Queen of Babble

24

Love is only chatter,

Friends are all that matter.

– Gelett Burgess (1866-1951), U.S. artist, critic, and poet

Vicky’s wedding to Craig is lovely.

And I’m not just saying that because I’m one of the people who helped make it that way, by ensuring that the bride wore a gown of such stu

Just, you know. More lacy.

Shari and Chaz and Madame Laurent and Agnes and I sit in the back, watching the exchange of vows, while Madame Laurent and I dab at our eyes and Chaz smirks (what is it with guys and weddings?).

And the whole time, I keep a surreptitious eye on Luke, sitting near the front row of chairs, on the bride’s side (they’re actually both the bride’s side, given that, with the exception of his parents, his sister, and three former college buddies, the groom’s side was pretty much empty until the bride’s guests were urged to fill in the seats). Luke, I can see, glances often in the direction of his parents, who are still giggling with each other and smooching like high school sweethearts.

There is no sign, that I can see, of Dominique. Either she’s refusing to come down from her room or she’s left the chateau altogether.

Then, suddenly, the minister is saying, “Craig, you may kiss the bride,” and Mrs. Thibodaux lets out a huge happy sob, and it’s over.

“Come on,” Shari says, plucking my arm. “We’re in charge of the bar again.”

I look longingly after Luke. Am I ever going to get to tell him I’m sorry? Even if I can get him alone-will he actually listen?

We hurry to beat the rush of hot, thirsty wedding guests and immediately start popping (or, in my case, carefully pulling off) champagne corks. Everyone seems to be in a much better mood now that the ceremony is over. Men are loosening their ties and removing their jackets, and women, fearful of getting grass stains on their fabric shoes, are going barefoot. Patapouf and Minouche, the farm dogs, are hanging around, directly in the path of the caterers with their trays of canapes. Everything seems to be going exactly as pla

…until Luke comes by and asks us, in a low voice, “Have any of you seen Blaine?”

I look across the yard and see the stage that had been set up yesterday for the band. Baz and Kurt are at the drums and keyboard, respectively. The bass player is there (I’ve forgotten his name), tuning up. Even a group of Vicky’s friends are standing on the wooden dance floor, eagerly awaiting the concert.

But there’s no one standing in front of the microphone in the middle of the stage.

“Satan’s Shadow seems to have lost its lead singer,” Shari observes.

It’s right then that Agnes comes ru

But that’s what makes it so cute.

She says something in breathless, rapid French to Luke, whose eyebrows go up.

“Oh no,” he says. And hurries off in the direction of his aunt and uncle.

“Agnes,” I say, hurrying to fill the glasses that are being handed to me, “what is it? What’d you just say to Luke?”

“Oh,” Agnes says, brushing some of her hair from her face, “only that the room of Blaine is empty. His suitcase, everything, is gone. And so is the room of Dominique. The van of the Satan’s Shadow is gone as well.”

I feel something cold and wet on my hand, and look down to see that I’ve poured champagne all over my arm.

“Shit,” Chaz is saying, having overheard. He can’t seem to stop laughing. “Oh, shit!”

“What?” Shari looks a

“Blaine and Dominique,” I say, through lips that have gone suddenly numb. Because I’m remembering the conversation I had in the kitchen that night with Blaine-assuring him that somewhere out there, there was a girl who wouldn’t mind his newfound wealth.

And my conversation with Dominique last night, about Blaine and his new recording contract…not to mention his Lexus commercial.

It looks as if Blaine’s found his new girlfriend, and Dominique a man who might actually listen to her get-even-richer schemes.

“Yes,” Shari says impatiently. “Blaine and Dominique, what?”

“It looks like they’ve run off together,” I say.

And it’s all my fault.

Again.

It’s Shari’s turn to spill champagne. She’s so startled she jerks the bottle she’s holding, pouring sparkling wine all over Chaz’s high-tops.

“Hey, watch it!” he cries.

“Blaine and Dominique?” Shari echoes. “Are you sure?”

“He’s not here, and neither is she,” I say. I glance in the direction of the stage. “Things are not looking good for Satan’s Shadow.”

Vicky’s friends have been joined by Vicky, who, resplendent in her bridal gown and veil, seems to be noticing for the first time that her brother has skipped out on her nuptials.

“Hope Blaine wasn’t the only one who knows how to sing,” Chaz says.

“Can we get the string quartet back?” Shari wonders.

“You can’t have a father-daughter dance to Tchaikovsky,” I say.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe Blaine would do this to his own sister!

Well, actually, considering the fact that Dominique is involved, I sort of can.

But that doesn’t make it any less my fault. Why did I tell her about Blaine? He was clearly in a vulnerable state, romantically. Of course he’d have no resistance to her wiles!

And after Luke dumped her, she must have been smarting…of course she’d need the kind of therapeutic balm only a guy with a trust fund can provide a girl like Dominique.

And no matter what Shari might think, it’s my fault Luke and Dominique broke up. Not because he secretly loves me or anything. But because of my encouraging Luke to pursue his medical school dream, instead of Dominique’s living-in-Paris dream…

It really is all my fault.

There’s only one thing, I realize, that I can do. If I want to make things right again for everyone, that is.

The only question is, am I brave enough to do it?

I guess I have to be.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, throwing down my cork-unscrewing napkin.

And I begin marching toward the stage.

“Hey,” Shari calls after me, “where ya going?”

I keep moving. I don’t want to do this. But it’s not like I have a choice. Vicky, I see, is crying now. Craig is attempting to comfort her, as are her parents. The wedding guests are milling around, more concerned about the fact that Vicky seems so upset than about the fact that there’s no music.

“How could he do this to me?” Vicky is wailing. “How?”

“Darling,” Mrs. Thibodaux says comfortingly, “it’s all right. The boys will find something to play. Won’t you, boys?”

Baz, Kurt, and the bass player exchange glances. Baz is the only one with the guts to go, “Um. None of us can sing.”

“But you can still play,” Mrs. Thibodaux snaps. “Your fingers aren’t broken, are they?”

Baz actually looks down at his fingers. “No. But, like…what should we play? Blaine took the playlist.”

“Play something appropriate for the couple’s first dance,” Mrs. Thibodaux hisses.

Baz and Kurt look at each other. “‘Cheetah Whip’?” Baz asks.

“I don’t know, man,” Kurt says, looking alarmed. Or as alarmed as a twenty-year-old who is aggressively stoned can look. “We say ‘fuck’ a lot in that one.”

“Yeah,” Baz says, “but if no one is singing-”

I glance at Luke. He is gazing with concern at his sobbing cousin.

That’s it. I know what I have to do.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I step up onto the stage. Baz and Kurt look at me. The bass player-what’s his name again?-says, “Hey,” and grins at my bare legs.