Queen of Babble

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.

The Industrial Revolution did not just introduce the concepts of the steam engine and the rotation of nitrogen-fixing and cereal crops. No! The mid 1850s saw the invention of something much more crucial and useful to humankind: the crinoline, or hooped petticoat. By being able to step into a cage of steel hoops rather than having to don pounds and pounds of petticoats in order to give her skirts the mandatory width a fashionable woman of the day demanded, women everywhere were now at liberty to actually move their legs.

What seemed a brilliant stroke of genius, however, soon revealed itself to be the fatal undoing of many an unsuspecting country lass, for the crinoline not only attracted improper suitors, but was also responsible for hundreds upon hundreds of young picnicking ladies being torched by lightning.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

15

Man, truly the animal that talks, is the only one that needs conversations to propagate its species…In love, conversations play an almost greater role than anything else. Love is the most talkative of all feelings and consists to a great extent completely of talkativeness.

– Robert Musil (1880-1942), Austrian author

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 ta

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.”

“I have seen a dress like this before,” Monsieur de Villiers says. It’s clear from the way he waves a fly away from his face-none too steadily-that he, too, has had a few too many sips of his own wine. Well, it’s a hot day. All that ru

Still, it’s a comfortably cool temperature inside. It has to be, Monsieur de Villiers told me, in order for the wine to ferment properly.

“Upstairs,” he goes on. “In the…” He looks questioningly at Luke. “Grenier?”

“The attic,” Luke says, and nods. “Right. There are a bunch of old clothes up there.”

“In the attic?” I instantly forget how drunk I feel-and how hot Luke looks. I straighten up and stare at the two of them with my eyes narrowed. “There are vintage Lilly Pulitzer dresses in your attic?”

Monsieur de Villiers looks confused.

“I do not know that name,” he says. “But I have seen dresses like this up there. My mother’s, I think. I have been meaning to donate them to the poor-”

“Can I see them?” I ask. I don’t mean to sound overeager.

But I guess I do, anyway, since Luke’s dad chuckles and says, “Ah! You love the old clothes the same way I love my wine!”

I start to blush-how embarrassing! I didn’t mean to sound so greedy.

But Monsieur de Villiers lays a comforting hand on my shoulder and says, “No, no. I do not mean to laugh at you. I am just very pleased. I like to see people show passion for something, because, you know, I have my own passion.” He holds his glass of wine aloft to illustrate just what that passion is-in case I hadn’t guessed.