Страница 41 из 58
A word on…
Shoes!
Of course you want to look your best on your wedding day, and higher heels can help emphasize a nice figure, and improve a less-than-perfect one. Keep in mind, however, that you will be spending a LOT of time on your feet on your wedding day. If you insist on heels, wear a pair at a height you are somewhat used to.
If your wedding heels are still less than comfortable by the time the big day rolls around, it’s always a good idea to bring a second pair of shoes to wear during your “downtime,” such as while you’re waiting for the photographer to set up, et cetera.
One word on beach weddings: few things are lovelier than being married at sunset on a tropical beach. Keep in mind, however, that heels and sand do not mix. If you are being married on a beach, skip the shoes altogether. Just be sure to put some bug repellent on your ankles to ward off sand fleas or you’ll be scratching throughout the ceremony.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 19
If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.
— Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), poet and writer
At five of six that day, I give up hope that Jill Higgins is going to walk up and ring the bell to Monsieur Henri’s. I’ve been, I know, too presumptuous. Why would Jill Higgins, who is marrying one of the richest men in Manhattan, choose me—a woman she knows only as the receptionist at the law firm where she is getting her prenup negotiated—as her certified wedding-gown specialist?
Especially since I’m not even certified! Yet.
I haven’t mentioned to Monsieur and Madame Henri that I’ve given their name and address to one of the most famous brides-to-be in the city. I don’t want to get their hopes up. Business has not been good, and there’ve been conversations (in French, of course, so I won’t understand what they’re saying) about packing it up for good when Maurice finally opens his shop down the street and steals away the last of their customers. The Henris have mentioned decamping for the cottage in Provence.
There would be a significant loss of income if this were to take place, since they’ve taken out a second mortgage on the building in order to pay for the boys’ college tuition, and the home in which they live in New Jersey has depreciated considerably with the current housing sales slump. Plus there’s the small fact that the two boys, Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre, adamantly refuse to move to France, or even transfer to colleges less expensive than New York University, to which they commute daily from home (when they aren’t sneaking overnight stays in the apartment upstairs).
Of course, I have no doubt that if the decision to give up the shop is ever made, the boys will end up doing precisely as their mother insists. Money, not discipline, is what is lacking in the Henri family—at least if the way Monsieur Henri piles the work on me at the shop is any indication. For someone who claims his business is going under, Monsieur Henri certainly seems to have enough sewing for me to do, day in and day out. He’s had me make so many lace ruffles—the same ones I’d admired in his shop window, months earlier, and swore to myself I’d learn to create on my own—that I can practically do them in my sleep. And I’ve completely mastered the art of the sewn-on diamond drop, for that all-over shimmer effect. And don’t even get me started on ruching.
Madame Henri is fussing at her husband for him to hurry and pack up so they can leave, because the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting—scheduled to take place tonight—makes the traffic so impossible that it takes an hour, practically, just to navigate out of the city, when the bell to the front door of the shop rings, and I look up to see a pale face, framed by a curtain of blond hair, peering at me urgently.
“What is this?” Madame Henri wants to know. “We have no appointments today.”
“Oh,” I say quickly, getting up and going to the door. “This is a friend of mine.” I open the door to let Jill in…
… and only then notice that there is a chauffeured black Town Car with smoked windows parked with its motor ru
“Oh!” Madame Henri drops her purse and flings both her hands to her cheeks. She’s recognized Jill’s companion as well. Which, considering how often his face appears on the front page of the Post, isn’t any wonder.
“Um, hi,” Jill says. Her cheeks are very red from the cold outside. She’s carrying a garment bag. “You said to stop by. Is this a bad time?”
“This is a perfect time,” I say. “Come on in.”
The couple step in from the slight snow flurry that has started up, lightly coating their hair and shoulders with drops that sparkle more than any crystal I’ve ever sewn onto anything. They bring with them the smell of cold and good health and… something else.
“Sorry,” Jill says, wrinkling her nose. “That’s me. I came straight from work and I didn’t have time to change. We wanted to beat the tree traffic.”
“That intoxicating odor,” John MacDowell says, “that you’re smelling right now is seal excrement. Don’t worry, you get used to it.”
“This is my fiancé, John,” Jill says. “John, this is Lizzie—”
John sticks out a large hand, and I shake it.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, seeming to mean it. “When Jill told me about you—well, I really hope you can help us. My mother—I mean, I love her and everything, but—”
“Say no more,” I say. “We completely get it. And, believe me, we’ve probably seen worse. May I introduce you to my boss, Monsieur Henri? He owns this shop. And this is his wife, Madame Henri. Monsieur and Madame, this is Jill Higgins and her fiancé, John MacDowell.”
Monsieur Henri has been standing nearby staring at the three of us with a stu
“Nice to meet you, too,” John MacDowell says politely. Madame Henri practically faints when he says the same thing to her. She hasn’t been able to utter a sound since the couple entered the shop.
“Shall we see what you have here?” I ask, taking the garment bag from Jill.
“I’m warning you,” John says. “It’s bad.”
“Really bad,” Jill adds.
“We are used to bad,” Monsieur Henri assures them. “That is how we came by our endorsement from the Association of Bridal Consultants.”
“It’s true,” I say gravely. “The National Bridal Service has given Monsieur Henri their highest recommendation.”
Monsieur Henri inclines his head modestly while at the same time moving behind Jill to help her out of her down parka. “Perhaps we can get you some tea? Or coffee?”
“I’m fine,” John says, handing over his own parka. “We’re… ”
His voice trails off. That’s because I’ve opened the garment bag. And now all five of us are staring at what I’ve revealed.
Monsieur Henri nearly drops the coats, but at the last second his wife darts forward to scoop them up.
“It’s… it’s hideous,” Monsieur Henri breathes—thankfully in French.
“Yes,” I say. “But it can be saved.”
“No.” Monsieur Henri shakes his head, like someone in a daze. “It ca
I can see why he might feel that way. The gown isn’t promising, to say the least. Made of yards and yards of clearly valuable antique lace over cream-colored satin, it’s a princess cut, with an enormous full skirt, made even bigger by a hoop sewn into the hem. The neckline is a typical Queen A