call of duty. And hey—did I mention that turkey you made was delicious?”
“Oh,” I say modestly. “Thanks.”
Well? He doesn’t need to know it came already cooked.
“I think you’re a keeper, Lizzie Nichols,” he says, his lips now moving lower than my hair, and toward some other parts of my body that can appreciate lips more than hair.
“Oh,” I say in a different voice. “Thanks!” A keeper! Why, that’s practically a marriage proposal. Calling someone a keeper is like saying you never want to throw them back into the dating pool for someone else to snatch instead. Right?
“And you’re sure,” he says, from down there, “that you and Shari never—”
I sit up and glare at him in the darkened room. “Luke! I told you! No!”
“Whatever!” he says with a laugh. “I’m just asking. You know Chaz is going to ask, too.”
“I told you.” I can’t believe this. “You can’t say anything to Chaz. Not until Shari’s told him. I wasn’t even supposed to say anything to you—”
Luke laughs—not very nicely, I might add. “Shari told you something and asked you to keep it a secret?”
“I am capable of keeping some things to myself, you know,” I say indignantly. Because, seriously… if he only knew what I’ve been keeping to myself since I moved in.
“I know,” he says with a laugh. “I’m just teasing you. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to him. But you know what Chaz is going to say.”
“What?” I ask, relenting—but only because he looks so handsome in the moonlight spilling in from the windows.
“That if Shari was going to decide to become a lesbian, why did she have to do it after they’d broken up?”
I yank the sheet up over the parts of my body he seems to be finding so interesting.
“For your information,” I say, “Shari is not a lesbian.”
“Bi, lesbian. Whatever. What’s with this?” He tugs at the sheet.
“What’s with the labels?” I demand, tugging back. “Why do people have to be defined by their sexual preference? Can’t Shari just be Shari?”
“Sure,” Luke says, looking taken aback. “Why are you being so defensive about this?”
“Because,” I say. “I don’t want people to call Shari my ‘lesbian friend.’ And I’m sure she doesn’t, either. Well, actually, I’m sure Shari doesn’t care. But that’s not the point. She’s just Shari. I don’t call Chaz your ‘heterosexual friend.’”
“Fine,” Luke says. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had my best friend’s girlfriend ditch him for another girl before. I’m a little confused at the moment.”
“Welcome to the club,” I say.
Luke rolls over to stare at the ceiling.
“Obviously,” he says after a moment’s silence, “there’s only one thing we can do.”
“What?” I ask suspiciously.
He shows me.
And, in the end, I have to admit—he has a point.
Which he makes—nice and emphatically, I might add.
Feeling the glove…
Some brides opt for a more formal look by donning gloves on the big day. Gloves come in many lengths, and can be the perfect accessory for the fashion conscious or merely traditional bride. They have a practical use, as well—brides who wear gloves certainly needn’t worry about their manicure… or smearing their own messy fingerprints on their pure white gown.
The most common types of bridal gloves are:
Opera Length—These long white gloves stretch from the fingertips to the upper arm.
Elbow length—Like the opera length, only these end just above the elbow.
Gauntlet—These kinds of gloves are hand-and-fingerless, covering only the forearm.
Fingerless—Just like the lace ones Madonna used to wear. Or the woolly ones Bob Cratchitt is often pictured wearing.
Wrist—These gloves cover the hand only, like ski gloves.
Gloves should be removed for the ring part of the ceremony (it is considered ill-bred to wear rings OVER glove fingers. If your glove does not open at the wrist, cut a small hole beneath the wedding finger of your left- hand glove so you can easily wiggle your finger through to receive the ring) and of course while dining.
Brides with very muscular arms or those wearing long sleeves should avoid gloves altogether.
LIZZIENICHOLSDESIGNS™
Chapter 18
No one gossips about other people’s secret virtues.
—Bertrand Russell (1872–1970), British philosopher
The Monday after Thanksgiving, we got slammed at the Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn reception desk. I don’t know if there have ever been any official studies on this, but I would say, just judging from my own observations, divorce requests definitely go up after a long holiday weekend.
A sentiment with which I could actually sympathize, having spent mine with the de Villierses… who are all very charming people, but not without their annoying quirks. Like Mrs. de Villiers’s annoying quirk of talking about Dominique, Luke’s ex, and how happy she and Blaine, Luke’s cousin, are. Apparently Dominique is doing a great job managing Blaine’s financial affairs… and he needs the help, because his band, Satan’s Shadow, is superhot on the indie metal circuit.
Another hot topic of conversation for Mrs. de Villiers is Blaine’s sister’s pregnancy. Vickie isn’t even due until the spring and doesn’t even know the baby’s sex yet, but Luke’s mother is already buying tiny onesies and booties and cooing over how much she can’t wait to have a grandchild of her own, making Luke look extremely uncom for table and putting back my woodland-creaturing of him weeks, possibly even months.
And Mr. de Villiers’s annoying quirk wasn’t much better. His was not looking where he’s going and consequently putting his foot through my Singer 5050—which I purposely moved from the dressing table to the floor beneath my hanging rack, thinking no one would trip over it there, since there was a metal bar in the way.
And yet somehow Luke’s father managed to destroy it… or at least the bobbin.
He apologized profusely and offered to pay for a new one. But I told him it was all right, that the machine was old and I’d been intending to get a new one anyway.
I swear I don’t know where some of the things that come out of my mouth even come from.
Anyway, they’re gone. They left Sunday afternoon, after much kissing and talk of all the fun they’re going to have at Château Mirac over Christmas and New Year’s. Of course, they pressured me to come along, but I could tell they didn’t really mean it. Well, Luke did, of course. And maybe his dad did.
But his mom? Not so much? The smile she gave me as she said, “Oh, do come, Lizzie, it will be such fun,” didn’t go all the way up to her eyes. They didn’t crinkle at the sides like they normally did when she smiles.
No. I know where I’m not wanted. And that’s at the de Villierses’ familial holiday celebration in France.
Which is fine. It is. It’s totally cool. I explained I only had the long weekend off anyway, which I’d be spending flying home to see my parents, before returning to work on Monday.
I don’t think it’s my imagination that Mrs. de Villiers looked kind of relieved about that. I mean, that she was
