The Wedding Sisters (34 page)

“But I don't want a kid,” he said. “Jo, the whole point is that it's you and me—to travel, to party, to
live.
Where does a baby fit into that?”

“I don't know where it fits in! But it's in my goddamn body, for one thing. So it's got to fit in. Or we can just call this whole thing off.”

No, he said. He didn't want to do that. He didn't want to “lose her.”

Yet they'd barely spoken in the week since she broke the news. Toby was suddenly very busy.

“You're all finished, love. You can change out of these now,” said the seamstress.

Jo stepped down and headed back to the dressing rooms. She closed the curtain on her dressing area, stepping out of the pants carefully. She looked at her body. The new curve of her lower abdomen was subtle but unmistakable. It was already difficult to fit into her tightest jeans. She felt betrayed by her body. Her body, which had responded to Toby's touch, had allowed her to get pregnant. The same body that wanted Leigh so very badly.

Damn it.

She pulled on her cargo pants and sweater, sitting on the floor to get her high tops laced.

Leigh pulled back the curtain. “You ready to go?”

“I could have been naked in here.”

“I could see you underneath the curtain, sitting. Come on—I have to meet Tippy at the Vesper Club to go over plans for the rehearsal dinner.”

“I thought the rehearsal dinner was at Landmarc?”

“It is. But I'm staying at the Vesper Club this week.”

Jo smiled. “No more Soho Grand?”

“Jo.” She shook her head.

“Leigh, what the hell am I doing?”

“You're doing the right thing,” Leigh said, glancing behind her. She walked into the dressing room and closed the curtain. Sitting on a leather bench, she sighed. “What do you want to happen, Jo? Do you want to be a single mother? You don't even have a job.”

“I want to have a job. I always planned on having a career. I just haven't figured it out yet.”

“Well, figuring it out with a rich husband and a beautiful home for your baby is better than the alternative. Trust me. I'm older than you, and I've seen a lot more of the way the world works.”

“I don't know how you can be so practical about things. So detached.”

Jo pulled herself off the ground and faced the mirror. If she looked at Leigh, she wouldn't be able to hold it together.

But then Leigh appeared behind her, meeting her gaze in the reflection. “I work hard at it.”

“Why?” Jo said, turning around. “Haven't you ever been in love? Don't you want that?”

“I can't afford it.”

Jo pulled her against her body, pressed her mouth to Leigh's lips, holding her so hard, she was sure she was hurting her. Leigh's entire body stiffened, pulling away slightly before she gave in, kissing her back with a ferocity that told Jo once and for all that she wasn't alone in this.

“Goddamn it,” Leigh said, pulling away.

“I want to be with you,” Jo said. “For real. I want—”

“Just get married, Jo. Just get married, and get on with it.”

*   *   *

“What's so important?” Meryl asked Hugh. “I just canceled on Jo. We were supposed to go to Marchesa.”

“Janell has something to show you.”

The girl approached her nervously. “My friend has an, um, internship at a cable network. They do documentaries and stuff. Anyway, um, she knows I'm working with Mr. Becker, so when she saw this, she e-mailed it to me.”

She handed Meryl a document. The letterhead read,
SCOTT SOBEL PRODUCTIONS
. She skimmed it, and her heart started to pound. Then she started over from the top, reading more slowly.

It was a pitch for a “docu-soap” called
The Wedding Sisters,
from “Executive producer Scott Sobel.” It cited his litany of hits, and announced the
The Wedding Sisters
as his first documentary venture. It named everyone in the family, with descriptions that made them sound like something out of a cheap romantic comedy. “Meryl Becker, the midlife striver, a more relatable Kris Jenner; Hugh Becker, the befuddled father, a quiet academic unwillingly swept along the tide of his daughters' sensational marriage matches and media appeal; Meg Becker, a Grace Kelly–look-alike ice queen whose perfection snagged her a modern-day JFK Jr.; Amy Becker, the classic middle child always struggling to keep up, marrying her college sweetheart who just happens to be the heir to an all-American fashion empire; Jo Becker, a gorgeous bisexual who snagged a Danish royal. Rose Kleinman, an enigmatic octogenarian hiding a family secret.
The Wedding Sisters
is an examination of our culture's obsession with perfection, the billion-dollar wedding industry, and one family's determination to have it all.”

Meryl dropped the papers and covered her mouth. “Oh my God. Can he do this?”

“I don't know, Meryl—can he? Did you sign anything?”

“No! Absolutely not. I told him the girls would never agree to a show. And he can't do anything without us. I just … Why would he shop this around?”

“Excuse me,” Janell piped up, “but—he doesn't need your permission, 'cause this isn't a reality show. It's, you know, him just putting together a story.”

“What does that mean?” said Hugh.

“We're the subjects. Not the participants,” said Meryl weakly.

“Happy now?” said Hugh.

*   *   *

For Amy, it was the dress that made the wedding feel real.

Everything else—the invitations, the menu tasting, the cake, the visits to Longview—all had an abstract quality. It could be happening to someone else. Maybe it was because she was doing everything with her sisters, and they had to agree on everything unless Leigh stepped in as a tiebreaker. But the fittings for the Jeffrey Bruce gown were all her. They made her feel like a bride.

She knocked on Jeffrey's office door, and he called out for her to come in.

“Am I too early?” she said.

“No, no—come in. I'm ready.”

He was wearing his tortoiseshell reading glasses, and he removed them and left them on his desk, walking to the closet.

She smiled as he pulled out the dress. “I can't believe this is the final fitting.”

“We are getting close! Come on, sweetheart—to the fitting room.”

They walked down the hall to one of the fitting rooms where they auditioned models for the runway shows. It had huge windows, lots of natural light, dressing rooms, and wall-to-wall mirrors.

Amy changed into the gown with the help of one of Jeffrey's seamstresses. The organza and tulle ivory dress had a boned bodice and full skirt. It was a fairy-tale dress, fit for a princess. Amy didn't understand how Jo and Meg could be so understated with their dresses. It was their wedding day!

She stepped onto the elevated platform so Jeffrey could assess and make any adjustments.

“Oh my God, it looks amazing,” Amy said, gingerly touching the skirt.

“The bustle needs a little work. Nancy, be a doll and excuse us for a few.”

“Can I see the back?” Amy said, turning to look over her shoulder. “Wow. The bustle. It's so … bridal.”

“Is that a bad thing?” said Jeffrey.

“What? No! It's my favorite part of the dress.”

“Just checking. It's normal to get cold feet, you know.”

“I don't have cold feet,” she said. “And if anything, this gown makes me even more excited.”

“That's good to hear,” he said, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. Something about his expression made her stomach tense.

“Yes, well, it's true.”

He nodded, as if contemplating something. He knelt down, working with the lower portion of the dress. When he spoke, she couldn't see his face. “I heard about your little tryst. With the model.”

Amy gasped. It was all she could do not to topple off the pedestal. “Oh my God. I can explain.…”

Fuck you, Stella.
Meg had been wrong. Stella had told on her, and no one shot the messenger—though at that moment, Amy would have gladly pulled the trigger.

“Amy, listen, these things happen,” Jeffrey said. “I just need to know you're going to be discreet.”

Discreet? What was he talking about? Did he think—?

“What? No—Jeffrey, it will never happen again. I'm really appalled and ashamed of myself. Andy deserves better. It will never,
never
happen again.” She started to cry, which only mortified her further.

He put his arm around her. “Then there's no problem! Don't get so upset. That wasn't the purpose of this conversation. No one should cry in their wedding dress, right?”

She tried to crack a smile, but couldn't manage it. “Okay,” she whimpered. “But honestly, I feel sick about it.”

“Amy, doll, just forget we ever had this conversation. I only wanted to talk to you because I don't want anything to jeopardize the wedding. You know how the press can be.”

Suddenly Amy's remorse was eclipsed by something worse: the slow realization that Jeffrey was more concerned about the wedding and all the publicity he was getting from his new “brand ambassador” than he was about his son's feelings.

It was clear now who had been leaking everything to the press, tipping the paparazzi off as to where she and her sisters would be and when.

“I should tell Andy the truth,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Jeffrey.

But he heard her loud and clear. “Absolutely not!” he said. She looked at him, startled. His expression softened. “Trust me on this: Some things are best kept to ourselves, even if the impulse is to be honest. Honesty is not always the best policy, despite all conventional wisdom to the contrary.”

“I just think we should enter into this marriage without any secrets between us.”

“Amy, relationships are fragile. They are tenuous under the best of circumstances. We wouldn't want Andy to think he'd made a mistake proposing.”

What?

“Andy wouldn't think that. We love each other. He'll be upset. He'll be angry. But it won't change anything. I really believe that.”

“Amy, let's not put that to the test.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying he doesn't love me?”

“No. I'm saying he wasn't sure about getting engaged.”

Amy felt the room tilt. She stepped down from the pedestal, nearly tripping over her dress. Jeffrey reached for her arm, steadying her.

“He seemed sure when he asked me,” she said, her voice faltering.

“Of course he was. But he needed a little convincing about the timing.”

“What? Did you tell him to propose to me?”

“I wouldn't put it that way.”

“I need to … Can we finish the dress some other time?”

“Amy, you're taking all of this the wrong way—”

“I'm sorry, Jeffrey. I just need to get back to work.” She pulled up her dress so it didn't drag on the ground, and made her way to the door.

“Amy—one more thing. I'm promoting you. To associate director of marketing.”

She turned around. “Huh? I mean … really?” She hadn't even recovered from the last five minutes. She certainly wasn't read to process this.

Jeffrey nodded with a smile. “How does that feel, Brand Ambassador?”

“Does Stella know?” Translation: Stella is going to kill someone. Most likely me.

“Stella's been fired.”

 

Twenty-four Hours Until the Wedding

 

twenty-five

“Please don't tell me this entire crowd is here because of the rehearsal dinner,” said Hugh.

The Time Warner Center was surrounded by television crews and paparazzi. Meryl, Hugh, and Rose lingered in the cab while she dialed Leigh for help finding a back entrance to the building. “What a circus!”

“A circus is more dignified,” Rose huffed.

“Yes, well—it's a circus that is paying for itself. So please let's just find a way inside.”

The press had been calling her for days for details about the rehearsal dinner. The truth was, Meryl didn't have very much information to give.

Maybe out of spite over the triple wedding, or maybe because she simply didn't give Meryl much of a thought, Tippy had been uncommunicative about the evening's event. The only things Meryl knew were that (a) it was taking place in the Landmarc restaurant at the Time Warner Center, and (b) Tippy lent the venue some sterling silver from her personal collection for use during the party. Meryl had asked Leigh for more details, and she said her mandate had been “light and springy.”

Whatever that meant.

“Just be thankful you only have to go along for the ride on this one. You'll have plenty to manage tomorrow,” Hugh said.

Leigh directed them via cell phone to a side street entrance.

“I'll check you into your room—just meet me on the fourteenth floor. The lobby is filled with press too.”

All the out-of-town guests were staying at the Mandarin Oriental hotel, including Meg and Stowe. Dinner that night was at Landmarc restaurant, and the following afternoon, four buses would transport guests to Longview.

It had been Hugh's idea—at the last minute—to get a room at the Mandarin. He was in a celebratory mood: after the
People
magazine article ran, a major publishing house called him about his manuscript. For the first time in thirty years, he had a book deal.

She was proud of him.

Standing in the room, looking out at the view of Central Park South, Meryl hugged herself. Having just showered, she wore one of the hotel's white terry cloth robes. She had only about twenty minutes to do her hair and makeup and change into her Jeffrey Bruce dress. It was a pale rose silk with beaded side panels. He'd also made her a dress for the wedding, a stunning empire neck, floor-length gown with a beaded bodice and a cinched waist. A panel of cascading ruffles draped along one side. It was midnight blue, Meg's favorite color.