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“It’s no use,” Monsieur Henri says with a sigh. “It’s not there anymore.”
My arms still around his much-thi
“The passion,” he says with a sigh, and tosses the appointment book back onto Tiffany’s desk.
I draw my arms away from him and stare. “Of course it is,” I say with a nervous glance in his wife’s direction. “This is just your first day back. You’ll feel it again when you get back into the swing of things.”
“No,” Monsieur Henri says. His gaze has grown far away. “I don’t care about wedding gowns anymore. There’s only one thing I care about now.”
His wife looks toward the recently repainted ceiling. “Not again.”
“Oh?” I glance at Madame Henri. “What’s that, monsieur?”
“Pétanque,” he says as he stares wistfully out the plate-glass window at the golden sunlight pouring onto Seventy-eighth Street.
“I told you,” Madame Henri snaps. “That isn’t a profession, Jean. It’s a hobby.”
“So?” Her husband jerks his head back around to demand. “I’m sixty-five! I just had a quadruple bypass! I can’t play a little pétanque if I want to?”
The phone rings. Tiffany lifts it and purrs, “Chez Henri, how may I help you?” I am the only one who hears her add, sotto voce, “Get me out of this lunatic asylum.”
“That’s it.” Madame Henri leans down and snatches up her Prada handbag. “We’re leaving. I thought we could have a nice day in the city, maybe have a lovely lunch. But you’ve ruined it.”
“I’ve ruined it?” Monsieur Henri cries. “I’m not the one who insisted on my coming back to work before I was emotionally prepared to! You know what my physical therapist says. One day at a time.”
“I’ll show you emotionally prepared,” Madame Henri says, shaking her small fist at him.
“Mademoiselle Elizabeth.” Monsieur Henri gives me a courtly bow, but it’s clear his thoughts are elsewhere… on his pétanque set back home in his New Jersey garden, perhaps. “Remember… life is short. Each moment you have is precious. Treasure every second. Don’t spend them doing anything you don’t love. If being a certified professional wedding gown restorer isn’t your dream—if designing them is—then go after that dream. The way I intend to go after my dream of playing pétanque every chance I get.”
“Jean!” Madame Henri screams. “I told you! Don’t start!”
“You don’t start!” her husband thunders back. “Mademoiselle Elizabeth… Good-bye.”
“Um… Good-bye.” I blink after the bickering couple as they leave the shop, Madame Henri making a hand motion to me behind her husband’s back indicating that she’s going to call me later.
No sooner has the bell over the front door stopped tinkling than Tiffany hangs up the phone and declares, “Oh my God, I thought he’d never leave.”
“Now, Tiff,” I say. But the truth is, I’d felt the same way.
“Seriously, though,” Tiffany says. “Where does he get off? It’s not like you haven’t worked like a dog for him. And for what? I know how much you make, Lizzie, remember? You’re being robbed working here. You should totally quit and open your own place.”
“With what start-up money?” I reach into the mini fridge—artfully disguised as a wood cabinet—beneath the coffee bar and pull out a Diet Coke. “Besides, I owe a lot to the Henris. And he’s still not feeling his best. You heard what his wife said.”
“Well, if he comes back to work here, I quit,” Tiffany declares. “I’m serious. I’m not sticking around with that old coot poking into our business.”
“Tiffany,” I say. “This is his place. It’s called Chez Henri. He’s the owner, remember?”
“I don’t care.” Tiffany folds her arms across her chest. “He’s a guy. He totally spoils the ambience we’ve established.”
I didn’t want to admit it out loud, but Tiffany was kind of right. I mean, it’s a bridal shop, after all. What’s Monsieur Henri doing, getting so bent out of shape about a salmon-colored awning? Besides, Madame Henri and I spent a lot of time and money on that awning. It looks totally great, sort of Lulu Gui
“Come on,” Tiffany says, as usual refusing to let the subject drop well after I’ve tired of it. “You know I’m right. And what’s with this pétanque stuff? What is pétanque?”
“It’s a bowling game,” I explain, “called boules or bocce here, involving a dirt lane and a small metal ball—”
“Is that all?” Tiffany asks scornfully. “Well, what does he keep going on about it for, then? Is he going to start selling pétanque equipment in here?”
“No, I’m sure he—”
“What are you going to do, Lizzie? He’s going to ruin everything you’ve been working so hard for. Everything!”
Another thing Tiffany has a tendency to do is be way overdramatic about things. Monsieur Henri isn’t going to ruin everything.
I’m pretty sure.
Fortunately my cell phone rings, sparing me from having to discuss the matter further… at least with Tiffany. I see that it’s Luke and pick up eagerly. Things are going really well with him—well, aside from the fact that we haven’t picked a date for our wedding. Or a venue. Or really even talked about it much. Or at all, actually.
Still, living in our own separate apartments is working out really well. We each have our own space, so we don’t get on each other’s nerves, and we totally appreciate the time we spend together. Consequently, the sex couldn’t be better.
And, okay, maybe he still doesn’t know about my Spanx.
And maybe I continue to refuse to be on top when we make love. Or turn my back on him when I’m naked.
And, yeah, any time Luke says he wants to spend the night at his own place—alone—so he can study for an exam, I become convinced he must be sleeping with other girls in his classes.
And, yes, every time he says he’s spending a Saturday afternoon studying at the library, I’m sure that what he’s actually doing is seeing some other girl behind my back, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from sneaking down to NYU to spy on him (except I don’t have a student ID to get into the library).
But you know. Other than that, things are total bliss!
Of course I have no reason to suspect these things of him other than, nearly a year into our relationship, I still can’t believe a guy as amazing as Luke actually wants anything to do with a neurotic mess like myself. As Shari frequently remarks, it really is astonishing that a woman with as much business savvy as I have is as insecure in her romantic life as I’ve turned out to be.
But I blame this on my obsession with Lifetime Television. Of which I’ve been watching a lot more now that I live alone and there’s no man in the house to groan every time I switch it on.
“Hi,” I say to Luke now.
“What’s wrong?” he asks right away.
“Wrong?” I echo. “Nothing’s wrong. What makes you think something is wrong?”
“Because I know you. And you sound like someone just told you Lilly Pulitzer died.”
“Oh,” I say, lowering my voice so Tiffany, who is picking up a call, can’t overhear. “Well, actually, Monsieur Henri stopped by the shop a few minutes ago, and he wasn’t too pleased with some of the changes I’ve made since he’s been out sick. He was acting kind of… strange.”
“What?” Luke sounds adorably indignant on my behalf. “You’ve worked your tail off for that guy. That place is doing twice as much business now because of you!”
It’s a lot more than that, really, as Madame Henri herself said. But I don’t correct him. “Well,” I say instead. “Anyway. I’m sure it will all be fine. He’s just still adjusting to life as a recent bypass patient, you know.”
“Well, he has some nerve,” Luke says. “Anyway, I’m calling with good news. Something that should cheer you up.”
“Really?” I can’t think what he could be talking about. “I’m all ears!”
“Today’s my last day of classes—”