Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

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 ™

Six months later

“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?”