Queen of Babble Gets Hitched by Meg Cabot

“And she wants to get married this summer. So how about giving her some vacation time so she can start getting ready for it? Oh, yeah, and she’s gonna need time off for a honeymoon too.”
    I shoot her an aggravated look. I don’t need any reminders about how much—okay, basically everything—I still have to do to prepare for my wedding.
    “It’s no use,” Monsieur Henri says with a sigh. “It’s not there anymore.”
    My arms still around his much-thinner-than-it-used-to-be neck, I look into his eyes. “What’s not there anymore, Monsieur Henri?”
    “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.