by Meg Cabot
Unfortunately, the incidence of brides running off with best men tended to be rather high, so the position of best man was switched to the groom’s side, and a maid of honor was appointed to the bride to keep her chaste. Weddings (and wedding parties) sure used to be a lot more interesting!
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
Don’t be a bridezilla! Yes, everyone is going to have an opinion on who you ought to hire and what you ought to choose for your flowers, your cake, your wedding photos. Take the advice you like, and politely ignore or laugh off the rest. Don’t take it all so personally! So what if your wedding isn’t as grand/expensive/beautiful/bohemian as cousin Jacqueline’s? It’s not a contest! It’s about your joining your life—forever—to someone else’s. GET. OVER. IT.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 20 •
Hail, wedded love, mysterious law; true source of human happiness.
John Milton (1608–1674), English poet
My cell phone won’t stop ringing. I know who it is. But I won’t pick up.
I am standing on Madison Avenue between Seventy-seventh and Seventy-sixth Streets. I am staring into the windows of a shop. I’ve stopped crying and can now see clearly. I can make out every inch of the yards and yards of creamy white silk and petal soft lace draped on the mannequin in front of me. I can see every minute detail on the stitching, so fine it’s almost invisible, the delicacy of the beading, the luxuriousness of the stiff tulle crinoline that holds the skirt in place. The gown is perfection personified.
It must cost thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands, maybe.
And yet.
And yet I think I could come up with something fairly close that—though it wouldn’t be quite as sumptuous—would make the girl wearing it feel just as special.
For a fraction of the cost.
I’m just saying. What I do is cheap—yeah, okay? I’ll admit it. But it’s still pretty good. People like it. Ava Geck liked it. Jill Higgins liked it. Hundreds—well, okay, dozens—of other brides have liked it. It was good enough for them.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t Vera Wang.
But it was good enough for their wedding day. It made them feel special. It made them look beautiful.
And that ability—that talent for taking something not so great and making it into something pretty, for not a lot of money—it’s all I have.
I realize this as I stand there on the busy sidewalk, as the summer heat beats down on me and busy New Yorkers rush by.
The reality is, that’s all I’ve got to contribute to the universe.
It’s true. Shari helps women who’ve been abused. Chaz is going to teach philosophy, probably to students as snotty about it as he is. (But hey. That’s important. Probably.) Luke is going to save the children—or help already rich people get richer, depending on what he decides. Tiffany models and answers phones, and Ava Geck…well, Ava does whatever she does, while Little Joey protects her.
And I make old wedding dresses pretty again. Sometimes I create new ones. For a fraction of what a designer gown at the shops around the corner on Madison Avenue would charge to do it.
It’s an okay thing to do.
It has to be. Because it’s all I’ve got.
And there’s nothing wrong with that. Right?
My phone rings again. This time, when I glance at the display screen, I see that it’s not Chaz, but Luke. Unable to imagine why he could be calling, I pick up.
“I heard,” he says in a grim voice after I say hello.
My heart seems to stop. For a second, all the sounds of the busy street behind me—the honking, the sirens, the squealing of brakes—seem to fade away. All I can hear is my own breathing. And that seems shallow and irregular.
“You…heard?” I manage to wheeze.
“About the shop closing? Yeah,” he says. “I called there first. Tiffany told me. Lizzie, I’m so sorry.”
And my heart begins to beat again. And all the sounds of the city come floating slowly back.
“Oh,” I say.
God. I am so stupid. Also, I am the worst Bad Girl ever to grace the Bad Girl Scale in the history of Bad Girls.
“Right. Yes. It’s awful. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“I do,” Luke says. “You’re going to move to Paris with me.”
I am trying not to be run over by all the people who are hurrying along the sidewalk. For the most part, they are stepping around me. But every once in a while, a harried Upper East Side mom on her way to some important lunch appointment uptown doesn’t see me and almost barrels her Bugaboo baby carriage into me, and I have to move. This happens now, and in the confusion, I think I’ve misheard Luke.
“I beg your pardon?” I say to him.
“I know what you’re going to say, Lizzie.” He is thousands of miles away, but he sounds as if he were standing right beside me. Except for the car horns and occasional police siren down Madison Avenue, which makes him slightly difficult to hear. I put my finger in my nonphone ear, just to be sure.
“But just listen for a minute,” he goes on. “I tried the medical school thing. I did. You can’t say I didn’t give it a fair shot. But…I just don’t think I’m cut out for it. I can’t hack another five or six—or more—years of school. I can’t do it. I think it will kill me. I really do.”
I watch as another young mother, this one pushing a newborn, walks by, a seven-or eight-year-old skipping by her side, an ice cream cone dripping all over his hand, down his arm, and onto the front of his shirt. Neither he nor his mom seems to care.
“Oh,” I say.
“But since coming to work for Uncle Gerald—Lizzie. It’s been great. I love it. I really do. I know when you first met me I was doing the same thing, and I said I didn’t like it, and I seemed burned out…but this is different. Gerald’s offered me my own department. I’ll have people working under me.” I’ve never heard Luke sound so enthusiastic. About anything. He sounds like his father sounds when he talks about wine. He sounds young. He sounds…happy. “There’s just one catch.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s here,” Luke says. “In Paris. I’d have to move to Paris. Permanently.”
“Oh,” I say.
“But that’s why when I heard what happened today at the shop,” he goes on excitedly, “I thought, it’s a perfect opportunity. You’re out of a job, and I just got offered a great one. Lizzie, you can come here, to Paris. You can start over, like I’m doing. You can open a new shop here. A bridal shop. I walked by one the other day, and your dresses are a thousand times nicer. And much more affordable. Everything here is so expensive. There’s a real demand for affordable fashion. That’s where your niche is, I think, Lizzie. That’s what you need to do. Open your own shop here in Paris. A shop that offers beautiful couture for the ordinary girl, at prices she can afford. For brides.”
“I already have a bridal shop,” I say, sniffling. “In New York.”
“I know,” Luke says. “But that shop belongs to someone else. And they’re selling it. I’m talking about a shop of your own.”
“But…” I say, looking at the display window in front of me. “In France?”
“Look,” Luke says. “You speak French. My family can loan you the start-up income. Lizzie…don’t you see? This is a perfect opportunity for it.”
“But.” I look around at the people hurrying by in all their different shapes and colors, at the buildings all around me, at the taxis and buses and delivery vans and trucks whizzing by, the sun slanting through the leaves of a nearby tree, growing, against all odds, through the pavement, in the shadow of the skyscrapers all around us.
Because that’s what New York City is all about. Trees growing up out of the pavement, in the shade, where no tree should ever grow.
And I say, “I love New York.”
“You’ll love Paris too,” Luke says. “You’ve been there, remember? It’s just like New York. Only better. Cleaner. Nicer.”
“From what, Lizzie?” Luke asks. “Your grandmother? She’s dead. Remember?” But Gran isn’t who I’m thinking about.
“I can’t decide right now,” I say. “I…I’ll have to think about it.”
“You do that,” Luke says. “You think about it. You take all the time you need. But I think you should probably know…I’ve accepted the job my uncle offered me.”
“What?” I think I must have misheard him again.
“We’ll figure something out,” Luke says hurriedly. “If you decide to stay in New York, we’ll just do the long-distance thing for a while. People do, Lizzie. We’ll make it work. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry? My fiancé—on whom, it is true, I am cheating—informs me that he is going to move permanently to another country, but that I shouldn’t worry?
“And if you need a place to stay, you know you can always move back into my mother’s place on Fifth. She already said it was all right. She’ll just need to use the place one weekend a month, for her—you know…”
He means her monthly Botox injections. But I don’t say that out loud, since Luke doesn’t need me to remind him about that.
I am standing there, openmouthed in astonishment, when a voice behind me says, “Hey.”
I spin around, startled, and see a flash of khaki and the brim of a baseball cap.
“Luke,” I say into the phone. “I have to go. I…I’ll call you later, all right?”
“Okay,” he says. “Honestly, Lizzie…I don’t want you to worry. About any of this. I’m going to take care of it. Of you. I love you.”
“I…y-you too,” I stammer. And hang up. Then I demand, “What are you doing here?”
“Standing in front of Vera Wang’s flagship store?” Chaz quips. “Oh, I come here most days, actually. I like to try on a few of the mother-of-the-bride gowns. They feel so smooth and slinky against my skin.” He blinks down at me. “Shari called me. What do you think? And then I called the shop when you wouldn’t pick up any of my calls on your cell. Tiffany told me I might find you here. She says you like to come here to clear your head.” He looks at the display window. “I can see why. It’s so…shiny.”
I stare at the shop window too. But what I’m actually looking at is our reflection, him so tall and lanky, with his University of Michigan baseball cap perched on top of his head, and his strong, muscular legs, so tanned, unlike the tourists who occasionally walk past. And me, slightly wilted in my sundress from having run all over town in the heat of high summer, my hair hanging in a bedraggled mess from my barrette, wanting, basically, to die. We make the strangest-looking couple.
If that’s what we are. Which I’m not even sure of.
And of course behind our reflection is the beautiful, perfect Vera Wang wedding gown of the week. In a size two.
“They’re closing the shop,” I say to his reflection. “The Henris. They’re closing it. And moving to Provence.”
“I know. Tiffany told me that too.” He shrugs, looking infuriatingly unconcerned. “So. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I yell at him. “What do you think I’m standing here trying to figure out?”
God! How can I be in love with him? How can he be so different from Luke, whom I thought I loved for so long? I don’t want you to worry. About any of this. I’m going to take care of it. Of you. That’s what Luke had to say.
Whereas all Chaz has to say is: So. What are you going to do?
Then again, I’m the one who was so keen on wanting to stand on my own two feet.
“Well, you’ll figure it out,” Chaz says now, with another shrug. “I’m starving. Have you had lunch?”
Have I had lunch? That’s all he has to say?
“How?” I demand. “How will I figure it out?”
He looks a bit startled by my outburst. So does the Chinese-food deliveryman hurrying by.
“I don’t know,” Chaz says. “You’ll open a new shop.”
“Where? How? With what money?” I demand, my voice breaking. Because that’s what I’m pretty sure my heart is doing.
“Jesus, I don’t know, Lizzie. You’ll figure it out. You always do. That’s what’s so amazing about you.”
I turn my head and look up at him. Him, and not his reflection.
And I realize—as I’ve been realizing over and over all summer…all year, actually—how hard I’ve fallen for him.
This is really it, I realize. There’s no turning back. I think I’ve just gone up a notch on the Bad Girl Scale.
“Luke is dropping out of medical school,” I say. “He’s taking a job with his uncle’s company in Paris. He’s moving to Paris.”
“Gee,” Chaz says tonelessly. “I’m so surprised to hear that.”
I stare at him, appalled. “You knew? He told you already?”
He shrugs yet again. “He’s my best friend. He tells me everything. What do you expect?”
“You told me,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “You told me he’s never been able to stick to anything in his life. And I thought you were nuts. But you were right. You were a hundred percent right.”
“Luke’s not a bad guy,” Chaz says mildly. “He’s just…confused.”
“Well,” I say, slipping my cell phone back into my purse. “Are you going to ask me?”
“Ask you what?”
“If I’m going to move to Paris with him? He wants me to, you know. He says his family will loan me the money to set up a shop there.”
“I’m sure they will,” Chaz says. “And no, I’m not going to ask you.”
I set my jaw. For someone I’m so crazy about, Chaz happens to be the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.
“Why not?” I demand. “Don’t you want me to stay here in New York?”
“Of course I do,” Chaz says. “But, like I said, what happens in the future is already unavoidable. So I’m just going to enjoy what time I have left with you.”
“That,” I say disgustedly, “is such crap.”
“Well,” he says in the same unruffled tone, “that’s probably true too. What do you feel like? I feel like Thai food. Do you feel like Thai food? Isn’t there a good Thai place around the corner from here?”
“How can you think about food at a time like this?” I yell at him. “Do you know—do you have any earthly idea—that every time I think about marrying Luke, I break out in hives?”
Chaz raises his eyebrows. “That,” he says, “is not a good sign. I mean, for him. And, I’m guessing, for Paris.”
“It’s a horrible sign,” I say. “What did you mean back in Detroit when you said Luke hasn’t exactly been a Boy Scout the whole time he and I have been going out?”
Chaz rolls his eyes. “Look,” he says. “I don’t really want to talk about this in front of the Vera Wang flagship store, okay? Let’s go home. We can change out of these hot sticky clothes and I can run you a cool bath and order some Thai food and fix us both a couple of gin and tonics and we can sip them while we discuss the vagaries of life and I give you a full body massage—”
“No,” I say, resisting the arm he’s put around me. “Chaz! I’m serious. This is serious. I don’t want to—”
But I never get the chance to tell Chaz what it is I don’t want to do, because at that moment, two women who were passing by stop in front of the window and gaze at the gown I was admiring.
“See, Mom,” the younger woman says. “That’s the kind of dress I want.”
“Well, dream on,” her mother says. “Because a dress like that costs twenty grand. Do you have an extra twenty grand lying around?”
“It’s not fair,” the girl insists, stamping her Steve Madden–clad foot. “Why can’t I have what I want? Just this once?”
“You can,” the older woman says, “if you want to be paying for it for the next thirty years. Is that
how you want to start your married life?”
“No,” the bride says, sounding as if she’s pouting a little.
“I didn’t think so. So get over it. We’re going to Kleinfeld’s.”
“God,” the bride says as her mother drags her away. “You’re so cheap. If you had your way, we’d get my wedding gown at Geck’s.”
The mother and daughter drift away, and I find myself staring after them in astonishment. Every single nerve ending in my body is tingling. I feel as if I’ve just caught fire.
A shop that offers beautiful couture for the ordinary girl, at prices she can afford. For brides.
“Oh my God, Chaz,” I say. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” He still has his arm around me. “The part about the full body massage I’m going to give you?”
“Them.” I open my purse and start digging around in it for my cell phone. “Did you hear what they said?”
“About going to Kleinfeld’s? Yeah. Hey, maybe that’s where you should get a job. That’s where everybody goes to get their wedding dresses. That’s where my sister went. Not that it helped. She still looked like me. In a wedding dress. Poor kid. She tried waxing and everything.”
“No,” I say, stabbing at the numbers on the keypad of my phone. “Not that part.”
Be there, I pray. Pick up. Pick up.
A second later, a voice chirps, “Hello?”
“It’s me,” I say. “Please don’t hang up. I know you hate me. But I’ve got a business proposition I’ve got to talk to you about. It’s important. And you won’t regret it. I promise. Where are you?”
“Me?” She sounds slightly confused. “I’m at the dog run. Why?”
“Stay there,” I say. “Do not move. I’ll be right over.”
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
Carrying the bride over the threshold is a tradition that harkens back to the ancient practice of capturing brides from rival tribes or villages. It was also thought to—say it all together now—trick any evil spirits that might be lurking in the new home.
