Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

• Chapter 8 •

June, Six Months Later

“We have a new awning.”

That’s the first thing Monsieur Henri says when he walks into the shop.

“Well, of course we do,” I say with a laugh. “You know that. Your wife helped pick it out.”

“But”—Monsieur Henri glances over his shoulder at the awning stretched over the entrance to the shop—“it’s pink.”

Madame Henri gives her husband a sharp rap on the shoulder.

“Don’t be ignorant,” she advises him in French. “Of course it’s pink. I showed you the swatches. You agreed to the color yourself.”

“No.” Monsieur Henri shakes his head. “Not that pink.”

“Jean, you did,” Madame Henri insists. “Remember, you were in the garden, and I brought out the swatches, and you said you liked the salmon.”

“That’s not salmon,” Monsieur Henri insists. “That’s pink.” He looks down, then gasps. “My God. The carpet too?”

“It’s not pink,” I rush to inform him. “It’s blush. It’s practically beige.”

“If it’s the rug he’s going on about, tell him the customers like it,” Tiffany says defensively as she leans over her desk to gaze at the new wall-to-wall. “It’s very feminine.”

Monsieur Henri glances at her.

“What,” he asks in English, sounding horrified, “is wrong with your hair?”

Tiffany lifts up her hand to tug on her new, ultra-short bangs. “You like? They call it the Ava. After Ava Geck. Everybody’s getting it.” When she notices from his expression that he clearly doesn’t understand a word she’s saying, she adds, “It’s all Lizzie’s doing. She totally civilized her. Ava was like an animal before Lizzie got her hands on her. Seriously. She could barely formulate comprehensible sentences. And now she almost always remembers to put on underwear. Well, most days.”

“Take me back,” Monsieur Henri mutters. “Take me back to New Jersey,” he says to his wife.

“No, Jean, don’t be ridiculous,” Madame Henri says, taking her husband’s arm and leading him toward one of the newly upholstered chairs that sit by the fully stocked coffee bar. Monsieur Henri sinks onto the slick pink silk with a sigh. He has not snapped back as quickly—or as fully—as any of us hoped he would from his bypass surgery. His recovery has been fraught with complications, including a case of double pneumonia that had him bedridden for an extra few weeks, and he is only now, months later, making his first tenuous steps back to work.

But it’s clear his heart—to borrow a phrase—isn’t in it.

“Where did we get these chairs?” he whines, noticing the new material he’s sitting on. “And what’s that smell?”

“Those are the same old chairs you’ve always had,” I explain. “I had them recovered. They were stained and ugly. And that smell is Colombian roast. I got a cappuccino maker so the mothers can have something to drink during their daughters’ fittings—”

“How much is all of this costing me?” Monsieur Henri frets, looking around at the newly painted walls (also in blush), and the vintage dress pattern packets I’ve hung in elaborate gilt frames.

“It’s not costing you anything, you old goat,” Madame Henri chastises her husband, poking him in the shoulder. “I told you. Thanks to Lizzie, business is up almost a thousand percent since this time last year. That Jill Higgins—remember, from last year? All those society women are sending their daughters to have their gowns fitted by the same place that made hers such a standout. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you listen anymore? Did they forget to clean out your ears when they were cleaning out your arteries?”

Monsieur Henri hunches his shoulders. He’s lost so much weight since his surgery he looks almost like a different person. He resembles his twenty-something sons much more closely now, being long and lean, like them.

Unlike them, however, he’s gone entirely gray.

“I don’t understand anything anymore,” he says with a sigh. “Let me see the book. Lizzie… just give me the book.”

I seize the venerable appointment book from Tiffany—despite her insisting we switch over to a computerized mode of taking appointments, we’ve stayed with Monsieur Henri’s old appointment book.

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 professional 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.

Which isn’t very surprising, considering how many hours I spent on her and Pat’s couch, crying about him.

Valencia. Isn’t that a type of orange? Seriously. I’m almost sure it is.

“Great!” Luke says. “So I’ve got reservations for Spotted Pig at eight thirty. I said we’d meet up at Chaz’s place, then take a cab over to the West Village together. Does that sound okay?”

“Sure,” I say. The Spotted Pig! That’s one of the trendiest restaurants in the Village! I should be excited. I should be wondering what I’m going to wear. Instead, all I’m wondering is what Valencia is going to wear. Is she prettier than me? Why do I even care? I’m not dating Chaz. How can Chaz have started going out with someone and I never even knew it? Is he in love with her? Is he going to marry her? No, of course not. Chaz doesn’t believe in marriage. “I’ll meet you at Chaz’s.”

Maybe Valencia will make him believe in marriage. To her. Someone with the name Valencia ought to be capable of that.

A brainiac. Of course. He would date a brainiac.

“Okay,” Luke says. “Love you.”

“Love you,” I say and hang up.

“So.” Tiffany has ended her own phone call and is totally watching me, her eyes slitted like a cat’s. “Going to Chaz’s, huh?”

I ignore her attempt to bait me. “Who was that you were on the phone with just now?”

Tiffany smirks. “Who do you think?”

I widen my own eyes. “Ava? I thought we were done. I thought she loved it. She should be on her way to Greece by now. What could she possibly have wanted?”

“I don’t know,” Tiffany says. “She wouldn’t tell me. She said she could tell only you. She said she’d call back.”

“Great,” I say. I mean it sarcastically. I am not looking forward to hearing from Ava Geck. My relationship with the heiress has vastly improved since our first acquaintance, in that she no longer chews gum in my presence and has consistently remembered to wear panties during our last few meetings. And she seems to have benefited from our—meaning the shop’s—tutelage in other ways as well, since she’s abandoned her bleached-blond hair extensions in favor of a flattering pageboy and has started dressing less like a prostitute.

But there’s still some speculation as to whether or not her wedding to Prince Aleksandros will actually take place. The odds in Vegas are twenty-five to one that the nuptials will be called off.

I personally think the two of them are going to be fine.

So the fact that there’s been this last-minute phone call is freaking me out. Just a little.

Not more than the fact that Chaz has a girlfriend named Valencia, though. A girlfriend named Valencia who is up for tenure.

Still, Ava has my personal cell phone number. She’ll call it if she needs to.

“So,” Tiffany says. “Another night of romance with you, Loverboy, and Loverboy’s best friend? Hey, so what’s going to happen,” Tiffany wants to know, “when Loverboy heads off to France, leaving you and the best friend all alone in the big, lonely city during the long, hot summer?”

“Nothing,” I say, leaning down to snag two more Diet Cokes from the mini fridge for Sylvia and Marisol. “As you know perfectly well. Chaz and I are just friends.”

“Right.” Tiffany smirks. “I give you guys three weeks after Luke leaves before you two hit the sheets.”

“Right,” I say. “Do you have this week’s time sheets? Because I have to do payroll.”

“Oooh,” Tiffany says, reaching for the phone. “Make that three days. I’m calling Mo. I bet she’ll want to put money on this.”

“Don’t bother,” I say. “Chaz has a girlfriend. Her name is Valencia.”

Tiffany narrows her eyes. “Isn’t that a type of orange?”

“She has a Ph.D. in philosophy, and she’s up for tenure.”

Tiffany snorts. “So? Does she make him laugh?”

“Tiffany!” I am practically screaming. “What does it matter? Are you even listening to me? He has a girlfriend! And I’m engaged! Engaged to his best friend!”

“Who you don’t even love,” Tiffany says.

I stalk out of the front room without another word. I have no need to listen to this. I know—even if Tiffany doesn’t—the truth. I love my fiancé, and he loves me. Sure, we may not have set a date yet, and yeah, okay, he’s never even brought it up since New Year’s, when we called our families to tell them.

And yes, whenever I think about it, I still get a tight feeling in my chest and break out in hives.

But all brides-to-be are nervous wrecks. Look at Ava Geck, on her way to marry a prince, and calling me, her wedding gown designer, from the private plane on her way to Greece! It’s natural! It doesn’t mean you’re with the wrong guy! It doesn’t mean that at all.

Especially when the guy everyone’s been saying for months is the right one doesn’t even believe in marriage in the first place. If that’s not Mr. Wrong, I don’t know who is.