And they’re DEFINITELY not soft-spoken.

“But then where are Lauren and Nicole going to stay?” a girl about my own age, only considerably blonder, is demanding in a heavy Southern accent.

“Vicky darlin’, I told you.” Another blonde, who has to be the girl’s mother, since the resemblance between the two is uncanny (except that Mom has about twenty pounds on her daughter), is speaking in long-suffering, but still distinctly Texan, tones. “They’re just going to have to stay in Sarlat. Aunt Bibi told you she could only fit so many people here in Mirac-”

“But why do Blaine’s friends get to stay here,” Vicky is whining, “and my friends have to go to a hotel? And what about Craig? Where are his friends going to stay?”

A sullen-looking young man lurking in the corner by a marble pillar says, “I didn’t know Craig had any friends.”

“Shut up, you retard,” Vicky hurls at him.

“Well,” declares the other blond middle-aged woman, “I know I could sure use a drink. Anybody with me on that one?”

“Here, Bibi.” Monsieur de Villiers is quick to move in with a tray of champagne flutes he’s had standing by, apparently in case of an emergency just like this one.

“Oh, thank the Lord,” says Luke’s mother, quickly taking hold of a glass. Nearly a head taller than her French soon-to-be-ex-husband (although maybe that’s just because her hair is so big), she is a striking woman in a brightly patterned Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that shows off her still-trim figure to advantage.

“Here, Ginny,” she says, taking another glass of champagne and handing it to her sister. “You need one of these even more than I do, I’ll bet.”

Vicky’s mother doesn’t even wait until everyone else is served before downing the contents of her glass. She looks like a woman on the verge of…well, something not very good.

Dominique, I see, has already made her way back downstairs and is standing at Mrs. de Villiers’s elbow, supervising the handing out of the champagne. When Monsieur de Villiers gets to Agnes, Dominique says something rather sharp in French and Luke’s dad looks startled.

“Oh, surely just a taste,” he says. “It’s my new demi-sec…”

Dominique looks disapproving.

But this apparently doesn’t bother Luke, who steps forward, plucks a champagne glass off the tray his father is holding, and hands it to Agnes, who looks surprised and thrilled.

“It’s a special occasion,” Luke says, seemingly to everyone in general. But I can’t help thinking his remark is directed at Dominique. “My cousin is here for her wedding. Everyone needs to be in on the celebration.”

I see Shari-changed out of her swimsuit into a neat white blouse and olive capris-exchange glances with Chaz, who’s also changed-into khakis and a clean polo shirt-since I last saw him. Her look seems to say, See? I told you so.

Told you so about what, though? What’s going on?

“Well,” Mrs. de Villiers says, holding up her glass, “let’s toast, then. To the bride and groom. Who isn’t here yet. The lucky bastard.” She throws back her head and laughs. “Just kidding.”

Then, having spied me when she threw her head back, Mrs. de Villiers adds, “Oops, Guillaume, one more. There’s one more comin’.” And Monsieur de Villiers turns, spots me coming down the stairs, and breaks into a wide grin.

“Ah, there she is,” he says, holding the last glass of champagne out to me. “Better late than never. And definitely worth waiting for.”

Blushing, I take the glass and say, speaking to the room in general, the way Luke had, “Hello. I’m Lizzie Nichols. Thank you so much for having me here,” as if I’d actually been an invited guest and not the complete party crasher that I am.

Then I stand there wishing something heavy would fall on my head and knock me unconscious.

“Lizzie, how do you do?” Mrs. de Villiers steps forward to shake my hand. “You must be the friend of Chaz’s I’ve been hearing about. So nice to meet you. Any friend of Chaz’s is a friend of ours. He was just so sweet to our Luke when he was at school. Always helping him get into trouble.”

I glance at Chaz, who is grinning. “I’m sure,” I say, “knowing Chaz.”

“Not true,” Chaz is saying. “Not true. Luke got into plenty of trouble on his own with no help from me.”

“This is my sister, Ginny Thibodaux, and her daughter Vicky,” Bibi de Villiers is saying as she steers me around the foyer to meet her family. Mrs. Thibodaux’s handshake, compared to her sister’s hearty one, is like holding a wet sponge, and Vicky’s is only a little better. “And this is Blaine, Vicky’s not-so-little-anymore brother-” Blaine’s handshake is a little better than his sister’s, but his face seems to be molded into a permanent sneer and he has a letter of the alphabet tattooed on each of his fingers. I can’t tell what they spell when seen in a row, though.

“Well,” Bibi says when she’s done introducing me, “here’s to the lovely couple.”

Then she polishes off her champagne. Fortunately, her husband is standing nearby with a new bottle, ready to freshen everybody’s glass.

“It’s good, no?” he’s asking eagerly of anyone who will reply. “The demi-sec? They don’t make many demi-secs anymore. Everyone is always clamoring for the bruts. But I think to myself, why not?”

“Way to think outside the box, Guillaume,” Chaz says amiably. I sidle over toward him and Shari and lean over to ask, “Do you have any idea what a demi-sec is?”

“Oh, hell, no,” Chaz says, just as amiably, and drains his glass. “Hey, I’ll take some more,” he says, hurrying after Luke’s father.

Shari looks up at me-she’s never gotten over being only five four, whereas I’ve never gotten over having a butt that’s twice as big as hers (until recently)-and says, “Where did you disappear to all afternoon? And how come you’re so dressed up?”

“Luke and his dad gave me a tour of the vineyard,” I say. “And I’m not dressed up. This dress got downgraded to everyday wear after Maggie got paint on it. Remember?”

“There’s no paint on it now,” Shari observes.

“Well, it was water-soluble. Nobody gives a four-year-old non-water-soluble paint. Not even my sister.”

“Whatever,” Shari says. She’s never understood my complicated wardrobe rules, though I’ve offered to explain them multiple times. “We’re invited to dinner tonight. It’ll just be the bride’s family, which is why. Groom’s family and the rest of the guests get here tomorrow. You up for helping out in the kitchen?”

“Totally,” I say, picturing me with a cute apron on, preparing spaghetti due for everyone.

“Great,” Shari says. “Agnes’s mother is making it. She’s supposed to be a fantastic cook. We’ll be on dish patrol. Let’s get nice and toasted to make it go faster.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I say, and follow her over to where Luke is standing, having taken over champagne-pouring duties from his dad, for refills.

“Ah,” Luke says when he notices me. “There she is. Nice dress.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You don’t clean up so badly yourself. Do you know if you have any cream of tartar in your kitchen?”

Shari chokes on the sip of champagne she’s just taken. Luke, however, calmly replies, “I have no idea. Tell me what cream of tartar would be called in French and I’ll ask.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re the Frenchman.”

“Half,” Luke says, casting a glance at his mother, who is throwing her head back and laughing at something else Chaz has said.

“Creme de tartre?” Shari suggests.

“I’ll ask,” Luke says, and goes to refill his aunt’s glass.

“What was that all about?” Shari wants to know when he’s out of earshot.

“Oh, nothing,” I say innocently. It’s kind of fun, I’m discovering, keeping secrets from her. It’s something I’ve never done before in my life.

But there are quite a few things I’ve never done before in my life that I’ve been trying lately. Some without success, but some…well, time would tell.