The Wedding Sisters (23 page)

“It just would have looked like nepotism. It wouldn't have made you look like a great reporter. Just the opposite.”

Meg froze. She hadn't thought of it that way. She was so twisted up inside over the idea that Stowe had lied to her, and that Reed had gone out of his way to keep a tremendous scoop from her, that she didn't think of it from the rational angles.

“Look, I know this is difficult for you. But there are going to be some conflicts of interest that come up over the next year, and we're going to have to learn to trust each other and deal with them. I love you. I will not lie to you. But at the same time, I want to protect you and I think my dad does, too. Please don't see this as you versus us. You're one of us, now. You're going to be my wife.”

He kissed her, and she felt a flood of relief. She hated fighting with him. Not talking to him all weekend had left her feeling hollowed out inside. A part of her had wondered if she should call off the engagement, how messy it would be if she did. But she had told herself that once she ripped the Band-Aid off, she could focus more on work. Let Amy and Jo be the wedding sisters. One day, the wound would heal and this would all just be a painful memory.

She had woken up in the middle of the night sobbing. Stowe held her, but she only indulged in a moment's embrace and then pulled away. He lied to me, she told herself. He chose his parents over me, and he always will.

But hearing his words of reason, looking into his eyes, smelling his morning scent and the freshly laundered smell of his shirt and feeling the strength and warmth of his arms around her, she had to wonder if she'd overreacted.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I just need to know that it's you and me—not you and your parents with me as an afterthought.”

“Why do you feel that way?”

She shrugged. “I don't know.”

He kissed her, and she held him tight.

“It's going to be okay, Meg. You just have to trust me a little more.”

She nodded. She had the urge to tell him how she was anxious about going into the office, that she felt like she'd failed. But she didn't want to make it seem like she was picking the fight again.

“I have to get to work,” she said.

Stowe seemed slightly disappointed, as if he'd thought maybe they had time for makeup sex. And maybe they did. But she wasn't ready. It would have to wait for tonight, when she'd cleared the air with Kevin and figured out this new reality of being the future daughter-in-law of a maybe future president of the United States.

*   *   *

By the time Meg reached the Poliglot office, she was feeling better.

She slid her ID card through the metal reader, and the arm opened for her. She fell into a tide of people headed toward the elevator bank. Maybe she could even call Reed later to get a few words from him. Yes! Why hadn't she thought of that sooner? She didn't break the story—but she could supplement what they already had. It was more than any other reporter on the desk would get on their own.

Kevin was hovering near her office. Not technically waiting for her, but close enough. He followed her inside and closed the door.

“I was blindsided,” she said.

“Becker. This isn't good.”

“I hate being put in this position,” she said.

“I don't blame you. I don't like it either. And unfortunately, Meg, this probably isn't the last time it's going to happen.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you're on staff here, your future father-in-law is running for president of the United States. Conflict of interest? I'd say yes.”

“Kevin, please. I'll handle it, okay.”

Silence.

“Meg, I think we need to talk about you stepping down.”

Meg looked at him, mouth agape. “Down from what?”

“Your position here.”

“What? Two weeks ago you were talking about a promotion.”

“I guess I was being overly optimistic.”

“You aren't serious.”

“Let's be honest: You're no longer a neutral, outside observer.”

“You didn't seem to mind that possibility when you asked me to break the news on Poliglot.”

“But you didn't, did you?”

“So that's what this is? You're punishing me?”

He shook his head. “No, Meg. I'm not. I'm just stating the obvious. You're no longer a neutral third party to the ground you cover here. So it's best if you resign.”

“That's not how it works, Kevin.”

“Isn't it, though? What happened when Maria Shriver found herself married to the governor of California? She resigned from NBC, citing a conflict of interest.”

“She was the first lady.”

“He was just a governor. We're talking the White House, Meg. I'm sorry, but I have to do what's best for the site. I'd like you to be out of here by noon. And we'll tell everyone you're moving on for other opportunities. Sound good?”

Meg couldn't speak. She watched him walk out of her office.

Her first thought was to call Stowe, but his phone went straight to voice mail. She dialed his office line, and his secretary told her he was in meetings all day.

She felt completely ganged up on: by the Campions with their closed circle, their family secrets. By Stowe for keeping her out of that loop. By Kevin, who had turned on her.

Meg called the one person who was always on her side, and always would be. “Mom, I'm coming home for the night.”

 

seventeen

It was a day Meryl had dreaded: packing up her mother's apartment. But at least, unexpectedly, she had reinforcements: both Hugh and Meg came along to help her.

Hugh began folding the unconstructed moving boxes into shape, while Meg unspooled the roll of Bubble Wrap.

Rose sat on the couch, resting back and closing her eyes.

“Mother, you really didn't have to be here. You could have just stayed at my apartment,” Meryl said.

She wished her mother had just let her and Hugh—and, thanks to her surprise visit, Meg—do the packing on their own, but instead she had insisted on coming along.

“It's some extra time with Meg,” Rose said. Meg's appearance yesterday had been a bonus for all of them. Though she suspected the visit was not so simple as Meg had made it out to be when she said breezily, “Things are quiet at work and it was just a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

Meryl didn't push. She figured she'd talk to her during the packing up. And then her mother insisted on coming along. Always a private person, Rose no doubt hated the thought of Meryl and Hugh—especially Hugh—going through her things unsupervised.

“Let's get organized,” said Rose.

Meryl and Hugh glanced at one another.

“We
are
organized, Mother,” said Meryl.

“You two pack up the living room and kitchen, I'll do the bedroom,” said Rose. “But first I'm just going to take a quick rest.”

She closed her eyes again, pressing back into the cushions.

“Fine,” said Meryl.

Meryl and Meg started in the kitchen. When Meryl had moved Rose into the apartment a decade earlier, she put the fine china and silver into storage. All they had to deal with were basic dishes, glasses, and mugs from Pottery Barn, serving trays and a few vases from Simon Pearce, and the Nespresso machine Meryl had bought her for her birthday five years ago.

“So what's really going on with Gran?” Meg asked quietly. “Is she sick? She seems competent enough to live here if she wants to stay independent.”

Meryl glanced up from rolling a vase in Bubble Wrap. “You don't find some of the things she says slightly out of touch with reality?”

“Maybe. But that's just Gran. Hasn't she always been that way?”

“Oh, honey. I don't know. And I'd rather talk about what's really going on with you.”

Meg, busy with a row of mugs, didn't look at her when she replied, “Mostly just work stuff.” But then, haltingly at first and then tumbling in a rush of words and tears, Meg explained that she had lost her job and she feared that in a marriage to Stowe, she would lose
herself.
“I just couldn't go back to his house last night.”

“
Your
house. It's your house too now, Meg.”

Her daughter's shrug was exaggerated, like a child's.

“The few months leading up to a wedding are stressful for a lot of couples,” Meryl said. “Sweetie, don't lose perspective. You love him. And he's a good man. And you'll find another job. It's probably time to make a move anyway. You've only worked at one company since college. Of course they take you for granted.”

If Meg heard her, she gave no indication.

“Rose is asleep—out cold,” Hugh commented, walking into the kitchen. “I'm going to start on the bedroom. We don't need to be here all day.”

Meryl sighed. “Fine. She's not going to like it, but you're right—we should just keep things moving.”

“Dad, it's great you were able to take off from work,” Meg said.

Meryl and Hugh glanced at one another.

Before he could speak, Meryl said, “Your father has decided to take a leave of absence from Yardley.”

“Really?” said Meg, her brow furrowing. “Is everything okay? Is it—are you taking sabbatical to finally finish the book?”

Again, Hugh looked at Meryl. She nodded ever so slightly.

“That's part of it,” Hugh said, shifting uncomfortably. “Let's focus on the task at hand here and we can talk about all that later.”

Meg's phone rang. She pressed it to voice mail. Meryl resisted the urge to ask who it was; the call left Meg so distracted, she drifted back to the living room.

“Let's get this over with,” said Hugh.

Rose's bedroom was pristine, the austere, Shaker-style quilt pulled tight, the curtains closed, the nightstand empty. It was so neat and lifeless; it gave Meryl a pang, as if her mother had died. She shook the thought away and surveyed the room. There were two small closets, one on either side of the heavy wooden bureau holding the television set.

“So what's the game plan with this stuff?” said Hugh.

“I want to bring the bedding to our apartment so she feels at home, pack the clothes into garment boxes, and move anything else in the closet into storage.” She paused. “She's going to kill us for going through her things.”

“Please—she should be thanking us.”

“Well, don't hold your breath.”

Meryl stood in front of the open closet, her hands on her hips. Her mother's clothes hung neatly on the metal rack. Rose was not a fan of color, so the blouses were all white, cream, or black, and the skirts were black or gray or muted shades of moss green or slate. The dresses were all solid colors—no prints. Despite their limited palette, the clothes were all chic, timeless, and surprisingly expensive—silks, wools—labels from Saks Fifth Avenue and Bergdorf and cashmere sweaters from Manrico on Madison.

“How bad does it look in there?” Hugh asked.

“Luckily, it's mostly clothes. But there are a few boxes in the back.” There had been a time when her mother had slight hoarding tendencies, and Meryl suspected the boxes harbored the last of her “tchotchkes,” as her mother called them.

In the very back of the closet was a stack of oil paintings, a few Meryl recognized as having hung in the old apartment.

“Hugh, look at these. Do you remember them from my parents' old place?”

“Meg loved that one—the Russian ballerinas. Maybe your mother will let her take one to her place in D.C. Help her make it more of her own place.”

Meryl smiled. “Oh, Hugh, that's a wonderful idea.”

“I'm going to get those garment bags. Left them in the living room.”

At the bottom of the stack was a painting she'd never seen before. It was a blue and white water pitcher on a wooden table, a still life that seemed it might have been a copy of a classic work. She looked at the signature.
Roza Olszewski.
She didn't recognize the name.

Meryl turned it over, looking at the back of the canvas. A manila envelope was taped there, sealed with wide clear packing tape. She looked around for Hugh, but he was still in the other room.

She carefully peeled the tape away from the envelope, trying not to tear it but failing. Her heart pounded. She told herself she wasn't doing anything wrong, but the fact that she was about to break open the envelope to see what was inside made it impossible to pretend this was just a casual glance.

The envelope was packed thick with papers. She carefully withdrew the entire stack and set it on the floor beside her. She fanned it out and discovered photos among pencil sketches that were yellowed and curled with age. The subjects of the drawings—flowers, birds, trees—were so simple, they were clearly the work of a child. At the bottom, in the large awkward scrawl of a child, the name Roza Klasczko.

Other drawings, more sophisticated, were signed the same way. And then the photos: a girl of about eleven, with blond curls and a narrow face—much like Meg as a child—standing next to a dark-haired young boy. Her hand was on his shoulder. The children, sandwiched between a man and a brunette woman, stood outside a café in some European city. Poland?

More photos: the same girl with the woman and the boy, at a breakfast table, smiling and laughing. And then, a photo of the girl, now thirteen or fourteen, with another couple, blond and handsome but serious-faced, outside a farmhouse. And another of the teenaged girl with three smaller children, all blond and smiling. Behind them, a handmade sign on the wall, and on the table, a birthday cake.

Meryl, perspiring, quickly flipped through the photos until she saw a still older version of the girl, now with the woman Meryl recognized as her grandmother—her mother's mother, Rachel Weiss. Finally, a setting she recognized: her grandparents' old house in New Jersey.