Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  Dominique looks at me as if I’ve just said the most obvious thing in the world. Which, of course, I have.

  But she obviously hasn’t figured out that I routinely say the first thing that pops into my head. Seriously. It’s like a disease.

  “What I mean is,” I hasten to add, “doctors are so important. You know. To society. Because without them, we’d all…be a lot sicker.”

  I look over at her to see what she thinks of this stroke of deductive brilliance on my part. Dominique has leaned up on her elbows—though the movement, mysteriously enough, did not cause her breasts to move at all—to look past me, over at Shari.

  “Your friend,” she says to Shari, “talks very much.”

  “Yes,” Shari says. “Lizzie does have a tendency to do that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling myself blush. But it’s not like I’m going to shut up. Because I physically can’t. “But why doesn’t Luke go to medical school? I mean, if that’s what he wants to do? Because it can’t be that doctors don’t make enough money.” The Luke I know—the one who let me, a total stranger, cry on his shoulder on that train yesterday—and shared his nuts with me—would never choose a career based on what kind of salary he might earn in said career.

  I mean, would he?

  No. No way. Hugo instead of Hugo Boss! Come on! That is the choice of a man who prefers personal comfort over style…

  “Is it the cost of medical school?” I ask. “Because surely Luke’s parents would support him while he was in school. Have you thought of talking about it to Luke’s mom and dad?”

  Dominique’s expression changes from one of mild disgust—with me, apparently—to one of horror.

  “Why would I do that?” Dominique looks completely perplexed. “I want Luke to transfer to Paris with me and work at Lazard Frères so that he and I can turn this place into a five-star hotel, turn over a considerable profit, and come here on weekends. I don’t want to be a doctor’s wife and continue to live in Texas. Is that so hard to understand?”

  I blink at her. “Um,” I say, “no.”

  But inwardly, I’m thinking, Wow. This is one lady who knows what she wants. I bet SHE wouldn’t have any reservations about moving to New York City with no degree, no job, and no place to stay already lined up.

  In fact, I bet she’d EAT New York City.

  It’s at this point Agnès returns from the kitchen, holding a plate of snacks.

  “Voilà,” she says to me, looking extremely pleased with herself as she hands me the creation she’s prepared for me.

  Which appears to be half a French baguette, sliced down the middle and stuffed with—

  “Hershey bar!” Agnès cries, excited to be using the only English words she apparently knows.

  I have just been handed a Hershey bar sandwich.

  Agnès holds out the plate to Shari, who takes one look and says, “No thank you.”

  Shrugging, Agnès then offers the plate to Dominique. The teenager doesn’t appear the least shocked that her boss’s girlfriend is half naked, proving that French people of all ages are way cooler about nudity than I am.

  Dominique takes one look at the sandwich on the platter in front of her, shudders, and says, “Mon Dieu. Non.”

  Well, okay. Maybe she wouldn’t eat New York City after all. Too fattening.

  Agnès shrugs again, takes her own chocolate sandwich off the plate, sinks back down onto her chaise longue, and digs in. Crispy bits of crust fall all over the front of her bathing suit as she takes her first bite. Chewing, she gives me a chocolaty smile.

  “C’est bon, ça,” she says, indicating the sandwich.

  That much is obvious. The real question, of course, is how could it not be good?

  Also, how can I say no to such a thoughtful and lovingly prepared snack? I don’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings.

  There’s really only one thing I can do, of course. And so I do it.

  And it is, without a doubt, the best sandwich I have ever eaten.

  But it’s the kind of sandwich I can tell that Dominique—if she were to sink her business-oriented claws into this place—would outlaw immediately! Women recovering from lipo don’t want to be offered Hershey bar and baguette sandwiches! People on a corporate retreat can’t be served candy bars! I can practically see Dominique thinking this, even as she lifts a bottle of sunscreen and resolutely sprays her chest with it.

  Agnès, and her Hershey bar sandwiches, will soon be a thing of the past if Dominique has her way with the running of Mirac.

  Unless, of course, someone stops her.

  “Ladies.”

  I nearly choke on the huge bite of chocolate bar sandwich I’ve just taken. That’s because Luke and Chaz have just shown up at the far end of the pool, looking sweaty and dirt-smeared from their morning spent hacking at the underbrush along the driveway.

  “Salut,” Dominique says, lifting a darkly tanned arm to wave at them. Her breasts, I notice, don’t move at all as she does this. It is a miracle of gravity.

  “Hello, boys,” Shari says.

  I don’t say anything for once, because I’m still too busy trying to swallow.

  “Are you girls having a nice time?” Chaz wants to know. He is grinning, and I know why: half-naked Dominique. It’s hard to miss the amused glance he throws Shari, who only says, mildly, “Oh, we’re having a dandy time. You?”

  “Dandy,” Chaz replied. “Thought we’d go for a swim to cool off a little.” Even as he says it, he’s peeling off his shirt.

  One thing I’ll say about Chaz. He may have a master’s in philosophy, but he’s got the body of a physical trainer.

  But Luke—I’m able to note all too clearly when he, too, pulls off his shirt a second later—is an even more spectacular example of athletic masculinity than Chaz. There’s not an ounce of body fat on his tanned, well-muscled body, and his dark chest hair, while not copious, still forms a very distinct arrow that seems to point directly down to his…

  SPLASH! Both guys leap into the sparkling water, not bothering to drop their shorts first, robbing me of the pleasure of seeing just what that trail of hair from Luke’s chest down into his waistband leads to.

  “Christ, that feels good,” Chaz says when he surfaces. “Shar, get in here.”

  “Your wish is my command, master,” Shari says. She lays down her book, stands up, and jumps. Some of the spray from the splash she makes gets on Dominique, who flicks it off.

  “Dominique,” Luke calls from where he surfaces at the deep end. “Come on in. The water’s great.”

  Dominique prattles something in French that I don’t completely catch, although the word cheveux is mentioned several times. I try to remember if cheveux means hair or horses. Somehow I don’t think Dominique is saying that she doesn’t want to get her horses wet.

  Shari swims to the side of the pool and, folding her arms on the edge, leans out to say to me, “Lizzie, you have to get in here. The water is fabulous.”

  “Let me finish my sandwich first,” I say, since I’m still working on the messy—but sinfully delicious—concoction Agnès handed me.

  “Better wait half an hour after eating,” Luke says, teasingly, from the deep end. “You don’t want to get a cramp.”

  Fortunately, I’m busy chewing, so my mouth is too full for me to ask, If I get one, will you rescue me, Luke? Flirting would be totally inappropriate, considering the fact that his girlfriend is sitting right next to me. Topless.

  And looking way better that way than I could ever hope to.

  “Ah, the new girl!”

  I practically spit out the wad of bread and chocolate in my mouth, I’m so startled by the heavily French-accented male voice behind me. When I whip around on my chaise longue, I find myself staring at an older gentleman in a white shirt and khaki pants held up by a pair of stylishly embroidered suspenders.

  “Um,” I say after I’ve swallowed, “hello.”

  “This is the new girl?” the old man asks Dominique as h
e points at me.

  Dominique turns around, looks at the old guy, and says, in a much pleasanter tone than I’ve ever heard her use before, “Why, yes, monsieur. This is Shari’s friend Lizzie.”

  “Enchanté,” the old man says, lifting my hand—the one that isn’t clutching the remains of my Hershey bar sandwich—and bringing it to the vicinity of—but not touching it with—his lips. “I am Guillaume de Villiers. Would you like to see my vineyard?”

  “Dad,” Luke says from the side of the pool he’s hastily climbing out of, “Lizzie doesn’t want to see your vineyard right now, okay? She’s relaxing by the pool.”

  So this charming old man is Luke’s father! I can’t say I can really see a resemblance—Monsieur de Villiers’s hair is wispy, not curly, like Luke’s, and snow white, not dark.

  But he does have Luke’s same twinkling brown eyes.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” I say, reaching for my sundress. “I want to see your vineyard, Monsieur de Villiers. I’ve heard so much about it. And last night I had some of your delicious champagne…”

  “Ah.” Monsieur de Villiers looks delighted. “But technically it is not correct to call it champagne, unless it was made in the region of Champagne. What I make can only be called sparkling wine.”

  “Well,” I said, having polished off the remains of my sandwich so that I have both hands free to struggle into my dress, “whatever it was, it was lovely.”

  “Merci, merci!” Monsieur de Villiers exclaims. To Luke, who has come up to my chaise longue and is dripping on Dominique’s legs—causing her to give him an annoyed look—he says, “I like this girl!”

  “You don’t have to go with him,” Luke says to me. “Really. Don’t let him bully you. He’s notorious for it.”

  “I want to go,” I assure Luke, laughing. “I’ve never been to a vineyard before. I’d love to see it, if Monsieur de Villiers has time to show it to me.”

  “I have all the time in the world!” Luke’s father cries.

  “You don’t, actually,” Dominique says, with a glance at her slim gold watch. “Bibi will be here in less than two hours. Don’t you need to—”

  “No, no, no,” Monsieur de Villiers says. He takes hold of my elbow to help me balance while I slip on my sandals. Or maybe to keep me from running away. Because that’s sort of what I feel like doing, considering that Luke’s dad is having this conversation with Luke’s girlfriend while the latter is completely TOPLESS!!!

  I try to imagine a scenario in which I would ever have felt comfortable being topless in front of one of my ex-boyfriends’ fathers, and fail.

  “We will make it short,” Monsieur de Villiers assures Dominique.

  “I’ll just go along to make sure you stick to that, Dad,” Luke says, accepting a towel Agnès is handing him. “We don’t want to bore Lizzie to death her first day here.”

  But now that I know Luke is coming along, I know that’s one thing I definitely won’t be: bored, I mean.

  Especially since, as we move away from the pool and toward the vineyard behind the main house, I realize Luke has left his shirt behind.

  Really, there’s something to be said for this topless thing after all.

  The Industrial Revolution did not just introduce the concepts of the steam engine and the rotation of nitrogen-fixing and cereal crops. No! The mid 1850s saw the invention of something much more crucial and useful to humankind: the crinoline, or hooped petticoat. By being able to step into a cage of steel hoops rather than having to don pounds and pounds of petticoats in order to give her skirts the mandatory width a fashionable woman of the day demanded, women everywhere were now at liberty to actually move their legs.

  What seemed a brilliant stroke of genius, however, soon revealed itself to be the fatal undoing of many an unsuspecting country lass, for the crinoline not only attracted improper suitors, but was also responsible for hundreds upon hundreds of young picnicking ladies being torched by lightning.

  History of Fashion

  SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

  Chapter 15

  Man, truly the animal that talks, is the only one that needs conversations to propagate its species…In love, conversations play an almost greater role than anything else. Love is the most talkative of all feelings and consists to a great extent completely of talkativeness.

  —Robert Musil (1880–1942), Austrian author

  Okay, so it’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m drunk.

  But it’s not my fault! All I’ve had to eat today is a cappuccino, a Hershey bar sandwich, and a few dusty, not-very-ripe grapes Monsieur de Villiers picked for me when we were touring his vineyard.

  Then, after we headed into the cask room, Luke’s dad kept pouring me cups of wine from all the different oak barrels, making me taste each individual one. After a while, I tried saying no. But he looked so hurt!

  And he’s been so kind to me, taking me all around the vineyard—the farm behind it, too, waiting tolerantly while I patted the velvet nose of the enormous horse that stuck his head over the stone wall to greet us, and while I squealed over the source of those cowbells I knew I’d heard (actual cows, three of them, that supply the milk for the château).

  Then there were the dogs that showed up, eager to greet their master, a basset hound named Patapouf and a dachshund called Minouche. They needed sticks thrown to them—even though the basset hound tripped over his own ears going after them—and their entire life histories told to me.

  And there was the farmer to greet, and his gnarled hand to shake, and his incomprehensible French—after which Monsieur de Villiers asked how much I understood, and when I said none, caused him to laugh uproariously—to listen to.

  And there was the tractor to ride on the back of, and the history of the area to learn—it’s no wonder I’m tipsy. All that, and ten different kinds of wine, too? I mean, they were all totally delicious.

  But I’m starting to feel a little light-headed.

  Or maybe that’s just because of Luke’s proximity. Sadly, he went back to the house and changed into a clean shirt and pair of jeans before rejoining us.

  But his hair was still wet and clung damply to the back of his tanned neck in a way that made me, out on the back of that tractor, long to throw my arms around him. Even now, in the relative cool of the cask room, I can’t help glancing at the sun-kissed skin of his forearms and wondering what it would feel like beneath my fingertips…

  Oh my God, what’s WRONG with me? I really must be drunk. I mean, he’s TAKEN. And by someone way prettier and more accomplished than I am.

  Plus, there’s the whole rebound factor. I mean, I’m barely over Andy.

  But still. I can’t help thinking Dominique isn’t right for Luke. And I’m not talking about her shoes, either. Lots of totally otherwise nice people own totally overpriced shoes.

  And I’m not talking about her whole turning-Mirac-into-a-hotel scheme, either. Or even her disdain for Luke’s secret dream of being a doctor (not, of course, that he’s shared this secret dream with me. I’ll just have to take Dominique’s word for it that Luke even has a secret dream).

  No, it’s the fact that Luke is so good with his father, showing endless patience with the old man’s fixation on his winery and its history and the telling of it. How he made sure the old man didn’t trip over any of the machinery he was climbing on top of in order to show me how it worked. The way he ordered Patapouf and Minouche to sit when he felt they’d jumped all over his father for long enough. The way he gently pried his father’s shirtsleeve from the mouth of that enormous horse.

  You just don’t see that sort of kindness from a son toward his father every day. I mean, Chaz doesn’t even speak to his dad. And okay, Charles Pendergast Sr. is, by all reports, sort of an ass.

  But still.

  A guy like that—so patient and tolerant and sweet—deserves better than a girl who doesn’t support his secret dreams….

  “You are very old-fashioned,” Monsieur de Villiers is saying,
breaking in on my unkind thoughts about Luke’s girlfriend. The three of us are leaning in companionable silence against a cask, sipping a cabernet sauvignon Luke’s dad has told me is very young…too young to bottle yet. As if I’d even know the difference.

  “Excuse me?” I know I’m drunk. But what on earth is he talking about? I’m not old-fashioned. I totally gave my last boyfriend a blow job.

  “This dress.” Monsieur de Villiers points at my sundress. “It is very old, no? You are very old-fashioned for a young American girl.”

  “Oh,” I say, realizing at last what he means. “You mean I like vintage. Yes. Well, this dress is old. Older than me, probably.”

  “I have seen a dress like this before,” Monsieur de Villiers says. It’s clear from the way he waves a fly away from his face—none too steadily—that he, too, has had a few too many sips of his own wine. Well, it’s a hot day. All that running—and riding—around makes a person thirsty. And the cask room isn’t air-conditioned.

  Still, it’s a comfortably cool temperature inside. It has to be, Monsieur de Villiers told me, in order for the wine to ferment properly.

  “Upstairs,” he goes on. “In the…” He looks questioningly at Luke. “Grenier?”

  “The attic,” Luke says, and nods. “Right. There are a bunch of old clothes up there.”

  “In the attic?” I instantly forget how drunk I feel—and how hot Luke looks. I straighten up and stare at the two of them with my eyes narrowed. “There are vintage Lilly Pulitzer dresses in your attic?”

  Monsieur de Villiers looks confused.

  “I do not know that name,” he says. “But I have seen dresses like this up there. My mother’s, I think. I have been meaning to donate them to the poor—”

  “Can I see them?” I ask. I don’t mean to sound overeager.

  But I guess I do, anyway, since Luke’s dad chuckles and says, “Ah! You love the old clothes the same way I love my wine!”

  I start to blush—how embarrassing! I didn’t mean to sound so greedy.

  But Monsieur de Villiers lays a comforting hand on my shoulder and says, “No, no. I do not mean to laugh at you. I am just very pleased. I like to see people show passion for something, because, you know, I have my own passion.” He holds his glass of wine aloft to illustrate just what that passion is—in case I hadn’t guessed.