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“Oh, Guillaume, turn that off,” his wife says. “We want to visit, not watch CNN.”
“I just want to see the weather,” Monsieur de Villiers insists.
“You can look outside to see the weather,” his wife scoffs. “It’s cold. It’s November. What do you expect?”
Oh, God. This is excruciating. I’m going to die, I just know it. I saw her disappointed expression when I said I’m just a receptionist at Chaz’s dad’s firm. Why did she wince like that? Because she can’t imagine her son dating a mere receptionist? It’s true his last girlfriend was an investment banker. But she was older than me! Well, by a couple of years. But whatever, she had a business degree! I was a liberal arts major. What does anybody expect?
Oh, God. There’s an awkward silence. Nooooo… Okay, think of something to say. Anything. These are bright, intellectual people. I should be able to chat with them about anything… anything at all…
Oh! I know…
“Mrs. de Villiers, I just love your Renoir,” I say. “The one hanging over your bed?”
“Oh.” Luke’s mother looks pleased. “That little thing? Thank you. Yes, she’s adorable, isn’t she?”
“I love her,” I say truthfully. “Where did you get her?”
“Oh.” Mrs. de Villiers looks toward the windows overlooking Fifth Avenue, a faraway gleam in her eyes. “She was a gift from someone. A very long time ago.”
I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that the “someone” Mrs. de Villiers was referring to had been a lover. It had to have been. How else to explain the dewy look that came over her face?
Could it, I couldn’t help wondering, have been the same man who keeps calling the apartment, asking for her?
“Um,” I say. Because I don’t know what else to say. Luke’s father seems oblivious, switching the cha
The most expensive thing anybody has ever given me is an iPod. And that was from my parents.
“Yes,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a catlike smile as she sips her champagne. “Wasn’t it?”
“Look.” Monsieur de Villiers points at the television. “You see? It’s going to snow tomorrow.”
“Well, we don’t have to worry about it,” his wife says. “We don’t have to go anywhere. We’ll be nice and snug in here.”
Oh, God. It’s true. We’ll all be stuck inside the whole day, me cooking (with Luke’s help, hopefully), and his parents… God. I don’t even know. What are they going to do? Watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade? The football games? Somehow they didn’t strike me as parade or football people.
Which meant they were just going to be sitting here. All day. Slowly sucking out my soul with their well-meaning but ultimately barbed comments… You really should consider becoming a paralegal, Lizzie. You’d make a lot more money than a mere receptionist. What? Certified wedding-gown specialist? I’ve never heard of that as a career path. Well, it’s true you did do wonders with my wedding gown. But that’s hardly a career for a college-educated person. I mean, aren’t you a glorified seamstress? Don’t you worry that you’re wasting all the money your parents paid for your education?
No! Because my education was free! Because my dad works at the college I went to, and free tuition is one of his job benefits!
Oh, God. Why did we all get along so well in France, and yet we have nothing to say to one another here?
I know why. Because they thought I was just Luke’s summer fling. Now it’s clear I’m more than that, and they aren’t happy about it. I know it. I just know it.
“You guys must be starving after your long plane ride,” I say as I spring up, determined not to let myself sink into despair. “Let me fix you something to eat.”
“No, no,” Monsieur de Villiers says. “We are taking you and Jean-Luc out tonight. We have reservations. Don’t we, Bibi?”
“Right,” Mrs. de Villiers says. “At Nobu. You know how much Jean-Luc loves sushi. We figured it would be just the right pick-me-up for him, considering how hard he’s been studying.”
“Right,” I say, in desperation. Desperation because I’m longing to get out of the same room with them. “I, uh, just got back from the store. I bought some cheese. Let me just put it out for you both. You can snack on it until Luke gets home and we can leave for the restaurant—”
“Don’t go to any trouble on our account,” Monsieur de Villiers says, waving a hand dismissively. “We can get our own snacks!”
Oh, God. They won’t even let me act like a hostess. Which I guess is understandable, since this isn’t even my apartment anyway.
Still. They don’t have to rub it in so much.
The telephone rings, startling me from my sullen musings. Not my cell phone—the apartment phone, the one listed under Bibi de Villiers’s name. The one only a single person has ever called on, since I’d moved in.
The man who leaves the disappointed messages for Bibi! The messages I’ve never mentioned to Luke.
Or his mother.
“Um, that’s probably for you,” I say to her. “Luke and I don’t use your number. We have our cells.”
Mrs. de Villiers looks startled but pleased. “I wonder who that can be,” she asks, getting up and heading to the phone. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming to town. I wanted to be free to shop uninterrupted. You know how it is.”
Actually, I did. There’s nothing more irritating than friends who want to schedule lunch with you when you’ve blocked out the whole weekend for shopping.
“Hello?” Mrs. de Villiers says, after lifting the receiver and removing the clip-on earring from her right ear.
And I thought my mom was the only woman left without pierced ears.
I know instantly that it’s the Guy Who’s Been Leaving All Those Messages. I can tell by the surprised but pleased expression on Mrs. de Villiers’s lovely face. Also the quick, wary look she darts at the back of her husband’s head as she breathes, “Oh, darling, how sweet of you to call. You have? Well, no, I haven’t been here. No, I’ve been in France and then back in Houston. Yes, of course with Guillaume, silly.”
Hmmm. So Guy Who’s Been Leaving All Those Messages knows she’s married.
What am I thinking? Of course he does. That’s why he only calls on her private line.
Wow. I can’t believe Luke’s mom is cheating on his dad. Or used to be, I guess. Which wasn’t necessarily cheating then, either, because they were separated, and in the act of divorcing. They only got back together a few months ago, over the summer… because of me.
The question is, now that summer’s over, and life’s gotten back to normal—if you can call a life where you have three homes, including a château in France, a mansion in Houston, and a Fifth Avenue apartment in Manhattan, normal—will their renewed love be able to survive?
“Friday? Oh, darling, I’d love to, but you know I’ve blocked that day out for shopping. Yes, the whole day. Well, I suppose I could. Oh, you’re so persistent. No, I do admire that in a man. Fine. Friday it is, then. Buh-bye.”
Yeah. Maybe not.
Mrs. de Villiers hangs up and puts her earring back on. She’s smiling in a pleased kind of way.
“Who was that, chérie?” Luke’s father asks.
“Oh, no one,” Mrs. de Villiers says casually.Too casually.
At that moment, I hear Luke’s key in the lock. And I nearly crumple with relief.
“You’re here!” he cries when he walks in and sees his parents. “You’re early!”
“Eh!” Monsieur de Villiers looks pleased. “There he is!”
“Jean-Luc!” His mother throws open her arms. “Come give your mother a kiss!”
Luke crosses the living room to hug his mother, then gives his dad a kiss on both cheeks as well. Then he comes over to me and, giving me a kiss (on the lips, not the cheeks), he whispers, “Sorry I’m so late. I got stuck on the subway. What’d I miss? Anything going on I need to know about?”
“Oh,” I say. “Not really.”
Because what else am I going to say?Your parents won’t let me make them any snacks, they don’t think I’m good enough for you, tomorrow’s di