Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

Tiffany slams down the phone. I stare at the receiver, not sure what just happened. Had I just solved the problem—or created a bigger one?

I’m taking messages from everyone on hold—with assurances that Ms. Nichols (I’m posing as her assistant, Stephanie. I’ve always wanted to be a Stephanie) will be calling them right back—when a floral delivery guy makes his way into the shop, barely able to see past the huge bouquet—two dozen yellow roses in a crystal vase—that he’s holding.

“Delivery for Lizzie Nichols,” he says.

“That’s me,” I cry, jumping up from Madame Henri’s desk and rushing over to take the flowers from him. They’re so heavy I have to stagger back to the desk with them before I can sign for them and tip him.

As soon as he’s gone, I tear open the tiny envelope that accompanies them, expecting to find a note from Luke, thanking me for agreeing to be his bride… or maybe from his parents, welcoming me to the de Villiers family.

I’m shocked when I read, instead, the following:

Sorry for my bad attitude the other day.

I never was a morning person.

I never was a morning person.

Of course I’m thrilled for you both. If you’re happy,

I’m happy.

Congratulations. You’ll make a beautiful bride.

Chaz

I’m so stunned, I have to sit down for a few minutes—and ignore the phones—in order to regain my composure. Can he really mean it? Can Chaz really be all right with Luke and me getting married?

And if he is, why do I still feel a little bit like throwing up every time I think about it? Not about Chaz being all right with it—I’m pretty sure—but about Luke and me actually going through with it?

Oh, I seem all right enough with the idea of being engaged. I don’t seem to mind flashing my ring around. I’d been fine on the phone yesterday—after our prolonged interlude in the bedroom—with our parents.

It’s when I actually try to picture the wedding itself—and even more oddly, the dress—that my mind seems to go blank, and the vomit rises up in the back of my throat.

That’s not a very good sign.

But pre-wedding jitters are normal, right? Everyone goes through them. Maybe not the day after they’ve gotten engaged. But I’m probably just getting mine over with sooner than other people do. I’ve always been precocious that way. My mom said I used to put together first-day-of-school outfits for all my stuffed animals. And that was before I even started preschool.

The bells over the front door tinkle, and Tiffany, wearing dark sunglasses (even though it’s overcast—and winter—outside) and a black catsuit beneath her new fox stole (“Which is totally faux, by the way,” she reminds me later. “Do you know what they do to the poor foxes to get their fur off? It’s disgusting”), walks in and says, “Whoa. Who went overboard with the roses?”

I quickly thrust Chaz’s card into the pocket of the Mollie Parnis silk dress I’m wearing.

“Luke,” I lie automatically.

“Luke?” Tiffany whips off her sunglasses and squints at the roses. “I thought you guys, like, broke up.”

“Not anymore.” I hold out my left hand. “We’re engaged.”

“No shit.” Tiffany grabs my hand. She doesn’t have to squint at all to see my diamond. “Holy crap, Nichols. That’s three carats, at least. Tiffany, right?”

“No,” I say. “He got it in Paris—”

“Cartier,” Tiffany says, clearly impressed. “Even better. Platinum band, emerald cut. This thing cost as much as a fucking house—well, in North Dakota. He may have acted like a dick,” she adds, in reference to the sewing machine Luke gave me for Christmas, which in a roundabout way became the catalyst for our realizing we wanted different things out of life, and led to our breaking up, “but you have to admit. The guy came through in the end. I’m not sure about the roses, though. Interesting color choice. Yellow means platonic friendship, you know.”

Platonic friendship? Well, that’s good. I mean, because they’re not actually from Luke. They’re from Chaz.

And that’s all I want from Chaz. His friendship, I mean. Platonic is good.

“Well, because Luke and I are friends, first and foremost,” I twitter. Oh my God, what am I even talking about?

Tiffany makes a face.

“If Raoul ever bought me yellow roses,” she says, “I’d stuff them up his butt. So where do I sit?”

“Tiffany,” I say, beginning a speech I’ve been mentally rehearsing since hanging up the phone with her. “I—”

“Is this good?” Tiffany asks, collapsing her nearly six-foot (and barely one-hundred-and-twenty-pound) body into Madame Henri’s chair, behind the desk with the telephone (which is ringing shrilly) on it. “Here. I brought you a chocolate croissant. They were out of muffins. And a Diet Coke. I know how you are.”

I catch the white paper bag she tosses to me. It’s truly weird how everyone just thinks they can bring me Diet Coke and everything will be okay.

Especially since it’s pretty much true.

“Hello, Chez Henri, this is Tiffany, how may I help you?” Tiffany, not skipping a beat, begins picking up calls as if she’s worked at Chez Henri her whole life. “Ms. Nichols? I’m not sure. Hold, please.” Tiffany places the call on hold. “Do you only do restorations, or do you do original designs? I mean, I know you’re doing an original design for me, but for, like, the commoners?”

“Right now,” I say, slowly chewing the end of chocolate croissant I’ve bitten off, “I’m only doing rehab and restoration.”

“Got it. Where do I log your appointments?”

I point at the black leather appointment book on Madame Henri’s desk.

“But,” I say. “Tiffany, we have to talk. I can’t—”

Tiffany just looks at the appointment book and snorts. “High-tech,” she says, then flips it open, grabs a pencil, and hits the hold button. “Only restorations. All right. I’ve got an opening next week on the tenth at eleven o’clock. No? Please hold… ”

I am starting to think hiring Tiffany might not be such a bad idea. She seems to have just… well, taken over.

And that’s a good thing. A very good thing. For now. Maybe I should worry about how I’m actually going to pay her later.

I’m getting ready to retreat to the back room to look over what I’ve got to do—if I can at least get my head around that, maybe I can get my head around Tiffany working for me… and, oh yeah, the part where I’m engaged—when the bells over the front door tinkle once more, and my confused-looking best friend, Shari, wanders into the shop.

“Oh my God,” I say, nearly dropping my can of soda as I rush to hug her. “I’m so glad you came.”

“I got your message,” she says, giving Tiffany a curious glance. “They said you said it was an emergency. It better have been, to have made me come all the way uptown. What’s so important that you have to tell me in person? And what’s she doing here?”

“Come on,” I say, taking Shari by the hand. “I’ll tell you upstairs, in my place. Tiffany, can you handle things down here for ten minutes?”

Tiffany gives me the finger while saying, “Ma’am, I’m sure your daughter is a lovely girl, but Ms. Nichols only does restorations. If you have a gown to restore, we’re in business. If not, I’m afraid you’re going to have to look elsewhere for your daughter’s wedding dress. Oh, really? Do you eat with that mouth, ma’am?”

“What,” Shari asks again impatiently, “is she doing here? What’s going on? Seriously, Lizzie, this better be important. I have clients who could actually be dying as we speak. And I mean literally.”