The Wedding Sisters (15 page)

“I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about, Meryl.”

They looked up at the sound of Oona storming into the room. She was crying. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Becker, but I can't be doing this no more. I quit!”

*   *   *

Her mother admitted to having “episodes.” The nature of these episodes was vague, and her mother was not enthusiastic about clarifying. “I guess you could say it's like a bad dream. But I'm awake.”

“What are you dreaming about?”

Her mother shook her head. “Nothing.”

But Meryl knew it was something. She would take her to Lenox Hill for a brain scan and whatever else Dr. Friedman wanted to do to rule out a mini stroke or Alzheimer's or any of the myriad things Meryl was petrified of hearing. But deep down, Meryl suspected it wasn't anything a brain scan would find. On some level, a deep, primal gut sense, she knew something was bothering her mother. Had
always
been bothering her mother. And that something was finally catching up with her.

After dinner, when her mother was settled into Meg's old bedroom, Meryl told Hugh, “She needs to be here with us. At least for the foreseeable future.”

“Meryl, is that practical?”

“She's my mother.”

“I know. And I also know your mother. I can't imagine she'd agree to this. I mean, the woman refuses to so much as come for dinner, and now she's going to live here?”

“She's not happy about it, but she's not really fighting me either. I think she's scared. These episodes … she's not even aware of them happening. This is a problem I have to deal with.”

He hugged her. “I get that. It's fine. Of course she can live here. Although, with Jo back, it's getting to be quite the full house.”

“Jo isn't staying here tonight. She's with Toby.” Meryl raked her hands through her hair. “It isn't exactly a cake walk for me, Hugh. My mother drives me crazy from across town, never mind under our roof. I just can't imagine how this is going to go.”

“Not to mention we might not have this much space next year.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, if I lose my job, we won't get to stay in this apartment.”

Meryl felt like someone kicked her in the chest. She literally gasped, reaching for her nightstand to steady herself. “The apartment. I hadn't even thought about the apartment.”

She was so busy worrying about the weddings, she hadn't thought about the other collateral damage from Hugh's job being in jeopardy.

“How can you say that so casually? And you're not going to lose your job. That's not happening.”

Her phone rang. She checked just to make sure it wasn't the girls before she ignored it. It was a 310 area code. Oh my God. Scott.

She'd completely forgotten.

“Hello?”

“Hey—you picked a great spot, but it would be better if you were here, too,” Scott said. She heard the noise of the gastropub in the background.

“I am so sorry—family emergency,” she said. “I feel terrible. Any other night this week?”

“Tomorrow breakfast? I'm heading back to L.A. tomorrow.”

“Yes—that works.”

“I'm staying at the W Union Square. What's good around there? City Bakery? Say, nine?”

“Perfect. See you there.” She hung up the phone.

Hugh looked at her quizzically. “Who was that?”

“Oh … a job lead. A publicist I was supposed to meet for a drink,” she lied. Why was she lying about it?

“Great!” he said. “We might need your steady income around here.”

She glared at him. “Are you happy about all of this?”

“Of course not. I just don't think it's the catastrophe that you're making it out to be. Most people these days don't have the same job decade after decade. We've been fortunate. And frankly, I'm ready for a change.”

“Well, I'm not! This is … too much change. Everything is out of control,” she suddenly started sobbing.

“Meryl, we'll figure it out.”

“
We'll
figure it out? You figure it out! I'm tired of being the one to figure everything out!”

Walking into the bathroom and slamming the door, she indulged in a good hard cry. She cried over leaving Meg with the wedding planner to register. She cried over her mother's behavior.

And she cried over lying to her husband.

 

twelve

Jo wondered what heartbroken women did in the days before Netflix and HBO Go. The ability to lie in bed for hours on end, binge-watching entire seasons of her favorite shows strung together like an emotional all-you-can-eat buffet, was the only thing getting her through this.

That, and Toby.

They sat propped up side by side in his king-sized bed, surrounded by bowls of popcorn, bags of Doritos, his laptop and phone, her phone and her e-reader, and the remote.

“I could seriously stay here forever,” she said, cueing up yet another season of
Girls.

“We really don't have to leave the apartment. At least, not until we want to,” he said.

“If only! I need to find another job.”

“No, you don't,” he said. “What do you think, I'm going to charge you rent?”

“I still need money, Toby. Unlike you, I don't have someone funneling cash into my Chase account every month.”

“I'll get you a debit card to my account,” he said.

“Oh my God, stop. Tobe, I love you, but you don't have to take care of me. Honestly, all I need is your company. And maybe a copilot over the next few months as I deal with all this wedding shit. I love my sisters, but God, it's just so not my thing.”

She thought of the bridal registry department, the cabinets and tables filled with expensive, delicate, shiny things—some useful, some absurd. She could never imagine owning any of it. If she and Caroline had gotten married, they would have eloped. Scratch that. Her mother would be devastated. Instead they would have done some cool destination wedding—maybe Jamaica. And they would have told people no gifts, and then when they came back to New York, they would have woken up on a lazy Sunday, made love, and then headed to Bed Bath & Beyond to buy a few things that would signify the start of their life as a married couple.

Jo reached for her drink. It was a kamizake, made with fresh lime, triple sec, and Tito's vodka. Toby said it was the one cocktail he knew how to make, and clearly he'd perfected it.

“I don't know,” Toby said. “This whole wedding thing sounds like a good gig to me. You basically have people buying you things for a year straight, culminating in a big dinner with all of your friends and family and then a vacation with your favorite person in the world. Hell, I'm jealous.”

“Yeah. Me too,” she said quietly. “But I can tell you it's not in the cards for me. I am never going to let myself fall in love again. It's just too painful.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. It's human nature. You can't fight it.”

She thought of the surge of desire she had felt for the wedding planner. It was shocking she could feel something so strong, when she felt so broken, and it dismayed her that she had so little control over her impulses. Jo realized her biggest fear wasn't what she'd told her mother—that she'd never fall in love again. It was that she would.

“I can fight it,” she said.

“Well, I can't,” said Toby, looking at her with naked longing.

Before she could say anything to neutralize the moment, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Jo knew it was wrong—but he was such a good kisser, and his arms around her made her feel safe and cared for, and so even though she knew she was being weak, she let him tug off her T-shirt, and when she felt his mouth on her breasts, his hardness through his jeans as he pulled her into his arms, she gave in to the animalistic need for skin on skin.

Toby pulled on a condom, and she watched the process with a detached fascination. When he moved back on top of her, she found herself eager for the sensation of being filled by him. The sensation of him entering her, the hardness of his cock, was so different from Caroline, which was exactly what she needed, and undeniably satisfying. There was no question this was just fucking—it was clean and simple, and if he had messy emotions about it, well, frankly that was his problem. He was a grown man and he knew the deal.

At least that's what she told herself as he kissed her neck, moaning her name as his body trembled and she drew him closer. She wouldn't come this time, she could tell. But the closeness felt good.

“My God, Jo,” he said, her body tensing, his hips bucking. His eyes were closed tight, his face tense with the orgasm that rocked through him. Jo watched him, touched by the intensity of his experience and struck with a sudden pang of worry. Be careful, she told herself.
Be careful.

*   *   *

City Bakery was a two-story, cafeteria-style food mecca for the Union Square professional crowd.

Scott texted her that he was already there, at a table on the second floor.

Meryl ordered a coffee—for once not even tempted by the pretzel croissants, and walked up the narrow metal staircase.

She was nervous. Judging from that brief encounter at the 7-Eleven, Scott Sobel made her feel like a starstruck fifteen-year-old girl all over again. What were they even going to talk about after all this time?

He spotted her and rose from a corner table. She smiled and headed toward him, letting him embrace her.

“You made it!” he said.

“Scott, I'm so sorry about last night.”

“Oh, I'm just teasing,” he said. “Don't even give it a second thought. I'm just glad we were able to fit this in before I head back to the West Coast.”

Meryl shrugged off her coat, draping it on the back of the chair next to her, and sat down facing him across the table.

Scott was the physical opposite of Hugh. As a teenager, he'd been dark and exotic looking—almost Mediterranean. He had thick, shiny dark hair, a little lighter now but still brown, not gray. He had an aquiline nose and a full upper lip, dark eyes with heavy brows and thick lashes—bedroom eyes. When she was younger, she'd heard the expression on one of her mother's shows, and though she didn't know exactly what it meant at the time, when she saw Scott for the first time, she knew instantly what it meant.

“So how the hell have you been, Meryl Kleinman?”

This was crazy. She was still attracted to him. It was absurd—like her brain synapses were stuck back in 1975. She could practically hear the Barry Manilow song “Mandy”—God, how she'd loved that song. It made her so sad and so happy at the same time. It had been magical.

“Becker,” she said. “I'm married.”
Yes, Meryl—you're married!

“I know. I remember. It just feels good to say your old name. God, when did I see you last? Before the other night, obviously. That party at Columbia?”

“Probably.”

At the time, she'd already been dating Hugh a few weeks. She and Scott had said hello. He had been with an attractive woman—of course. They were still young then. They didn't matter to each other yet. Nostalgia hadn't set in, making them golden to each other.

“You look exactly the same as that night on the boardwalk,” he said.

Oh my God. He remembered. “I don't feel the same,” she said, blushing.

“Who does?” he said, smiling at her. “Except, I have to say, sitting here with you—it's the closest I've gotten in a long time.”

She glanced down at his ring finger. Bare. Of course, a lot of men didn't wear wedding bands these days.

“Are you married?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. Never got married.” He said it almost apologetically.

“You never found the right person?” She paused. “I'm sorry,” she added. “It's really none of my business.”

He laughed. “This is what friends do after decades—they talk about their lives, right?”

“I guess you're right.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Thirty years.” It sounded outrageous, even to her.

Scott whistled. “Wow. Meryl, that's impressive.”

Was it? There had been times when she thought about leaving. Likely they both had. But the feelings had passed. So the fact that she was still married wasn't necessarily impressive. She wanted to be happily married. Or at least to feel content.

But she didn't. Not lately.

“It's not, really,” she said.

“You're so self-deprecating. I love it. Usually I'm surrounded by complete narcissists.”

“I guess it takes a certain amount of that to want to be on a reality TV show.”

“I'm sure what I do seems pretty crazy to you.”

“Not at all! It's interesting. In fact, I watched your first show. The rodeo housewives.”

“Really? I'm flattered.”

“Well, don't be too flattered. I grew up watching
The Young and the Restless
and
As the World Turns
. Not exactly highbrow entertainment.”

“Highbrow, no. But they serve a purpose. We need narratives about love and family to make sense of our lives—just like centuries ago we needed myths to make sense of the natural world.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“So what else, Meryl Kleinman Becker?”

“Well, I have three grown daughters.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

Had he Googled her? Did that mean something? Did he think about her?

He smiled at her, a knowing, intimate smile as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

It took her breath away.

*   *   *

Amy dreamt about her wedding. Every night since the engagement, her sleep was filled with vivid images of white gowns and six-tiered cakes and flowers—oh, the flowers! Purple was her signature color, and the arrangements of dark eggplant calla lilies, anemone, hydrangeas, purple zinnias, and poppies and roses—she could smell them, feel their velvety petals.