by Meg Cabot
And now I’m glad. I’m able to hand it to him, almost genuflecting as I do so.
“Here it is,” I say. “All ready for you.”
Monsieur Henri grunts and begins to flick through the heavily penciled—and just as heavily erased—book. His wife, meanwhile, nods her head in the direction of the curtain that still separates the front room from the back (though the curtain is no longer black, but a beautiful salmon brocade). I follow her through it.
“Hola, Lizzie,” say the two seamstresses she finds there, sewing beading onto the organza skirt of a strapless lace A-line by hand, from the lounge chairs in which they’re sitting while watching a telenovela on the portable television I purchased for them.
“Marisol, Sylvia,” I say. “You remember Madame Henri, right?”
Marisol and Sylvia grin and wave. Madame Henri waves back.
“So they’re working out, I see,” she says in French.
“Fastest needles in Manhattan,” I reply in her native language. “Shari gives the best job referrals.”
“Yes,” Madame Henri says. “Well, I suppose when given the choice between going back to their abusive husbands or working for you, they would make rather enthusiastic employees. But I still don’t see why you had to tell them about the union. You could have gotten them much more cheaply.”
I give Madame Henri a disapproving look. “Madame…”
She gives a Gallic shrug. “I am only saying—”
A second later, Tiffany, though uninvited, joins us.
“What the hell is his glitch?” Tiffany wants to know. “He’s looking at the book—my book—and groaning.”
“Postsurgical depression,” Madame Henri says in English. “I’m so sorry…I ought to have warned you beforehand. He just has a mild case…mostly it’s annoyance about not being allowed to eat all the cheese he thinks he ought to be able to, and do the things he used to be able to do without discomfort. He gets so bored being home all day, I thought bringing him to the shop…well, I just thought he might perk up, seeing it again. I guess I was wrong. You’ve done such a wonderful job running it while we’ve been gone, Lizzie. Really. Please don’t take his criticism the wrong way.”
I shake my head. “I won’t,” I say. “I’m not—”
“The place looks beautiful,” Madame Henri says. “I love the fresh-cut flowers.”
“Oh, we worked out a deal with the floral shop down the street,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I recommend them to brides who haven’t picked out a florist yet, and they deliver a fresh arrangement to the shop every week—”
“Brilliant,” Madame Henri said. “And I hope you’re getting a discount on your own wedding. Oh, but then I suppose you and Luke are getting married in France—”
Tiffany starts to laugh, then, seeing my raised eyebrow, turns it to a discreet cough. Madame Henri glances at me. “Oh no,” she says. “Don’t tell me. Trouble in paradise?”
“Of course not,” I say indignantly. “We’re doing fine. Luke and I have just been so busy, him with his classes, and me here at the shop, we haven’t had time to plan anything—”
“But she’s going to start now,” Tiffany says firmly. “Especially since, what with Marisol and Sylvia’s help, she’s practically caught up with all the dresses for the June wedding rush. Right, Lizzie?”
“Um,” I say, shooting Tiffany a warning look. “Right. Totally.”
“What’s this?” Monsieur Henri thunders from the outer room of the shop. “What is this?”
“Oh, Lord,” Madame Henri mutters, rolling her eyes. “What now?”
We duck back out beneath the brocade curtain to find Monsieur Henri on his feet, clutching the appointment book to his chest and looking apoplectic.
“Jean!” Madame Henri, going deathly pale beneath her neat and tasteful makeup, rushes to her husband’s side. “What’s wrong? Is it your heart?”
“Yes, it’s my heart,” Monsieur Henri cries. “I think it must be breaking, because I feel so betrayed. Tell me I’m seeing things, please…or is it true that Mademoiselle Nichols here has been using my shop to peddle her own bridal gown design line?”
I stare at him, my jaw sagging. I’ve never seen Monsieur Henri so upset…and I’ve seen him lose his cool over many a Long Island bridezilla, ripping his careful work apart with verbal abuse.
But this is something different.
“I—I just did it a couple of times,” I stammer. “For a few select clients, after the Jill Higgins wedding. It’s generated a lot of really positive word of mouth for the shop…”
“For the shop?” Monsieur Henri echoes. “Or for you?”
“Oh, Jean, keep quiet.” Madame Henri looks annoyed. “Such theatrics! You should be grateful to Mademoiselle Elizabeth, not shouting at her. If you don’t stop this nonsense, I will make you go and sit in the car like I used to do with the boys when they were young.”
“I should go back to the car,” Monsieur Henri says, his shoulders sagging again. “What’s the point of my even being here? No one needs me.”
My heart swells with pity for the older man.
“Of course we need you, monsieur,” I cry, going to put my arms around him. “I’ve been running this place without you for months now. But I’d love to take a break. Do you know I haven’t had a single day off—not even Sundays—since you had your heart attack?”
“Yeah,” Tiffany says. “And she wants to get married this summer. So how about giving her some vacation time so she can start getting ready for it? Oh, yeah, and she’s gonna need time off for a honeymoon too.”
I shoot her an aggravated look. I don’t need any reminders about how much—okay, basically everything—I still have to do to prepare for my wedding.
“It’s no use,” Monsieur Henri says with a sigh. “It’s not there anymore.”
My arms still around his much-thinner-than-it-used-to-be neck, I look into his eyes. “What’s not there anymore, Monsieur Henri?”
“The passion,” he says with a sigh, and tosses the appointment book back onto Tiffany’s desk.
I draw my arms away from him and stare. “Of course it is,” I say with a nervous glance in his wife’s direction. “This is just your first day back. You’ll feel it again when you get back into the swing of things.”
“No,” Monsieur Henri says. His gaze has grown far away. “I don’t care about wedding gowns anymore. There’s only one thing I care about now.”
His wife looks toward the recently repainted ceiling. “Not again.”
“Oh?” I glance at Madame Henri. “What’s that, monsieur?”
“Pétanque,” he says as he stares wistfully out the plate-glass window at the golden sunlight pouring onto Seventy-eighth Street.
“I told you,” Madame Henri snaps. “That isn’t a profession, Jean. It’s a hobby.”
“So?” Her husband jerks his head back around to demand. “I’m sixty-five! I just had a quadruple bypass! I can’t play a little pétanque if I want to?”
The phone rings. Tiffany lifts it and purrs, “Chez Henri, how may I help you?” I am the only one who hears her add, sotto voce, “Get me out of this lunatic asylum.”
“That’s it.” Madame Henri leans down and snatches up her Prada handbag. “We’re leaving. I thought we could have a nice day in the city, maybe have a lovely lunch. But you’ve ruined it.”
“I’ve ruined it?” Monsieur Henri cries. “I’m not the one who insisted on my coming back to work before I was emotionally prepared to! You know what my physical therapist says. One day at a time.”
“I’ll show you emotionally prepared,” Madame Henri says, shaking her small fist at him.
“Mademoiselle Elizabeth.” Monsieur Henri gives me a courtly bow, but it’s clear his thoughts are elsewhere…on his pétanque set back home in his New Jersey garden, perhaps. “Remember…life is short. Each moment you have is precious. Treasure every second. Don’t spend them doing anything you don’t love. If being a certified pro
fessional wedding gown restorer isn’t your dream—if designing them is—then go after that dream. The way I intend to go after my dream of playing pétanque every chance I get.”
“Jean!” Madame Henri screams. “I told you! Don’t start!”
“You don’t start!” her husband thunders back. “Mademoiselle Elizabeth…Good-bye.”
“Um…Good-bye.” I blink after the bickering couple as they leave the shop, Madame Henri making a hand motion to me behind her husband’s back indicating that she’s going to call me later.
No sooner has the bell over the front door stopped tinkling than Tiffany hangs up the phone and declares, “Oh my God, I thought he’d never leave.”
“Now, Tiff,” I say. But the truth is, I’d felt the same way.
“Seriously, though,” Tiffany says. “Where does he get off? It’s not like you haven’t worked like a dog for him. And for what? I know how much you make, Lizzie, remember? You’re being robbed working here. You should totally quit and open your own place.”
“With what start-up money?” I reach into the mini fridge—artfully disguised as a wood cabinet—beneath the coffee bar and pull out a Diet Coke. “Besides, I owe a lot to the Henris. And he’s still not feeling his best. You heard what his wife said.”
“Well, if he comes back to work here, I quit,” Tiffany declares. “I’m serious. I’m not sticking around with that old coot poking into our business.”
“Tiffany,” I say. “This is his place. It’s called Chez Henri. He’s the owner, remember?”
“I don’t care.” Tiffany folds her arms across her chest. “He’s a guy. He totally spoils the ambience we’ve established.”
I didn’t want to admit it out loud, but Tiffany was kind of right. I mean, it’s a bridal shop, after all. What’s Monsieur Henri doing, getting so bent out of shape about a salmon-colored awning? Besides, Madame Henri and I spent a lot of time and money on that awning. It looks totally great, sort of Lulu Guinness meets Fauchon chocolate shop. Speaking of which…mmmm, chocolate…
“Come on,” Tiffany says, as usual refusing to let the subject drop well after I’ve tired of it. “You know I’m right. And what’s with this pétanque stuff? What is pétanque?”
“It’s a bowling game,” I explain, “called boules or bocce here, involving a dirt lane and a small metal ball—”
“Is that all?” Tiffany asks scornfully. “Well, what does he keep going on about it for, then? Is he going to start selling pétanque equipment in here?”
“No, I’m sure he—”
“What are you going to do, Lizzie? He’s going to ruin everything you’ve been working so hard for. Everything!”
Another thing Tiffany has a tendency to do is be way overdramatic about things. Monsieur Henri isn’t going to ruin everything.
I’m pretty sure.
Fortunately my cell phone rings, sparing me from having to discuss the matter further…at least with Tiffany. I see that it’s Luke and pick up eagerly. Things are going really well with him—well, aside from the fact that we haven’t picked a date for our wedding. Or a venue. Or really even talked about it much. Or at all, actually.
Still, living in our own separate apartments is working out really well. We each have our own space, so we don’t get on each other’s nerves, and we totally appreciate the time we spend together. Consequently, the sex couldn’t be better.
And, okay, maybe he still doesn’t know about my Spanx.
And maybe I continue to refuse to be on top when we make love. Or turn my back on him when I’m naked.
And, yeah, any time Luke says he wants to spend the night at his own place—alone—so he can study for an exam, I become convinced he must be sleeping with other girls in his classes.
And, yes, every time he says he’s spending a Saturday afternoon studying at the library, I’m sure that what he’s actually doing is seeing some other girl behind my back, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from sneaking down to NYU to spy on him (except I don’t have a student ID to get into the library).
But you know. Other than that, things are total bliss!
Of course I have no reason to suspect these things of him other than, nearly a year into our relationship, I still can’t believe a guy as amazing as Luke actually wants anything to do with a neurotic mess like myself. As Shari frequently remarks, it really is astonishing that a woman with as much business savvy as I have is as insecure in her romantic life as I’ve turned out to be.
But I blame this on my obsession with Lifetime Television. Of which I’ve been watching a lot more now that I live alone and there’s no man in the house to groan every time I switch it on.
“Hi,” I say to Luke now.
“What’s wrong?” he asks right away.
“Wrong?” I echo. “Nothing’s wrong. What makes you think something is wrong?”
“Because I know you. And you sound like someone just told you Lilly Pulitzer died.”
“Oh,” I say, lowering my voice so Tiffany, who is picking up a call, can’t overhear. “Well, actually, Monsieur Henri stopped by the shop a few minutes ago, and he wasn’t too pleased with some of the changes I’ve made since he’s been out sick. He was acting kind of…strange.”
“What?” Luke sounds adorably indignant on my behalf. “You’ve worked your tail off for that guy. That place is doing twice as much business now because of you!”
It’s a lot more than that, really, as Madame Henri herself said. But I don’t correct him. “Well,” I say instead. “Anyway. I’m sure it will all be fine. He’s just still adjusting to life as a recent bypass patient, you know.”
“Well, he has some nerve,” Luke says. “Anyway, I’m calling with good news. Something that should cheer you up.”
“Really?” I can’t think what he could be talking about. “I’m all ears!”
“Today’s my last day of classes—”
“That is good news,” I say. No more going off by himself to study! No more weekend trips to the library! Not, of course, that this had bothered me too much at the time (except for the whole Is-there-another-woman? thing) because the few weekends Luke wasn’t studying, I’d been busy working on bridal gowns. In fact, I’d been sort of glad he’d been so preoccupied with his schoolwork. What kind of guy wants to hear, Oh, I can’t, honey. I have to finish the neckline on this mermaid gown by Monday every time he asks his fiancée if she can go away for the weekend?
Fortunately, this was never an issue with Luke and me. Because he never asked me to go away for the weekend. Because he was always busy too.
“And I thought I’d take you out to dinner to celebrate,” he goes on. “Someplace downtown. We spend so much time eating takeout uptown, I don’t think I can handle it anymore.”
“That sounds fun,” I say excitedly. “I can take the subway down and meet you.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Luke says. “We can meet at Chaz’s place.”
My heart sinks immediately. This is so not what I’d had in mind.
“Chaz?” I say. “Really? You invited Chaz along too?”
I set my jaw. The truth is, I’m not exactly thrilled at the prospect of seeing Chaz. Not, of course, that there’s ever been a repeat of anything like what happened in the back of that taxi on the way home from Jill Higgins’s wedding. Chaz hasn’t even made any more baited remarks like he did that night so long ago in the sports bar. No, he’s been a perfect gentleman. Gran, Tiffany, and Monique’s theory—that he’s in love with me—turns out to have been completely untrue. Because if Chaz were in love with me, well, he’s had plenty of opportunity to act on that impulse.
And he never has. Not even once.
But that doesn’t mean I want him tagging along on one of the last nights I have Luke to myself before he takes off for France for three months.
But I don’t mention this. Because the last thing I’m going to do is try to wedge myself between my man and his best friend. As I know from every women’s magazine I’ve ever read,
that’s a major no-no.
“Well, it’s one of the last chances I’m going to have to see him,” Luke says, “before I leave for Paris for the summer. I didn’t think you’d mind. You don’t, do you? And I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to meet his new girlfriend.”
My jaw drops. Quite literally. I sort of have to lever it back in place with my hand before I’m able to speak again.
“His…his what?”
“I know,” Luke says with a chuckle. “Can you believe it? And we all thought he’d never learn to love again after Shari.”
I am totally positive I didn’t hear Luke right. I ask, sticking one finger in my ear, “When…when did this happen?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Apparently they’ve been seeing each other for quite a while, but they’ve been keeping it on the down low because she’s up for tenure in the philosophy department, and he’s just a teaching assistant, and technically a student—even if he’s a grad student—so it’s all sort of clandestine. And you know Chaz was never exactly one to kiss and tell. Her name is Valencia Something. I forget. But I guess she’s a real knockout. And a brainiac. Well, she’d have to be, for Chaz to like her.”
I hate her. I do. I hate her already.
I also feel an extreme urge to stab myself with something. There is a pair of dressmaker’s shears lying nearby. I think about plunging them into my heart. Then I think about plunging them into Valencia’s heart. Really, I decide, that would be much better for everyone. Me. The world. Valencia. Anyone with a name like Valencia who is up for tenure in the philosophy department of a major private university deserves to have a pair of dressmaker’s shears plunged into her heart. Doesn’t she?
“So,” Luke goes on. “What do you say? Dinner? Just the four of us?”
“Great,” I say. “That sounds great.” I don’t mention that I’m going to bring along the dressmaker’s shears. Because I’m not going to. Not really. I also don’t mention that we—Luke and I, I mean—have never, not even once, gone out as a couple with my best friend and her girlfriend. Not that Luke would object, I’m sure. It’s just that Shari has never expressed the slightest interest in doing this. I sort of wish she would. But her invitations are always expressly for me, and me alone. Luke is never included.