Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  Which is a lot to say, considering the day I’ve had.

  A HISTORY of WEDDINGS

  Anyone familiar with her historical romances knows that any young bride worth her salt went to Scotland to elope in nineteenth-century Europe (even back then girls under eighteen weren’t allowed to wed without their parents’ permission). Even Elizabeth Bennet in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice despairs when she learns her flighty sister Lydia has not gone to Gretna Green with her lover, Wickham, for it meant he had no intention of marrying her.

  Scotland is still a popular wedding destination for Americans, and many travel packages for that purpose can be purchased. Although care should be taken to fill out the necessary paperwork stateside before going, or the unwary bride could find herself in the same situation as poor, unhappy Lydia.

  Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

  Eloping doesn’t necessarily mean a couple has to miss out on the fun of wedding gifts! The couple’s parents or other relatives or friends can still choose to host a reception for them upon their return. They can even still register for gifts and be within the confines of good taste and etiquette. With weddings growing to be so costly these days, some parents are finding it less expensive to pay their daughters to elope.

  We should all be so lucky.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  • Chapter 24 •

  There is nothing nobler or more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep House as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends.

  Homer (eighth century B.C.), Greek poet

  I find Monsieur Henri in his back garden the next morning, precisely where his wife said he’d be: practicing on his homemade pétanque lane.

  He seems surprised to see me.

  Well, I don’t suppose it’s often he receives visitors from Manhattan to his suburban Cranbury, New Jersey, home.

  Especially while he’s still in his terrycloth bathrobe.

  “Elizabeth!” he cries, dropping the pétanque ball in the dust and hurrying to close his robe. He casts an indignant look at his wife, coming up behind us with a tray of iced tea.

  “I’m sorry, Jean,” she says. But if you ask me, she doesn’t look the least bit sorry. “Elizabeth phoned earlier this morning to say she was coming with something important to discuss with us. I did call out to you. But I suppose you didn’t hear me.”

  Monsieur Henri watches, dumbfounded, as his wife sets the tray down on the small metal table beneath the rose-covered arbor at the end of his pétanque lane, then takes a seat on the bench beside it. Always a large man, her husband has lost a lot of weight since his surgery. But he is still sweating in the summer heat, even in the shade of the arbor. He looks down at the three glasses of iced tea before him.

  “Well,” he says. “I suppose I can take a break. For a moment.”

  “That would be nice,” I say. I flick a glance toward the house. Chaz is driving around the neighborhood, having assured me he’d be back in half an hour to pick me up in the car we rented from Avis that morning. “I’ll just cruise the strip malls,” he’d said. “Pick you up a thong from Victoria’s Secret. I’ve never seen you in a thong. Or anything from Victoria’s Secret, for that matter.”

  There’s a reason for that, I’d assured him.

  I take a seat on the bench beside Madame Henri, after carefully tucking my vintage Lilly Pulitzer wraparound skirt beneath me, waiting until Monsieur Henri has lowered himself carefully into the teak Adirondack chair opposite us before I speak.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you here at your home, Monsieur Henri,” I say. “But it’s about the building—”

  “Now, Elizabeth,” Monsieur Henri says with hearty kindness as he reaches for one of the glasses of iced tea and swirls around the twig of mint his wife has plopped into it. “I really don’t think there’s anything more we can say about that. We’re listing it with Goldmark, and that’s that. I’m very sorry about your having to find another job and an apartment, but like we said, we’ll put in a good word for you with Maurice—you’ll have the best references there are…you’ll have no trouble at all finding a job—and you will just have to be satisfied with that. Really, this begging…it’s not attractive. I’m rather surprised at you, I must say.”

  “Actually,” I say, reaching for my own glass of iced tea, pleased to see that my hand isn’t shaking at all as I hold it. Way to go, Lizzie! “I’m not here to beg for my job, Monsieur Henri. I’ve found another job. I’m here to make an offer on your building.”

  Monsieur Henri nearly drops the glass he’s holding. Madame Henri chokes a little on the mouthful of iced tea she’s just taken.

  “I…I beg your pardon, Elizabeth?” She coughs.

  “I know I ought to have gone through your Realtor,” I say quickly. “But the thing is, I don’t have all the money. Yet. But I will. Soon. And the rest I can pay as we go along, but it will have to be over a period of a few years. Which I know isn’t exactly what you were hoping for, but”—I lean forward, speaking to both of them in a low, urgent voice, while somewhere off in the distance, a lawn mower roars to life and a bird begins a plaintive but still melodious song—“the advantage of selling to me, as opposed to some stranger, is that you won’t be paying any Realtor fees. We can cut out the middleman completely, and you’ll be saving yourself hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’m willing to make you an offer right now, here, today, no inspection, no nothing, of four point five million dollars. And before you say you think the building is worth more,” I say, cutting off both of them, since I hear them inhale, “allow me to point out that I live and work there. I don’t need an inspection because I know how much work the place needs. I’ve seen the cracks, plugged up the leaks, called the exterminator myself for the rats down in the basement more times than I can count. And I’m making my offer to you now, today, with my guarantee that you will have the whole amount five years from today. I’ll sign anything you want guaranteeing it. All I ask is that you remember where the two of you were when I first walked through your door a year ago. And where you both are now.”

  I lean back against the bench and take a long swig from my iced tea. Even for a talker, I am spent after having given such a long speech. I eye the two of them as they stare uneasily back at me.

  Then Madame Henri looks at her husband.

  “The Realtor fees are a lot,” she says in French. Even though they both know perfectly well by now that I speak their native language more or less fluently, they still slip back into it when they don’t want me to overhear what they’re saying, out of force of habit. “We could save a lot of money.”

  “But we’d have to wait for the money,” her husband says petulantly. “You heard her.”

  “So?” his wife demands. “What are you planning on buying? A yacht?”

  “Maybe,” Monsieur Henri says with a snort.

  “You heard what the inspector said,” Madame Henri says. “About the asbestos in the basement.”

  “He also said if we left it alone, it wouldn’t be a problem. All pipes in Manhattan are lined with asbestos.”

  I listen to this without blinking. I already know about the asbestos. The plumber told me months ago. I’d planned on using it as leverage if they balked at my offer.

  “It’s going to cost thousands to get it removed,” Madame Henri goes on. “Maybe tens of thousands. Do you want that hassle?”

  “No,” Monsieur Henri pouts.

  “This way,” his wife says, “we can be done with it in an afternoon. We don’t even have to pay to have our things moved out! She’ll keep them!”

  Monsieur Henri brightens at this. “Eh! I didn’t think of this! But where’s she getting all this money? She’s not even thirty.”

  “Who knows?” his wife asks with a Gallic shrug. “The dead grandmother, perhaps?”

  “Ask her,” Monsieur Henri says.

  Then they both turn to me. And Madame Henri asks in English, “Did you hear all that?”
r />   “Of course,” I say testily. “I’m not deaf. And I speak French. Remember?”

  “I know.” Madame Henri shakes her head. “The money is from your grandmother?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s from a deal I made last night with Geck Industries. I’m going to be designing a line of wedding wear for their discount department stores.”

  Monsieur Henri looks confused. “But if you are going to work for Geck, then why do you still want the shop?”

  “Because I’m still going to be doing gowns for my own customers,” I said. “Independent of Geck. Besides, your shop…my shop, if you’ll agree to sell it to me…it’s home.”

  I feel ridiculous, but as I say the word, tears fill my eyes. And yet…it’s true. That pokey little apartment—which I fully intend to renovate if it ever becomes mine—is the place where I’ve known some of the highest highs, and lowest lows, of my life. I can’t let it slip away from me. I won’t. Not without a fight.

  Madame Henri blinks a few times. Then she looks at her husband. He arches his eyebrows.

  “Well,” Monsieur Henri says. “In that case…I think we have to sell the building to Elizabeth. Do you not agree, chérie?”

  Madame Henri’s face breaks into an enormous smile.

  “I agree,” she says.

  Which is how, a half hour later, I end up drinking champagne in the noonday sun with Madame Henri in her back garden, while the birds chirp all around us, and her husband shows Chaz, who’s returned from his odyssey at the mall, how to play pétanque—a sport at which, it soon becomes apparent, he excels…

  Almost as much as he excels in coaching me in how to get my former bosses to sell me their place of business.

  A HISTORY of WEDDINGS

  It’s important to remember that many of the most sumptuous and expensive weddings in history didn’t always lead to romantic bliss. Look at Henry VIII and his many wives; Prince Charles and Princess Diana; and of course the always optimistic but unlucky in love Miss Elizabeth Taylor.

  No matter how large or small your wedding, what’s crucial is that you’re marrying the right person, someone who loves you for who you are, not whether or not you can provide him with a male heir, how much money you have, or whether or not you look good in a bathing suit. Love is a many-splendored thing, it’s true. But there is nothing more important than making sure your life partner is someone who can make you laugh when you are feeling down, will bring you cinnamon toast when you’re feeling sick, and is willing to share the remote.

  Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

  When the guests are gone, the gifts all unwrapped and put away, and the last thank-you note finally written, you might feel the tiniest bit depressed. This is normal! After all, you’ve just been through the most joyous time of your life—your (hopefully) only wedding! It’s natural that you feel a little sad it’s all over. But keep in mind you’re about to embark upon the most wonderful and joyous journey ever…married life!

  Still, it’s okay to put your wedding gown on every now and then…even just to watch TV. Everybody does it.

  Really.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  • Chapter 25 •

  He is the half part of a blessed man,

  Left to be finished by such a she;

  And she a fair divided excellence,

  Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.

  William Shakespeare (1564–1616), English poet and playwright

  Six months later

  Oh, you make the most beautiful bride ever!”

  “No, I don’t,” Tiffany assures me. “I look fat.”

  “Tiffany,” I say severely. “You’re four months’ pregnant. You’re supposed to look fat.”

  “Is it odd that that still frightens me?” Monique asks no one in particular. “The fact that Tiffany is going to be a mum, I mean? Does it frighten anyone else?”

  Shari raises her hand, along with Sylvia and Marisol.

  Tiffany glares at them. “I hate all of you,” she says.

  “What’s nice about the fact that Tiffany is going to be a mum,” Monique goes on, “is that it’s turned her into such a sweet, caring person.”

  “This gown is what’s making me look fat,” Tiffany says to her reflection in the gilt-framed full-length mirror in front of her.

  “No, it isn’t,” I say indignantly, offended. “You’re pregnant. That’s what’s making you fat.”

  “This is a fat dress,” Tiffany says, pouting. “You designed a fucking fat dress for my fucking wedding.”

  “You know what’s awesome,” Shari says, slipping a Milk Dud into her mouth from the box she’s brought into the shop for the show she’s been anticipating for days. “When brides swear. Especially pregnant brides.”

  Sylvia and Marisol making tsk-tsking noises and fuss over Tiffany, foofing out the train of the exquisite—and completely nonfat—original gown I’ve designed for her.

  “I did not design a fat dress for you, Tiffany,” I say, restraining myself with an effort from strangling her. “And that’s not a very nice thing to say to the person who is responsible for paying you enough so you can work part-time for me and finally quit that job you hated at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn.”

  Tiffany just glares at my reflection. “So? I’m just going to quit working for you in five months so I can stay home with Raoul Junior.”

  “It’s a boy?” Marisol asks excitedly.

  “Who knows?” Tiffany glares at her reflection. “Whatever.”

  “Seriously,” Shari says, dropping another Milk Dud into her mouth. “This is better than American Gladiator.”

  “You can afford a nanny, Tiffany,” I say to her, giving her sash a tug that is perhaps a little harder than necessary. “You aren’t going to have to quit. And I picked out a health care plan that gives all you ladies a full four months’ paid maternity leave, remember? Now, I designed this gown for you personally, with a gorgeous empire waist and a sweetheart neckline and a chapel train—which, by the way, is entirely inappropriate for the quickie wedding you and Raoul are about to have in the office of the city clerk…even if we are partying afterward at Tavern on the Green—so that your bump is completely disguised. No one can see it. How dare you call it a fat dress?”

  Tiffany eyes Shari’s box of Milk Duds. “Are you going to give me one of those?” she asks. “Or what?”

  “No, she’s not,” I snap. “You are not getting chocolate on this dress I’ve slaved over for weeks.”

  “We’ve slaved over,” Marisol corrects me. “I stayed up until two last night doing that crystal beading on the train.”

  “Right,” I say. “That we’ve slaved over.”

  “Whatever,” Tiffany says again, rolling her gorgeously made-up eyes. “Like there’s not going to be a knockoff available off the rack at Geck’s next week for two hundred bucks.”

  “There’s not!” I cry. “I told you! It’s a Lizzie Nichols Designs original! There’ll never be anything like it at Geck’s. I mean…there’ll be something similar. But it will retail for three ninety-nine.”

  Tiffany tosses her head until her newly coiled ringlets bounce. “I knew it,” she says with another eye roll.

  “The cars are here,” Monique says in a bored voice.

  “All right, let’s go,” I say quickly. “Or we’re going to be late.”

  And we all troop out into the crisp winter air, past the new hot-pink awning with the words “Lizzie Nichols Designs™” emblazoned on it in white curlicue writing, and splitting up into the two waiting black Town Cars that Raoul ordered for us, me carefully folding Tiffany’s train in after her, then climbing into the car behind hers with Shari.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say to her gratefully.

  “Are you kidding me?” Shari says, pouring more Milk Duds into her mouth. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. So what happened? The guy finally got his green card?”

  “And just in time. Five more months, and he’d be a dad before he wa
s a legal.”

  “That has to be the quickest divorce in the history of mankind.”

  “Well, the former Mrs. Raoul got a pretty hefty settlement for being so accommodating with INS,” I explain. “You know, not mentioning the part about how they hadn’t lived together as man and wife in years.”

  “That’s so romantic,” Shari says with a sigh, snuggling down into the leather seats.

  When we reach One Centre Street, I jump from the car and hurry to make sure Tiffany emerges from her own without damaging the gown we’ve all worked so hard on. She manages to do so, though she isn’t exactly gracious about it. Thanks to a united effort, we get her up to the hallway where the men—and Pat, who’s rushed over on her lunch break—are waiting.

  All of my anxiety turns out to have been worth it, though, when I see the look on Raoul’s face as he gazes upon his bride for the first time in her wedding finery. Tears fill his eyes, and I’m so touched when he takes Tiffany’s hand and whispers, “Baby, you look beautiful,” that I have to look away.

  “I know,” Tiffany whispers smugly back. I guess she doesn’t think she looks so fat after all.

  An arm slides around my waist, and a second later, a man in a charcoal gray suit is kissing my neck.

  “Hey,” Chaz says. “You did good.”

  “Thanks.” I giggle. Yes, really. I giggle. That is what Chaz does to me. “Do you like the ribbon work around the neckline? I thought that was a nice touch. I’m going to do that to the new line of flower girl dresses we’re introducing for next year’s resort line.”

  “It’ll sell like hotcakes,” he says.

  He’s wearing the yellow tie I love, in honor of the occasion. My knees are melting. The sight of Chaz in a suit and particularly that yellow tie still has the power to turn me into butter on a hot stove. I wonder if that will ever change.