Because it’s huge.
Seriously, the box is the size of a miniature pony. Or at least a cocker spaniel. It’s almost bigger than the tree itself. It is definitely NOT a ring box.
But, as Tiffany said, when I mentioned this to her, “Oh, maybe he’s one of those.”
“One of what?” I asked.
“You know, one of those guys who don’t like it when their girlfriend guesses what they’re giving to her, so they put it in like a million different boxes inside of boxes, so she won’t be able to shake it and guess.”
This makes brilliant sense, of course. Luke knows perfectly well I can’t keep a secret (though I’ve been doing pretty well since moving to New York. Really, I think I’m maturing). It’s a short step from not being able to keep a secret to not being able to keep from snooping in one’s Christmas presents. It’s true I already accidentally snagged the silver foil wrapping paper on the box just a little by vacuuming too close to it the other night. But I stopped myself from peeling the foil back.
I know Tiffany’s right, and that Luke is doing the box-within-the-box thing. That’s just so like him.
Which is why I did the same for the sleek leather wallet I got him from Coach. The box I used to disguise the much smaller box the wallet actually comes in is a box Mrs. Erickson gave me that used to contain multiple bottles of dishwashing liquid that she bought two years ago during a trip to Sam’s Club in New Jersey. It’s taken her this long to get through enough bottles to throw out the box.
I just hope Luke doesn’t take a big sniff of his gift. Because if he does he’ll get a snootful of liquid Dawn.
And then, before I know it, it’s the day before Christmas Eve, and I’m as nervous as a kid about to visit the Santa in the mall. Not about Luke’s gift to me—although that has me plenty jittery—or about the fact that the two of us are about to spend over a week apart in totally different parts of the world, but about what Jill’s going to think of her dress. Because—as these things do—it had finally come together a few days before, and now… well, even Madame Henri had looked at it, then at me, and said gravely, “Good. Very good.”
Which, from her, is high praise indeed. But even more meaningful was her husband’s critique, which included several scratchings of the chin… much pacing… two or three pointed questions about tartan ribbon… and finally a nod and a“Parfait.”
Not the ice cream, but “perfect.”
But he isn’t the critic of whose opinion I’m most afraid. We still need to make sure Jill likes it.
She finally shows an hour after we’ve shut down the shop—shooed out the last appointment for the day, pulled down the blinds, and finally, switched off the lights in the front room, to make it look as if everyone had gone home. This is, of course, to throw off the paparazzi.
Then, when the doorbell rings at precisely seven o’clock, Madame Henri hurries to unlock the door, still not flicking on any lights. Two shadowy forms slip inside. At first I think Jill has brought her fiancé and I feel a burst of irritation with her—everyone knows it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bridal gown before the wedding.
But then I remember how Jill had come to each fitting alone, looking so hounded, not just by the press, but by her own social isolation, seeing as how her family lives so far away, and her friends know no more about wedding gowns than she does.
And I’m glad she’s brought John with her, because he’s really done everything he could to make things easier for her—even recently intervening in the prenup negotiations, and demanding that Jill be given a fair agreement or his parents will be stricken from the guest list for the reception, a bold move that succeeded perfectly, and made Mr. Pendergast so giddy that he ordered an extra round of champagne for everyone at the firm’s Christmas party at Montrachet (from which I’d had to duck out early to get back to work on Jill’s dress, thus missing the highlight of the evening: Roberta getting so drunk, she was found making out with Daryl, the fax and copy supervisor, in the cloakroom—unfortunately by Tiffany, who took snaps of the event with her camera phone, and e-mailed them to all of us).
So that’s why, when Madame Henri finally judges it safe to switch on the lights, I’m shocked to see that the person Jill has brought with her is not loyal, lovable John at all, but an older woman—almost an exact replica of her, as a matter of fact—whom she introduces as her mother.
My surprise is followed quickly by a rush of relief.Yes. Jill has an ally at last—one besides me and her husband-to-be, I mean.
“Lizzie, hello,” Mrs. Higgins says, pumping my hand with the same heartiness her daughter habitually employs in her handshakes, as if she’s unaware of her own strength, which in Jill’s case is considerable, given the fact that she routinely lifts hundred-pound seals. “I’m so glad to meet you. Jill’s told me so much about you. She says you practically saved her life… and that you’re very generous with—what were they again, honey? Yoodles?”
“Yodels,” Jill says, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, I had to tell her about that time we met, in the bathroom —”
“Oh, sure,” I say with a laugh. “We have more in the back if you want some—” Given all the work I’ve been doing, the low-carb diet has completely fallen by the wayside. I have no idea how much weight I’ve gained recently, but it’s not inconsiderable. And yet I find it really hard to care, I’m so excited about Jill’s dress.
“No, that’s okay,” Jill says, laughing. “I’m good. So. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready if you are,” I say. “Let’s go.”
And I take her into the back, while Monsieur and Madame Henri offer Mrs. Higgins a chair and some champagne.
My fingers are shaking as I lower the rich ivory folds over Jill’s head, but I try to hide my nervousness by explaining, “All right, Jill, this cut is what we call an empire waist. It means the waistline falls just beneath the breasts, which on you is the narrowest part of your body. What this will do is allow the skirt to fall straight down your body, kind of flowing around it, which is what someone with your body type wants. The empire waist was made popular by Josephine, the wife of Napoleon Bonaparte, who adapted it from Roman togas she saw depicted on ancient art. Now, as you can see, we’ve gone off the shoulder, because you have such nice shoulders, we wanted you to show them off. And then this right here—this is the original tartan that was hanging off the old dress—and we’re using it as a sash beneath the breastline, see? It emphasizes your tiny waist. And finally, here are some gloves—I was thinking above the elbow, so that they almost reach the dangling straps there… Well.” I’ve steered her in front of a full-length mirror. “What do you think? I was thinking hair up, with maybe some curly tendrils hanging down, to sort of complete the Grecian urn look… ”
Jill is staring at her reflection. It takes me a minute to realize that her silence isn’t disapproval. Her eyes are as wide as quarters and just as shiny. She’s holding back tears.
“Oh, Lizzie” is all she seems able to say.
“Is it terrible?” I ask nervously. “It’s all the original dress. I just took out the seams… well, pretty much all the seams. It was hard, but I really think this style suits you. You have sort of classic proportions, and there’s nothing more classic than Grecian urns—”
“I want to show Mom,” Jill says in a choked voice.
“Okay,” I say, hurrying behind her to lift the four-foot train I’ve attached to the back of the gown. “This hooks up, you know, into a sort of drapy bustle off the back for when you’re dancing. I didn’t want it to get in your way. But I wanted you to have some presence, you know, because St. Patrick’s Cathedral is so huge—”
But she’s already tearing out of the back room and into the front of the shop, where her mother and the Henris are waiting.
“Mom!” Jill cries when she bursts through the curtain separating the shop from the back room. “Look!”
Mrs. Higgins chokes on the champagne she is in the act of swallowing. Madame Henri wallops her on the back a few times and the woman is finally able to recover enough to say, her eyes glistening as much as her daughter’s, “Oh, honey. You look gorgeous.”
“I do,” Jill says, sounding shocked. “I do, don’t I?”
“You really do,” Mrs. Higgins says, hurrying over to get a closer look. “That’s the dress she gave you? The old battle-axe—I mean, John’s mother?”
“This is the dress,” I say. I feel funny inside. I can’t really explain it. But it’s like a combination of excitement and joy at the same time. Really, the only appropriate way to describe it would be to say it feels like someone’s opened up a bottle of champagne—insideme. Or, as Tiffany would say, up my cootchy. “Obviously, I modified it a
