The Wedding Sisters (31 page)

Hugh was bringing Janell. Apparently, she was into photography and wanted to take some nature shots. Meryl didn't want Janell there—a walking reminder of the inevitable loss of their apartment. Meryl was still angry.

“Don't you think it's inappropriate to bring a former student to a family event?” she had asked.

“Hon, with the
People
magazine editor and wedding planner tagging along, it's not exactly an intimate event,” Hugh had responded. “Besides, she's doing a lot of good work for me. Hard work—for free. Why not let her have some fun if we're taking a trip out to the country for the day.”

Meryl let it go. Hugh hadn't been too hard on her about the whole Scott thing, so she really needed to deal with her anger about his job already. And it wasn't Janell's fault. She was just a kid.

“You're still here?” Her mother loomed over her, her handbag casting a shadow across Meryl's lap.

“Mother! You startled me. Of course I'm still here. I'm taking you back home.” She stood up. “How did it go?”

“I think it's a waste of time.”

“Of course you do.”

“Did you tell her about the … episodes?”

“My sessions are private,” she said.

“Okay, fine. Whatever works for you. Do you still want to come with us to Longview?”

“Of course! It was my idea. I should at least get a trip out of it.”

Meryl noticed the papers in her hand. “What's that?” Meryl said.

Rose looked down, as if having forgotten about whatever it was she was holding. She tore the paper in half and handed it to Meryl.

Meryl stopped walking, piecing together the two halves of the prescription, squinting to read the doctor's scrawl. Prozac and Ativan.

“Mother! Why did you do that? We'll get these filled on the way.”

“I'm not taking that garbage.”

“The whole point of coming here is to help prevent those episodes, Mother. You know that. You don't have to take this stuff forever. What did she say about it?”

“This is a waste of time, Meryl. At my age, you are who you are.” She paused, looking at her. “You, however, still have room for improvement.”

*   *   *

Amy closed the door to her office, turned on her computer, and tried to muster some excitement. She had to leave work early today to meet everyone for the drive out to Long Island to see their wedding venue.

She was exhausted. She'd barely slept last night after the text at eleven, just before she had been about to turn off her phone. Marcus, asking if she was “around.” And if she wanted to “hang out”? At eleven at night! Andy, fortunately, had been in the bathroom—hadn't heard the jarring little ping. She had deleted it. But she couldn't delete it from her mind. No more than she could delete the memory of the joy of fucking him.

And more unpleasantness: typing an e-mail informing Stella she would miss yet another meeting. She didn't know why she cared so much—it's not like Jeffrey Bruce was going to fire her for taking the time to find a wedding venue for her marriage to his son. She just hated the way Stella looked at her—like she was a mouse the cat dragged in and she now had to deal with. If Stella could make her wear a Post-it on her forehead that read
DEAD WEIGHT
, she would do it. Amy wanted to prove her wrong.

At least Andy would be at the marketing meeting. “I trust you to check the place out. If you like it, I'll like it,” he had said.

Andy was so easygoing. Maybe too easygoing. Meg had admitted that Stowe balked at the triple-wedding idea—which Amy thought was totally normal.

A knock sounded at her door.

“How's my brand ambassador doing this morning?” Jeffrey walked in, dressed in his uniform of faded jeans and a button-down shirt and blazer. A garment bag was slung over his shoulder.

“Hi, Jeffrey! I'm just finishing up a few things. I'm going to see the venue today. For the wedding.”

“I know—exciting stuff. I brought you something to wear.”

He unzipped the bag with a flourish to reveal a chocolate brown, knee-length pony-print skirt.

“Oh—thanks. But I feel okay in what I'm wearing. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”

“You might feel okay in what you're wearing, love, but it's not from this season. Andy told me that
People
photographers are going along.” Jeffrey tapped his temple to indicate, I'm always thinking about these things.

“Oh. Got it. Okay. Thanks.”

“The blouse is in here, too. I'm sending up the boots. Just wanted to hand-deliver these to tell you to enjoy. And we'll see you kids at dinner tomorrow night.” He held her by the shoulders and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks, Jeffrey.”

“Dad!” he said with a wink on his way out the door.

Amy sighed. It was a pretty skirt.

Her office door opened again. Stella.

“I just got your e-mail. If you're not making the meeting—again—I need that Excel sheet with all the SKUs for the upcoming shoot.”

Amy nodded. “Sorry about missing the meeting, but I'll—”

The door slammed shut.

Her phone vibrated with a text.

I'm cool with you blowing me off last night, but now I'm literally a block away. Shooting today in Chelsea Market. Meet up after?

Marcus. Amy was flooded with guilt. She had to put an end to this—whatever this was.

She could just text him to leave her alone. But she couldn't help but want to see him one last time. It was weak, she knew. But she was going to end it—or stop it before it became something to end. Was that so wrong?

Meet me in the Starbucks in the Google building.

Now?

Y.

*   *   *

She found Marcus sitting at the counter, at the window facing Ninth Avenue. He handed her a cup.

God, he was beautiful.

“I got you a latte,” he said.

“Oh—that was … Thanks.” She slid next to him. “I can't stay long. I just wanted to tell you that I can't see you again.”

He smiled. “You could have just texted me that. It's not like—you know, we're not a couple breaking up or anything. But I'm still glad you showed up.”

“Yeah. I felt like I should explain.”

“You have a boyfriend. A fiancé.”

“You know?”

“I mean, your ring is kind of hard to miss.” He shrugged. “But sometimes that doesn't mean … Well, people have all kinds of deals. But it's cool. It was fun while it lasted. And maybe since I'm doing so much work for the company now, it's better not to mix it all up, you know?”

“I think you're right.”
Especially since my fiancé
is Jeffrey Bruce's son.

He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Don't look so freaked out. It's all good.” The closeness of him, the smell of him, made her blood rush fast and hot. She wanted to say, I take it back—never mind. Let's do this. Whatever this is.

Was she ready to walk down the aisle, never to feel this way again? As if reading her mind, he touched her face in a gesture so intimate, she felt as much his lover as she was Andy's. More so. How could she feel this way? He was a stranger. He was nothing to her.

He kissed her, and for a heart-stopping moment, she gave in to it. But then she pulled back, breaking the spell.

“I have to go.” She pulled her bag off the back of the chair abruptly, and in that moment, caught a glimpse of someone outside the window. Someone looking right at them.

Stella.

*   *   *

Longview was the type of house Meg had dreamed of living in as a little girl. In middle school, she had been friends with a girl who was heiress to a beef fortune. They lived on Park Avenue during the week, and during the weekends drove out to Long Island to their estate. It also had a name, though Meg could no longer remember it. But she had fallen in love with the house, and all her romantic fantasies—she was still too young to care that much about boys—centered around a glamorous life in a historic, stately home on the Long Island Sound.

Longview was not on the water, but the 160 acres of grounds included ponds and lakes and picturesque little streams running alongside beds of flowers imported from all over the world. It was one of the nicer days in late February, and nothing was in bloom, but she had seen the photos on the Web site.

Now that she was seeing the estate in person, she felt confident Stowe would love it as much as she did.

“The house was completed in 1906,” said their guide, Cliff, a handsome, slightly effeminate guy in his late twenties with dark hair combed in a 1950s style, wearing a sweater vest and a bow tie. “John Longchester built it for his bride, Amelia, since she agreed to move here from England.”

“Now, that's what I call a compromise,” said Meg, laughing.

No one so much as cracked a smile. What was everyone so grumpy about? The guide was probably annoyed with the size of the group. And they were an odd bunch: Meryl and Hugh, her father's research assistant—why she was along, Meg couldn't begin to imagine—the wedding planner, an editor from
People
magazine, and their six-foot-five, tattooed African American photographer named Paz.

When they showed up at the front door of the estate, Cliff had said, “Well! Today you have enough people for the wedding party right here.”

Clearly, he had very little grasp of the scope of the event being planned.

The tour started indoors.

“These chandeliers were originally candeliers. This entire interior underwent a renovation in the 1920s. The mirrors are Chinese Chippendale. The carpets are from 1760, made in England. That Wedgwood bust is of Cicero, and the other is, of course, John Milton.”

They traipsed through the house, Leigh taking notes. Jo seemed to be trailing her like a puppy, Meg noticed. What was that all about? Amy was moping like she'd rather be getting a root canal. Her mother was so busy talking to the
People
editor, Cliff had to shoot her a warning look like an irritated elementary school teacher. And her father had his usual dreamy, distracted expression, which told her he was thinking about his book. The house no doubt reminded him of some Alcott family trivia.

“You'll notice the laurel leaf moldings in the ceiling are mirrored in the rug. And all these portraits on the walls are of the original family members. Most are by John Singer Sargent. As a painter, he was known for depicting his subjects exactly as they were to him—not sugar-coating it.”

Jo leaned in, examining a painting of a woman with stringy pale hair and a bulbous nose. The only attractive part of the portrait was the emerald-cut ruby around her neck.

“Not a looker, was she?” Jo said.

“Well, courtship was not based nearly so much on today's notion of romantic love,” said Cliff. “It was a man's job to make money, and a woman's job to marry it and care for the home and family. People were very sensible.”

Meg, impatient, checked her e-mail. The wedding was in May, and at this rate, they would still be in the middle of this tour.

“You mentioned on the phone that there is a glass-enclosed atrium leading to the gardens?” said Leigh.

“Yes, but I thought you'd like to see the upstairs first? The third floor has fourteen working fireplaces. The master bedroom has a Chippendale mahogany bed dating back to 1750.”

“It sounds fabulous. But I think we can get right to the areas of the house that are relevant to the event we're planning.”

Finally, Tippy's event planner was proving herself useful. Meg knew her mother would never risk being rude simply in the name of hustling things along.

“Very well.”

Cliff clearly hated them, but at least Meg had a fighting chance of making it back to D.C. in time for a late dinner with Stowe.

“This south terrace provides the primary transition between the house and gardens. When we do outdoor affairs, this is usually the reception area for the place cards and possibly a small bar. The grounds have many distinct areas, including the lotus pool, the walled garden, the allée of linden trees, the rose garden, the pond, and the south lawn. Most of our weddings take place in the walled garden. So, in the interest of brevity, I'm assuming that's where you'd like to go first?” he said pointedly to Leigh.

“Sounds good to me.”

The group followed Cliff down a stone path. Even in the winter, the grounds were beautiful. Meg could imagine the place in full bloom. She sighed happily, genuine excitement about the wedding coursing through her.

“Longview is the preeminent example of an English naturalistic garden. You won't find a better experience of this on the East Coast. All of this will be in full bloom in May.”

High brick walls surrounded the garden; they entered through ornate iron gates.

“The flowers are organized in formal plantings. The bridal path—” He gestured along the stone walk. “—is lined with wild bluebells. Ladies—” He turned to Meg and Amy and Jo. “—you will walk right up to here, the garden's edge, culminating near the lotus pool.”

“Where do we put the chuppah?” said Rose.

Meryl looked at her sharply. “Nowhere, Mother. We're not having a religious ceremony.”

“You don't even need a formal altar, because it's framed by the pillars there. The statue spouts water in the warm-weather months, but we can turn that off if you prefer,” said Cliff.

“I prefer a chuppah, is what I prefer,” grumbled Rose.

“Since when do you care about a chuppah? We never even belonged to a synagogue.”

Meg looked at her father.

He smiled and held out his arm, bent at the elbow. “Let's test out the aisle.”

Meg looped her arm through his, laughing as they walked down the bare walkway. She had to admit that despite a bumpy month or so, things were looking up. Paz took a few shots of the lotus pool. Meryl and the editor conferred in low, delighted voices.