Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

“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.”

I realize that the speech I’ve planned for Shari, who’s always been my staunchest supporter, isn’t anywhere near eloquent enough. So I simply turn and show her my ring.

“Oh,” Shari says. “My. God.”

When brides weren’t being taken by force in ancient cultures, they were sold or bartered for gold, land, or even livestock (like a cow—can you imagine?).

For many centuries, it was common practice to use the weddings of offspring to bring high-ranking families together, but it wasn’t until medieval times that laws were enacted that required any sort of religious rite be part of the actual ceremony (along with the exchange of goods and the signing of contracts). It was also around this time that dowries began to become more common, so that it wasn’t just her lovely self the bride brought to the marriage, but some cold hard cash and maybe a few dozen head of cattle too. What’s more, often the bride was expected to deliver the cash to her in-laws herself (more on this later).

Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

The legal experts at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn agree: the marriages that work best are the ones where both parties are joined at the heart and the bank account. Couples who share their assets tend to stay together longer. Apply for a joint checking account, at least for shared expenses… unless one of you has excessive amounts of debt or other legal or financial troubles. If that’s the case, the debt-free party should be seeing a lawyer… possibly at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn.

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS^™

“Wait.” Shari is staring at me over the yellow tabletop in the kitchen. “He asked you to marry him… and you said yes?”

I’ll admit this is not the sort of reaction I was hoping for. In fact, Shari has a lot more in common with her ex-boyfriend Chaz than she’d probably like to know.

“I’m not rushing into anything, Shar,” I say to her. “I swear. I’ve totally thought this through.”

“You have.” Shari is still staring at me. She hasn’t taken her coat off, even though I offered to take it from her. Judging from her body language—arms folded across her chest, head cocked at one angle as she glares at me, legs crossed—I would say she is feeling cranky toward me… maybe even downright hostile. “He got home from France yesterday morning. And he proposed yesterday morning?”

“Yeee-es… ”

“And you said yes as soon as he proposed?”

“Um… yes?”

“So you thought this through… when?”

“Well… since then.” I can tell where this is heading, and I attempt to head it off. “I mean, you’ll notice, Shari, that he’s not living here. I’m not letting him move in. And I’m not moving back in with him. Nuh-uh. I’m not making that mistake again. We’re living in our own separate apartments until the wedding.”

“Which is?” Shari demands.

I stare at her over the cups of tea I’ve made for us. “Which is what?”

“Which is when, Lizzie?” Shari asks. “When is this alleged wedding taking place?”

“Um,” I say, taken aback. “Well. Probably this summer… ”

“Right.” Shari unfolds her arms and uncrosses her legs. “You’re insane. I’m leaving. Good-bye.”

I pull her back down before she can abandon her chair, however.

“Shari, come on,” I say. “Don’t do this. You’re not being fair—”

“I’m not being fair?” Shari cries. “Lizzie, come on! Did you, or did you not, just spend a night on my couch last month because that no-good boyfriend of yours pulled your heart out of your chest and crushed it to bits when he told you he couldn’t see you in his future—something he might have mentioned, by the way, before he asked you to move in? And now for some fucked-up reason—probably because he’s gone for a week without getting laid—he’s decided, Oh, hey, I guess I can see Lizzie in my future after all, throws a diamond ring in your face, and you’re all, Okay, Luke, anything you say, Luke. Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to sit here and watch you throw your life away. You deserve better. You deserve a guy who actually loves you, Lizzie.”

I blink at her. The next thing I know, I’m crying.

“How can you say that?” I ask with a sob. “You know Luke’s not like that. You know—”

But that’s all I manage to get out. Because I’m weeping too hard to say anything more.

After a while, tired of listening to me sniffle, Shari gets up, comes around the table, and puts her arm around me.

“Lizzie,” she says in a softer voice than she used before. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just… I worry that the reason you said yes to Luke is because you wanted to marry him so badly, and then when you found out he didn’t want to marry you, you moved on. And then when he suddenly came back and wanted to marry you after all, you thought you had to say yes because you’d been so adamant that that’s what you wanted all along. But you know, Lizzie, it’s okay to change your mind.”

“I haven’t!” I shout through my tears. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Shari says with a shrug. “Because you grew up a little since last month, maybe? I was there, remember? I saw you do it. But look… If you really want to marry Luke, then of course I’ll support you. If you want to marry Luke, then I want you to marry Luke too.”

“No… ” I’m crying too hard to speak clearly. “No, you hate Luke.”

“Now you’re just being irrational. I do not hate Luke. I do think he’s got a lot to learn about being a man. And, frankly, I think you could do better. But I’ll support you no matter who you love, same as you’ve supported me, so long as you don’t stuff me into a lime-green taffeta hoop skirt that matches your sisters’—which you aren’t going to do, are you?” Shari asks suspiciously.

“What?” I force a laugh as I wipe away my tears. “Oh God, no. Are you kidding?”

Except that I’d once picked out a bridesmaid dress for Shari. Dupioni silk… Only for some reason I can’t picture it in my head anymore. It’s kind of funny how, before I’d gotten engaged, all I’d ever done was sit around and planned what my wedding was going to be like.

And now that I’m actually having one, whenever I try to imagine it, my mind just goes blank.

“So, where’s it going to be?” Shari wants to know. “Château Mirac?”