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“Oh, she was always like that,” Mamaw was saying. “Stubborn as a mule.”
I was sure they were talking about me. I threw down my bookbag and went, “I am not!”
Grandmère was sitting on the couch opposite Mamaw, a teacup and saucer poised in her hands. In the background, Vigo was running around like a little windup toy, answering the phone and saying things like, “No, the orange blossoms are for the wedding party, the roses are for the centerpieces,” and “But of course the lamb chops were meant to be appetizers.”
“What kind of way is that to enter a room?” Grandmère barked at me in French. “A princess never interrupts her elders, and she certainly never throws things. Now come here and greet me properly.”
I went over and gave her a kiss on both cheeks, even though I didn’t want to. Then I went over to Mamaw and did the same thing. Mamaw giggled and went, “How continental!”
Grandmère said, “Now sit down, and offer your grandmother a madeleine.”
I sat down, to show how unstubborn I can be, and offered Mamaw a madeleine from the plate on the table in front of her, the way Grandmère had shown me to.
Mamaw giggled again and took one of the cookies. She kept her pinky in the air as she did so.
“Why, thanks, hon,” she said.
“Now,” Grandmère said, in English. “Where were we, Shirley?”
Mamaw said, “Oh, yes. Well, as I was saying, she’s always been that way. Just stubborn as the day is long. I’m not surprised she’s dug her heels in about this wedding. Not surprised at all.”
Hey, it wasn’t me they were talking about after all. It was—
“I mean, I can’t tell you we were thrilled when this happened the first time. ‘Course, Helen never mentioned he was a prince. If we had known, we’d have encouraged her to marry him.”
“Understandably,” Grandmère murmured.
“But this time,” Mamaw said, “well, we just couldn’t be more thrilled. Frank is a real doll.”
“Then we are agreed,” Grandmère said. “This wedding must—and will—take place.”
“Oh, definitely,” Mamaw said.
I half expected them to spit in their hands and shake on it, an old Hoosier custom I learned from Hank.
But instead they each took a sip of their tea.
I was pretty sure nobody wanted to hear from me, but I cleared my throat anyway.
“Amelia,” Grandmère said, in French. “Don’t even think about it.”
Too late. I said, “Mom doesn’t want—”
“Vigo,” Grandmère called. “Do you have those shoes? The ones that match the princess’s dress?”
Like magic, Vigo appeared, carrying the prettiest pair of pink satin slippers I have ever seen. They had rosettes on the toes that matched the ones on my maid-of-honor dress.
“Aren’t they lovely?” Vigo said, as he showed them to me. “Don’t you want to try them on?”
It was cruel. It was underhanded.
It was Grandmère, all over.
But what could I do? I couldn’t resist. The shoes fit perfectly, and looked, I have to admit, gorgeous on me. They gave my ski-like feet the appearance of being a size smaller—maybe even two sizes! I couldn’t wait to wear them, and the dress, too. Maybe if the wedding was called off, I could wear them to the prom. If things worked out with Jo-C-rox, I mean.
“It would be a shame to have to send them back,” Grandmère said with a sigh, “because your mother is being so stubborn.”
Then again, maybe not.
