Queen of Babble (31 page)

I gasp. I can’t help it. “But—”

“I know,” Luke says, taking me by the arm and steering me away from his parents, “I know.”

“But…a gun! It was wrapped around—”

“I know,” Luke says again as he guides me across the lawn, toward the table where Madame Laurent has the orange juice pitcher. “That dress has been a bone of contention between them for years. She thought he threw it out along with everything else after the attic leaked—”

“But he didn’t. He—”

“I know,” Luke says again. He stops walking and—much to my disappointment—drops his hand from my elbow. “Look, he really loves her. But he’s not exactly the sentimental type. Mom means a lot to him.

But so does his hunting rifle. I doubt he even realized what that dress was. He just saw that it was the perfect size to wrap his gun in and…well, there you go.”

“Oh my God,” I say, horror clutching my heart, “and I moved the darts to make it fit Vicky!”

“Somehow,” Luke says, turning around to gaze at his parents, who are still practically making out in front of everybody across the lawn, “I don’t think my mom minds.”

We stand there watching his parents for almost a full thirty seconds before I remember I’m supposed to be apologizing to him. Even though last time I tried, I didn’t exactly have the best results.

I open my mouth, wondering how I’m going to say this—will a simple sorry suffice? Shari had said something about groveling. Do I need to drop to my knees?

But before I can say anything, he asks, in a voice that’s very different from the terse one in which, a few minutes earlier, he suggested we just forget about it, “How did you know? Not to mention the way you really found it? That dress, I mean?”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly unable to meet his eye. I keep my gaze on my retro kitten heels, which are slowly sinking deeper and deeper into the grass the longer I stand still. “Well, you know. I could tell that dress meant something to your mom, so I just tried to imagine how I’d want a Givenchy of mine to be treated…”

It’s then that Luke takes the tray of glasses from my hands, puts it down at the table Madame Laurent and Agnès have commandeered, and grabs my fingers in his own.

“Lizzie,” he says in a deep voice.

And I have to look up from my French pedicure. Ihave to.

This is it, I realize. This is when he forgives me.

Or not.

“Luke,” I say, “I’m so—”

But then, before I can say another word, the string quartet, seated in the shade of a nearby oak tree, suddenly breaks into those four familiar notes:

Dum dum da-dum.

The end of World War II brought about a new beginning in fashion. The hourglass silhouette was back, and suddenly even top designers were producing ready-to-wear styles—particularly for teenagers, who, in the economic boom following the war, had enough disposable allowance finally to afford to buy their own clothes. How else to explain the rise of the “poodle skirt”? Like today’s “low-rise jeans,” the appeal seemed known only to the wearers themselves.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

24

Love is only chatter,

Friends are all that matter.

—Gelett Burgess (1866–1951), U.S. artist, critic, and poet Vicky’s wedding to Craig is lovely.

And I’m not just saying that because I’m one of the people who helped make it that way, by ensuring that the bride wore a gown of such stunning beauty. It would have been lovely even if Vicky had worn her original dress.

Just, you know. More lacy.

Shari and Chaz and Madame Laurent and Agnès and I sit in the back, watching the exchange of vows, while Madame Laurent and I dab at our eyes and Chaz smirks (what is it with guys and weddings?).

And the whole time, I keep a surreptitious eye on Luke, sitting near the front row of chairs, on the bride’s side (they’re actually both the bride’s side, given that, with the exception of his parents, his sister, and three former college buddies, the groom’s side was pretty much empty until the bride’s guests were urged to fill in the seats). Luke, I can see, glances often in the direction of his parents, who are still giggling with each other and smooching like high school sweethearts.

There is no sign, that I can see, of Dominique. Either she’s refusing to come down from her room or she’s left the château altogether.

Then, suddenly, the minister is saying, “Craig, you may kiss the bride,” and Mrs. Thibodaux lets out a huge happy sob, and it’s over.

“Come on,” Shari says, plucking my arm. “We’re in charge of the bar again.”

I look longingly after Luke. Am Iever going to get to tell him I’m sorry? Even if I can get him alone—will he actually listen?

We hurry to beat the rush of hot, thirsty wedding guests and immediately start popping (or, in my case, carefully pulling off) champagne corks. Everyone seems to be in a much better mood now that the ceremony is over. Men are loosening their ties and removing their jackets, and women, fearful of getting grass stains on their fabric shoes, are going barefoot. Patapouf and Minouche, the farm dogs, are hanging around, directly in the path of the caterers with their trays of canapés. Everything seems to be going exactly as planned…

…until Luke comes by and asks us, in a low voice, “Have any of you seen Blaine?”

I look across the yard and see the stage that had been set up yesterday for the band. Baz and Kurt are at the drums and keyboard, respectively. The bass player is there (I’ve forgotten his name), tuning up.

Even a group of Vicky’s friends are standing on the wooden dance floor, eagerly awaiting the concert.

But there’s no one standing in front of the microphone in the middle of the stage.

“Satan’s Shadow seems to have lost its lead singer,” Shari observes.

It’s right then that Agnès comes running up, looking angelic in what has to be her best party dress, a pink organza number better suited to the prom than a wedding.

But that’s what makes it so cute.

She says something in breathless, rapid French to Luke, whose eyebrows go up.

“Oh no,” he says. And hurries off in the direction of his aunt and uncle.

“Agnès,” I say, hurrying to fill the glasses that are being handed to me, “what is it? What’d you just say to Luke?”

“Oh,” Agnès says, brushing some of her hair from her face, “only that the room of Blaine is empty. His suitcase, everything, is gone. And so is the room of Dominique. The van of the Satan’s Shadow is gone as well.”

I feel something cold and wet on my hand, and look down to see that I’ve poured champagne all over my arm.

“Shit,” Chaz is saying, having overheard. He can’t seem to stop laughing. “Oh, shit!”

“What?” Shari looks annoyed. She’s never coped well in food service situations. “What’s so funny?”

“Blaine and Dominique,” I say, through lips that have gone suddenly numb. Because I’m remembering the conversation I had in the kitchen that night with Blaine—assuring him that somewhere out there, there was a girl who wouldn’t mind his newfound wealth.

And my conversation with Dominique last night, about Blaine and his new recording contract…not to mention his Lexus commercial.

It looks as if Blaine’s found his new girlfriend, and Dominique a man who might actually listen to her get-even-richer schemes.

“Yes,” Shari says impatiently. “Blaine and Dominique, what?”

“It looks like they’ve run off together,” I say.

And it’s all my fault.

Again.

It’s Shari’s turn to spill champagne. She’s so startled she jerks the bottle she’s holding, pouring sparkling wine all over Chaz’s high-tops.

“Hey, watch it!” he cries.

“Blaine and Dominique?” Shari echoes. “Are you sure?”

“He’s not here, and neither is she,” I say. I glance in the direction of the stage. “Things are not looking good for Satan’s Shadow.”

Vicky’s friends have been joined by Vicky, who, resplendent in her bridal gown and veil, seems to be noticing for the first time that her brother has skipped out on her nuptials.

“Hope Blaine wasn’t the only one who knows how to sing,” Chaz says.

“Can we get the string quartet back?” Shari wonders.

“You can’t have a father-daughter dance to Tchaikovsky,” I say.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe Blaine would do this to his own sister!

Well, actually, considering the fact that Dominique is involved, I sort of can.

But that doesn’t make it any less my fault.Why did I tell her about Blaine? He was clearly in a vulnerable state, romantically. Of course he’d have no resistance to her wiles!

And after Luke dumped her, she must have been smarting…of course she’d need the kind of therapeutic balm only a guy with a trust fund can provide a girl like Dominique.

And no matter what Shari might think, it’s my fault Luke and Dominique broke up. Not because he secretly loves me or anything. But because of my encouraging Luke to pursue his medical school dream, instead of Dominique’s living-in-Paris dream…

It really is all my fault.

There’s only one thing, I realize, that I can do. If I want to make things right again for everyone, that is.

The only question is, am I brave enough to do it?

I guess I have to be.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, throwing down my cork-unscrewing napkin.

And I begin marching toward the stage.

“Hey,” Shari calls after me, “where ya going?”

I keep moving. I don’twant to do this. But it’s not like I have a choice. Vicky, I see, is crying now. Craig is attempting to comfort her, as are her parents. The wedding guests are milling around, more concerned about the fact that Vicky seems so upset than about the fact that there’s no music.

“How could he do this to me?” Vicky is wailing.“How?”

“Darling,” Mrs. Thibodaux says comfortingly, “it’s all right. The boys will find something to play. Won’t you, boys?”

Baz, Kurt, and the bass player exchange glances. Baz is the only one with the guts to go, “Um. None of us can sing.”

“But you can stillplay, ” Mrs. Thibodaux snaps. “Your fingers aren’t broken, are they?”

Baz actually looks down at his fingers. “No. But, like…what should we play? Blaine took the playlist.”

“Play something appropriate for the couple’s first dance,” Mrs. Thibodaux hisses.

Baz and Kurt look at each other. “‘Cheetah Whip’?” Baz asks.

“I don’t know, man,” Kurt says, looking alarmed. Or as alarmed as a twenty-year-old who is aggressively stonedcan look. “We say ‘fuck’ a lot in that one.”

“Yeah,” Baz says, “but if no one is singing—”

I glance at Luke. He is gazing with concern at his sobbing cousin.

That’s it. I know what I have to do.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I step up onto the stage. Baz and Kurt look at me. The bass player—what’s his name again?—says, “Hey,” and grins at my bare legs.

“Is this on?” I ask, and grab the microphone from its stand.

Is this on Is this on Is this on?My voice seems to reverberate across the valley.

“Oh,” I say. “I guess it is.”

is is is is is.

Everyone on the lawn before me turns to stare up at me…including, I see, an openmouthed Vicky.

And Luke.

Who looks like someone just kicked him.

Great.

“Hi,” I say into the microphone. What am I doing? And why am I doing it again?

Oh yeah. It’s all my fault.

I wonder if they can see that my knees are shaking.

“I’m Lizzie Nichols. Blaine Thibodaux was supposed to be up here—not me—but he had, ahem, an emergency—” I glance behind me for support. Baz nods energetically. “Right. An emergency crisis and he had to leave. But we still have the rest of Satan’s Shadow,” I say, flinging out an arm to introduce the band. “Guys?”

The band members shuffle their feet. The crowd, confused but polite, applauds a little.

I seriously cannot believe these guys just signed a multimillion-dollar recording deal.

“So, uh,” I say as I notice Shari, a look of abject shock on her face, weaving her way through the guests toward me, “I just want to say congratulations to Vicky and Craig. You two make a really beautiful couple.”

More applause, this time heartfelt. Vicky hasn’t stopped crying, but she isn’t crying as much. She looks more stunned than anything else.

Sort of like her cousin Luke.

“And, uh,” I say into the microphone.And uh And uh And uh And uh. “Since we’re missing a singer, I thought, in honor of your special day—”

I see Shari, out on the dance floor, shake her head at me, her eyes wide with alarm.No, she mouths.No, don’t do it.

“—my friend Miss Shari Dennis and I will sing a song traditionally played during the newly wedded couple’s first dance where we come from—”

Shari’s shaking her head so fast her bushy hair is whacking her in the face. “No,” she says. “Lizzie.No .”

“—the great state of Michigan,” I go on. “It’s a song I’m sure you all know. Feel free to sing along if you want to. Guys.” I turn around to face Satan’s Shadow. “I know you know it, too. Don’t act like you don’t.”

Baz and Kurt raise their eyebrows at each other. The bass player still hasn’t torn his gaze from my legs.

“Vicky and Craig,” I say, “this one is for you.”

you you you you.

Then I clear my throat.

“‘Now, I,’” I sing, just as I have a hundred times before, at family gatherings, grade-school talent shows, dorm competitions, karaoke nights, and anytime I’ve had one too many beers.

Only this time my voice is so magnified I can hear it carrying all across the lawn…across the vineyard…down the cliff and into the valley below. The German tourists floating on rubber inner tubes along the Dordogne can hear me. The tourists arriving by the busload to look at the cave paintings at Lascaux can hear me. Even Dominique and Blaine, wherever they are, can probably hear me.

But no one joins in.

Well, maybe they need more of a lead-in.

“‘—had—’”

Hmm. Still no one joining in. Not even the band. I turn around to look at them. They’re staring at me blankly. What is wrong with them?

“‘—the time of my life—’”

It can’t be that they don’t know this song. Okay, sure, they’re guys. But what, they didn’t have sisters?