“Take me back,” Monsieur Henri mutters. “Take me back to New Jersey,” he says to his wife.

“No, Jean, don’t be ridiculous,” Madame Henri says, taking her husband’s arm and leading him toward one of the newly upholstered chairs that sit by the fully stocked coffee bar. Monsieur Henri sinks onto the slick pink silk with a sigh. He has not snapped back as quickly—or as fully—as any of us hoped he would from his bypass surgery. His recovery has been fraught with complications, including a case of double pneumonia that had him bedridden for an extra few weeks, and he is only now, months later, making his first tenuous steps back to work.

But it’s clear his heart—to borrow a phrase—isn’t in it.

“Where did we get these chairs?” he whines, noticing the new material he’s sitting on. “And what’s that smell?”

“Those are the same old chairs you’ve always had,” I explain. “I had them recovered. They were stained and ugly. And that smell is Colombian roast. I got a cappuccino maker so the mothers can have something to drink during their daughters’ fittings—”

“How much is all of this costing me?” Monsieur Henri frets, looking around at the newly painted walls (also in blush), and the vintage dress pattern packets I’ve hung in elaborate gilt frames.

“It’s not costing you anything, you old goat,” Madame Henri chastises her husband, poking him in the shoulder. “I told you. Thanks to Lizzie, business is up almost a thousand percent since this time last year. That Jill Higgins—remember, from last year? All those society women are sending their daughters to have their gowns fitted by the same place that made hers such a standout. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you listen anymore? Did they forget to clean out your ears when they were cleaning out your arteries?”

Monsieur Henri hunches his shoulders. He’s lost so much weight since his surgery he looks almost like a different person. He resembles his twenty-something sons much more closely now, being long and lean, like them.

Unlike them, however, he’s gone entirely gray.

“I don’t understand anything anymore,” he says with a sigh. “Let me see the book. Lizzie… just give me the book.”

I seize the venerable appointment book from Tiffany—despite her insisting we switch over to a computerized mode of taking appointments, we’ve stayed with Monsieur Henri’s old appointment book.

And now I’m glad. I’m able to hand it to him, almost genuflecting as I do so.

“Here it is,” I say. “All ready for you.”

Monsieur Henri grunts and begins to flick through the heavily penciled—and just as heavily erased—book. His wife, meanwhile, nods her head in the direction of the curtain that still separates the front room from the back (though the curtain is no longer black, but a beautiful salmon brocade). I follow her through it.

“Hola, Lizzie,” say the two seamstresses she finds there, sewing beading onto the organza skirt of a strapless lace A-line by hand, from the lounge chairs in which they’re sitting while watching a telenovela on the portable television I purchased for them.

“Marisol, Sylvia,” I say. “You remember Madame Henri, right?”

Marisol and Sylvia grin and wave. Madame Henri waves back.

“So they’re working out, I see,” she says in French.

“Fastest needles in Manhattan,” I reply in her native language. “Shari gives the best job referrals.”

“Yes,” Madame Henri says. “Well, I suppose when given the choice between going back to their abusive husbands or working for you, they would make rather enthusiastic employees. But I still don’t see why you had to tell them about the union. You could have gotten them much more cheaply.”

I give Madame Henri a disapproving look. “Madame… ”

She gives a Gallic shrug. “I am only saying—”

A second later, Tiffany, though uninvited, joins us.

“What the hell is his glitch?” Tiffany wants to know. “He’s looking at the book—my book—and groaning.”

“Postsurgical depression,” Madame Henri says in English. “I’m so sorry… I ought to have warned you beforehand. He just has a mild case… mostly it’s annoyance about not being allowed to eat all the cheese he thinks he ought to be able to, and do the things he used to be able to do without discomfort. He gets so bored being home all day, I thought bringing him to the shop… well, I just thought he might perk up, seeing it again. I guess I was wrong. You’ve done such a wonderful job running it while we’ve been gone, Lizzie. Really. Please don’t take his criticism the wrong way.”

I shake my head. “I won’t,” I say. “I’m not—”

“The place looks beautiful,” Madame Henri says. “I love the fresh-cut flowers.”

“Oh, we worked out a deal with the floral shop down the street,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I recommend them to brides who haven’t picked out a florist yet, and they deliver a fresh arrangement to the shop every week—”

“Brilliant,” Madame Henri said. “And I hope you’re getting a discount on your own wedding. Oh, but then I suppose you and Luke are getting married in France—”

Tiffany starts to laugh, then, seeing my raised eyebrow, turns it to a discreet cough. Madame Henri glances at me. “Oh no,” she says. “Don’t tell me. Trouble in paradise?”

“Of course not,” I say indignantly. “We’re doing fine. Luke and I have just been so busy, him with his classes, and me here at the shop, we haven’t had time to plan anything—”

“But she’s going to start now,” Tiffany says firmly. “Especially since, what with Marisol and Sylvia’s help, she’s practically caught up with all the dresses for the June wedding rush. Right, Lizzie?”

“Um,” I say, shooting Tiffany a warning look. “Right. Totally.”

“What’s this?” Monsieur Henri thunders from the outer room of the shop. “What is this?”

“Oh, Lord,” Madame Henri mutters, rolling her eyes. “What now?”

We duck back out beneath the brocade curtain to find Monsieur Henri on his feet, clutching the appointment book to his chest and looking apoplectic.

“Jean!” Madame Henri, going deathly pale beneath her neat and tasteful makeup, rushes to her husband’s side. “What’s wrong? Is it your heart?”

“Yes, it’s my heart,” Monsieur Henri cries. “I think it must be breaking, because I feel so betrayed. Tell me I’m seeing things, please… or is it true that Mademoiselle Nichols here has been using my shop to peddle her own bridal gown design line?”

I stare at him, my jaw sagging. I’ve never seen Monsieur Henri so upset… and I’ve seen him lose his cool over many a Long Island bridezilla, ripping his careful work apart with verbal abuse.

But this is something different.

“I–I just did it a couple of times,” I stammer. “For a few select clients, after the Jill Higgins wedding. It’s generated a lot of really positive word of mouth for the shop… ”

“For the shop?” Monsieur Henri echoes. “Or for you?”

“Oh, Jean, keep quiet.” Madame Henri looks annoyed. “Such theatrics! You should be grateful to Mademoiselle Elizabeth, not shouting at her. If you don’t stop this nonsense, I will make you go and sit in the car like I used to do with the boys when they were young.”

“I should go back to the car,” Monsieur Henri says, his shoulders sagging again. “What’s the point of my even being here? No one needs me.”

My heart swells with pity for the older man.

“Of course we need you, monsieur,” I cry, going to put my arms around him. “I’ve been running this place without you for months now. But I’d love to take a break. Do you know I haven’t had a single day off—not even Sundays—since you had your heart attack?”

“Yeah,” Tiffany says. “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.