Oh no, please. Don’t let me turn out to be the same way over this damn wedding with Luke as I was over the bell bottoms. Why? Why is this happening? Is it Mom, and her insistence that our backyard is just as nice a place to have a wedding as Château Mirac? It can’t be… you know, that other thing. What Monique said, about Chaz’s being in love with me. It can’t possibly be that.
No. It has to be the thing with Mom, and the whole idea of my family descending on Luke’s familial estate, and how they might act when they get there. Gran, with her drinking, and Rose and Sarah, with their bickering and their picking on me, and…
Oh yeah, see? Another hive. Right there on my wrist. I knew it. It’s because I keep seeing Rose’s husband, Angelo, in my mind’s eye, wandering around the château, wanting to know where he can get a Pabst Blue Ribbon…
And Gran. Gran, going up to Mrs. de Villiers and asking her what time Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman is going to be on…
Oh God. Two more.
Chaz stepping forward when the justice of the peace—or whoever marries people in France—asks if there is anybody who has any reason why this couple should not be wed, because he doesn’t believe in the institution of marriage, and it’s just a slip of paper…
Oh my God! Another one on my wrist!
Okay. That’s it. That is it. I am not going to think about Chaz—or my wedding—again. Whatever happened between Chaz and me, it’s done, over, finished. What would be the point, anyway? There’s no future for our relationship—even if we had one—since he doesn’t believe in marriage.
And I’m sorry, but—call me a simple-minded fool—I do! I really do!
No. This is it. I am not going to see or speak to Chaz ever again—it’s better this way, to avoid temptation—except when I have to, because he is my fiancé’s best friend and our best man, and it would look weird if I didn’t speak to the best man at my own wedding.
That’s it. I’m done with Chaz.
And done with thinking about my wedding. For now.
Okay. Exhale.
Now. Where was I? Oh, right. The Bianchi. Okay.
That’s right. I’ll just throw myself into my work. That’s all I need to do, and time will fly by so fast, I won’t even realize it. Before I know it, it will be June… time to get ready for my own wedding day.
And then nothing Chaz can say or do will be able to ruin it for me… By then everything will be perfect. Just perfect.
Exactly the way it’s supposed to be.
See? I feel better already.
And look at that. No new hives.
Phew. Great. Okay. So… work. WORK!
Everyone knows a bride needs to wear something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. But hardly anyone knows why. According to ancient superstition, the “something old” ensures the bride’s friends will be faithful when she needs them after she’s embarked on her new life with her husband and his family. The “something new” is supposed to promise success in that new life. The “something borrowed” symbolizes the love of her own family—that she may take it with her as she goes to live with the family of her new husband. And the “blue” symbolizes loyalty and constancy.
The full version of the rhyme goes on to add that the bride also needs “a sixpence in her shoe.”
This was for cab fare home if things worked out badly.
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
You know the old saying—What happens when you assume? You make an Ass of U and Me. Don’t assume everyone you’ve invited to your wedding knows their way to the church and reception hall. Include a well-drawn, legible map along with your invitation. Trust me, some of your guests will be so drunk—yes, even before the ceremony—they’ll need it.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 8 •
To keep your marriage brimming,
With love in the wedding cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.
Ogden Nash (1902–1971), American poet
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.”