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Chapter 14
It is one of my sources of happiness never to desire a knowledge of other people’s business.
— Dolley Madison (1768–1849), American First Lady
I completely regret agreeing to let Luke’s parents stay with us over the Thanksgiving weekend.
And okay, I know it’s his mom’s apartment. And I know it’s super nice of her to allow us to live in it, rent free (well, in Luke’s case).
And I know we all got along great when we were staying at Château Mirac, the de Villiers ancestral home in France, over the summer.
But it is one thing to share a château with your boyfriend’s parents.
It is quite another to share a one-bedroom apartment with them… while also having promised to prepare a traditional Thanksgiving di
The gravity of the situation didn’t really hit me until Carlos, the doorman, buzzed up to say Luke’s parents had arrived. An hour before we were expecting them, and while I was in the middle of sorting through several bouquets of freesia and irises, to which I’d treated myself—as well as Mrs. Erickson from 5B—from the flower section at Eli’s, and purchased with part of Mrs. Harris’s hundred dollars. There’s nothing more welcome than having a vase of fresh cut flowers sitting out when people come to visit—and there’s no nicer gift for someone who has helped you, as Mrs. Erickson had by recommending Monsieur Henri’s to me, either.
But when the flowers are purchased in bunches from a florist, and still have to be arranged, and are lying in messy piles on top of the stove while you look for vases, it’s sort of hard to feel the welcoming effect. Especially when you’re still in your sweats from doing the grocery shopping—which is still sitting in bags on the kitchen floor—and your boyfriend isn’t home from school yet, and the doorman buzzes to inform you that your “guests” are here…
“Send them up,” I tell Carlos through the intercom. What else could I say?
Then I run around like a crazy person, trying to clean up. The place isn’t that bad—I’m something of a neat freak—but all of the lovely touches I’d been hoping to have when Luke’s parents walked in—a tray of freshly mixed cocktails (kir royales, their favorite), party nuts in bowls, assorted cheeses on a platter—have to be abandoned as I cram the dirty laundry in a hamper, run a quick brush through my hair, slap on a bit of lip gloss, then fling open the door.
“Helloooo!” I cry, noticing that Mr. and Mrs. de Villiers look—well,older than when I’d last seen them. But then, who doesn’t after a plane ride? “You’re early!”
“There was no traffic coming into the city from the airport,” Mrs. de Villiers drawls in her Texan accent, giving me a kiss on either cheek, as is her custom. “Leaving the city, yes. But coming in? No.” Her gaze sweeps the apartment, taking in the grocery bags, the lack of cocktails, and my sweats. “Sorry we’re early.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” I say breezily. “Really. It’s just that Luke isn’t home from class yet—”
“Well, we will just have to start celebrating without him,” Monsieur de Villiers says, as he unveils a bottle of chilled champagne he’s managed to procure somewhere along the way from the airport.
“Celebrating?” I blink. “Is there something to celebrate?”
“There is always something to celebrate,” Monsieur de Villiers says. “But in this case the fact that the Beaujolais nouveau has been released.”
His wife is pulling an Armani wheelie-suitcase. “Where can I park this?” she wants to know.
“Oh, your room, of course,” I say as I hurry to produce champagne flutes. “Luke and I will be taking the couch.”
Monsieur de Villiers winces as the cork from the bottle of champagne he is opening pops. “I told you we should have stayed in a hotel,” he calls to his wife. “Now these poor children will have spinal injuries from sleeping on a pull-out couch.”
“Oh no,” I say. “The couch is fine! Luke and I are so grateful to you for—”
“It’s a fine pull-out couch!” Mrs. de Villiers insists on her way to the bedroom. “I’ll admit it’s not the most comfortable in the world, but no one is going to suffer a spinal injury!”
I try to imagine how this conversation would go if it were my own parents, and fail. My parents are still in the dark about Luke and me living together, and I have every intention of keeping it that way… at least until we a
Which actually says a lot about how much they trust my judgment about people.
Although, looking back on some of my exes, I think maybe they have a point.
“It’s fine,” I assure Monsieur de Villiers. “Really.”
“Well.” Mrs. de Villiers has dropped her bag off in the bedroom and returned. “I’m happy to see you’ve made yourself at home in there.”
I realize she’s referring to the standing rack from Bed Bath & Beyond—and my vintage-dress collection.
And that she sounds… well,bemused about it.
And not necessarily in a good way.
“Oh,” I say. “Yes. I’m sorry. I know my clothes take up a lot of room. I hope you don’t mind—”
“Of course not!” Mrs. de Villiers says—a little too heartily. “I’m glad you’re making use of the space. Is that asewing machine I saw on my dressing table?”
Oh. My. God.
“Um, yes… well, you see, I needed a table to put it on, and your dressing table is just the right height… ” She hates me. I can tell. She totally hates me. “I can move it if you need me to. It’s no problem… ”
“Not at all,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a smile that’s, well, a trifle brittle. “Guillaume, I’ll take a little of that champagne. Actually, make that a lot.”
“I’ll just go move it,” I say. “The sewing machine. I’m sorry, I should have thought about it before. Of course you need a place to do your makeup—”
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. de Villiers says. “You can do it later. Sit down right now and have some champagne with us. Guillaume and I want to hear all about your new job. Jean-Luc says you’re working in a law office! That must be so exciting. I had no idea you were interested in the law.”
“Uh,” I say, taking the glass Monsieur de Villiers offers me. “I’m not—” Why didn’t I move that sewing machine last night, when it occurred to me that Mrs. de Villiers might not appreciate having it sitting there smack in the middle of her dressing table?Why?
“Are you doing paralegal work?” Mrs. de Villiers wants to know.
“Um, no,” I say. What about all my stuff in the bathroom? I have a ton of beauty products in there. I tried to consolidate it all in my plastic shower caddy from the dorm, but ever since I started working with a model, it’s gotten a lot bigger, since Tiffany won’t stop giving me samples, and some of them are pretty awesome. Like anything from Kiehl’s, which I admit I never heard of until I moved here. But now I’m addicted to their lip balm.
But where would I put all that stuff, if not the bathroom? There’s only the one bathroom… and that’s the place where shower caddiesgo…
“Administrative work?” Mrs. de Villiers is asking.
“No,” I say. “I’m the receptionist. Do you want me to move my stuff out of the bathroom? Because I totally can. I’m sorry if it seems like my stuff is everywhere, I know there’s a lot, but I can really move it—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. de Villiers says. She’s finished her first glass of champagne and holds out her glass toward her husband for a refill. “When does Jean-Luc get home?”
Oh, God. This is awful. She’s already wondering when Luke’s going to get here. I’m wondering the same thing. Someone needs to save us from this awkward silence—oh, wait. Monsieur de Villiers is turning on the TV. Thank God. We can watch the news or something—