Queen of Babble in the Big City (20 page)

“Are you kidding me with this?” she demands, not in what you would call a teasing or even friendly manner.

Oops.

“Look,” I say, straightening up from where I’ve been leaning against the bathroom wall. “I’m sorry. I just heard, you know,
through the grapevine, that your future mother-in-law was trying to make you wear some dress that’s been handed down in their family for generations or something. And I just wanted to let you know that—you know. I can help.”

Jill is blinking at me, her expression devoid of any emotion whatsoever. She’s not wearing any makeup, I notice. But then she’s one of those healthy, outdoorsy girls who can get away with it.

“Not just me, I mean,” I add hastily. “Lots of people can help, this whole town is filled with people who can help. Just don’t go to this one guy, Maurice? Because he’ll just charge you a lot and he won’t actually fix it. The gown, I mean. Monsieur Henri—that’s where I work—is the place to go. Because, you know, we don’t use chemicals or anything like that. And we care.”

Jill blinks at me some more. “You
care
?” she repeats, sounding incredulous.

“Well, yeah,” I say, realizing—a little belatedly—how I must sound to her. Because it isn’t as if she isn’t hounded all day by people who want something from her—the press, for a quote or a photo; the public, for what it’s like to be engaged to one of the richest bachelors in New York; even her beloved seals, the ones she’s willing to throw out her back for, are probably always after her for fish. Or whatever it is the seals in the Central Park Zoo eat.

“Look,” I say. “I know you’re going through a rotten time right now, and it must seem like everybody and his brother wants a piece of you or whatever. But I swear that’s not why I’m telling you this. Vintage clothing—it’s my life. I mean, you can see what I have on, right?” I point at the dress I’m wearing. “This is a rare long-sleeved, kimono-style dress from the 1960s by the designer Alfred Shaheen, who was better known for his authentic South Seas designs—basically Hawaiian shirts—but who also made some hand-screened Asian prints as well. This dress is a fantastic example of his work—see the wide, obi-style belt? Which is actually a good look for me, because I have more of a pear shape, you know, so I want to emphasize my waistline and not my hips so much? Anyway, this dress was
in pretty bad shape when I found it in the bottom of the dollar bin at the place where I used to work back in Ann Arbor, Vintage to Vavoom. It had this really gross stain on it—grape jelly, I think—and it was actually floor length because I think it was meant to be a hostess dress. And it was way too big for me in the boobs. But I just threw it in a pot of boiling water and gave it a good soak, then I dried it out, cut it off to mid-knee, hemmed it, redid the darts, and, boom.”

I do a little pivot for her, the way Tiffany had taught me to.

“And now I’ve got what you see here. What I’m trying to say”—I pivot over to where she’s standing, gaping at me—“is that I know how to take someone else’s trash and turn it into treasure. And that if you want me to, I can do it for you. Because what would stick it to your future mother-in-law more than you walking down the aisle in the dress she’s forced onto you, looking way, way better in it than she ever did?”

Jill shakes her head. “You don’t understand,” she says.

“Try me.”

“That—that thing she wants me to wear. It’s…hideous.”

“So was this,” I say, indicating the Alfred Shaheen. “Grape jelly. Floor length. Bullet boobs.”

“No. This is worse. Way worse. It’s got like—” Words seem to defy Jill. So she uses her arms to make a circle. “This hoop skirt thing. And there’s…
stuff.
Hanging. It’s got this plaid thing—”

“The MacDowell clan tartan,” I say gravely. “Yes. Yes, of course it would have that.”

“And it’s like a million years old,” Jill says. “And it smells. And it doesn’t fit.”

“Too big or too small?” I ask.

“Too small. Way too small. There’s no way anybody could make it fit. I already decided.” She tosses her head, her blue eyes glittering. “I’m not wearing it. I mean, she already hates me. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“True,” I say. “Do you have something else in mind?”

She looks at me blankly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you have another dress in mind? Have you shopped for another gown?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, right. When would I have time to do that? In between manicures? What do you think? No, of course not. What do I know about any of this stuff? I mean, John, he keeps telling me just to go to Vera Wang or whatever, but it’s like every time I even think about going into one of those places—you know, those designers—I get all short of breath, and…well, it’s not like I’ve got girlfriends, or whatever, who are into that stuff. Everyone I know, they’ve got like monkey shit all over their shoes.
Literally
. What do they know from bridal gowns? Really, I was just thinking maybe I’d fly home and pick something up back at the mall in Des Moines. Because at least there I know what I’m getting myself into—”

Something cold and hard grips my heart. I recognize immediately what it is, of course. Fear.

“Jill.” I reach for another Devil Dog. I need it. For sustenance. “Can I call you Jill?”

She nods. “Yeah, whatever.”

“I’m Lizzie,” I say. “And please, don’t ever say that word around me again.”

She looks at me blankly. “What word?”

“Mall.” I shove a fingerful of delicious filling into my mouth and let it melt. Ahhhh. Better. “No. Just no, okay?”

“I know,” she says, her eyes suddenly bright with tears again. “But seriously. What else am I gonna do?”

“Well, for starters,” I say, “you’re going to bring the MacDowell clan bridal gown, tartan and all, to me, here.” I pass her one of my business cards from my purse. “Can you come this afternoon?”

Jill squints down at the card. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” I say. “Before we make any drastic decisions involving the mall, let’s just see what we have to work with, okay? Because you never know. You may have something salvageable. And then you won’t have to deal with the mall
or
the high-fashion bou
tiques. And it would be a really nice in-your-face to your mother-in-law if we could make it work.”

Jill narrows her eyes at me. “Wait. Did you just say ‘in-your-face’?”

I look at her guiltily over the second fingerful of Devil Dog filling I’ve just stuffed into my mouth. “Um,” I say around my finger. “Yeah. Why?”

“I haven’t heard anybody say that since eighth grade.”

I pop my finger out of my mouth. “I was always kind of a late bloomer.”

For the first time since coming out of the toilet stall, Jill smiles. “Me, too,” she says.

And the two of us stand there grinning idiotically at each other…

At least until the door to the ladies’ room swings open and Roberta comes in, freezing mid-step when she sees us.

“Oh, Lizzie,” she says, smiling at Jill. “There you are. Tiffany just asked me to check on you because you’d been gone from the desk for so long—”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, sweeping the remains of the junk food I’d looted from the kitchen into my arms. “We were just—”

“I was having a blood sugar issue,” Jill says, reaching out to grab another Coke and a Yodels from the pile in my arms, “and Lizzie was just helping me through it.”

“Oh,” Roberta says, smiling even harder. Well, what’s she going to do? Yell at me for sneaking the entire contents of the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn snack closet into the ladies’ room for one of their most high-profile clients? “Great. So long as you’re both all right.”

“We are,” I say cheerfully. “In fact, I was just heading back to the desk—”

“And I have a two o’clock with Mr. Pendergast,” Jill says.

“Okay, then,” Roberta says. Her smile is practically frozen onto her face. “Good!”

I hurry out to the lobby, where Tiffany’s eyes widen perceptibly when she sees who’s following me. Esther, Mr. Pendergast’s assistant, is waiting by the reception desk. She looks even more surprised than Tiffany to see Jill Higgins following behind me and Roberta.

“Oh, Miss Higgins,” she cries, her gaze going straight to the Yodel crumbs on Jill’s chest. “There you are. I was getting worried. The security desk called and said they’d sent you up some time ago—”

“Sorry,” Jill says smoothly. “I stopped for a snack.”

“I see,” Esther says, darting a quick look at me.

“She was hungry,” I say, indicating the snack cakes and sodas—and minicartons of milk—in my arms. “Want some?”

“Er, no, thank you,” Esther says. “Won’t you come with me, Miss Higgins?”

“Sure,” Jill says, and starts following Esther out—only to fling me an enigmatic look over her shoulder as she rounds the corner…a look I am in no shape to interpret, since I’m getting ready to be yelled at by my boss.

But Roberta doesn’t say anything except, “Well. That was, er, nice of you, to, er, help Miss Higgins.”

“Thanks,” I say. “She said she was feeling light-headed, so—”

“Quick thinking,” Roberta says. “Well. It’s past two, so—”

“Right.” I dump the stuff from the kitchen onto the reception desk—causing Tiffany to make a small noise of protest and give me a dirty look. “Sorry, Tiff,” I say. “But I gotta run. My shift’s up for the day—”

And then I bolt out of there like a bike messenger with a clear shot up Sixth Avenue…

A word on…

Shoes!

Of course you want to look your best on your wedding day, and higher heels can help emphasize a nice figure, and improve a less-than-perfect one. Keep in mind, however, that you will be spending a LOT of time on your feet on your wedding day. If you insist on heels, wear a pair at a height you are somewhat used to.

If your wedding heels are still less than comfortable by the time the big day rolls around, it’s always a good idea to bring a second pair of shoes to wear during your “downtime,” such as while you’re waiting for the photographer to set up, et cetera.

One word on beach weddings: few things are lovelier than being married at sunset on a tropical beach. Keep in mind, however, that heels and sand do not mix. If you are being married on a beach, skip the shoes altogether. Just be sure to put some bug repellent on your ankles to ward off sand fleas or you’ll be scratching throughout the ceremony.

L
IZZIE
N
ICHOLS
D
ESIGNS
™

If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.

—Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), poet and writer

A
t five of six that day, I give up hope that Jill Higgins is going to walk up and ring the bell to Monsieur Henri’s. I’ve been, I know, too presumptuous. Why would Jill Higgins, who is marrying one of the richest men in Manhattan, choose me—a woman she knows only as the receptionist at the law firm where she is getting her prenup negotiated—as her certified wedding-gown specialist?

Especially since I’m not even certified! Yet.

I haven’t mentioned to Monsieur and Madame Henri that I’ve given their name and address to one of the most famous brides-to-be in the city. I don’t want to get their hopes up. Business has not been good, and there’ve been conversations (in French, of course, so I won’t understand what they’re saying) about packing it up for good when Maurice finally opens his shop down the street and steals away the last of their customers. The Henris have mentioned decamping for the cottage in Provence.

There would be a significant loss of income if this were to take place, since they’ve taken out a second mortgage on the building in order to pay for the boys’ college tuition, and the home in which
they live in New Jersey has depreciated considerably with the current housing sales slump. Plus there’s the small fact that the two boys, Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre, adamantly refuse to move to France, or even transfer to colleges less expensive than New York University, to which they commute daily from home (when they aren’t sneaking overnight stays in the apartment upstairs).

Of course, I have no doubt that if the decision to give up the shop is ever made, the boys will end up doing precisely as their mother insists. Money, not discipline, is what is lacking in the Henri family—at least if the way Monsieur Henri piles the work on me at the shop is any indication. For someone who claims his business is going under, Monsieur Henri certainly seems to have enough sewing for me to do, day in and day out. He’s had me make so many lace ruffles—the same ones I’d admired in his shop window, months earlier, and swore to myself I’d learn to create on my own—that I can practically do them in my sleep. And I’ve completely mastered the art of the sewn-on diamond drop, for that all-over shimmer effect. And don’t even get me started on ruching.

Madame Henri is fussing at her husband for him to hurry and pack up so they can leave, because the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting—scheduled to take place tonight—makes the traffic so impossible that it takes an hour, practically, just to navigate out of the city, when the bell to the front door of the shop rings, and I look up to see a pale face, framed by a curtain of blond hair, peering at me urgently.

“What is this?” Madame Henri wants to know. “We have no appointments today.”

“Oh,” I say quickly, getting up and going to the door. “This is a friend of mine.” I open the door to let Jill in…

…and only then notice that there is a chauffeured black Town Car with smoked windows parked with its motor running in front of the fire hydrant, and that behind Jill stands a tall, athletic man I immediately recognize as—

“Oh!” Madame Henri drops her purse and flings both her hands
to her cheeks. She’s recognized Jill’s companion as well. Which, considering how often his face appears on the front page of the
Post
, isn’t any wonder.

“Um, hi,” Jill says. Her cheeks are very red from the cold outside. She’s carrying a garment bag. “You said to stop by. Is this a bad time?”

“This is a perfect time,” I say. “Come on in.”

The couple step in from the slight snow flurry that has started up, lightly coating their hair and shoulders with drops that sparkle more than any crystal I’ve ever sewn onto anything. They bring with them the smell of cold and good health and…something else.

“Sorry,” Jill says, wrinkling her nose. “That’s me. I came straight from work and I didn’t have time to change. We wanted to beat the tree traffic.”

“That intoxicating odor,” John MacDowell says, “that you’re smelling right now is seal excrement. Don’t worry, you get used to it.”

“This is my fiancé, John,” Jill says. “John, this is Lizzie—”

John sticks out a large hand, and I shake it.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, seeming to mean it. “When Jill told me about you—well, I really hope you can help us. My mother—I mean, I love her and everything, but—”

“Say no more,” I say. “We completely get it. And, believe me, we’ve probably seen worse. May I introduce you to my boss, Monsieur Henri? He owns this shop. And this is his wife, Madame Henri. Monsieur and Madame, this is Jill Higgins and her fiancé, John MacDowell.”

Monsieur Henri has been standing nearby staring at the three of us with a stunned expression on his face. When I say his name, he takes a quick step forward, his hand extended.
“Enchanté,”
he says. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” John MacDowell says politely. Madame Henri practically faints when he says the same thing to her. She hasn’t been able to utter a sound since the couple entered the shop.

“Shall we see what you have here?” I ask, taking the garment bag from Jill.

“I’m warning you,” John says. “It’s bad.”

“Really
bad,” Jill adds.

“We are used to bad,” Monsieur Henri assures them. “That is how we came by our endorsement from the Association of Bridal Consultants.”

“It’s true,” I say gravely. “The National Bridal Service has given Monsieur Henri their highest recommendation.”

Monsieur Henri inclines his head modestly while at the same time moving behind Jill to help her out of her down parka. “Perhaps we can get you some tea? Or coffee?”

“I’m fine,” John says, handing over his own parka. “We’re…”

His voice trails off. That’s because I’ve opened the garment bag. And now all five of us are staring at what I’ve revealed.

Monsieur Henri nearly drops the coats, but at the last second his wife darts forward to scoop them up.

“It’s…it’s hideous,” Monsieur Henri breathes—thankfully in French.

“Yes,” I say. “But it can be saved.”

“No.” Monsieur Henri shakes his head, like someone in a daze. “It cannot.”

I can see why he might feel that way. The gown isn’t promising, to say the least. Made of yards and yards of clearly valuable antique lace over cream-colored satin, it’s a princess cut, with an enormous full skirt, made even bigger by a hoop sewn into the hem. The neckline is a typical Queen Anne style, with enormous poufed sleeves that end in tartan bows at the wrists. Draped along the skirt is more tartan, held in place with gold toggles.

It looks, in other words, like something out of a high school drama club’s production of
Brigadoon
.

“It’s been in my family for generations,” John says apologetically. “All the MacDowell brides have worn it—with various degrees
of alteration. My mother is the one who put in the hoop when she wore it. She’s from Georgia.”

“That explains a lot,” I say. “What size is it?”

“A six,” Jill says. “I’m a twelve.”

Monsieur Henri says in French, “Impossible. It is too small. There is nothing we can do.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” I say. “Obviously the bodice will have to go. But there’s enough material here—”

“You are going to chop up the ancestral gown of the richest family in the city?” Monsieur Henri demands, again in French. “You’ve lost your mind!”

“He said other brides have altered it,” I remind him. “I mean, come on. We can at least try.”

“You cannot fit a size-twelve woman into a size-six gown,” Monsieur Henri snaps. “You know it cannot be done!”

“We can’t fit her into
this
gown the way it is now,” I say. “But fortunately it’s too long on her.” I take the gown from the hanger it’s on and hold it up to Jill, who stands with her arms at her side, looking alarmed. “See? If it were too short, I’d say you were right. But like I was saying, if we unstitch the bodice—”

“My God, are you mad?” Monsieur Henri looks shocked. “Do you know what the mother-in-law will do to us? She could even take legal action—”

“Jean,” Madame Henri says, speaking for the first time.

Her husband glances at her. “What?”

“Do it,” she says in French.

Monsieur Henri shakes his head. “I am telling you, it cannot be done! Do you want me to lose my certification?”

“Do you want Maurice to steal away what little business we have left when he opens his shop down the street?” his wife demands.

“He won’t,” I assure them both. “Not if you let me do it. I can. I
know
I can.”

Madame Henri nods at me. “Listen to her, Jean,” she says.

The issue is no longer up for debate. Monsieur Henri may wield the needle, but his wife wears the pants in the family. Once she has ruled, there is no more argument. Madame Henri’s word is always final.

Monsieur Henri’s shoulders sag. Then he looks at Jill. Both she and her husband-to-be are staring at us, wide-eyed.

“When is the wedding?” Monsieur Henri asks weakly.

“New Year’s Eve,” Jill says.

Monsieur Henri groans. And even I have to swallow hard against the soreness that has suddenly crept back into my throat. New Year’s Eve!

Jill notices our reaction, and looks worried. “Does that…I mean, will you have enough time?”

“A month.” Monsieur Henri stares down at me. “We have a
month
. Not that it matters, since what you are saying cannot be done in any amount of time.”

“It can if we do it the way I’m thinking we should do it,” I say.
“Trust me.”

Monsieur Henri takes a final look at the monstrosity on the hanger.

“Maurice,”
his wife hisses. “Remember Maurice!”

Monsieur Henri sighs. “Fine. We will try.”

And I turn, beaming, toward Jill.

“What was that all about?” she asks nervously. “I couldn’t tell what you were saying. It was all in French.”

“Well,” I start to say…

Then realize what she’s just said.

I turn guiltily toward Monsieur and Madame Henri, who are both staring at me in horror. It’s hit them at the same time as it’s hit me: we’ve just had an entire conversation in their native language—which I’m not supposed to understand.

But hey. It’s not like they ever asked.

I give the Henris a shrug. Then, to Jill, I say, “We’ll do it.”

She stares at me. “Okay…but how?”

“I haven’t completely figured that out yet,” I admit. “But I have an idea. And you’re going to look great. I promise.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “No hoop skirt?”

“No hoop skirt,” I say. “But I’m going to need to take your measurements. So if you could just come with me back to the dressing room—”

“Okay,” she says. And follows me past Monsieur and Madame Henri, who continue to stand there, looking stunned. I can see that they are going over in their heads every conversation they have ever had within earshot of me.

And that’s a
lot
of conversations.

Behind the curtains that make up the walls of the dressing room, the smell of seal is stronger than ever.

“I’m really sorry,” Jill says. “I’ll totally change before I come the next time.”

“That’s okay,” I say, trying to take only shallow breaths. “At least you know that guy must
really
love you, if he’s willing to put up with
that
.”

“Yes,” Jill says, with a smile that makes her normally merely attractive face stunningly beautiful for a moment. “He does.”

And I feel a twinge. Not of jealousy, really, although there’s a little of that in it, I guess. But mostly it’s caused by the fact that I want what she has—not an engagement to the richest bachelor in Manhattan; not a future mother-in-law who is making it her single goal in life to ruin any chance at joy I might have on what is supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

But a guy who would go on loving me even if I smelled like seal poo. Not just go on loving me, but want to spend the rest of his life with me—although I’d settle at this point for coming to Ann Arbor for Christmas with me—and be willing to verbalize that desire in front of a room full of friends, family members, and sneaky members of the press who happened to worm their way into the church.

Because right now, that’s something I’m pretty sure I don’t have.

But hey. At least I’m working on it.