energetically. “Right. An emergency crisis and he had to leave. But we still have the rest of Satan’s Shadow,” I say, flinging out an arm to introduce the band. “Guys?”

  The band members shuffle their feet. The crowd, confused but polite, applauds a little.

  I seriously cannot believe these guys just signed a multimillion-dollar recording deal.

  “So, uh,” I say as I notice Shari, a look of abject shock on her face, weaving her way through the guests toward me, “I just want to say congratulations to Vicky and Craig. You two make a really beautiful couple.”

  More applause, this time heartfelt. Vicky hasn’t stopped crying, but she isn’t crying as much. She looks more stunned than anything else.

  Sort of like her cousin Luke.

  “And, uh,” I say into the microphone. And uh And uh And uh And uh. “Since we’re missing a singer, I thought, in honor of your special day—”

  I see Shari, out on the dance floor, shake her head at me, her eyes wide with alarm. No, she mouths. No, don’t do it.

  “—my friend Miss Shari Dennis and I will sing a song traditionally played during the newly wedded couple’s first dance where we come from—”

  Shari’s shaking her head so fast her bushy hair is whacking her in the face. “No,” she says. “Lizzie. No.”

  “—the great state of Michigan,” I go on. “It’s a song I’m sure you all know. Feel free to sing along if you want to. Guys.” I turn around to face Satan’s Shadow. “I know you know it, too. Don’t act like you don’t.”

  Baz and Kurt raise their eyebrows at each other. The bass player still hasn’t torn his gaze from my legs.

  “Vicky and Craig,” I say, “this one is for you.”