Queen of Babble (26 page)

19

Keep silence for the most part,

and speak only when you must,

and then briefly.

—Epictetus (c. ACE 55–135), Greek Stoic philosopher The rest of the morning is a blur of deliveries. The first truck to arrive is the one carrying the dance-floor, stage, and sound equipment for the wedding’s band—in this case, not the string quartet Luke tells me plays most weddings at Mirac, but Blaine’s band, Satan’s Shadow. As workers from the company in charge of setting this up begin their work, another truck—this one filled with folding tables and chairs for the rehearsal dinner and wedding reception (both of which are to be held on the lawn)—rumbles up the driveway (knocking down everything Luke and Chaz couldn’t reach, and forcing the two of them to have to scramble back down the driveway to clear it of all the newly fallen branches) and needs help unloading.

Just as Shari, Chaz, Blaine—who, his band not having arrived yet, declares, “I’m bored,” and begins pitching in—and I get the last of the folding chairs off the truck, another one arrives, this one carrying all the food the chef and staff from a local restaurant will be preparing for the festivities. This food needs to be unloaded and carried to the kitchen, where Madame Laurent supervises its storage, and the restaurant chef begins preparing canapés for the cocktail hour, which begins in the late afternoon…

Which is when the out-of-town guests begin showing up, either in their own rented vehicles or ferried from the train station by Dominique, who has managed to avoid having to do any hard labor by volunteering to do this instead. The groom arrives first, with his dazed-looking parents. I am very curious to see this computer programmer Vicky is marrying instead of the rich Texas oil baron her mother wanted for her, and I have to say, when I finally see Craig, I can understand the attraction. Not that he’s good-looking—because he’s not.

But when Vicky comes flying at him from inside the house, blathering about everything that’s going wrong, from her friends still not having hotel rooms to Blaine having told her that she looks fat in her rehearsal-dinner dress, Craig’s reply is as phlegmatic as his parents’ reaction to Mirac.

“Vic. It’s all right,” he says.

And Vicky actually stops crying.

At least until half a dozen of Vicky’s friends—as pretty and blond as she is—pile out of minivans and stumble across the gravel driveway in their wobbly high heels to hug her. Then she starts bawling all over again, and Craig, not looking in the least bothered by this, gently leads his parents to the vineyard, where Monsieur de Villiers happily shows them around the cavernous cask room.

Soon it seems the entire château is under attack by what appears to be the upper crust of Houston society, stylishly clad matrons with their navy-blue-blazer-wearing husbands in tow, with whom Dominique mingles and laughs.

These Houstonians, in turn, raise their eyebrows at the arrival of the remaining members of Satan’s Shadow, who show up in an extremely disreputable-looking van and are greeted by Blaine with their signature Satanic cry, which involves tipping back the head and ululating (which causes Vicky to run inside, screaming, “Mo-o-o-om!” and Shari, as she helps me spread a tablecloth over the last of the twenty-five or so tables on the lawn, to shake her head and go, “God, am I glad I’m an only child”).

I’m happy when the staff from the restaurant takes over and begins setting the tables. This leaves us free
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to run inside to change before the cocktails are served—a necessity since we’re going to be manning the bar for the event, opening the bottles of wine and champagne Monsieur de Villiers will be supplying, and I personally don’t want to gross anyone out with my sweat stains. I don’t exactly have the most experience opening wine bottles, either, so I’m suspecting the evening should be pretty interesting, on the whole.

I’m just coming back down the stairs, feeling refreshed and semi-presentable in a black sleeveless Anne Fogarty linen dress, when I nearly collide with a group of people comingup the stairs, led by Luke, who is hauling a couple of really heavy-looking suitcases.

“I’m telling you, son,” a portly bald gentleman in khaki pants and a black polo shirt is saying to Luke.

“It’s an opportunity you can’t afford to miss. You were the first person I thought of when I heard.”

Behind the balding man hovers Ginny Thibodaux, looking flustered.

“Gerald,” she says, “did you hear me? I said I think Blaine’s smoking again. I could swear I smelled cigarettes on him just now. That funny foreign kind he and all his friends like so much…”

Behind Mrs. Thibodaux, Vicky is saying, “Mom, you have got to talk to him. Now he’s saying his stupid band won’t play covers. Mom, he swore they’d play covers. Now he’s saying they’re only doing their songs. How am I supposed to have my father-daughter dance to some song called ‘Cheetah Whip’?”

“I don’t know, dear,” Mrs. Thibodaux says. “Your brother just hasn’t been the same since that Nancy left him. I wish he’d meet a nice girl. Wouldn’t any of your friends—”

“Jesus, Mom. Would you worry about something that actually matters for a change? What are we going to do about the fact that he won’t play any covers? Craig and I are not having our first dance as a married couple to a song called ‘I Wanna Bang Your Box’…”

“Well, hello,” Luke says with a grin as I make room for him and the Thibodauxes to pass me. “Don’t you look nice.”

“Thanks,” I say, looking carefully at the bald man. This, I assume, is Vicky’s long-awaited dad.

“Think about it, son,” Mr. Thibodaux is saying eagerly to Luke. “It’s a tremendous opportunity.”

Luke says, “Thanks, Uncle Gerald,” with a wink at me, and continues up the stairs, with the Thibodauxes trailing along after him, still talking a mile a minute, and none of them listening to the other.

Hurrying the rest of the way down the stairs, I find Mrs. de Villiers and Dominique in the foyer having a little tête-à-tête of their own…

But not in voices low enough for me not to overhear what they’re saying.

“—opening a branch in Paris,” Dominique is going on excitedly. “Gerald says he thought of Jean-Luc immediately. It’s an incredible offer. Far more responsibility—and money—than Jean-Luc is getting at Lazard Frères. Thibodaux, Davies, and Stern is one of the most exclusive private-client investment companies in the world!”

“I’m familiar with my brother-in-law’s company,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a hint of irony in her voice.

“What I’m not so sure of is just when Luke decided he wanted to move to Paris.”

“Are you joking?” Dominique asks. “It’s always been our dream!”

I am rooted to the spot by the words.Our dream .

And then Dominique is racing excitedly up the stairs after Luke, barely acknowledging me as she hurries past, except to give me a tight little smile.

So Luke’s uncle has offered him a job. An investment banking job. In Paris. For a lot more money than he’s making now.

It’s ridiculous that I should feel so physically affected by the news. I mean, I only met Luke two days ago. All I have is a tiny crush on him. Just a crush. That thing in the car this morning—that thing I thought I felt pass between us…that was probably just my undying gratitude to him for buying me that six-pack of diet Coke. That’s all.

But there’s no denying that a lump has formed in my throat. Paris! He can’t move to Paris! It’s bad enough that he lives in Houston! But a wholeocean away from me? No.

What am I thinking? What’s wrong with me? It’s none of my business.None of my business.

I tell myself that firmly as I come the rest of the way down the stairs…

…and find that Mrs. de Villiers has sunk onto one of the velvet couches in the foyer and is looking perturbed. She smiles briefly when she sees me, then continues to look troubled, lost in her own thoughts.

I start to walk by. I know I’m probably wanted outside. I can hear the murmur of all the guests gathering on the lawn for aperitifs. I’m sure there are champagne bottles that need uncorking. And I did, after all, promise to help.

But suddenly I’m wondering if there’s someone else I need to help first. Maybe thisis my business. I mean, why else was it that Luke and I ended up sitting next to each other on that train? Granted, there were no other seats available. Butwhy were there no other seats available?

Maybe because I wassupposed to sit by him. So that I can do what I’m doing now.

Which is save him.

And so, before I can change my mind, I turn around and come back to where Mrs. de Villiers is sitting.

Seeing me standing in front of her, Luke’s mother looks up.

“Yes, dear?” she says with a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name…”

“Lizzie,” I say. My heart has begun beating very hard within my chest. I can’t believe I’m doing what I’m about to do. But on the other hand, I feel it’s my duty, as lead anchor of the Lizzie Broadcasting System.

“Lizzie Nichols. I couldn’t help overhearing what Dominique told you just now”—I nod my head toward the stairs Dominique has just taken—“and I just wanted to say, strictly between you and me, that I’m not sure it’sentirely true.”

Mrs. de Villiers blinks. She really is a very attractive woman. I can totally see why Monsieur de Villiers fell so much in love with her and is so depressed about her not feeling the same way about him.

“What’s not entirely true, honey?” she asks me.

“About Luke, wanting to move to Paris,” I say in a rush, to get it all out before someone interrupts us.

Or I come to my senses. “I know Dominique wants to move there, but I’m not so sure Luke does. In fact, he’s playing with the idea of going to medical school. He’s already applied to a program at NYU

and gotten in. He hasn’t told anyone, I guess—anyone but me—because he’s not sure it’s what he wants to do. But I personally think if he doesn’t go, he’ll always regret it. He told me he used to dream of being a doctor, but that he couldn’t imagine going to school for four more years—well, five, counting the program he’d have to take to get all the science credits he’d need before he can even start…”

My voice trails off as I realize, from her stunned expression, how stupid what I’m saying must sound to her.

“Medical school?” Mrs. de Villiers’s eyes are lined in pale blue. It brings out the green in her hazel eyes.

The green is even more noticeable when she widens her eyes at me, which she does now.

“Luke always did want to be a doctor when he was a little boy,” she says in a breathy, excited way. “He was forever bringing home sick and injured animals to try to cure, both here and back in Houston…”

“I think medicine is really what he would have preferred to go into,” I say, nodding eagerly. “But I don’t think converting Mirac into a place for plastic surgery patients to recover from their liposuction is necessarily a substitute for—”

“What?”A look of horror crosses Luke’s mother’s face.

Oh. No. Please don’t tell me I’ve done it again.

But it’s clear from the look on Mrs. de Villiers’s face that I have. She looks as shocked as if I’d just told her that Jimmy Choo doesn’t design the shoes with his name on them anymore. Which he doesn’t.

Okay. So the lipo thing isn’t something Dominique has run by Luke’s parents yet.

“Um,” I say. This is definitelynot what I’d intended when I approached Luke’s mom. I had never meant to rat out Dominique. All I’d wanted to do was let Mrs. de Villiers know that her son had a secret dream…a dream that, now that I think about it, he’d probably meant tostay secret. But, of course, I’d blown that.

“I’m just…I mean—if the vineyard really isn’t doing all that well,” I stammer, trying to change the subject, “I was thinking that a better alternative might be to rent Mirac out to people—rich people, obviously—who want a nice château to vacation in for a month, or maybe for a family or college reunion or something…”

“Plastic surgery?”Mrs. de Villiers repeats, in a stunned tone not unlike the one Luke had employed when I’d mentioned Dominique’s idea to him. I can see that my attempt to change the subject hadn’t gone over too well. “Who on earth ever suggested—”

“No one,” I assure her quickly. “It was just an idea I heard being kicked around—”

“Bywhom ?” Mrs. de Villiers wants to know, still looking horrified.

“You know what,” I say, wanting to die. “I think I hear my friend Shari calling. I have to go—”

And then I do just that, jumping up and darting out of the house just as quickly as I can.

I’m dead. I’m so dead. I can’t believe I did that.Why did I do that? Why did I open my big mouth?

Especially about something that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. NOTHING. God, I’m such an idiot .

My cheeks flaming scarlet, I hurry across the lawn to where Chaz is already manning the bar (a long folding table covered with a white cloth). There is a long line of thirsty Houstonians, eager for their first cocktail of the day, in front of him.

“There you are,” Chaz says when he sees me. He seems to notice neither my flaming cheeks nor my advanced state of nervous paranoia. “Thank God. Start cracking open some of those champagne bottles.

Where’s Shari?”

“I thought she was out here with you,” I say, reaching for a bottle with trembling fingers.

“What, she’s still inside changing?” Chaz shakes his head, then looks at the frat-boy type standing in front of him. “What can I get for you?”

“Stoli on the rocks,” Frat Boy says.

“Sorry,” Chaz says. “Beer and wine only, man.”

“What the fuck?” cries Frat Boy.

Chaz levels him with a look. “You’re on a vineyard, pal. What did you expect?”

“Fine.” Frat Boy is sulking. “Beer, then.”

Chaz all but throws a bottle at him, then looks at me. I’ve gotten the little metal cage off the champagne bottle, but the cork is eluding me. I don’t want it to pop off and hit anyone.

Why did I tell Mrs. de Villiers that Luke wants to be a doctor? Why did I let slip that thing about the lipo? Why am I physically incapable of keeping my mouthshut ?

“Use a napkin,” Chaz says, throwing me one.