by Meg Cabot
If your wedding heels are still less than comfortable by the time the big day rolls around, it’s always a good idea to bring a second pair of shoes to wear during your “downtime,” such as while you’re waiting for the photographer to set up, et cetera.
One word on beach weddings: few things are lovelier than being married at sunset on a tropical beach. Keep in mind, however, that heels and sand do not mix. If you are being married on a beach, skip the shoes altogether. Just be sure to put some bug repellent on your ankles to ward off sand fleas or you’ll be scratching throughout the ceremony.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 19
If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.
—Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), poet and writer
At five of six that day, I give up hope that Jill Higgins is going to walk up and ring the bell to Monsieur Henri’s. I’ve been, I know, too presumptuous. Why would Jill Higgins, who is marrying one of the richest men in Manhattan, choose me—a woman she knows only as the receptionist at the law firm where she is getting her prenup negotiated—as her certified wedding-gown specialist?
Especially since I’m not even certified! Yet.
I haven’t mentioned to Monsieur and Madame Henri that I’ve given their name and address to one of the most famous brides-to-be in the city. I don’t want to get their hopes up. Business has not been good, and there’ve been conversations (in French, of course, so I won’t understand what they’re saying) about packing it up for good when Maurice finally opens his shop down the street and steals away the last of their customers. The Henris have mentioned decamping for the cottage in Provence.
There would be a significant loss of income if this were to take place, since they’ve taken out a second mortgage on the building in order to pay for the boys’ college tuition, and the home in which they live in New Jersey has depreciated considerably with the current housing sales slump. Plus there’s the small fact that the two boys, Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre, adamantly refuse to move to France, or even transfer to colleges less expensive than New York University, to which they commute daily from home (when they aren’t sneaking overnight stays in the apartment upstairs).
Of course, I have no doubt that if the decision to give up the shop is ever made, the boys will end up doing precisely as their mother insists. Money, not discipline, is what is lacking in the Henri family—at least if the way Monsieur Henri piles the work on me at the shop is any indication. For someone who claims his business is going under, Monsieur Henri certainly seems to have enough sewing for me to do, day in and day out. He’s had me make so many lace ruffles—the same ones I’d admired in his shop window, months earlier, and swore to myself I’d learn to create on my own—that I can practically do them in my sleep. And I’ve completely mastered the art of the sewn-on diamond drop, for that all-over shimmer effect. And don’t even get me started on ruching.
Madame Henri is fussing at her husband for him to hurry and pack up so they can leave, because the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting—scheduled to take place tonight—makes the traffic so impossible that it takes an hour, practically, just to navigate out of the city, when the bell to the front door of the shop rings, and I look up to see a pale face, framed by a curtain of blond hair, peering at me urgently.
“What is this?” Madame Henri wants to know. “We have no appointments today.”
“Oh,” I say quickly, getting up and going to the door. “This is a friend of mine.” I open the door to let Jill in…
…and only then notice that there is a chauffeured black Town Car with smoked windows parked with its motor running in front of the fire hydrant, and that behind Jill stands a tall, athletic man I immediately recognize as—
“Oh!” Madame Henri drops her purse and flings both her hands to her cheeks. She’s recognized Jill’s companion as well. Which, considering how often his face appears on the front page of the Post, isn’t any wonder.
“Um, hi,” Jill says. Her cheeks are very red from the cold outside. She’s carrying a garment bag. “You said to stop by. Is this a bad time?”
“This is a perfect time,” I say. “Come on in.”
The couple step in from the slight snow flurry that has started up, lightly coating their hair and shoulders with drops that sparkle more than any crystal I’ve ever sewn onto anything. They bring with them the smell of cold and good health and…something else.
“Sorry,” Jill says, wrinkling her nose. “That’s me. I came straight from work and I didn’t have time to change. We wanted to beat the tree traffic.”
“That intoxicating odor,” John MacDowell says, “that you’re smelling right now is seal excrement. Don’t worry, you get used to it.”
“This is my fiancé, John,” Jill says. “John, this is Lizzie—”
John sticks out a large hand, and I shake it.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, seeming to mean it. “When Jill told me about you—well, I really hope you can help us. My mother—I mean, I love her and everything, but—”
“Say no more,” I say. “We completely get it. And, believe me, we’ve probably seen worse. May I introduce you to my boss, Monsieur Henri? He owns this shop. And this is his wife, Madame Henri. Monsieur and Madame, this is Jill Higgins and her fiancé, John MacDowell.”
Monsieur Henri has been standing nearby staring at the three of us with a stunned expression on his face. When I say his name, he takes a quick step forward, his hand extended. “Enchanté,” he says. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” John MacDowell says politely. Madame Henri practically faints when he says the same thing to her. She hasn’t been able to utter a sound since the couple entered the shop.
“Shall we see what you have here?” I ask, taking the garment bag from Jill.
“I’m warning you,” John says. “It’s bad.”
“Really bad,” Jill adds.
“We are used to bad,” Monsieur Henri assures them. “That is how we came by our endorsement from the Association of Bridal Consultants.”
“It’s true,” I say gravely. “The National Bridal Service has given Monsieur Henri their highest recommendation.”
Monsieur Henri inclines his head modestly while at the same time moving behind Jill to help her out of her down parka. “Perhaps we can get you some tea? Or coffee?”
“I’m fine,” John says, handing over his own parka. “We’re…”
His voice trails off. That’s because I’ve opened the garment bag. And now all five of us are staring at what I’ve revealed.
Monsieur Henri nearly drops the coats, but at the last second his wife darts forward to scoop them up.
“It’s…it’s hideous,” Monsieur Henri breathes—thankfully in French.
“Yes,” I say. “But it can be saved.”
“No.” Monsieur Henri shakes his head, like someone in a daze. “It cannot.”
I can see why he might feel that way. The gown isn’t promising, to say the least. Made of yards and yards of clearly valuable antique lace over cream-colored satin, it’s a princess cut, with an enormous full skirt, made even bigger by a hoop sewn into the hem. The neckline is a typical Queen Anne style, with enormous poufed sleeves that end in tartan bows at the wrists. Draped along the skirt is more tartan, held in place with gold toggles.
It looks, in other words, like something out of a high school drama club’s production of Brigadoon.
“It’s been in my family for generations,” John says apologetically. “All the MacDowell brides have worn it—with various degrees of alteration. My mother is the one who put in the hoop when she wore it. She’s from Georgia.”
“That explains a lot,” I say. “What size is it?”
“A six,” Jill says. “I’m a twelve.”
Monsieur Henri says in French, “Impossible. It is too small. There is nothing we can do.”
“Let’s not be has
ty,” I say. “Obviously the bodice will have to go. But there’s enough material here—”
“You are going to chop up the ancestral gown of the richest family in the city?” Monsieur Henri demands, again in French. “You’ve lost your mind!”
“He said other brides have altered it,” I remind him. “I mean, come on. We can at least try.”
“You cannot fit a size-twelve woman into a size-six gown,” Monsieur Henri snaps. “You know it cannot be done!”
“We can’t fit her into this gown the way it is now,” I say. “But fortunately it’s too long on her.” I take the gown from the hanger it’s on and hold it up to Jill, who stands with her arms at her side, looking alarmed. “See? If it were too short, I’d say you were right. But like I was saying, if we unstitch the bodice—”
“My God, are you mad?” Monsieur Henri looks shocked. “Do you know what the mother-in-law will do to us? She could even take legal action—”
“Jean,” Madame Henri says, speaking for the first time.
Her husband glances at her. “What?”
“Do it,” she says in French.
Monsieur Henri shakes his head. “I am telling you, it cannot be done! Do you want me to lose my certification?”
“Do you want Maurice to steal away what little business we have left when he opens his shop down the street?” his wife demands.
“He won’t,” I assure them both. “Not if you let me do it. I can. I know I can.”
Madame Henri nods at me. “Listen to her, Jean,” she says.
The issue is no longer up for debate. Monsieur Henri may wield the needle, but his wife wears the pants in the family. Once she has ruled, there is no more argument. Madame Henri’s word is always final.
Monsieur Henri’s shoulders sag. Then he looks at Jill. Both she and her husband-to-be are staring at us, wide-eyed.
“When is the wedding?” Monsieur Henri asks weakly.
“New Year’s Eve,” Jill says.
Monsieur Henri groans. And even I have to swallow hard against the soreness that has suddenly crept back into my throat. New Year’s Eve!
Jill notices our reaction, and looks worried. “Does that…I mean, will you have enough time?”
“A month.” Monsieur Henri stares down at me. “We have a month. Not that it matters, since what you are saying cannot be done in any amount of time.”
“It can if we do it the way I’m thinking we should do it,” I say. “Trust me.”
Monsieur Henri takes a final look at the monstrosity on the hanger.
“Maurice,” his wife hisses. “Remember Maurice!”
Monsieur Henri sighs. “Fine. We will try.”
And I turn, beaming, toward Jill.
“What was that all about?” she asks nervously. “I couldn’t tell what you were saying. It was all in French.”
“Well,” I start to say…
Then realize what she’s just said.
I turn guiltily toward Monsieur and Madame Henri, who are both staring at me in horror. It’s hit them at the same time as it’s hit me: we’ve just had an entire conversation in their native language—which I’m not supposed to understand.
But hey. It’s not like they ever asked.
I give the Henris a shrug. Then, to Jill, I say, “We’ll do it.”
She stares at me. “Okay…but how?”
“I haven’t completely figured that out yet,” I admit. “But I have an idea. And you’re going to look great. I promise.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “No hoop skirt?”
“No hoop skirt,” I say. “But I’m going to need to take your measurements. So if you could just come with me back to the dressing room—”
“Okay,” she says. And follows me past Monsieur and Madame Henri, who continue to stand there, looking stunned. I can see that they are going over in their heads every conversation they have ever had within earshot of me.
And that’s a lot of conversations.
Behind the curtains that make up the walls of the dressing room, the smell of seal is stronger than ever.
“I’m really sorry,” Jill says. “I’ll totally change before I come the next time.”
“That’s okay,” I say, trying to take only shallow breaths. “At least you know that guy must really love you, if he’s willing to put up with that.”
“Yes,” Jill says, with a smile that makes her normally merely attractive face stunningly beautiful for a moment. “He does.”
And I feel a twinge. Not of jealousy, really, although there’s a little of that in it, I guess. But mostly it’s caused by the fact that I want what she has—not an engagement to the richest bachelor in Manhattan; not a future mother-in-law who is making it her single goal in life to ruin any chance at joy I might have on what is supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
But a guy who would go on loving me even if I smelled like seal poo. Not just go on loving me, but want to spend the rest of his life with me—although I’d settle at this point for coming to Ann Arbor for Christmas with me—and be willing to verbalize that desire in front of a room full of friends, family members, and sneaky members of the press who happened to worm their way into the church.
Because right now, that’s something I’m pretty sure I don’t have.
But hey. At least I’m working on it.
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
Time to ask the age-old question: White, ivory, or cream?
Believe it or not, there are many different shades of white. Don’t believe me? Check out the paint section of your local hardware store. You’ve never seen so many different names for what many people consider a single color—everything from Eggshell to Navajo to Blush.
The days of the traditional snow-white wedding gown are long gone, and many brides are opting to take advantage of this trend by picking out gowns in off-white, beige, pink, and even blues. To find the color that flatters your skin tone best, follow this easy guide:
Snow White—Dark of hair? Then traditional white really will look best on you. Whites with a blue or lavender tint will complement you as well.
Cream—Blond? Your light locks will best be set off by a cream-colored gown. The hint of gold will echo the tawny highlights in your crowning glory (your hair, not your tiara). Remember Princess Diana, on her special day…
Ivory—In between? Ivory looks good on nearly everyone. That’s why it’s used on so many walls.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 20
To a philosopher all news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit it and read it are old women over their tea.
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862), American philosopher, author, and naturalist
Where have you been?” Luke wants to know, when I finally stagger home later that evening, my arms loaded down with books.
“The library,” I say. “Sorry, did you call? You’re not allowed to have your ringer on there.”
Luke is laughing as he comes over to take the books from my arms. “Scottish Traditions,” he reads aloud from the covers. “Your Scottish Wedding. Tartans and Toasts. Lizzie, what’s going on? Are you planning a visit to the Emerald Isle soon?”
“That’s Ireland,” I say, unwinding my scarf. “I’m doing a Scottish bridal gown for a client. And you’re never going to believe who the client is.”
“You’re probably right,” he says. “Have you eaten? I’ve got some leftover turkey reheating in the oven—”
“I’m too excited to eat,” I say. “Come on. Guess. Guess who the client is.”
Luke shrugs. “I don’t know. Shari? She’s having some kind of lesbian wedding?”
I glare at him. “No. And I told you, don’t—”
“Label her, yes, yes, I know,” Luke says. “All right, I give up. Who’s your client?”
I flop down onto the couch—my sore throat really is bothering me a little. It feels great to sit down—and say triumphantly, “Jill Higgins.”
Luke has gone into
the kitchen to pour some wine. “Am I supposed to know who that is?” he asks across the pass-through.
I can’t believe it. “Luke! Do you even read the paper? Or watch the news?”
But even as I ask it, I know the answer. The only paper he reads is the New York Times, and all he ever watches are documentaries.
Still, I try.
“You know,” I say as he comes forward with a glass of cabernet sauvignon in each hand. “That girl who works in the seal enclosure at the Central Park Zoo? And she threw her back out returning one of the seals to the enclosure? Because they jump out when the water level gets too high, you know, from excessive snow or rain.” I am able to add this last bit because Jill just told me about it, in the dressing room while I was taking her measurements, when I asked her to tell me how she and John met.
“And while she was in the emergency room she met John MacDowell—you know, of the Manhattan MacDowells? Well, they’re getting married at like the biggest wedding of the century practically, and Jill asked me to fix her wedding dress for her.” I am still so stoked, I’m bouncing up and down on the couch. “Me! Of all the people in New York! I’m doing Jill Higgins’s wedding gown!”
“Wow,” Luke says, smiling his beautiful, even-toothed smile. “That’s great, Lizzie!”
It’s clear he has no idea what I’m talking about. None.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “This is huge. See, the press has been savage to her, calling her ‘Blubber’ and stuff, just because she’s not some skinny model, and works with seals, and she cries in front of them sometimes, because they won’t stop hounding her, and her mother-in-law is making her sign this prenup and wear this hideous—you can’t even imagine how hideous—wedding gown, and I’m going to fix it, and everything will be perfect, and Monsieur Henri will finally start getting some business, and then he’ll be able to pay me, and then I can quit working for Chaz’s dad, and do what I love full-time! Isn’t that great?”
