Queen of Babble (23 page)

“No need to get huffy,” Shari says. “I was just asking.”

“I’m not huffy,” I say, trying to sound very unhuffy. “Did I seem huffy? Because I didn’t mean to.”

“Whatever you say, psycho.” Shari shoots me an amused glance. “I’m gonna get another refill. Care to join me?”

I look in the direction she’s nodding toward. Luke is just opening a new bottle of his dad’s champagne.

He happens to lift his head and see us looking at him from across the room. He smiles.

“Um,” I say. “Well, okay. Maybe one more.”

The mid-1870s saw something of a fashion revolution, thanks to the invention of the sewing machine and the introduction of synthetic dyes. While mass manufacturing meant inexpensive, stylish clothes were available to everyone, it also meant that, for the first time in recorded history, you could be walking down
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the street and actually see someone wearing your exact same outfit. The hoop skirt disappeared, transformed into the “bustle,” the last time it was stylish to look as if one had a big butt until the birth of J.Lo.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

17

Talk is a pure art. Its only limits are the patience of listeners who, when they get tired, can always pay for their coffee or change it with a friendly waiter and walk out.

—John Dos Passos (1896–1970),

U.S. novelist, poet, playwright, and painter

Dinner isn’t so much a meal as it is a war council.

That’s because Vicky and her mother want to make sure everything is ready for when the guests—and Vicky’s future husband and in-laws—start arriving tomorrow.

I guess I can understand their concern. I mean, you only have one wedding (hopefully). So you want to make sure you do it right.

Still, it would be nice if we could concentrate more on the food Agnès’s mother, Madame Laurent, has prepared for us than on Mrs. Thibodaux’s complaints about the bumpiness of the driveway.

Because this is possibly one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever had, starting with a creamy fish cassoulet (which means stew) with slices of apple in it as a starter; then duck caramelized in some kind of delicious sweet sauce; a salad of baby lettuce in a garlicky dressing; and an enormous cheese platter, all of it accompanied by huge chunks of perfectly baked bread—crunchy and golden on the outside, soft and warm in the middle—and a wine to go with each course, poured by Monsieur de Villiers, who tries to tell us about each glass we’re sampling but who keeps getting interrupted by Luke’s aunt Ginny, who says things like “Speaking of bouquet, has anyone talked to that florist over in Sarlat? She knows we changed to the white roses from the white lilies, right? What’s the French word for rose again?”

To which Luke replies dryly,“Rose,” causing some of the water I’ve just sipped to go up my nose, I start laughing so hard.

Fortunately he doesn’t notice—Luke, I mean—because he’s sitting all the way down at the opposite end of the enormous dining table—which Dominique informed me (on our way into the impressively high-ceilinged and dramatically decorated dining room) seats twenty-six—with his mother on one side and Dominique at the other. I’m at the other end, by Luke’s father, with the surly Blaine on my other side.

Not that I mind. Especially since I don’t even like Luke that way. Or so I am telling myself, now that Shari is on to me.

At least I got the opportunity to observe up close what the letters tattooed on Blaine’s fingers spell: F-U-C-K Y-O-U!

I think the exclamation mark is a nice touch. I imagine his mother must be very proud of him.

If she thinks anything about him at all, which seems unlikely given the amount of gushing she is doing over her daughter, who isn’t, to put it mildly, a very happy bride. Nothing, apparently, has been done right so far, and Vicky doesn’t seem to have much faith that anything is going to be done right in the future, despite protestations to the contrary from her mother, Luke, and even Monsieur de Villiers.

“Darlin’, I already called the hotel and the concierge assures me there’s plenty of space there for your sorority sisters. Or there will be tomorrow after some German tourists check out. At least”—Mrs.

Thibodaux shoots her sister a look—“I think that’s what he said. It was hard to tell with that accent…”

“But why can’t Blaine’s friends stay in the hotel?” Vicky wants to know. “Why do mine have to? I’m the bride!”

“Blaine’s friends are in the wedding party,” her mother reminds her. “You’re the one who wanted them to play at the reception.”

“Huh,” Blaine, beside me, grunts as he stabs a piece of Camembert over and over with his butter knife.

“Yeah, onlyafter we landed that recording contract.”

“You guys aren’t celebrity recording artists yet,” Vicky hurls at him from the far end of the table. “I don’t see where you get off acting like one. Your stupid friends could stay in their VAN and not know the difference.”

“My stupid friends,” Blaine hurls back, “are the only remotely cool thing about your wedding, and you know it.”

“Um, excuse me. I think getting married at aFrench château is plenty cool enough,” Vicky snaps.

“Oh, right,” Blaine says, rolling his eyes. “Like having the hottest band on the Houston music scene right now play at your wedding isn’t something you’ve been bragging about to every publicist in town.”

“Would you two kindlyshut the hell up ?” their aunt Bibi asks in a voice I suspect is even more slurry than usual, thanks to all the champagne she put back earlier, while stonily ignoring her estranged husband, who continues to make every effort possible to sit or stand near her and include her in the conversation.

It is kind of sad, actually, to watch how excited Monsieur de Villiers is to have his wife back—even if only temporarily and even if only for her niece’s wedding—and how totally unexcited she is tobe back.

“Really, you two,” Mrs. Thibodaux says, looking close to tears, “now is not a time for bickering. It’s a time for pulling together, to try to weather this crisis as best we can.”

“Crisis?” Monsieur de Villiers looks confused. “What crisis? Victoria is getting married! How is this a crisis? It is a joyous occasion, no?”

Both Bibi and her sister look at him and say at the same time, “No.”

Vicky, after looking from one woman to the other, suddenly pushes her chair back, leaps to her feet, and runs from the dining room, a hand flung dramatically over her face.

Which is when Shari stands up and says, “On that note…thank you so much. We’ve had a lovely evening. And I’m pretty sure we’re all clear on what we’ll be needed to do tomorrow when the rest of your guests start arriving. But right now I think Lizzie and I will just get a head start on the dishes.”

“I’ll help you,” Chaz says, springing to his feet, obviously eager to get away from the fighting and talk of floral arrangements.

“Me, too,” Luke says.

But the minute he starts to get up, his mother lays a restraining hand upon his wrist and says, not slurring the word at all now, “Sit.”

Luke sinks slowly back into his chair, a pained expression on his face.

I start clearing the empty plates around my end of the table. I don’t think I can get out of that tense silence fast enough.

As I come into the high-ceilinged—but still old-fashioned—kitchen, I smile at Agnès and her mother when they look up from the supper they’re sharing at the massive butcher-block table.

“Ne pas se lever,”I say to them, not sure if this is the right way of saying “Don’t get up.” But I guess it is, since it has the desired effect—they both sit back down to finish their meal.

“Oh my God,” Shari says to me after smiling at the Laurents. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Whatwas that out there?”

Chaz looks visibly shaken. “I feel violated,” he says.

“Oh, whatever,” I say, grabbing a trash can and beginning to scrape the remains on the plates off into it.

“My own family is way more embarrassing.”

“Well,” Shari says, “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that. But that is a good point.”

“Weddings are just stressful, you guys,” I say, reaching for the plates Chaz has carried in and scraping them as well. “I mean, the expectations are so high, and then if things don’t go perfectly, people melt down.”

“Sure,” Shari says. “Melt down. But not spontaneously combust. You know what her problem is, don’t you? Vicky’s, I mean?”

“She’s a Bridezilla?” Chaz asks.

“No,” Shari says. “She’s marrying beneath her.”

“Shut up,” I say, laughing.

“I’m serious,” Shari says. “Dominique was telling us all about it at the pool today after you left for your little vineyard tour, Lizzie. Vicky’s marrying some computer software programmer whose family all comes from Minnesota or something, instead of the rich Texas oil baron her mom had all picked out for her. Mrs. Thibodaux is fit to be tied about it, but there’s nothing she can do to change Vicky’s mind. It’s lurve .”

“Where’sMr. Thibodaux in all this?” Chaz wants to know. “Vicky’s dad?”

“Oh, he has some big important meeting to go to in New York for his investment company or something.

He’ll be here just in time to walk her down the aisle, and not a minute before, if he’s smart.” Shari hands Chaz a dish towel. “Here. I’ll rinse. You dry.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty dishes to me,” Chaz says.

I gaze at the two of them as they bicker at each other over the sink, thinking how lucky they are to have found each other. It hasn’t all been funny one-liners and trips to France for them, of course. There was the time Shari had to kill and dissect Mr. Jingles, her university-assigned lab rat, in order to pass advanced behavioral neuroscience, and Chaz urged her to spare Mr. Jingles by surreptitiously replacing him with a look-alike rat he found at PetSmart in the mall.

But Shari wouldn’t swap rats because she said as a scientist she needed to learn how to distance herself from her subjects…after which Chaz wouldn’t speak to her for two weeks.

Still. Overall, they are the cutest couple I know. Besides my mom and dad.

And I would give anything to have a relationship like that of my own.

Except, of course, I wouldn’t resort to busting up someone else’s to get it. Even if I could. Which I can’t.

So I don’t even know why I’m standing here thinking about a certain person I met on a train just the day before.

Agnès and her mother, once they finish their meal, refuse to leave without helping us with the rest of the dishes, and the job is done sooner than I would have thought, given the number of courses we had and the number of utensils we’d ended up using to eat them.

But even better than being done with our chores sooner than I thought we would be is the fact that Madame Laurent actually understands me when I ask her if she knows whether there’s anycrème de tartre in the kitchen. Even better yet—she manages to produce a container of it for me. She looks a little confused at my joy over securing a common acidic compound but seems pleased to have been able to help. She and her daughter both wish us abonne nuit —which we enthusiastically return—before returning to the millhouse for the night.

Chaz announces he’s going to see if he can’t rescue Luke from the clutches of his mother and Mrs.

Thibodaux and cajole him into having a nightcap. He and Shari invite me along, but I tell them I’m tired and am going to bed.

Which is a lie, but I’m embarrassed to admit that I have other plans…and that they involve needing to find a basin big enough to soak the Givenchy dress in—with the cream of tartar—overnight.

I’m on my hands and knees with my head in the cabinet under the kitchen sink examining something I think might work—a plastic bucket that must have been placed there during some ancient leak—when I hear a door open behind me. Worried it might be Luke, and that if so he’ll be seeing me from my least flattering angle, I start to get up, misjudge the distance between the sink and my scalp, and bang my head on the inside of the cabinet.

“Ouch,” says a male voice from behind me. “That had to hurt.”

Clutching my head with one hand, I look over my shoulder and see Blaine, in his baggy black jeans, dyed-black hair, and Marilyn Manson T-shirt, which I believe he is wearing to be ironic.

“You okay?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” I say. Letting go of my head, I reach for the bucket and climb to my feet.

“Whatcha doing down there, anyway?” Blaine wants to know.

“Just getting something,” I say, trying to hide the bucket behind my voluminous skirt. Don’t even ask me why. I just don’t feel like getting into an explanation of why I have it.

“Oh,” Blaine says. That’s when I notice the unlit, apparently hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Okay. Well, listen. You got a light, by any chance?”

“Sorry,” I say. “No.”

He sags in the doorway. Really. He looks genuinely crushed. “Shit.”

I don’t approve of smoking, of course, but considering what this guy has had to sit through all night, I don’t blame him for needing a little stimulant.

“You could use one of the burners,” I suggest, pointing at the massive—and ancient—stove in the corner.

“Oh,” Blaine says. “Sweet.”

He slouches toward the stove, switches on the flame, bends down, and inhales.

“Ahhhh,” he says after he’s straightened again and exhaled. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

And I recognize a sweet, pungent scent that immediately reminds me of McCracken Hall. That’s when I realize what’s rolled into his cigarette is not tobacco.

“How,” I ask, truly stunned, “did you get that onto a transatlantic flight?”

“They’re called tighty-whities, baby,” Blaine says, dropping down into the kitchen chair Madame Laurent only recently vacated and swinging his combat-booted feet up onto the butcher-block table.

“You smuggled marijuana into France in yourunderwear ?” I am stunned.

He looks at me and chuckles. “Marijuana,” he echoes. “You’re cute, you know that?”

“They have those sniffy dogs at airports now,” I remind him.

“Sure they do,” he says. “They’re trained to sniff for bombs, though, not ganja. Here.” He takes a deep toke on the joint, then holds it out to me. “Have some.”