The Wedding Sisters (19 page)

“Did you hear what they called us?” Amy said. “The wedding sisters. Isn't that great! We're like Kimye. Or Brangelina.”

“This is not funny, Amy,” Meg said. “This is not okay.”

“Sweetheart, calm down. You're marrying into a very prominent family. It comes with the territory.” Meryl tried to seem casual, to act like it was no big deal. But deep down, it was thrilling. It was one thing to be excited about her daughter getting married. But to think that the larger world of New York—maybe the entire country—was interested?

Scott was right. There was something there—something big. Maybe the idea of a reality show wasn't so crazy after all. Maybe the answer to their money problems was right there, staring her in the face.

“You lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas,” said Rose.

The four of them stood silent, peering out the window.

*   *   *

Jo had to admit, a part of her had been wondering if the Chanel boots woman, aka the Wedding Planner, would be at the bridal salon. Not just wondering, but on some level, hoping. This was the sort of weakness she just couldn't tolerate in herself. How could her heart, virtually in pieces over Caroline, still have the strength to want, to yearn, for the same thing that had gotten her into this horrible misery in the first place?

Maybe the bridal salon itself had inspired such whimsy. There was something about being surrounded by tulle and silk organza and chilled champagne that could make even the most practical woman lose her senses. It wasn't just that she was happy for her sister; there was a palpable giddiness in the air. Even her grandma, who notoriously didn't have a nice thing to say about much of anything, couldn't help but smile at the sight of Meg in head-to-toe lace, so beautiful and luminous, it confirmed what Jo had always thought for as long as she could remember: Meg was the special one.

All of it should have made her miss Caroline more, but instead the dress shopping helped her feel removed from her own misery. Maybe this bridesmaid gig wouldn't be so bad after all.

She was so caught up in the spirit of the afternoon—a spirit that wasn't even diminished by the crazy onslaught of photographers trying to get pictures of Meg and Amy—she asked Toby to meet her at Ocean Grill for a drink.

The seafood restaurant Ocean Grill, on Columbus and Seventy-eighth Street, was the place her parents had always taken them to celebrate excellent report cards and birthdays. Jo loved the towers of seafood on shaved ice, the perfectly chilled shrimp, the “lobster cocktail.” It was the first place she'd tried sushi, and when she graduated high school, the first place her parents let her drink a glass of champagne. It wasn't the trendiest place in town, but to Jo it was synonymous with happy times. And she wanted to feel happy, to continue the good vibes of the afternoon.

“This is old-school,” Toby said, bending down to kiss her on the mouth. She had a table near the front windows in the barroom. He sat next to her, sweeping his hair away from his eyes in that way he had. She felt a fondness for him, a rush of gratitude that she had such a best friend.

“I know. I love it.”

“You look gorgeous. And happy! I take it the dress shopping wasn't such a nightmare after all?”

“No,” she said. “It was actually kind of great. The craziest thing was that when we came out, there were all these photographers trying to get pictures of my sisters.”

“Why?”

Jo shrugged. “I don't know. Their fiancés have shitloads of money. You know how things are.”

“I have shitloads of money. No one's taking pictures of you.”

“I'm not your fiancée.”

“That can be fixed,” he said.

“Okay, stop. You're weirding me out, and I'm not going to be able to ask you what I want to ask you.”

“I'm intrigued! Don't let my witty banter stop you.”

“That was witty banter?”

“Don't stall. Spill it.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. Do you want to come with me to Meg's engagement dinner?”

“You mean, as your date?”

“Toby.”

“What? I need clarification here.”

“As my friend.”

“Jo, as your friend—who is currently living with you and occasionally having earth-shattering sex with you—I would be delighted to accompany you to your sister's engagement dinner.”

“Okay, now I regret asking you.”

He smiled and cocked his head—looking adorable, she had to admit. “You won't regret it for a minute. I promise.”

 

Six Months Until the Wedding

 

fourteen

The engagement party weekend was tightly scheduled with an hour-to-hour agenda that was planned down to the toasts at the Friday night dinner and the Saturday brunch. The toasts brought the first speed bump: Tippy had a special something in mind for the two grandmothers: Reed's mother, Henriette, and Rose.

“My mother won't be able to make it,” Meryl told her. “She really feels bad about it, but she needs her rest right now.”

What Rose had actually said? “Step foot in that club? Not if you rolled me in my casket.”

“Is she unwell?” Tippy asked.

“She's fine.” Meryl knew she should have lied—said her mother was sick. But she felt superstitious saying something like that when it wasn't true—as if karma would make it come true somehow. (This illogical thinking was, ironically, courtesy of her mother, who wouldn't speak of Poland yet never met a European superstition she didn't like.)

“I don't understand,” Tippy said.

Welcome to the family, Meryl thought.

It was a two-hour drive to the suburb of Philadelphia where the Campions lived and where the party would take place at their country club. Meryl figured she and Hugh would have a few hours to relax at the Marriott before they were due at the club at six thirty. Jo and Amy were driving separately, and Meg was staying at the Campion house.

“I see you're part of the Campion party room block,” noted the woman at the check-in desk.

“Yes, that's right.”

Hugh's phone rang. He took the call, walking away.

The receptionist handed her a shiny, black paper gift bag. Looking behind the front desk, Meryl noted a half dozen others lined up, the silver tissue paper peeking out of each one in exactly the same way.

The bag, a thoughtful touch, made her anxious. It was the type of detail she would have to keep in mind for the wedding.

“Enjoy your stay,” said the receptionist.

Meryl looked around for Hugh and found him standing off to the side in the hotel's small gift shop. He was on his phone, deep in conversation. She gestured to him but he turned his back to her.

She sighed and sat down to wait on a couch, next to a tray of Philadelphia soft pretzels. Meg had told her many times about the “ridiculously good” Philly pretzels.

Meryl took a bite. Softy, doughy, with just the right amount of rock salt. It was worth the calories, she told herself. And all the more incentive to get Hugh on the dance floor that night—burn off some calories. Finally, she felt relaxed.

Hugh, finished with his call, cut through the lobby toward her.

She stood, brushing the salt off her jeans.

He gestured toward the elevators.

“Mrs. Becker?”

Meryl turned at the sound of her name.

“Hi, Mrs. Becker. It's Leigh. Leigh Beauford—the wedding planner?”

Meryl felt her smile falter. “Hi, Leigh. I guess you're … here for the party?”

A very beautiful woman, Meryl noticed for the first time fully. How had she not seen that before?

Leigh reached into a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder and brought out a bottle of wine. She handed it to her. Meryl looked at her quizzically.

“I'm running a little late. They should be in everyone's rooms.”

Meryl looked at the bottle in her hands, as if it held the answer to something.

“Have a great time tonight. The menu is fantastic.” Leigh smiled and headed for the front desk.

“Who was that?” Hugh said.

“The wedding planner.”

“I thought you said no to the wedding planner.”

“I did.”

“Well, she seems pleasant enough.”

“That's not the point,” said Meryl. “Who were you on the phone with?”

“Long story. Let's get settled in.”

Their room was on the fourth floor. Meryl pulled back the heavy, gold brocade curtains. The view wasn't much: the hotel's circular drive and, across the street, the WaWa convenience store. Still, there was always something romantic about being in a hotel room, and she felt a surge of optimism. Maybe just being out of New York would be the shift she and Hugh needed to reconnect. After all, they were the parents of the bride. This was special. One of the rewards of making it through three decades of marriage was being together on a weekend like this.

She sat on the edge of the bed, watching Hugh unpack. He was still so handsome—barely changed since she first saw him at the front of the lecture hall all those years ago. His hair, sandy blond, now gray. Still thick, still cut in that shaggy way that was slightly bohemian and suggested someone who would never wear a suit to work. His six-foot-three frame still lean, his clothes always classic and so virtually indistinguishable from the khakis and button downs and V-neck sweaters he'd worn in grad school. Meryl imagined standing up behind him, pressing her body against his. It had been months since they'd had sex, and if she remembered correctly, that had been a perfunctory, “eleven o'clock news, mostly dressed in pajamas” event.

Sex was always better in a hotel room. She felt like a different person—or a least a better version of herself. In a hotel room, she was twenty-five again.

Meryl glanced at her own still-packed suitcase. She wished she'd thought to bring nice underwear. Maybe she should have bought something special for the weekend away. There was that store on Columbus, Only Hearts, full of pretty things without being off-putting like the windows of La Perla or Kiki de Montparnasse. Lately all the windows looked like the mannequins were acting out a scene from
Fifty Shades of Grey.

Or maybe she could just take off her clothes and forget about the underwear altogether.

Hugh turned around and smiled at her. Was he thinking the same thing she was thinking?

He sat next to her on the bed. She'd probably have to make the first move—that's how it had been lately. For years, really. But today, that was fine with her. She stroked his arm, and he leaned forward and kissed her.

“We're going to have a good weekend,” he said.

“I know.”

“So I don't want what I'm about to tell you to spoil it.”

She pulled back. “What?”

“Harrison called,” Hugh said. “They're letting me go.”

“Letting you go back to work?”

“I'm fired, Meryl. I'm done at Yardley.”

She shook her head. “They can't do that.”

“It's a private institution. They can do whatever they want.”

She stood up and paced, pressing her fingertips into her temples as if exerting hard pressure would make the information feel different as it entered her brain.

“If they fire you, how are you going to find another teaching job? You won't have a recommendation. You won't even have unemployment!”

“Well, I've given this some thought. I don't know if I'm going to try to find another teaching job.”

“What? Why not? What are you going to do?”

Hugh looked sheepish. And then she knew.

“I'm thinking now's the time to finally finish the book.”

The book. The book that had been languishing for twenty-five years and could take another ten years to finish for all she knew. And what were they going to do for income in the meantime?

“Is that really practical?” she asked, trying to keep calm.

“In the long term, I think it's important. For me—for both of us. And in the short term, we just have to cut back and maybe you pick up a little more work.”

As if she wasn't trying.

“Cut back? We have two weddings to plan.”

“Well, the girls are going to have to manage their expectations a bit.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you don't want to give in and concede that maybe the Campions and Bruces should contribute to the weddings—”

“It's not about them contributing, it's about them taking over. I want to plan our daughters' weddings. I want to plan and throw them—with you. Can you please try to understand that?”

“I do understand,” Hugh said. “But you have to meet me halfway, Meryl. Even then, we can only do what we can do. And I think the best way to stretch our budget is to throw a double wedding.”

“A double … What? No. Hugh, that's out of the question. Amy has felt overshadowed by Meg her entire life. And Meg has always resented how competitive Amy gets. The last thing they will want is a joint wedding. They each need their own special days. And what would our in-laws think?”

“They'll think the truth: that we don't have two hundred grand to throw away.”

“Goddamn it, Hugh! Why couldn't you have waited until after the party tonight to tell me this?”

“You're my wife. I needed to tell you the truth.”

“Do me a favor—don't go telling anyone else the ‘truth.' We don't need the entire engagement party to know you've been fired.”

“Meryl, I need you to be supportive. This isn't the worst thing in the world. It's a change I'm ready for. I didn't expect it; I didn't necessarily want it. But it's here, and I'm not going to act like this is a punishment. I'm going to see it as an opportunity.”

“An opportunity,” she said dully.

“Yes.”

Meryl looked at her husband, and in that moment, hated him.

*   *   *