Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

“Of course,” Dominique says, “but Mirac hasn’t had a decent harvest in years. First there were the droughts, then a blight…anyone else would take this as a hint to move on, but not Jean-Luc’s father. He says the de Villiers family has been in the wine business since the 1600s, when Mirac was first built, and he’s not going to be the one to give up on it.”

“Well,” I say admiringly, “that’s kind of…noble. I mean, isn’t it?”

Dominique makes a disgusted noise. “Noble? It is a total waste. Mirac has got such tremendous potential, if only Jean-Luc and his father would see it.”

“Potential?” What is she talking about? It’s gorgeous the way it is. The perfect grounds, the beautiful house, the frothy cappuccino…what needs changing?

Dominique has a few suggestions, it turns out.

“Well, it’s obviously in terrible need of updating. The place needs a total renovation-particularly the bathrooms. We need to replace those tacky claw-foot tubs with Jacuzzis…and pull-chain toilets! My God. They have to go as well.”

“I kind of like the pull-chain toilets,” I say. “I think they’re sort of…charming.”

“Well, yes, of course you would think that,” Dominique says, and raises an eyebrow meaningfully in the direction of my swimsuit. “But most people do not. The kitchen, too, needs a total overhaul. Do you know they still have a-what do you call it? Oh yes. A larder. Ridiculous. No chef in his right mind could be hired who would work under the current conditions.”

“Chef?” I say. And even as I think of cooking food, my stomach rumbles. I’m starving. I know I’ve missed breakfast, but when’s lunch? Is there really a chef? Did he make the cappuccino?

“But of course. In order to turn Mirac into a true world-class hotel, it will need a five-star Michelin chef.”

Oh. So…

“Turn it into a…” I sit up and stare down at Dominique. “Wait. They’re thinking of turning this place into a hotel?”

“Not yet,” Dominique says, reaching for a bottle of water she has sitting by her chaise longue. “But as I keep telling Jean-Luc, they ought to. Just think of the fortune that could be made in corporate retreat and convention business alone! And then, of course, there’s the spa route-they could easily get rid of the vineyards-turn them into jogging paths or horseback-riding trails-and convert the outbuildings into massage, acupuncture, and hydrotherapy rooms. The plastic surgery recovery industry is booming right now-”

“The what?” I interrupt. I’m sorry to say I yelled it, too. But I was just so shocked at the idea of anyone wanting to turn this fabulous place into a spa.

“The plastic surgery recovery industry,” Dominique repeats, looking annoyed. “People who’ve recently undergone liposuction or a face-lift need a place to recover, and I’ve always thought Mirac would be outstanding in that capacity-”

I can’t help it. I have to look over to see what Shari thinks about all this.

But she merely holds the book she is pretending to read even closer to her face, in order to hide her expression.

Still, I can see her shoulders shaking. She can’t stop laughing.

“Really,” Dominique goes on, taking another sip of her water. “The de Villiers family has failed to see the entrepreneurial potential of this property. By hiring trained professional servers-instead of the local riffraff-and offering services such as broadband and satellite television-installing air-conditioning, and perhaps even a home movie theater-they will attract a much wealthier clientele. And turn over a much bigger profit than Jean-Luc’s father’s puny wine business ever has.”

Before I can make any sort of reply to this horrifying speech, my stomach chooses to do my talking for me, letting out an extremely loud gurgle of hunger. Dominique ignores it, but Agnes sits up and babbles something that sounds like a question. I do hear the word gouter, which I know means “to taste.”

“She wants to know if you want her to get you something to eat,” Dominique translates in a bored voice.

I say, “Oh. Uh…”

Agnes babbles some more, and Dominique says in the same bored voice, “It’s no trouble. She’s getting herself a snack anyway.”

“Oh,” I say. “Then, yes, thank you, I’d love one.” I beam at Agnes and say, “Oui, merci.” Then I add, “Est-ce que vous…Est-ce que vous…”

“What are you trying to ask her?” Dominique asks-a little waspishly, I think. But maybe I’m projecting, because of the liposuction thing. I’m still having a hard time believing that she really wants to turn this beautiful place into one of those hotels where they send contestants on The Swan after they get their new noses.

“I wanted to know if they’ve got any diet Coke,” I say.

Dominique makes a face. “Of course not. Why would you want to put those kinds of terrible chemicals in your body?”

Because they’re delicious, I want to say. But instead I say, “Oh. Okay. Then…nothing.”

Dominique snaps something at Agnes, who nods, leaps up from her towel, stuffs her feet into a pair of rubber clogs-which seem like the appropriate footwear for walking through gravel and grass. WAY more appropriate than suede Manolos-grabs her sarong, and takes off for the house.

“Wow,” I say. “She’s so nice.”

“She’s supposed to do what you say. She’s the help,” Dominique says.

I look over at Shari. “Um…but aren’t we, too? The help, I mean?”

“But you aren’t expected to fetch and carry for people,” Dominique says. “And you mustn’t vous her.”

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I mustn’t what?”

“You vous’d her,” Dominique says. “When you tried to speak French to her just now. That isn’t proper. She’s younger than you, and she’s a servant. You should tu her-the informal version of you-tu as opposed to vous. You’ll give her airs above her station. Not that she doesn’t already suffer from them-I don’t actually think it’s appropriate for her to be using the pool during her time off. But Jean-Luc said it was all right, so now there’s no getting rid of her.”

I sit there gaping at her some more, completely unable to believe the words that have just come out of Dominique’s mouth. Shari, for her part, is actually covering her face with her book, she’s trying so hard not to let it show how much she’s laughing.

As if Dominique would even notice. Not when she’s busy doing what she does next, which is say, “It’s so hot…”

Which, actually, it is. It’s broiling out. In fact, before Dominique started in on that vous-versus-tu thing, I’d been thinking about taking a plunge into that clear blue water shimmering so tantalizingly in front of us…

But then Dominique does me one better by suddenly sitting up, undoing her bikini top, flipping it over the back of her chaise longue, then stretching and saying, “Ah. That’s better.”

And okay. I know this is Europe and people here are much more laid-back about their bodies and nudity than we are (except that Dominique isn’t European. She’s Canadian. Which I guess is sort of like European. But still).

It’s just very hard to sit and talk to someone whose bare nipples are sort of…pointing at you.

And Shari’s no help at all. She’s keeping her gaze resolutely on the pages of the book she’s reading. Though I notice she’s not actually turning any of those pages.

I realize there’s nothing I can do except try to act normal. I mean, it’s not like I’m not used to seeing bare-chested women, considering the gang showers back in McCracken Hall.

Still. I knew all those girls.

Plus, Dominique’s knockers are-how can I put this?-a bit more suspiciously perky than even Brianna Dunleavy’s.

And Brianna worked part-time at Bare Assets Cocktail Lounge.

“So,” I say, casually, “have you mentioned all these ideas you have for, um, improving Mirac to Luke?”

Because I can’t help wondering what he thinks of Dominique’s plans.

“Of course,” Dominique says, lifting a hand to slick back her long blond hair. “And to his father as well. But the old man is only interested in one thing. His wine. So until he dies…” Dominique gives a metaphoric shrug.

“Luke’s waiting for his father to die before turning this place into a Hyatt Regency?” I ask, my voice cracking a little in my astonishment. Because I simply can’t believe the Luke I met yesterday would ever do such a thing.

“A Hyatt?” Dominique looks scandalized. “I told you, it will be five-star luxury accommodation, not part of a cheap American hotel chain. And no, Jean-Luc is not entirely enthusiastic about my plans. Yet. For one thing because he would have to move to France full-time to see them implemented, and he isn’t interested in giving up his job at Lazard Freres. Although I’ve told him it would be a simple thing to transfer to their Paris offices. Then we could-”