“This is my sister, Ginny Thibodaux, and her daughter Vicky,” Bibi de Villiers is saying as she steers me around the foyer to meet her family. Mrs. Thibodaux’s handshake, compared to her sister’s hearty one, is like holding a wet sponge, and Vicky’s is only a little better. “And this is Blaine, Vicky’s not-so-little-anymore brother-” Blaine’s handshake is a little better than his sister’s, but his face seems to be molded into a permanent sneer and he has a letter of the alphabet tattooed on each of his fingers. I can’t tell what they spell when seen in a row, though.

“Well,” Bibi says when she’s done introducing me, “here’s to the lovely couple.”

Then she polishes off her champagne. Fortunately, her husband is standing nearby with a new bottle, ready to freshen everybody’s glass.

“It’s good, no?” he’s asking eagerly of anyone who will reply. “The demi-sec? They don’t make many demi-secs anymore. Everyone is always clamoring for the bruts. But I think to myself, why not?”

“Way to think outside the box, Guillaume,” Chaz says amiably. I sidle over toward him and Shari and lean over to ask, “Do you have any idea what a demi-sec is?”

“Oh, hell, no,” Chaz says, just as amiably, and drains his glass. “Hey, I’ll take some more,” he says, hurrying after Luke’s father.

Shari looks up at me-she’s never gotten over being only five four, whereas I’ve never gotten over having a butt that’s twice as big as hers (until recently)-and says, “Where did you disappear to all afternoon? And how come you’re so dressed up?”

“Luke and his dad gave me a tour of the vineyard,” I say. “And I’m not dressed up. This dress got downgraded to everyday wear after Maggie got paint on it. Remember?”

“There’s no paint on it now,” Shari observes.

“Well, it was water-soluble. Nobody gives a four-year-old non-water-soluble paint. Not even my sister.”

“Whatever,” Shari says. She’s never understood my complicated wardrobe rules, though I’ve offered to explain them multiple times. “We’re invited to dinner tonight. It’ll just be the bride’s family, which is why. Groom’s family and the rest of the guests get here tomorrow. You up for helping out in the kitchen?”

“Totally,” I say, picturing me with a cute apron on, preparing spaghetti due for everyone.

“Great,” Shari says. “Agnes’s mother is making it. She’s supposed to be a fantastic cook. We’ll be on dish patrol. Let’s get nice and toasted to make it go faster.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I say, and follow her over to where Luke is standing, having taken over champagne-pouring duties from his dad, for refills.

“Ah,” Luke says when he notices me. “There she is. Nice dress.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You don’t clean up so badly yourself. Do you know if you have any cream of tartar in your kitchen?”

Shari chokes on the sip of champagne she’s just taken. Luke, however, calmly replies, “I have no idea. Tell me what cream of tartar would be called in French and I’ll ask.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re the Frenchman.”

“Half,” Luke says, casting a glance at his mother, who is throwing her head back and laughing at something else Chaz has said.

“Creme de tartre?” Shari suggests.

“I’ll ask,” Luke says, and goes to refill his aunt’s glass.

“What was that all about?” Shari wants to know when he’s out of earshot.

“Oh, nothing,” I say innocently. It’s kind of fun, I’m discovering, keeping secrets from her. It’s something I’ve never done before in my life.

But there are quite a few things I’ve never done before in my life that I’ve been trying lately. Some without success, but some…well, time would tell.

“Lizzie.” Shari narrows her eyes at me. “Is there something going on between you and Luke?”

“No! God, no.”

But I can’t help blushing, thinking about that near-kiss in the attic. And what about last night at the train station? Had Luke been about to kiss me then? Somehow I had sort of thought he might…if Dominique hadn’t showed up. Both times.

“He has a girlfriend,” I remind Shari, hoping saying it out loud will also help me remind myself. “Like I would ever make a move on a guy who has a girlfriend. Who do you think I am, anyway? Brianna Dunleavy?”

“No need to get huffy,” Shari says. “I was just asking.”

“I’m not huffy,” I say, trying to sound very unhuffy. “Did I seem huffy? Because I didn’t mean to.”

“Whatever you say, psycho.” Shari shoots me an amused glance. “I’m gonna get another refill. Care to join me?”

I look in the direction she’s nodding toward. Luke is just opening a new bottle of his dad’s champagne. He happens to lift his head and see us looking at him from across the room. He smiles.

“Um,” I say. “Well, okay. Maybe one more.”

The mid-1870s saw something of a fashion revolution, thanks to the invention of the sewing machine and the introduction of synthetic dyes. While mass manufacturing meant inexpensive, stylish clothes were available to everyone, it also meant that, for the first time in recorded history, you could be walking down the street and actually see someone wearing your exact same outfit. The hoop skirt disappeared, transformed into the “bustle,” the last time it was stylish to look as if one had a big butt until the birth of J.Lo.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS


17

Talk is a pure art. Its only limits are the patience of listeners who, when they get tired, can always pay for their coffee or change it with a friendly waiter and walk out.

– John Dos Passos (1896-1970),

U.S. novelist, poet, playwright, and painter

Dinner isn’t so much a meal as it is a war council.

That’s because Vicky and her mother want to make sure everything is ready for when the guests-and Vicky’s future husband and in-laws-start arriving tomorrow.

I guess I can understand their concern. I mean, you only have one wedding (hopefully). So you want to make sure you do it right.

Still, it would be nice if we could concentrate more on the food Agnes’s mother, Madame Laurent, has prepared for us than on Mrs. Thibodaux’s complaints about the bumpiness of the driveway.

Because this is possibly one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever had, starting with a creamy fish cassoulet (which means stew) with slices of apple in it as a starter; then duck caramelized in some kind of delicious sweet sauce; a salad of baby lettuce in a garlicky dressing; and an enormous cheese platter, all of it accompanied by huge chunks of perfectly baked bread-crunchy and golden on the outside, soft and warm in the middle-and a wine to go with each course, poured by Monsieur de Villiers, who tries to tell us about each glass we’re sampling but who keeps getting interrupted by Luke’s aunt Ginny, who says things like “Speaking of bouquet, has anyone talked to that florist over in Sarlat? She knows we changed to the white roses from the white lilies, right? What’s the French word for rose again?”

To which Luke replies dryly, “Rose,” causing some of the water I’ve just sipped to go up my nose, I start laughing so hard.

Fortunately he doesn’t notice-Luke, I mean-because he’s sitting all the way down at the opposite end of the enormous dining table-which Dominique informed me (on our way into the impressively high-ceilinged and dramatically decorated dining room) seats twenty-six-with his mother on one side and Dominique at the other. I’m at the other end, by Luke’s father, with the surly Blaine on my other side.

Not that I mind. Especially since I don’t even like Luke that way. Or so I am telling myself, now that Shari is on to me.

At least I got the opportunity to observe up close what the letters tattooed on Blaine’s fingers spell: F-U-C-K Y-O-U!

I think the exclamation mark is a nice touch. I imagine his mother must be very proud of him.

If she thinks anything about him at all, which seems unlikely given the amount of gushing she is doing over her daughter, who isn’t, to put it mildly, a very happy bride. Nothing, apparently, has been done right so far, and Vicky doesn’t seem to have much faith that anything is going to be done right in the future, despite protestations to the contrary from her mother, Luke, and even Monsieur de Villiers.

“Darlin’, I already called the hotel and the concierge assures me there’s plenty of space there for your sorority sisters. Or there will be tomorrow after some German tourists check out. At least”-Mrs. Thibodaux shoots her sister a look-“I think that’s what he said. It was hard to tell with that accent…”

“But why can’t Blaine’s friends stay in the hotel?” Vicky wants to know. “Why do mine have to? I’m the bride!”

“Blaine’s friends are in the wedding party,” her mother reminds her. “You’re the one who wanted them to play at the reception.”

“Huh,” Blaine, beside me, grunts as he stabs a piece of Camembert over and over with his butter knife. “Yeah, only after we landed that recording contract.”

“You guys aren’t celebrity recording artists yet,” Vicky hurls at him from the far end of the table. “I don’t see where you get off acting like one. Your stupid friends could stay in their VAN and not know the difference.”

“My stupid friends,” Blaine hurls back, “are the only remotely cool thing about your wedding, and you know it.”

“Um, excuse me. I think getting married at a French chateau is plenty cool enough,” Vicky snaps.

“Oh, right,” Blaine says, rolling his eyes. “Like having the hottest band on the Houston music scene right now play at your wedding isn’t something you’ve been bragging about to every publicist in town.”