Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” I say as we hurry along. “I’m just taking this one step at a time. First I’ve got to get these sketches done. Then get the deal in place. Then I’ll get to that part.”

“You’re incredible,” Chaz says. And there’s no hint of sarcasm in his tone now.

Still, I pull him to a stop and narrow my eyes as I peer up at him. “Are you mocking me?” I demand suspiciously.

“Absolutely not,” Chaz says, looking down at me with a perfectly serious expression on his face. He’s dropped his arm from my shoulders, but now he puts both his hands there instead. “I told you before—you’re a star, Lizzie Nichols. And I am humbled to be allowed to hitch my wagon to your star. Just tell me what you need me to do to help, and I’ll do it.”

I blink up at him and my eyes fill with sudden tears. It’s still astonishing to me how blindly stupid I’d been, refusing to see what was right there in front of my face for so long. That I could have been this happy six months ago, if I’d just been willing to admit to myself what I’d clearly known all along… that it wasn’t Luke I was in love with anymore after all.

But I don’t say any of this to Chaz. There’s no reason to. Not now. Because I’ve said it already.

Instead, I say, “Diet Coke.”

He tightens his grip on my shoulders. “You need Diet Coke? To get the drawings done?”

I nod.

“Done,” he says. “I’ll get you every six-pack in the city. I—”

Then his voice trails off, and I notice his gaze has as well. We’ve reached Chez Henri, where I’m startled to find, when I turn to look in the direction he’s gazing, Shari sitting on the front stoop.

She climbs to her feet when she sees me looking at her, her hemp tote bag dangling from limp fingers as she stares.

“Well,” Chaz says, dropping his hands from my shoulders. “This is awkward.”

“Hi, Shari,” I say unsmilingly, aware that Shari is close enough to have overheard every word we’ve just said to each other.

“Hi, Lizzie,” she says. Shading her eyes from the sun with one hand, she squints down at us from the stoop and says, “Hi, Chaz. I need to talk to Lizzie for a minute.”

“This is a really bad time,” I say. “I’m in kind of a time crunch. Can we talk later?”

“No,” Shari says and comes down from the stoop. “Look. I’m really sorry about what I said earlier. I was out of line.”

“You were really trying to fix us up the whole time?” Chaz wants to know.

“Please stay out of this,” Shari says to him. To me, she says, “Lizzie, you’re my best friend in the whole world. I would never do anything to hurt you. I should never have said that about the Carvel cake. That was in poor taste, and I owe you an apology.”

“What Carvel cake?” Chaz wants to know.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” I say to Shari, feeling suddenly remorseful over how I’ve treated her. “And I shouldn’t have run out of the café like that. I’m a dork. I’m sorry too. Do you forgive me?”

“Of course I do,” Shari says, and pulls me in for a hug. I inhale her Shari-like scent—grapefruit body lotion and Labrador retriever—and then let go of her.

“And now I’m sorry, but I really do have to go,” I say. “I have to design a line of bridal wear for Geck’s.”

“Geck’s?” Shari looks confused. “They sell bridal wear?”

“They do now,” Chaz explains. “Or they will after they see Lizzie’s drawings. Lizzie and Ava Geck are going into business together.”

“Is that really such a good idea?” Shari asks, looking dubious.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I demand. “Yes, it’s a good idea. Now, bye—I have to go get to work.”

I give them both kisses—Shari on the cheek, Chaz on the mouth—and hurry into the shop to find Monique reading the latest copy of Vogue.

“Lizzie,” she says, looking up when I come in. “There you are. God. Finally. Everyone and their brother has been looking for you, it seems.”

“Keep taking messages,” I say. “I’ve got some work to do upstairs. I’ll be gone for the rest of the day.”

“But, Lizzie,” Monique says, looking dismayed. “You do know that—”

“Yes, of course I know all about it,” I say. “I’m doing the best I can to save our skins. So hold all my calls, will you?”

“All right,” Monique says. “But—”

“Thanks!”

I pop out the side door and hurry upstairs to my apartment, crank up the A/C, peel off my sticky, sweaty sundress, grab the last Diet Coke in my fridge—Chaz better hurry with his delivery—and get to work.

Ever wonder why it’s called a “shower”? In the late nineteenth century, a bride would invite her closest friends and relatives over for a little stress relief right before the wedding. Everyone would bring small token gifts that would be placed in an upside-down umbrella or parasol. This would then be raised and turned over the bride, and the gifts would “shower” down on her for luck.

How this charming little tradition transformed into the monstrosities we know as showers today is a mystery for the ages.

Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

Bathrooms. No one wants to think or talk about them… until there aren’t enough of them, or they’re overflowing… during your reception.

We know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but when choosing a place for your reception, make sure you take into account the little things… like where your guests are gonna go. Because they’re gonna hafta.

Are you going to be the one to tell them to hold it?

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS^™

Marriage is the mother of the world and preserves kingdoms, and fills cities, and churches, and heaven itself.

Jeremy Taylor (1613–1667), English clergyman

I am in a state of such advanced shock when I emerge from the Geck’s limo shortly before midnight that I don’t notice at first that the hall lights are on in the Henris’ building when I stumble through the door. I didn’t leave them on when I left, because I was in so much panic about my drawings—some of which were still only half-finished—I completely forgot.

But they’re on now. Who could have switched them on? Not a burglar, surely. Why would he want to announce his presence to the world?

Could it be Chaz? He has a key, of course.

But Chaz would never let himself in knowing I’m not there. Especially when I’d made it very clear I’d call him when I was ready to see him. He just isn’t the let-himself-in-unannounced type.

And while Sylvia and Marisol have been known to work late, they’ve never worked this late—and they don’t answer when I call out toward the workroom.

Great. This is the one disadvantage of living alone. The part where I could at any time be murdered, and no one in the building can hear my screams. Because I’m the only one in my building.

Gripping my keys so that each one protrudes from between a knuckle, my hand now resembling Wolverine’s from X-Men, I start up the stairs, my body tense as I strain to hear any heavy breathing or scraping of Freddy Krueger—like claws that will give away whoever is waiting to strangle me on the top floor.

But I hear nothing. The hallway is silent. Maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe, in the excitement of the evening, I did flick on the lights before I left.

I’ve almost convinced myself of this as I unlock the front door to my apartment, throw it open, and find a strange man standing beside my living room couch.

I let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead.

“Jesus,” Luke cries, laughing. “Lizzie! It’s me!”

It is. It’s Luke. Luke—my fiancé. Who is supposed to be in Paris, France.

Only he’s not in Paris, France. He is standing in my living room.

“Surprise!” he cries.

Oh, I’m surprised, all right. I’m very, very surprised.

Just not as surprised as Luke might have been, had I not come home alone. And it’s mere luck that I didn’t.

“What are you doing here?” I can’t help bursting out.

“I felt so awful about everything you were going through,” Luke says, coming toward me. “I heard Uncle Gerald had booked a private charter to the city for a meeting, so I grabbed a seat on it.”

He looks so handsome in his cream-colored linen suit, with his pale blue tie, and his dark tan and flashing white teeth. It’s almost as if he were another species from Chaz.

But not a species I care to know. Anymore.

I can’t help taking a quick step backward as Luke approaches me.

“Wow,” I say. “A private charter! How… luxurious!”

“Yeah,” Luke says, taking another step toward me. “I got here in six hours. Total travel time. From France! Can you believe it?”

“That’s amazing.” I take another step backward. If this keeps up, soon I’ll be in the hallway again.

“I know,” Luke says with another of his dazzling smiles. “Isn’t it?”

Luke takes another step forward, and I’m trapped with my back against the door. He twines an arm around my waist and leans down to kiss me. I have to use every ounce of self-restraint in my power to keep from jerking my face away from his.

And then his lips are on mine—those lips I used to love so much—and he’s kissing me hello.

And I feel… nothing.

Nothing! How can I feel nothing? I used to adore this man! I made love on a wine cask to this man! I wanted nothing on earth but to marry this man and have his babies and be with him for the rest of my life.

But I guess there’s more to a relationship than making love on wine casks. Like making the other person laugh until milk comes out of her nose.