Queen of Babble

Then I slip out the back door, where Patapouf and Minouche are waiting, eager for scraps dropped by the caterers. Behind me, I hear Chaz saying in a hearty voice, “Andy, my boy. I’m open-minded, man. And I happen to be loaded. So let’s talk business. What’ve you got in the way of collateral? Is that jacket you’ve got there worth anything, by any chance?”

Agnes is outside, leaning against the butter-yellow Mercedes. She perks up when she sees me, eager for more gossip. I realize Luke’s fight with Andy is the most exciting thing that’s happened at Mirac in a long time. She’s going to have a lot to tell her girlfriends when school starts again in the fall.

“Does the Englishman need to go to hospital?” she asks me brightly. “Because I can call my father, and he can come to take your friend to hospital.”

“He’s not my friend,” I say. “And he doesn’t need to go to hospital. I mean, to the hospital. Chaz is going to take him to the train station, and that will be the last we’ll see of him.”

Agnes looks disappointed. “Oh,” she says, “I was hoping for more of the fighting.”

“I think there’s been enough fighting for one day,” I say. “Speaking of which, did you see where Luke went after the fight?”

Agnes brightens again. “Oh yes! I see him go to the vineyard. I think he is in the cask room.”

“Thanks, Agnes,” I say, and start around the side of the house, to the lawn.

The wedding reception is in full swing and going well now that Satan’s Shadow has gotten the hang of playing covers. One of Vicky’s sorority sisters is onstage, shrieking lines from Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know.” Not exactly wedding fare, but everyone appears far too drunk to notice. Most of them, thanks to the mimosas, had been too drunk even to realize there’d been a fight. Only a few people who happened to be standing nearby noticed, and Chaz’s quick intervention had put a damper on any hopes for a continuation of the dramatic scene, and so they had all turned their attention back to what was happening onstage.

Still, even though no one seems aware of the fight, they all seem to know who I am. Well, I guess that’s what happens when you make a complete and utter ass of yourself onstage in front of two hundred total strangers. They all feel like you’re their best friend.

Or maybe it’s just that word of my prowess with cream of tartar has spread. Because every woman there seems to have some question for me about an antique wedding dress-how they can get out a stain or insert a gusset; how they can update it without damaging the fine material; even how they can find a vintage wedding gown of their own.

I wrestle with these as best I can and finally manage to cross the lawn and reach the cask room-a thick-walled, cavernous structure, as centuries-old as the house itself-and pull open the heavy oak and iron door.

Inside, it’s still as a mausoleum-although unlike in a mausoleum, golden light filters in through mullion-paned windows high up along the walls. You can’t hear the sound of the band outside-which you can probably hear clear across the valley-or the chatter of the wedding guests. The walls are lined with waist-high oak wine casks, the contents of many of which Luke’s father had insisted I try during my tour two days before. The glasses we-and then all the wedding guests Monsieur de Villiers had brought through for subsequent tours-used are piled up beside a stone sink at the far end of the room.

The stone sink at which Luke is ru

He doesn’t hear me come in. Or, at least, if he did, he doesn’t react. He is standing with his back to me, his dark head ducked, letting the water run over his hand. He must, I realize, have really hurt himself on Andy’s teeth.

Which is when I forget that my heart is in my throat at the prospect of talking to him after all the nasty things I accused him of last night, and hurry forward.

“Let me see,” I say when I reach his side.

He jumps.

“Jesus,” he says, looking down at me in surprise. “Sneak up on a guy, why don’t you?”

I pull his hand from the stream of water gurgling out of the old-fashioned faucet. His knuckle, I see, is red and swollen. But the skin’s not broken.

“You’re lucky,” I say, looking down at his hand. “He says his teeth are loose. You could have cut yourself on them.”

“I know,” Luke says, reaching out with his left hand to turn off the water. “I should have known better than to aim for the mouth. I should have gone for his nose.”

“You shouldn’t have ‘gone for’ anything,” I say. I let go of his hand. “I had the situation totally under control, you know.”

Luke doesn’t even try to argue. He dries his hand on a nearby dish towel.

“I know,” he says sheepishly. “I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t believe he’d have the nerve to show up here. Unless…”

I stare at him. I can’t help noticing how thick and dark his hair looks in the bright shafts of sunlight coming down from the windows so close to the ceiling.

“Unless what?”

“Unless you asked him to come here,” Luke says, not meeting my gaze.

“What?” I have to start laughing at that one. “Are you serious? Do you honestly think-”

“Well,” Luke says. He lays the dish towel aside. “I didn’t know.”

“I thought I made myself pretty clear on the train,” I say. “Andy and I broke up. He only came after me because he thought I could bail him out of a financial situation he got himself into.”

“And…did you?” Luke asks. His dark-eyed gaze is steady on my face.

“No,” I say. “Although Chaz seems to be working on it.”

“That sounds like Chaz,” Luke says with a grin.

I have to look away, flustered by how handsome the grin makes him.

Then I remember that there’s something I’m supposed to be saying to him, so, feeling incredibly shy, I say it, fast. To my French pedicure.

“Luke. I’m sorry about what I said last night. I should have known you didn’t tell her,” I say. “Shari, I mean. About my thesis. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Luke doesn’t say anything. I look up, just once, to see if he’s heard me.

He is looking down at me with the most inscrutable expression I have ever seen-halfway between a smile and a frown. Does he hate me? Or can he possibly, in spite of my big, fat, stupid mouth-in spite of everything-like me?

With my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he must be able to see it through the silk of my dress, I look down again and say, keeping my gaze on his feet now, instead of my own-then regretting it when I notice the wingtips again-WINGTIPS! So hot! “And the thing with telling your mom about you getting into NYU. And about Dominique’s plans for the chateau. I mean, I was really only trying to suggest alternatives to turning this place into a spa. Like maybe renting it out to wealthy families who just want a nice chateau to vacation in for a month, or maybe for a reunion, or whatever. Honestly, I was only trying to help-”

“Well, actually, I’ve managed to get along without your help pretty well for the past twenty-five years,” Luke says.

Ouch!

Stung, I can’t help looking up and saying, “And that’s why you’re so happy with your career and your life and your girlfriend? And why Vicky looked so great in her dress and your parents seem to be getting back together and everyone out there is having…such a…fun time…”

My voice trails off as I realize he’s smiling down at me.

“Joke,” he says. “That was a joke. I told you I’m no good at them.”

That’s when he reaches out, pulls me toward him, and starts kissing me.

I’m in complete and utter shock. I can’t understand what’s happening. I mean, I can…but it makes no sense. Luke de Villiers is kissing me. Luke de Villiers’s arms are going around me, holding me so tightly to him I can feel his heart slamming as hard against his ribs as mine is slamming against mine. Luke de Villiers’s lips are raining thousands of tiny featherlight kisses on my lips.