The Wedding Sisters (6 page)

“Um, no. I think maybe Andy did?”

“I would appreciate it if you didn't make presumptions. I don't need you at the shoot—I need you here at the office. Understood?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Understood.”

Amy tried to hide her disappointment. She loved going to photo shoots for the print ad campaigns. Jeffrey had taken her along with him once or twice when he visited the sets. The glamour of it was dizzying.

When they were growing up, her sister Meg had always been the glamorous one. The infuriating thing was that Meg was so stylish yet had zero interest in fashion. Like everything else, style was effortless for her. And, like everything else, Amy had to work at it—hard. Even now, a junior executive at Jeffrey Bruce, likely marrying into the family of one of the biggest American designers of the past thirty years, having hung out with the top stylists in fashion, Rachel Zoe to name one, and having worked on fashion shoots with Cara Delevingne and Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid, Amy was still awed by Meg. The more she met fabulous people, the more she knew that Meg was the chicest of them all. Apparently, Andy's father agreed with her, having said (jokingly?) on more than one occasion, “We should get your sister into one of our ads.” The comment had left her with a pit in her stomach that never quite seemed to fully disappear.

Her only consolation was the certainty that Meg would
never.
Meg was serious. Meg was a journalist. She was into Politics with a capital
P.
She might look like Grace Kelly, but she talked like Andrea Mitchell.

“Oh, and I hear congratulations are in order,” said Stella, looking at her pointedly. “I hear your sister is marrying into the Campion family. She's like the new Jackie Kennedy. Which would make you—What was her sister's name? Oh, who can remember. At any rate—have a lovely dinner.”

 

four

It was time.

Meryl opened the front door with a flutter in her chest and a bright smile on her face. “Hi, everyone!”

“Hi, Mom.” Meg leaned in to hug her, and Meryl happily breathed in her eldest daughter's Chanel Allure.

And then, because she couldn't hesitate any longer, Meryl turned to the woman by her daughter's side. Tippy Campion.

“So nice to finally meet you!” Meryl said warmly.

“Tippy Campion,” the woman replied, extending her hand.

Meryl was startled. She had been going in for the cheek kiss. Instead, she took Tippy's lead. Then she greeted Stowe with a kiss and ushered them inside.

Stowe handed Meryl a bottle of red wine. She caught a glimpse of the label and did a double take: Screaming Eagle. Arguably the most coveted cabernet in the country—available only by mailing list or at auction.

“Stowe—you shouldn't have,” she admonished him, trying to hide her shock.

Tippy handed her a box from Ladurée SoHo. “I couldn't resist stopping by. It's just my favorite bakery outside of Paris,” she said.

Meryl thanked them and steered everyone to the living room, where the cheese, crackers, a sliced baguette, and five varieties of pitted olives were set out.

“Is Gran here yet?” Meg asked.

Meryl tried to keep her expression neutral. “Gran was feeling tired, sweetheart. Another night. I'm sorry.”

“Is she all right?”

“Fine. Just tired,” Meryl repeated.

“And Dad?” said Meg.

Where
was
Hugh? “Excuse me for one minute.” Meryl took the wine, making her way to the back of the apartment. Hugh's office door was closed. She knocked once, impatiently, before turning the brass knob. “Hugh, they're here. What are you doing?”

He looked up from his computer. “I was trying to get an hour in on the book.”

The book.

He had not published anything since
Abby May Alcott: An American Mother
—a book that was heralded by reviewers as “definitive” and “groundbreaking.” At the time, he had told his agent that his plan was to publish books about Louisa May, and then follow these with a collection about the entire family dynamic. But this proved overly ambitious, and somewhere along the line, he pared it down to just the Louisa May biography.

That was twenty-five years ago. The book was still a work in progress. His agent had retired.

“Now?” Meryl asked, exasperated.

“Okay, okay—I'm coming.”

Back in the living room, Meryl found everyone still standing. Awkwardly.

“Please—everyone. Sit.”

Meg introduced Tippy to Hugh, who ignored all social cues and kissed Tippy on her cheek.

“I apologize that my husband couldn't make it,” said Tippy. “One of his fund-raisers got wind that he was in town, and it's the only time they overlapped.”

“We understand. Another time,” Meryl said automatically. Except she didn't. At all.

“Where do you stay when you're in New York?” Hugh asked.

“The Vesper Club.”

The front door opened.

“Amy! Hi, honey!” Meryl rushed to hug Amy as if she hadn't seen her in months and extended a hug to Amy's boyfriend, Andy.

He handed her a bottle of prosecco, Meryl's favorite.

“You didn't have to bring anything,” Meryl told him with a smile, as she did every week. Andy had been coming to family dinners since their sophomore year at Syracuse. And his parents, Eileen and Jeffrey, had come once or twice. She hated to compare, but it was a stark contrast to the Campions. And Jeffrey could easily have found the same excuses if he'd wanted to. Jeffrey Bruce was just as high profile as Reed Campion—more so, really. But for some reason, Meryl had never felt uncomfortable around the Bruces. Maybe it's because she knew that even though Jeffrey Bruce had a fashion empire, he had at one time been just an Upper West Side kid like herself. There was something familiar about them—relatable.

“Thanks so much for making it here early,” Meryl said to Andy.

“No problem! I'm starving. Early dinner is always good with me.” He grinned.

“We barely could finish out the workday,” Amy said. “What was the big rush?”

Amy had been in a foul mood for weeks. Since Meg's engagement, to be precise.

Meryl supposed that was normal—jealousy between sisters. The day Meg announced her engagement, Amy snorted, “Well, that was quick.”

“They've been together a year, hon,” Meryl had said, then immediately realized her mistake. By then, Amy and Andy had been together five years, and no ring had yet been forthcoming.

“Everyone's in the living room. Go say hello while I go open the wine.”

In the kitchen, she leaned against the counter, thankful for the minute to catch her breath. While she had been disappointed that Reed couldn't make it tonight, now she was thinking it might be for the best. Hosting the senator would have been far more pressure.

“Can I give you a hand?” Tippy appeared in the doorway, startling her.

Meryl was about to say she was already finished and would be right out, but realized she hadn't even retrieved the wine opener yet. “Oh, I've got it! Please, relax. I'll be right out to join you.”

“Actually, I'm happy for the moment alone. Before we all sit down to dinner.”

“Oh?” Meryl tried to seem nonchalant, maybe even pleased for the chance to chat, but she felt self-conscious as she uncorked the prosecco.

“The kids have us on quite a timeline, don't they? Nine months! Who can get something major accomplished in just nine months?”

Well, Mother Nature, thought Meryl.

“Meg and Stowe seem to know what they want. So that helps.”

Tippy seemed not to have heard her. “It's going to be a large affair,” Tippy continued, “and I just want you to know that we are happy to pay for everything. We don't want the kids to feel they have to cut corners. It's a once-in-a-lifetime event, after all. At least that's what we all hope, isn't it?” Tippy laughed lightly.

Meryl didn't know whether to feel appreciative or insulted. Was this just a gesture acknowledging that the Campions clearly had the money, so not to offer would be rude? Or did they really think that Meryl and Hugh couldn't provide an adequate wedding? The distinction between the two was vital, and as she stood there wrestling with it, she found herself speechless.

“Having the wedding at the club makes it so easy,” Tippy said. “Just a few phone calls, and we can take care of everything—”

Meryl finally snapped to attention. “No—you don't have to take care of everything—anything, actually.” Then, realizing how it sounded, she soft-pedaled. “Thank you, though. For the offer. But Hugh and I are happy to throw the wedding. Parents of the bride—part of the deal, right?” She laughed awkwardly.

“Well, at the very least, you absolutely must take advantage of our event planner, Leigh. I insist. She is a genius, and does all our affairs—I don't make a move without her.”

“Oh, I don't think—”

“And it's not just campaign events and fund-raisers. She did the Prescott wedding last spring. You must have seen that in
Town and Country.
Breathtaking.”

“Tippy, I appreciate the … thought. Really. But I'm looking forward to this being a project for Meg and me. And of course—your input is always welcome. But aside from that, I don't think we need another person in the mix.”

Tippy looked at her as though she were about to speak to a delightful but very young child. “Meryl, I completely understand the sentimental aspect of the event. And there will be plenty for you and Meg to do together! But if we're going to really pull this off by the spring, we need someone on the ground full-time. And I'm sure you have other things to do.”

Meryl didn't want to admit that, no, she had little else to do. That her freelance work had all but dried up recently. In the age of blogging and “virtual” book tours, a time when most major newspapers had done away with their book review section, the need for a freelance book publicist was not what it had once been. Even just ten years ago, small authors were going on multicity book tours. When she started at HarperCollins in 1984, the publicity department at the publisher had taken two entire floors at the office on East Fifty-third Street. From what she was hearing from the few of her peers who had managed to hold on to full-time employment, the ranks had thinned considerably. This made her feel a little better about the premature end to her corporate career.

“Meryl, trust me. Having the wedding planner will keep things on track,” Tippy said. “And then you and Meg can just enjoy the fun parts. Plus, Leigh works with all the vendors so frequently, she gets deals on everything. It's win–win.”

The kitchen door opened, and both women turned to find Meg. Meryl's stomach seized up and she wondered how long she'd been at the door, how much she'd heard.

“Sorry to interrupt—but, Mom, Jo just texted me. She's not coming.”

*   *   *

Jo spent nearly a full day's tips taking a cab from Greenpoint to the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and cried the entire way.

When she called Toby, he had answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?” Jo sobbed.

“At my flat. What's wrong?”

“I'll tell you when I get there.”

Now she wished she were still in her bed at the apartment. Caroline was gone, but she could curl up in a ball and just wait for the pain to kill her, because surely this much agony could only result in death. There was no recovering from it.

“I love you,” Caroline had said. “You know I do. And because I love you so much, what happened between us happened. But I'm not
in
love with you.”

“‘What happened between us happened'? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that I don't think I'm gay.”

Gay, straight—what the fuck difference did it make? They were in love. They were. They had passion. They had best friendship. They had everything.

“So what are you saying? You're ‘in love' with this guy?”

“Yes.”

Yes. The single word, a bullet.

Caroline was moving out. “But I don't want to lose you as my best friend. I would die if I lost that,” she said.

She would die?
She
was the one who would die?

The cab left her off at Eighty-first and Central Park West in front of the Beresford, a magnificent, storied Italian Renaissance building.

After three hours of anguish, her eyes were swollen, her nose red, and she was still dressed in the clothes she'd worn to her eight-hour shift at the coffee shop. She was embarrassed to present herself to the doorman, a white-haired Irishman in a green and gold uniform.

After the doorman confirmed her status as an approved visitor with a quick call up to Toby, she made her way to the gated, prewar Otis elevator, complete with a white-gloved operator.

“Good evening, miss,” he said when they reached the twentieth floor. He slid open the gate, and Jo hastily made the quick left turn to Toby's apartment, one of two on the entire floor.

Toby was waiting in the doorway. “Lovers' quarrel?” he said.

Jo burst into tears.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, come inside so I can pour you a drink.”

Jo was not entirely comfortable at Toby's apartment. She always half expected his parents, the count and countess, to descend from the spiral staircase in the center of the duplex (never happened).

She folded herself into a ball on the couch, underneath an enormous oil painting of the royal arms of Denmark, the coat of arms of Prince Henrik, Denmark's prince consort and Tobias's uncle.

The furniture was antique and heavy and distinctly European, with ornate rugs and lots of dark wood and heavy curtains. The place was, for lack of a better word, palatial. Tonight, for the first time, it felt welcoming and safe. The Beresford was a fortress against the outside world, and Jo, a wounded bird, needed its protection.