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“I didn’t decide to become a Bad Girl,” I insist. “It just happened. I couldn’t help it.”
Tiffany shakes her head. “That’s what they all say.”
At that moment the bells over the front door tinkle, and Monsieur Henri comes in, followed by his wife, looking tight-faced, and another woman I’ve never seen before. The woman is dressed in a summer-weight business jacket and skirt and is carrying a briefcase. She looks a little too young to be a mother of the bride, but a little too old to be the kind of bride who wears the type of gowns in which we generally specialize. Not to be ageist or anything. But it’s true.
“Ah, Elizabeth,” Monsieur Henri says when he sees me. “You’ve returned, I see. We were very sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Um,” I say. I haven’t seen Monsieur Henri since his first—and last—venture to the city after his heart surgery. According to his wife, with whom I’ve spoken on the phone several times since then, he’s been back at their home in New Jersey, brushing up on his pétanque skills and watching Judge Judy. “Thank you. I’m sorry I was away for so long.”
I was actually gone for four days, only two of which were actual workdays. But I can’t think of any other reason why Monsieur Henri should be back so suddenly, and with what appear to be reinforcements.
“Not to worry, not to worry,” Monsieur Henri says, waving my concerns off as if they were nothing. “Now, Miss Lowenstein. This is the shop, as you can see. Let me take you into the back room.”
“Thank you,” Miss Lowenstein says, giving me the briefest of smiles as she passes by, following closely behind Monsieur Henri.
I turn my bewildered gaze on Madame Henri, who can barely look me in the eye. “Oh, Elizabeth,” she says to the carpet. “I hardly know what to say.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tiffany says, breaking off while taking a slurp of her cappuccino. “I totally forgot to tell you… ”
F or many years it’s been assumed that the wedding veil, which was traditionally worn over the face, was used to disguise the bride, and thus protect her from evil spirits. But more recent historians argue that perhaps the veil served a more practical purpose… the veil may actually have been to keep her betrothed, in case of an arranged marriage, from seeing the face of his intended until after he was already committed. A less than charitable interpretation, but have you seen some of those twelfth-century portraits?
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
Make sure the color of your veil matches that of your dress! Not all whites are the same. Never choose an ivory veil to go with a cream-colored dress. You might think the difference is slight, but believe me, it will show up in the photos, and you’ll notice, and slowly, over the years, looking at the photos will drive you insane. Make sure you match the color of your dress to your veil. These are two items you won’t want to mix and match.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 19 •
Marriage—a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters written in prose.
Beverley Nichols (1898–1983), English writer and playwright
“I should have told you,” Madame Henri says miserably as she dumps another sugar packet into her latte. We’re sitting at a table in the window booth at the corner Starbucks, and she keeps glancing nervously toward the doors of the Goldmark Realty Offices, through which her husband has disappeared with Miss Lowenstein, Goldmark’s self-proclaimed top sales agent. “But it was all decided so suddenly, and you’d already had the bad news about your grandmother… I just didn’t have the heart to pile on this bad news as well.”
“I understand,” I say.
I don’t, actually. I really don’t see how, after everything I’ve done for them—all my hard work these past six months—they can do this to me. I mean, I can—it’s their business, after all, and they have the right to sell it if they want to. But it seems awfully cold. On the Bad Girl Scale, I’d give what they’re doing about a five hundred.
“So… he really just wants out?”
“He wants to go back to France,” Madame Henri says glumly. “It’s so strange. All these years, before the heart attack, I was begging him to take more time off, to spend more time with me at our house in Provence, and he wouldn’t hear of it. For him, it was always work, work, work. Then he has the heart attack, and suddenly… he doesn’t want to work anymore. At. All. All he wants to do is play pétanque. That’s all I hear about. Pétanque this and pétanque that. He wants to retire to our house in Avignon and just play pétanque until he dies. He’s already contacted his old friends there—his schoolmates—and formed a team. They have a league. A pétanque league. It’s insane. I suppose I should be glad he’s found something that interests him. After the operation, I thought nothing would, ever again. But this… it’s obsessive.”
I look down at the Diet Coke I’ve bought but haven’t even opened yet. I can hardly believe this is happening. How could my day, which had started out so incredibly well, be going downhill so fast?
“But… what about your boys?” I ask. “I mean, doesn’t he want them to come with you?”
I can’t imagine Provence would hold any appeal whatsoever for the two club-hopping Henri boys.
“Oh, no, of course not,” Madame Henri says. “No, and they don’t want to come with us. They have to stay and finish school. But that’s why we need to sell the building. We’ll need something to pay for that. New York University is so expensive.” She sighs. Her eyeliner, usually so carefully and expertly put on, is smudged, a clear sign of the stress she’s under. “And then we’ll need something to live on. If he’s doing nothing but playing pétanque all day… I suppose I could look for work, but there isn’t much a middle-aged woman who used to manage a bridal gown refurbishment shop can do in the south of France.” She sighs again, and I can see the pain the admission has caused her.
“Of course,” I say. The urge to vomit that I’d felt while speaking to Tiffany earlier returns. “And you don’t think you can get by just from the sale of your house in New Jersey?”
“Well, we hope to get a nice amount for it, of course,” Madame Henri says. “But nowhere near what we can get for the building. Miss Lowenstein is going to send over an inspector and then get an appraisal, but she says comparable buildings in this area are selling for four to five million dollars.”
I nearly choke on my own saliva.
Four to five million dollars? Four to five million?
So I don’t have a hope of being able to buy the shop myself. I’m pretty sure you can’t get a mortgage for that amount. Not if you’re me, and you’re making thirty grand a year, and you have exactly two thousand dollars in your savings account.
So I’m homeless and jobless. Great. Just great.
“It’s just,” I say, clearing my throat. “The shop is doing really well. Really well.” Nowhere near four to five million well. But I don’t mention that. “And since you already own your home in Provence, and you’ll have the money from the sale of your house in New Jersey, it just seems like—”
“Oh,” Madame Henri says. She’s looking across the street. Her husband is coming out of Goldmark Realty and glancing around impatiently for her. “Here he is. Elizabeth, listen… I know. I feel terrible. And I am doing what I can for you. I… will speak to Maurice, if you wish.” I stare at her in horror. Maurice? The rival wedding gown rehabilitator who was trying to run the Henris out of business when they first hired me… but didn’t, thanks only to my efforts?
“Um… that’s all right,” I say in a strangled voice.
“I will speak to you soon. Yes? I will telephone. Good-bye for now.” She kisses me on both cheeks and is gone.