Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

“Better wait half an hour after eating,” Luke says, teasingly, from the deep end. “You don’t want to get a cramp.”

Fortunately, I’m busy chewing, so my mouth is too full for me to ask, If I get one, will you rescue me, Luke? Flirting would be totally inappropriate, considering the fact that his girlfriend is sitting right next to me. Topless.

And looking way better that way than I could ever hope to.

“Ah, the new girl!”

I practically spit out the wad of bread and chocolate in my mouth, I’m so startled by the heavily French-accented male voice behind me. When I whip around on my chaise longue, I find myself staring at an older gentleman in a white shirt and khaki pants held up by a pair of stylishly embroidered suspenders.

“Um,” I say after I’ve swallowed, “hello.”

“This is the new girl?” the old man asks Dominique as he points at me.

Dominique turns around, looks at the old guy, and says, in a much pleasanter tone than I’ve ever heard her use before, “Why, yes, monsieur. This is Shari’s friend Lizzie.”

“Enchante,” the old man says, lifting my hand-the one that isn’t clutching the remains of my Hershey bar sandwich-and bringing it to the vicinity of-but not touching it with-his lips. “I am Guillaume de Villiers. Would you like to see my vineyard?”

“Dad,” Luke says from the side of the pool he’s hastily climbing out of, “Lizzie doesn’t want to see your vineyard right now, okay? She’s relaxing by the pool.”

So this charming old man is Luke’s father! I can’t say I can really see a resemblance-Monsieur de Villiers’s hair is wispy, not curly, like Luke’s, and snow white, not dark.

But he does have Luke’s same twinkling brown eyes.

“Oh, that’s all right,” I say, reaching for my sundress. “I want to see your vineyard, Monsieur de Villiers. I’ve heard so much about it. And last night I had some of your delicious champagne…”

“Ah.” Monsieur de Villiers looks delighted. “But technically it is not correct to call it champagne, unless it was made in the region of Champagne. What I make can only be called sparkling wine.”

“Well,” I said, having polished off the remains of my sandwich so that I have both hands free to struggle into my dress, “whatever it was, it was lovely.”

“Merci, merci!” Monsieur de Villiers exclaims. To Luke, who has come up to my chaise longue and is dripping on Dominique’s legs-causing her to give him an annoyed look-he says, “I like this girl!”

“You don’t have to go with him,” Luke says to me. “Really. Don’t let him bully you. He’s notorious for it.”

“I want to go,” I assure Luke, laughing. “I’ve never been to a vineyard before. I’d love to see it, if Monsieur de Villiers has time to show it to me.”

“I have all the time in the world!” Luke’s father cries.

“You don’t, actually,” Dominique says, with a glance at her slim gold watch. “Bibi will be here in less than two hours. Don’t you need to-”

“No, no, no,” Monsieur de Villiers says. He takes hold of my elbow to help me balance while I slip on my sandals. Or maybe to keep me from running away. Because that’s sort of what I feel like doing, considering that Luke’s dad is having this conversation with Luke’s girlfriend while the latter is completely TOPLESS!!!

I try to imagine a scenario in which I would ever have felt comfortable being topless in front of one of my ex-boyfriends’ fathers, and fail.

“We will make it short,” Monsieur de Villiers assures Dominique.

“I’ll just go along to make sure you stick to that, Dad,” Luke says, accepting a towel Agnes is handing him. “We don’t want to bore Lizzie to death her first day here.”

But now that I know Luke is coming along, I know that’s one thing I definitely won’t be: bored, I mean.

Especially since, as we move away from the pool and toward the vineyard behind the main house, I realize Luke has left his shirt behind.

Really, there’s something to be said for this topless thing after all.

Okay, so it’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m drunk.

But it’s not my fault! All I’ve had to eat today is a cappuccino, a Hershey bar sandwich, and a few dusty, not-very-ripe grapes Monsieur de Villiers picked for me when we were touring his vineyard.

Then, after we headed into the cask room, Luke’s dad kept pouring me cups of wine from all the different oak barrels, making me taste each individual one. After a while, I tried saying no. But he looked so hurt!

And he’s been so kind to me, taking me all around the vineyard-the farm behind it, too, waiting tolerantly while I patted the velvet nose of the enormous horse that stuck his head over the stone wall to greet us, and while I squealed over the source of those cowbells I knew I’d heard (actual cows, three of them, that supply the milk for the chateau).

Then there were the dogs that showed up, eager to greet their master, a basset hound named Patapouf and a dachshund called Minouche. They needed sticks thrown to them-even though the basset hound tripped over his own ears going after them-and their entire life histories told to me.

And there was the farmer to greet, and his gnarled hand to shake, and his incomprehensible French-after which Monsieur de Villiers asked how much I understood, and when I said none, caused him to laugh uproariously-to listen to.

And there was the tractor to ride on the back of, and the history of the area to learn-it’s no wonder I’m tipsy. All that, and ten different kinds of wine, too? I mean, they were all totally delicious.

But I’m starting to feel a little light-headed.

Or maybe that’s just because of Luke’s proximity. Sadly, he went back to the house and changed into a clean shirt and pair of jeans before rejoining us.

But his hair was still wet and clung damply to the back of his tanned neck in a way that made me, out on the back of that tractor, long to throw my arms around him. Even now, in the relative cool of the cask room, I can’t help glancing at the sun-kissed skin of his forearms and wondering what it would feel like beneath my fingertips…

Oh my God, what’s WRONG with me? I really must be drunk. I mean, he’s TAKEN. And by someone way prettier and more accomplished than I am.

Plus, there’s the whole rebound factor. I mean, I’m barely over Andy.

But still. I can’t help thinking Dominique isn’t right for Luke. And I’m not talking about her shoes, either. Lots of totally otherwise nice people own totally overpriced shoes.

And I’m not talking about her whole turning-Mirac-into-a-hotel scheme, either. Or even her disdain for Luke’s secret dream of being a doctor (not, of course, that he’s shared this secret dream with me. I’ll just have to take Dominique’s word for it that Luke even has a secret dream).

No, it’s the fact that Luke is so good with his father, showing endless patience with the old man’s fixation on his winery and its history and the telling of it. How he made sure the old man didn’t trip over any of the machinery he was climbing on top of in order to show me how it worked. The way he ordered Patapouf and Minouche to sit when he felt they’d jumped all over his father for long enough. The way he gently pried his father’s shirtsleeve from the mouth of that enormous horse.

You just don’t see that sort of kindness from a son toward his father every day. I mean, Chaz doesn’t even speak to his dad. And okay, Charles Pendergast Sr. is, by all reports, sort of an ass.

But still.

A guy like that-so patient and tolerant and sweet-deserves better than a girl who doesn’t support his secret dreams…

“You are very old-fashioned,” Monsieur de Villiers is saying, breaking in on my unkind thoughts about Luke’s girlfriend. The three of us are leaning in companionable silence against a cask, sipping a cabernet sauvignon Luke’s dad has told me is very young…too young to bottle yet. As if I’d even know the difference.

“Excuse me?” I know I’m drunk. But what on earth is he talking about? I’m not old-fashioned. I totally gave my last boyfriend a blow job.

“This dress.” Monsieur de Villiers points at my sundress. “It is very old, no? You are very old-fashioned for a young American girl.”

“Oh,” I say, realizing at last what he means. “You mean I like vintage. Yes. Well, this dress is old. Older than me, probably.”