Queen of Babble Gets Hitched (32 page)

Monsieur Henri nearly drops the glass he’s holding. Madame Henri chokes a little on the mouthful of iced tea she’s just taken.

“I… I beg your pardon, Elizabeth?” She coughs.

“I know I ought to have gone through your Realtor,” I say quickly. “But the thing is, I don’t have all the money. Yet. But I will. Soon. And the rest I can pay as we go along, but it will have to be over a period of a few years. Which I know isn’t exactly what you were hoping for, but”—I lean forward, speaking to both of them in a low, urgent voice, while somewhere off in the distance, a lawn mower roars to life and a bird begins a plaintive but still melodious song—“the advantage of selling to me, as opposed to some stranger, is that you won’t be paying any Realtor fees. We can cut out the middleman completely, and you’ll be saving yourself hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’m willing to make you an offer right now, here, today, no inspection, no nothing, of four point five million dollars. And before you say you think the building is worth more,” I say, cutting off both of them, since I hear them inhale, “allow me to point out that I live and work there. I don’t need an inspection because I know how much work the place needs. I’ve seen the cracks, plugged up the leaks, called the exterminator myself for the rats down in the basement more times than I can count. And I’m making my offer to you now, today, with my guarantee that you will have the whole amount five years from today. I’ll sign anything you want guaranteeing it. All I ask is that you remember where the two of you were when I first walked through your door a year ago. And where you both are now.”

I lean back against the bench and take a long swig from my iced tea. Even for a talker, I am spent after having given such a long speech. I eye the two of them as they stare uneasily back at me.

Then Madame Henri looks at her husband.

“The Realtor fees are a lot,” she says in French. Even though they both know perfectly well by now that I speak their native language more or less fluently, they still slip back into it when they don’t want me to overhear what they’re saying, out of force of habit. “We could save a lot of money.”

“But we’d have to wait for the money,” her husband says petulantly. “You heard her.”

“So?” his wife demands. “What are you planning on buying? A yacht?”

“Maybe,” Monsieur Henri says with a snort.

“You heard what the inspector said,” Madame Henri says. “About the asbestos in the basement.”

“He also said if we left it alone, it wouldn’t be a problem. All pipes in Manhattan are lined with asbestos.”

I listen to this without blinking. I already know about the asbestos. The plumber told me months ago. I’d planned on using it as leverage if they balked at my offer.

“It’s going to cost thousands to get it removed,” Madame Henri goes on. “Maybe tens of thousands. Do you want that hassle?”

“No,” Monsieur Henri pouts.

“This way,” his wife says, “we can be done with it in an afternoon. We don’t even have to pay to have our things moved out! She’ll keep them!”

Monsieur Henri brightens at this. “Eh! I didn’t think of this! But where’s she getting all this money? She’s not even thirty.”

“Who knows?” his wife asks with a Gallic shrug. “The dead grandmother, perhaps?”

“Ask her,” Monsieur Henri says.

Then they both turn to me. And Madame Henri asks in English, “Did you hear all that?”

“Of course,” I say testily. “I’m not deaf. And I speak French. Remember?”

“I know.” Madame Henri shakes her head. “The money is from your grandmother?”

“No,” I say. “It’s from a deal I made last night with Geck Industries. I’m going to be designing a line of wedding wear for their discount department stores.”

Monsieur Henri looks confused. “But if you are going to work for Geck, then why do you still want the shop?”

“Because I’m still going to be doing gowns for my own customers,” I said. “Independent of Geck. Besides, your shop… my shop, if you’ll agree to sell it to me… it’s home.”

I feel ridiculous, but as I say the word, tears fill my eyes. And yet… it’s true. That pokey little apartment—which I fully intend to renovate if it ever becomes mine—is the place where I’ve known some of the highest highs, and lowest lows, of my life. I can’t let it slip away from me. I won’t. Not without a fight.

Madame Henri blinks a few times. Then she looks at her husband. He arches his eyebrows.

“Well,” Monsieur Henri says. “In that case… I think we have to sell the building to Elizabeth. Do you not agree, chérie?”

Madame Henri’s face breaks into an enormous smile.

“I agree,” she says.

Which is how, a half hour later, I end up drinking champagne in the noonday sun with Madame Henri in her back garden, while the birds chirp all around us, and her husband shows Chaz, who’s returned from his odyssey at the mall, how to play pétanque—a sport at which, it soon becomes apparent, he excels…

Almost as much as he excels in coaching me in how to get my former bosses to sell me their place of business.

It’s important to remember that many of the most sumptuous and expensive weddings in history didn’t always lead to romantic bliss. Look at Henry VIII and his many wives; Prince Charles and Princess Diana; and of course the always optimistic but unlucky in love Miss Elizabeth Taylor.

No matter how large or small your wedding, what’s crucial is that you’re marrying the right person, someone who loves you for who you are, not whether or not you can provide him with a male heir, how much money you have, or whether or not you look good in a bathing suit. Love is a many-splendored thing, it’s true. But there is nothing more important than making sure your life partner is someone who can make you laugh when you are feeling down, will bring you cinnamon toast when you’re feeling sick, and is willing to share the remote.

Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

When the guests are gone, the gifts all unwrapped and put away, and the last thank-you note finally written, you might feel the tiniest bit depressed. This is normal! After all, you’ve just been through the most joyous time of your life—your (hopefully) only wedding! It’s natural that you feel a little sad it’s all over. But keep in mind you’re about to embark upon the most wonderful and joyous journey ever… married life!

Still, it’s okay to put your wedding gown on every now and then… even just to watch TV. Everybody does it.

Really.

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS
^™

“Oh, you make the most beautiful bride ever!”

“No, I don’t,” Tiffany assures me. “I look fat.”

“Tiffany,” I say severely. “You’re four months’ pregnant. You’re supposed to look fat.”

“Is it odd that that still frightens me?” Monique asks no one in particular. “The fact that Tiffany is going to be a mum, I mean? Does it frighten anyone else?”

Shari raises her hand, along with Sylvia and Marisol.

Tiffany glares at them. “I hate all of you,” she says.

“What’s nice about the fact that Tiffany is going to be a mum,” Monique goes on, “is that it’s turned her into such a sweet, caring person.”

“This gown is what’s making me look fat,” Tiffany says to her reflection in the gilt-framed full-length mirror in front of her.

“No, it isn’t,” I say indignantly, offended. “You’re pregnant. That’s what’s making you fat.”

“This is a fat dress,” Tiffany says, pouting. “You designed a fucking fat dress for my fucking wedding.”

“You know what’s awesome,” Shari says, slipping a Milk Dud into her mouth from the box she’s brought into the shop for the show she’s been anticipating for days. “When brides swear. Especially pregnant brides.”

Sylvia and Marisol making tsk-tsking noises and fuss over Tiffany, foofing out the train of the exquisite—and completely nonfat—original gown I’ve designed for her.

“I did not design a fat dress for you, Tiffany,” I say, restraining myself with an effort from strangling her. “And that’s not a very nice thing to say to the person who is responsible for paying you enough so you can work part-time for me and finally quit that job you hated at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn.”

Tiffany just glares at my reflection. “So? I’m just going to quit working for you in five months so I can stay home with Raoul Junior.”

“It’s a boy?” Marisol asks excitedly.

“Who knows?” Tiffany glares at her reflection. “Whatever.”

“Seriously,” Shari says, dropping another Milk Dud into her mouth. “This is better than American Gladiator.”

“You can afford a nanny, Tiffany,” I say to her, giving her sash a tug that is perhaps a little harder than necessary. “You aren’t going to have to quit. And I picked out a health care plan that gives all you ladies a full four months’ paid maternity leave, remember? Now, I designed this gown for you personally, with a gorgeous empire waist and a sweetheart neckline and a chapel train—which, by the way, is entirely inappropriate for the quickie wedding you and Raoul are about to have in the office of the city clerk… even if we are partying afterward at Tavern on the Green—so that your bump is completely disguised. No one can see it. How dare you call it a fat dress?”

Tiffany eyes Shari’s box of Milk Duds. “Are you going to give me one of those?” she asks. “Or what?”

“No, she’s not,” I snap. “You are not getting chocolate on this dress I’ve slaved over for weeks.”

“We’ve slaved over,” Marisol corrects me. “I stayed up until two last night doing that crystal beading on the train.”

“Right,” I say. “That we’ve slaved over.”

“Whatever,” Tiffany says again, rolling her gorgeously made-up eyes. “Like there’s not going to be a knockoff available off the rack at Geck’s next week for two hundred bucks.”

“There’s not!” I cry. “I told you! It’s a Lizzie Nichols Designs original! There’ll never be anything like it at Geck’s. I mean… there’ll be something similar. But it will retail for three ninety-nine.”

Tiffany tosses her head until her newly coiled ringlets bounce. “I knew it,” she says with another eye roll.

“The cars are here,” Monique says in a bored voice.

“All right, let’s go,” I say quickly. “Or we’re going to be late.”

And we all troop out into the crisp winter air, past the new hot-pink awning with the words “Lizzie Nichols Designs™” emblazoned on it in white curlicue writing, and splitting up into the two waiting black Town Cars that Raoul ordered for us, me carefully folding Tiffany’s train in after her, then climbing into the car behind hers with Shari.

“Thanks for coming,” I say to her gratefully.

“Are you kidding me?” Shari says, pouring more Milk Duds into her mouth. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. So what happened? The guy finally got his green card?”

“And just in time. Five more months, and he’d be a dad before he was a legal.”

“That has to be the quickest divorce in the history of mankind.”

“Well, the former Mrs. Raoul got a pretty hefty settlement for being so accommodating with INS,” I explain. “You know, not mentioning the part about how they hadn’t lived together as man and wife in years.”

“That’s so romantic,” Shari says with a sigh, snuggling down into the leather seats.

When we reach One Centre Street, I jump from the car and hurry to make sure Tiffany emerges from her own without damaging the gown we’ve all worked so hard on. She manages to do so, though she isn’t exactly gracious about it. Thanks to a united effort, we get her up to the hallway where the men—and Pat, who’s rushed over on her lunch break—are waiting.

All of my anxiety turns out to have been worth it, though, when I see the look on Raoul’s face as he gazes upon his bride for the first time in her wedding finery. Tears fill his eyes, and I’m so touched when he takes Tiffany’s hand and whispers, “Baby, you look beautiful,” that I have to look away.

“I know,” Tiffany whispers smugly back. I guess she doesn’t think she looks so fat after all.

An arm slides around my waist, and a second later, a man in a charcoal gray suit is kissing my neck.

“Hey,” Chaz says. “You did good.”

“Thanks.” I giggle. Yes, really. I giggle. That is what Chaz does to me. “Do you like the ribbon work around the neckline? I thought that was a nice touch. I’m going to do that to the new line of flower girl dresses we’re introducing for next year’s resort line.”

“It’ll sell like hotcakes,” he says.

He’s wearing the yellow tie I love, in honor of the occasion. My knees are melting. The sight of Chaz in a suit and particularly that yellow tie still has the power to turn me into butter on a hot stove. I wonder if that will ever change.

I have a feeling it won’t.

A bored clerk has just called Tiffany’s and Raoul’s names, and we’re getting ready to crowd into a tiny chapel with them when there’s a commotion in the hallway as a familiar voice shrieks, “Wait! Wait for me!”

“Oh God,” Shari groans. “Who invited her?”

I bite my lower lip. “Um… I might have mentioned that Tiffany was getting married downtown today… right about now.”

“Oh my God, Lizzie,” Tiffany snaps. “Aren’t you ever going to learn to keep your mouth shut?”

Before I have a chance to answer, however, Ava bursts in, wearing a demure business suit (complete with pillbox hat) and clutching the arm of her husband, Joshua Rubenstein, aka DJ Tippycat, followed, as always, by Little Joey.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Ava says, with all the regality her recently acquired position as president in charge of marketing of Geck Industries has given her. “We got stuck in traffic on the way from the helicopter landing pad.”