The Wedding Sisters (36 page)

“Meg, please—there's something you need to know about.”

She pressed the ring into his hand and walked to the bathroom.

He ran after her. “Meg—wait. Okay. I didn't want to tell you about this now—I wanted you to enjoy the night. But Hunter got an alert about an article that went live this afternoon.”

“So? This is exactly what I'm talking about—”

“It's about your family. And it's not good.”

Meg froze. “What do you mean?”

He tapped into his phone and handed it to her. The headline filled the screen:
LIES OF MATRIMONY: THE SECRETS BEHIND THE YEAR'S MOST SCANDALOUS WEDDING
.

Meg's hand shook so hard, Stowe had to hold the phone for her. He put his arm around his shoulder as she skimmed the words, barely processing them—not wanting to process them.

She didn't know what was the most offensive, inflammatory, unbearable part. The photo of her mother having dinner with a strange man, a man identified in the article as “reality TV mega-producer Scott Sobel.” The piece implied that not only was a “docu-soap” about the Meg and her sisters in the works, but that Meryl was “in bed” with Scott in more ways than one. Or the part about her father being fired from Yardley for having an affair with one of his students, whom he continued to see on a regular basis. And that secrets and lies are just “par for the course” in this “family that makes the Kardashians look like the Brady Bunch.”

“Oh my God,” Meg said, reaching for the wall to steady herself.

Stowe looped his arm around her waist. “It's going to be okay,” he said.

“We have to tell my mother.”

“We can manage this, Meg,” said Hunter, coming up behind them.

“Fuck off, Hunter. You're the one who brought this into my engagement dinner. But I'm not going to have you ruin my wedding. So please don't be there tomorrow.”

“Meg…,” said Stowe.

“I mean it,” said Meg. And she walked off to find her mother.

 

The Wedding Day

 

twenty-six

The show must go on. Or, in this case, the half-million-dollar wedding.

But for Meryl, the joy was gone. She woke up with her mother's revelation hanging over her like a lingering, unshakable nightmare.

Her mother, a “hidden child.” She'd read about these children, stashed away in convents and the homes of Catholics to spare them as their parents were carted off to their deaths. She'd read a few books, even saw the Polish film
Ida
. But she never imagined—her own
mother.

She wanted to know more—to know everything. If her grandparents had died in concentration camps, who were the people Meryl had grown up
thinking
were her grandparents? And why had her mother chosen to keep all of it inside for her entire life?

But last night had brought no more answers. Her mother left the dinner early, exhausted. And this morning, there was no time. So the hidden truths of her family would have to stay hidden a few hours longer.

At least now the photographs made sense.

Before going to bed, Meryl looked at them, crying so hard, she knew her eyes would be swollen in the wedding pictures.

“Meryl, the car's here,” Hugh said. It was the most he'd spoken to her all morning.

She felt he could give her a little more empathy, considering the stunning revelation her mother had just dropped, but she also knew that he was furious about the article—the article that Scott Sobel had so clearly planted.

“This could undermine everything positive with Yardley that came out of the
People
article,” he had said.

“No, no—it won't!” Meryl had insisted. “It's just a tawdry gossip site.”

But the worry set in, gut deep.

It was all her fault. She had let the wolf into the henhouse. In her frustration with Hugh, in her fear of losing control of the wedding, in her impatience with her own life, she had welcomed the distraction of Scott Sobel. It had been, in its own way, as selfish as Hugh throwing away his job. More so, probably, because Hugh at least lost his job taking a stand for something. Both of them had turned away from their marriage. And now she wasn't quite sure how to lean toward it again.

But today was not about her or about Hugh or even about her mother. She had to focus on the girls. She would at least get
that
right.

The weather, thankfully, was picture perfect: bright blue clear skies, shining sun, a gentle breeze. And as the car pulled up to Longview, she could see that it was in glorious full bloom, as Cliff had promised.

She headed toward the house, Hugh following close behind with their garment bags. In the distance, she heard the hammering of last-minute construction.

Leigh was halfway down the lush green front lawn before Meryl noticed her.

“How's everything going?” Meryl said.

“Under control. There just seems to be some confusion about the bouquets. I know it's my job to smooth over this sort of thing, but sometimes there's just no substitute for Mom.”

“Of course, Leigh. And you've done a fantastic job. I know I was resistant at first—”

“That's one way of putting it.” She smiled.

“Yes, well, I'm the first to admit now that I don't know what I would have done without you. I know my daughters feel the same.”

An odd look crossed Leigh's face. “Well, just doing my job. But thank you.”

Cliff greeted them at the front door. He was dressed in a seersucker suit with a deep purple calla lily in his lapel.

“Don't you look nice!” said Meryl. And she started to feel the first tingle of optimism.

“I got a sneak peek at the brides, and they are
perfection.
”

“I can't wait to see them myself! Heading up there right now.”

“Actually, first—can you just take a look at the bouquets?” asked Leigh.

Meryl bit down her impatience and followed her to the kitchen, where the source of the problem was being refrigerated.

“I brought them out for some photos, and Jo insists this is not what she asked for. She said she wanted the ranunculus.”

Jo's lily of the valley bouquet, wrapped in fern, was exactly what Meryl remembered her ordering.

“The other two are fine?”

“Yes.” Leigh showed her Meg's bouquet, mini calla lilies, the stems wrapped in chartreuse silk ribbon, and Amy's ranunculus wrapped in a green leaf secured with pearl pins.

Meryl sighed. “I'll talk to Jo. Where is she? Upstairs?”

Leigh nodded, and Cliff escorted Meryl up the central staircase. He consulted his phone. “The band is here. I'm going to show them where to set up. You should get dressed. The family photographer and the
People
photographer are battling it out for time, and you're not camera ready, my dear.”

*   *   *

Meryl hurried down the hall and knocked on the closed door.

“What?” barked Jo.

“It's Mom.”

No reply. Meryl tried the knob and the door opened. Jo stood by the window. From behind, in her skinny satin pants and short cocktail dress, her hair nearly to her waist, she looked like a teenager. But when she turned, Meryl's eyes went straight to the unmistakable curve of her belly.

“I never should have worn this,” she said, tugging at the dress. “If I had known I was pregnant—”

“Nonsense! You look beautiful!” Meryl picked up the white floral wreath from the bed and handed it to her. She had said all along she wanted to wear flowers instead of a veil. “I want to see this on you.”

“Not now. I can't deal. Did you see the bouquet? I didn't ask for those flowers! The bouquet was supposed to match these flowers.”

“What are these flowers?”

“How the hell should I know? This is not my thing!”

“Hon, I was there at the florist. You did agree to the lily of the valley.”

Jo turned and looked out the window. “I can see the garden from here. Are they … Is that a chuppah they're setting up?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Because Gran—”

“Yes. Now, hon, I have to get dressed. Do you want me to try to get a last-minute replacement bouquet?”

“No. I don't want to carry a bouquet.”

Meryl, about to protest, thought better of it. The time for fighting over things, fighting
for
things, was over. All that mattered was that Meg, Amy, and Jo were walking down that aisle in two hours.

“Mom, who are those people filming down there?”

Meryl moved toward the window. The distance was a blur without her glasses.

“I don't know.”

“It's not the
People
photographers.”

“I'll go check it out.” She kissed her cheek. “Go meet your sisters downstairs. Paz is waiting.”

Meryl let herself out of the room, and nearly colliding with Meg, let out a yelp.

*   *   *

She was a vision in head-to-toe lace, her gold hair loose to brush her shoulders, the ends curved ever so slightly inward toward her collarbone. Her cheeks blushed pink with excitement—or maybe it was the work of the makeup artist. But somehow she looked incredibly young and radiant and elegant and sophisticated all at once. Meryl's eyes brimmed with tears—her daughter was the most perfect bride she'd ever seen.

“Oh, my baby—look at you!”

“Mom—don't! It's too early to cry. And I just got false eyelashes put on.”

“False eyelashes?”

“Yes—just a few single ones on the top. See?” She leaned toward Meryl, her pinky finger hovering near her eyelid.

“The photographer is ready,” Meryl said.

“Listen—I need to talk to you.”

“Oh God. Don't tell me there's another problem. Jo just informed me she's not carrying a bouquet. The photographer really wants symmetry when you girls walk down the aisle—”

“She's not upset about the bouquet.”

“Yes, she is. I just spoke to her.”

Meg put her finger to her lips and gestured for Meryl to follow her into one of the bedrooms. Once inside, Meg kept her back against the door.

“Don't press your gown—”

“Mom, listen to me. Last night, before dinner—before the whole article fiasco—I found Jo crying in the bathroom.”

“It's just pregnancy hormones, honey. I mean, planning a wedding is stressful enough—”

“It's not pregnancy hormones. She's in love with someone else.”

Meryl felt her stomach knot. “She's still upset about Caroline?”

Meg shook her head. “She's in love with Leigh.”

“Leigh? Leigh who?”

“Leigh—the wedding planner!”

Meryl sat down heavily on the antique four-poster bed. It creaked and groaned under her weight. “In love with her? How? They barely know each other.”

“Oh, they
know
each other. A lot better than any of us realized.”

“Okay—just wait a second. So Jo and Leigh have been having an affair?”

“Apparently.”

“Is Leigh asking her not to get married?”

“No. From what I can tell, Leigh is telling Jo to forget about her and do the practical thing. I told Jo she doesn't have to do this—she can call it off. But she wouldn't listen to me.”

“Oh my God.”

“She can't marry him, Mom. I mean, things aren't perfect with Stowe. But I love him—I'm in love with him. There's no one else for me. How can she walk down that aisle and say those vows if she doesn't feel the same about Toby?”

“I'll talk to her,” Meryl said, but it was an automatic response. Was she really going to walk out there and tell her daughter to be a runaway bride? It was unthinkable.

“She won't listen to you,” said Meg.

“Meryl, I hate to interrupt, but I need you for a second.”

Leigh.

Meryl tried to assume a normal facial expression. She tried not to blurt out,
Are you in love with my daughter?
She just had to hold everything together. Keep the wedding on the tracks.

It wasn't her place to second-guess her daughter's complicated emotions, or to tell her to turn her back on her fiancé. Jo was an adult now—she would have to make adult decisions, and live with them. Everyone did.

“Meryl, we have a situation in the garden. Could you please go check on what's going on? We sent a staff member to talk to them but—”

“Them? Them
who
?”

“The documentary filmmakers.”

*   *   *

Amy looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress, with its tiny seed pearls and princess skirt, was a fantasy come to life. Her hair, in a chignon, was exactly how she'd imagined it on her wedding day, ever since she was a little girl. The reflection even caught the window behind her, out of which she could see the beautiful walled garden, where in less than an hour, guests would take their seats.

Amy couldn't sit in her dress, and so with time to kill before the photographs, she had been left to pace the bedroom. There was no TV, no computer. Just a stack of magazines and a coffee table book on English gardens.

Left alone with her thoughts, she couldn't ignore the nagging, gnawing feeling. Just wedding-day jitters, she told herself. Still, she wanted a distraction. So she reached for one of the magazines,
Vanity Fair,
and flipped through it.

Marcus smiled up at her, shirtless, wearing only a pair of Jeffrey Bruce distressed jeans.

That's when she knew what she needed to do to put an end to the nagging feeling.

She opened the door and called for Leigh. “Can you please get Andy for me? I need to talk to him for a sec.”

And then Amy waited, telling herself she was doing the right thing.

The minutes ticked by like hours until finally, a sharp knock.

Andy.