The Wedding Sisters (33 page)

“They'll do that too,” Meryl told her.

Meryl suspected part of the reason they wanted photographs in the childhood home was because she'd told them the anecdote about them dressing up as brides as little girls, walking down the aisle together.

“That's priceless!” said Joan.

“I have photos of it somewhere.”

Now, in the apartment, the writer Kristin and the photographer wanted them to re-create that scene. Amy and Jo visibly balked at the idea, while Meg simply hung back silently.

“Girls, come on,” said Meryl. No one moved, and if she'd had a cattle prod handy, she would have gladly used it. What was with the three of them?

Hugh was working at the dining room table—the academic at home. The fireplace was lit. Kristin had commented that she rarely saw a working fireplace in Manhattan. Meryl hoped that made it into the article.

It was hard for her to believe that, after twenty years, they would have to move out this summer. She shook the thought away.

“They walked down this hall,” Meryl said to Kristin, turning to shoot the girls a death glare. “And I'll never forget what they were wearing, because they squabbled about it every time. Hugh walked Meg first, then Amy, then Jo.” Meryl looped her arm through Amy's and dragged her down the hall toward the kitchen like a recalcitrant dog on a leash.

“Well, we can get that shot later,” Kristin said, glancing at the photographer. “Let's get a shot of Mr. Becker working on his book.”

Hugh, suddenly more animated than he had ever been during the entire wedding-planning process, smiled and then bent over his laptop as if mid-sentence.

“The book is nonfiction, correct?” asked Kristin.

“That's right. It's a definitive look at the Alcott sisters. I published a book about Abigail Alcott—the model for the mother in Louisa May Alcott's
Little Women
—in the 1980s. I've been working on this off and on since then. The challenge was making it less academic and something the commercial audience would like.”

Meryl looked up. She didn't know that. Why had he never mentioned it? Or had he shared this with her, and she simply never registered it?

“And how is it coming along?”

“Extremely well. I think I've finally cracked it. I have a new research assistant—a high school student helping me in her spare time. Her input has been invaluable. She brings a less rigid approach. It's changed the entire tenor of the project.”

“How did you find a high school student who was interested in researching the Alcott family in her spare time?”

Hugh launched into Janell's background and her arrival at Yardley as a scholarship student. One of his students. Until …

Meryl shot him a warning look. Hugh was not going to get into all that. Not with
People
magazine.

“Hugh…”

“So they fired you? For standing up against an unfair policy? In defense of your student?”

This, from the photographer.

“It wasn't, in theory, an unfair policy,” said Hugh. “In fact, I'd helped enact it a few years ago. But it had been established during a certain climate of cheating—of a sense among students that they could do no wrong, that they were privileged, they were owed good grades somehow. But that didn't apply here. And maybe doesn't apply most of the time. Like laws or policies or anything else, I felt the ‘one strike you're out' rule should be reexamined. But I was alone on that. It's worked out for the best, however. Janell and I are, as my mother used to say, making lemonade out of lemons.”

Kristin was typing furiously into her laptop. Meryl looked around the room frantically, wondering how to intervene.

“Kristin, maybe you want to get started with Amy? I know she might have to get back to the office,” Meryl said. “Hugh, can I speak to you for a minute?”

She dragged him into his office and closed the door.

“What the hell? Why would you get into all that? You want the whole world to know you were fired from your job?”

“I'm not ashamed of what happened at Yardley, Meryl. I'm sorry you are—but that's really your issue. Kristin wants to write about the girls because they're real people—not celebrities. So we're real people with real problems. And it's not even a problem—it's all worked out for the best. Why do you feel the need to control everything? We're a family, and that's what they want to see.”

“Sure! Why don't I just tell them how my mother hates you because you told me to have an abortion and we didn't raise our kids Jewish. Since we're being real!”

A knock on the door. “Um, Meryl?”

Kristin. Oh God. Had she heard them?

Meryl slowly opened the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Kristin said. “I'm just looking for Jo? Our photographer wants a group shot.”

“Of course. Let me find her.”

With no luck in the bedrooms or kitchen, Meryl finally found the bathroom in the hallway outside the bedrooms locked.

“Jo? Are you in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

A pause, and the sound of the door unlocking.

Jo opened it a few inches, looking pale—almost green.

“What's wrong?”

“I don't know.” Jo sat on the floor.

“Are you sick?”

“I think I'm just stressed.”

“About what?”

“I don't know if I should go through with this whole thing.”

Meryl felt herself go pale too. “What ‘whole thing'? The wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“Jo, it's normal to be stressed in the months leading up to the wedding. I think Meg is feeling the same way. Even Amy doesn't seem herself. But you have to stay focused on the love that brought you to make the commitment in the first place.”

“Mom, I'm sorry, but I have to break the engagement. I can't—” Jo leaned over suddenly and retched into the toilet.

“You
are
sick, poor thing.”

“I keep waiting for it to pass, but it doesn't. I've been nauseated off and on for weeks. And I'm so tired, Mom. All I want to do is sleep.”

“For weeks?”

Jo nodded.

Meryl reached for the towel rack to steady herself. She could feel herself back in her dorm room, saying those exact words to Hugh.

“Jo,” she said slowly. “You're not stressed. You're not sick. You're pregnant.”

 

One Month Until the Wedding

 

twenty-four

Hunter Cross read from her laptop, glancing up every few seconds to glare at Meg after particularly offensive passages. It was as if she had the
People
magazine piece memorized.

“‘While the three sisters have had a picture-perfect road to the altar, the father of the bride, sixty-year-old Hugh Becker, has had a bumpier time of late. He recently was fired from his twenty-year teaching position at the prestigious Yardley School when he stood up against what he believes to be an unfairly dogmatic policy toward academic cheating.'”

Hunter closed her laptop with an aggressive slam. “Do you understand,” she said to Meg, “that we cannot afford a whiff of scandal right now?”

Meg looked at Stowe, crossing her arms. To say she felt ambushed was a gross understatement. She thought he'd called her to the Campion campaign headquarters for a strategy session—not a crucifixion over the
People
online article—which in her opinion was completely positive.

“That comment would make sense, Hunter, if there were any ‘whiff of scandal' in this piece.”

“Your father was fired from his job—essentially for defending academic dishonesty. Don't you think that's something you should have mentioned to us ahead of time so we could do damage control? If you're going to be a member of this team—”

Meg cut her off. “Correction, Hunter—I
am
a member of this team. More importantly, I'm a member of this family. Which is more than you can say. So why don't you adjust your attitude.”

“This is extremely unprofessional,” Hunter said to Stowe, packing her laptop into her oversized Hermès bag. “And I think Reed would agree with me.” She stalked out of the office.

“Thanks for the ambush!” Meg said to Stowe.

“I could say the same to you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Why didn't you tell me your father was fired? You said he was on sabbatical to finish his book.”

“That's what my parents told me! And frankly, it's none of my business and none of yours.”

Stowe inhaled deeply. “I'm sorry, babe, come here. Please calm down.” He reached for her hand, and she begrudgingly gave it to him. She leaned on the edge of his desk, avoiding eye contact. Surprisingly, she felt tears in her eyes.

“Every time I think things are back on track, that they're finally clicking, something happens to ruin it,” she said, her voice wavering.

“Nothing's ruined,” he said. “This is just politics. It's a game, and you're learning to play it. And part of that game is knowing that in this stage of things, everything matters. Everything is our business, because the whole world is watching my father. I know it's an adjustment. But know that I love you and we're on the same team.”

“It doesn't feel that way. It feels like you and Hunter are the team. And I keep walking in from the outside.”

“That's not true.”

“I don't like her.”

“Okay, I get that. Loud and clear. But did you like everyone you worked with at Poliglot? It's just a job, Meg. And it's going to be great for you. For us.”

He kissed her and she felt her body relax, the tension ebbing.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my dad's job situation. But I really didn't know until the day of the interview. And even then it didn't seem like a big deal—at least, not the way Hunter is making it out to be. My father is a good man. He cares so much about his students. He stood up for something he thinks is right. I don't see how that can hurt Reed.”

“Well, it will get spun. The way Hunter spoke about it—she was just relaying the way the other side will talk about it. That's her job. None of this is personal.” He stroked the lock of her hair that came loose from her ponytail.

“I guess a lot of the stress will be off after the wedding,” she said.

“Yes. Oh! Before I forget, there's a scheduling conflict with the honeymoon.”

“What kind of conflict?”

“My father has his first major campaign event in the South. We have to be there.”

“When's the event?”

“May tenth. Three days after the wedding.”

“Are you sure?”

“We can't miss it. I'm sorry.”

Meg nodded. She had to be professional—adult. She could look on the bright side; it would be her first appearance as a member of the Campion campaign team. A short time ago, she would have been traveling to the event just attempting to get an interview with Senator Campion and members of his team. Now, she'd be the one granting or denying access to the press, giving a few sound bites herself.

“We'll reschedule the honeymoon. And maybe we can find something romantic to do in … Where are we going, exactly?”

“Texas.”

“Honeymoon in Texas,” she said, smiling.

He hugged her. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said.

*   *   *

Jo was embarrassed to tell the Marchesa team that after custom-ordering the white satin pants, they now had to be completely retailored to accommodate her pregnancy.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she said to Leigh. Her mother had bailed last minute, saying something “came up.” She was too busy now with wedding preparations and the press to deal with minutiae like a bridal outfit that would no longer fit on the wedding day. “I need a second opinion.”

“Not a problem,” said Leigh, holding open the door to the Marchesa showroom. “That's what I get paid for.”

As if Jo needed a reminder that their relationship was purely professional. But she was thankful that the Campions were putting Leigh up in New York for the final weeks leading up to the wedding, for last-minute emergencies and finalizing details. And of course, it stoked Jo's fantasy that there would be a repeat of the Soho Grand night. But just a fantasy, that's all it ever would be from now on.

Leigh shrugged off her coat, revealing a black floral print Ted Baker dress, cinched at the waist, very 1950s. Jo wanted to tear it off her.

Instead, she dutifully changed into the pants and stood on a pedestal in front of a massive mirror so the tailors could adjust the waist, while Leigh perused the racks of dresses.

“How far along are you?” asked a woman bending at Jo's waist with a fistful of pins.

“Almost three months,” said Jo.

She couldn't believe it. In fact, saying the words aloud felt like a joke—a lie. Glancing in the mirror, she caught sight of Leigh looking at her. Their eyes met, and Jo's heart beat faster.

“How exciting!” said the woman.

“What? Oh. Yeah.”

Exciting was one word for it. Terrifying was another.

She was going to be a mother. Her own life was a confusing tangle, a mess. She hadn't even had time since college to find a real job. And now she was going to have a baby before the end of the summer? A baby?!

Jo wanted to see it as a gift—as the “blessing” that her gran and her mother had insisted it was. But she just couldn't see it as anything other than the colossal mistake it was.

Toby wasn't helping matters. When she told him the news, he'd been calm and supportive at first, telling her he'd go with her to have the abortion. And then she told him there wasn't going to be an abortion.

“Why the fuck not?” he'd said. Just like that: Why the fuck not?

“For one thing, I'm pretty far along. And another, it's just not something I want to do. It doesn't seem right in this situation. I mean, we can afford it. We're getting married.”