The Wedding Sisters Read online

  Their eyes met, and Jo felt something. A ping. A jolt. Impossible. Jo was in love and Jo was heartbroken and any illusion of feeling was just a traumatized mind and heart playing tricks on her. It was like someone who had lost a limb, waking at night with pain in the foot that no longer existed. But she had to admit, this woman was exquisite. She had flawless, creamy skin, shiny dark hair cut into long layers framing her face and falling past her shoulders, and intense, nearly black eyes that were big and almond shaped and slightly exotic looking.

  “These would look good on anyone,” Jo said. She turned them over to look at the price tag again. “And for nine hundred dollars, they should.”

  “I couldn’t pull those off. I’m stuck with this sort of thing.” She held out a ballet flat.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Jo heard herself saying, her tone—dare she admit it—flirtatious. “Try them on.”

  The woman smiled at her, as if accepting an outrageous dare.

  A bow-tied salesman appeared. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, actually. I’ll try these in a seven.” She held Jo’s gaze as she said it.

  Jo, her heart beating fast, her body responding in a way that she hadn’t even felt for Caroline in a long time, felt like she was having some sort of anxiety attack. It’s fuck or flight, she told herself.

  “Good luck with the shoes,” Jo said.

  And she got the hell out of there.

  On the third floor, her mother was deep in conversation with an older saleswoman. She had dyed red hair and a tweed jacket and black slacks that did nothing to slim her extremely wide hips and ass. The woman wore glasses on a beaded chain around her neck, and nodded at whatever Meryl was saying, her face tight with extreme seriousness as if matters of national security were being discussed.

  Meryl spotted her and waved vigorously, as if guiding a plane to landing.

  Yeah, Mom, I see you.

  “This is my youngest daughter, Josephine,” Meryl said as soon as Jo was in shouting distance. She was holding a gilt-edged dinner plate with a giant H design in the middle of it.

  “Congratulations on your engagement,” the woman said.

  “Uh, no. I’m not the one getting married.”

  “The bride-to-be is my eldest daughter, Meg,” said Meryl.

  Jo, still rattled by her odd attraction to the stranger in Designer Shoes, just nodded distractedly. She wandered off to look at a glass case filled with Lalique figurines—fish, goddesses, Buddhas. She wondered which ones Meg would pick out. Maybe the ballet dancer on the top shelf. Meg had always liked ballet. She took Jo to see Swan Lake when Jo was in ninth grade, and then when the Natalie Portman movie Black Swan came out, they went to see it together. Jo was so turned on by the sex scene with Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis, she was too embarrassed to enjoy the rest of the movie, as if her sister could somehow guess what she was thinking in the close darkness of the movie theater.

  “Honey, Meg’s here!” her mother called excitedly. Jo turned to see her sister, practically glowing with her classic beauty, turning heads in her camel cape, her blond hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, her face pale but her blue eyes shining.

  Meg kissed her mother hello but then made her way quickly to Jo, pulling her into a warm, Chanel Allure–scented hug.

  “I’m so sorry, kiddo,” she said. “It totally sucks.”

  “Yeah,” Jo said, holding her tight, feeling the prick of tears.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she said, a whisper. Then, kissing her on the cheek before pulling back, she put an arm around her and they faced the room together.

  “So how much of this crap do you think I need?” she said.

  Jo laughed.

  “Meg, come over here. This is Helen, and she’s going to help us get organized.”

  “Okay, but we should wait until Leigh gets here.”

  “Who’s Leigh?”

  “Leigh Beauford. The wedding planner. Tippy told you about her, right?”

  Jo saw her mother’s face turn a shade of purple she’d never seen before.

  “I told Tippy we didn’t want a wedding planner.”

  “Well, Mom, she didn’t get the message, because Leigh came in from Philly this morning just to help out, so let’s keep that thought to ourselves, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay—”

  “Shhh—she’s here. Hi, Leigh!”

  Jo turned to follow the direction of Meg’s greeting, but all she saw was the woman from the shoe department. Jo couldn’t help but look down at her feet.

  She was wearing the Chanel boots.

  Their eyes locked. Had she followed her here? How had she known? Surely, the woman was not going to the bridal registry—

  And why was Meg talking to her? Why was Meg waving them over?

  “Mom, Jo, this is Leigh Beauford. Our wedding planner.”

  eleven

  Meryl felt like hurling the Hermès dinner plate at the pretty brunette wedding planner.

  “I’m sorry—there must have been some miscommunication. We don’t need a wedding planner,” she said instead.

  She didn’t dare look at Meg, who was no doubt giving her a death glare. And Leigh Beauford didn’t even seem to be listening. She was looking at Jo, whose cheeks were undeniably flushed.

  “I’ve got to go,” Jo said. “Meg—good luck. I’ve got a … thing.”

  Go? Go where? But Meryl couldn’t worry about Jo’s abrupt departure when Tippy Campion’s minion was busy crashing her party.

  “Mom, it’s fine. No harm in having a third opinion. Let’s consider Leigh our tiebreaker,” Meg said, smiling graciously at the woman standing before them.

  Helen, sniffing out a budding argument in her midst like a narcotics canine at Penn Station, had distanced herself, and was nowhere to be seen.

  Why was she so upset? Meryl didn’t know if it was Hugh’s job fiasco, Tippy’s wedding planner, or Meg’s refusal to take her side, but she suddenly felt like crying. She knew she was being irrational, so when she felt her phone vibrate, she was grateful for the distraction and the chance to pull herself together.

  She fished her phone out of her bag. Any chance you’re free for drinks tonight?

  Meryl looked around the room, as if therein was the answer to who on earth was texting her.

  “Mom?” Meg prompted. “Leigh suggested we start with the dinnerware.”

  “Kate Spade is doing some really modern, fresh things for casual dining,” said Leigh.

  Who is this? Meryl texted back.

  “For the fine china, I’m partial to Wedgwood,” said Helen, who had reappeared, somehow sensing the storm had passed.

  “Yes, I agree. Shall we start there?” said Leigh.

  “Absolutely. As I was telling Meryl, I like to start our brides with the formal ware and build out from there.”

  It’s Scott. I’ll be in your neighborhood around seven. Work for you? Pick any place.

  Tonight. Was she free? Of course. When was the last time she and Hugh had gone out after dinner? Hugh probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone.

  Meryl smiled to herself. Where could they go in her neighborhood? Someplace that wasn’t too old and stodgy or too loud with a million TV screens airing the hockey game. Jo had mentioned someplace recently—a place she said was “More Brooklyn than Brooklyn.” Meryl typed back, There’s a place called Bondurants on 85th.

  See you there.

  “Mom, are you coming?”

  Meryl looked up. Helen and Leigh were already walking to the next room. Meg took Meryl by the arm. “Are you all right? Everyone’s acting crazy. And where did Jo run off to?”

  “I don’t know,” said Meryl. “I’m sorry, honey. I was distracted. Oh, but Meg, this woman Leigh. It’s not necessary and I don’t think we should encourage her by bringing her along today. I’m not using a wedding planner. We’re not celebrities.”

  “Why is this so threatening to you? It can only help. We have a lot to do in not a lot of time.
I’m working like crazy, and you could get a freelance job any day because you know how that is with you. Tippy’s in Pennsylvania and I’m in Washington with Stowe. If we can have another person on board to fill in the gaps, I say great.”

  Meryl didn’t know what to say. That Hugh had lost his job and she felt like the entire wedding was slipping through her fingers? That she felt less important than the mega-family Meg was marrying into? That she was afraid Tippy, with her well-preserved beauty and WASPy elegance and contacts all over the place, was going to replace Meryl in Meg’s life? That Tippy could hire someone to do Meryl’s job made her feel all the more useless? She could barely admit these things to herself.

  “Mom. Mom! Your phone’s ringing,” Meg said impatiently. Good Lord, she was right. Meryl pulled it out again.

  “Mrs. Becker?”

  She recognized the Queens accent, and her stomach tightened into a knot. Mr. Curello.

  “Yes?”

  “We need you to come get your mother. Now.”

  * * *

  This time, when Meryl arrived to find her mother screaming, the police were waiting for her.

  “We can’t tell you what to do, Mrs. Becker,” an officer said. “But you probably should consider a different living arrangement for your mother sooner than later.”

  Meryl could barely register what he was saying, not while her mother was screaming like that. She looked around for Oona. “Where’s her caretaker?”

  “We’re talking to the nurse,” the officer said.

  “Talking to her … about what?”

  “Just to make sure there’s no problem—you know how things can be sometimes. We need to file a report.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Oona is causing this. But for God’s sake, I don’t know what is!” She pressed her hand to her head.

  Her mother was perched at the edge of her bed, staring at the wall with her eyes wide open again.

  “Mother,” Meryl said quietly, then again, more loudly. Her heart raced at the volume and pitch of the scream. Feeling frantic, she paced for a minute by the bedside. Then, remembering what had worked last time, she threw her arms around her mother and held her tight. Sure enough, the screaming stopped.

  Then, as if waking from a dream, her mother shook her head slightly, looking at her askance. “Meryl. Did you call before you stopped by?”

  Meryl shook her head, choking back a sob. “No. No, Mom, I didn’t call. I’m sorry.”

  She sat next to her on the bed, searching for the remote to turn off the television. Since when did her mother have the TV on all day? She knew she watched The Bold and the Beautiful and The Young and the Restless, but it was too early for those shows. “Mom, I want you to come stay with me tonight.”

  “With you? At your apartment? Don’t be ridiculous, Meryl. Why would I do that? Are you okay? Is it the girls?” Her voice lowered. “Did Meg break off that engagement?”

  “It’s not me. Or the girls. We’re fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  Before her mother could erupt in protest, one of the police officers came near the bedroom doorway, gesturing for her.

  “Why are the police here?” her mother asked.

  “Mom, pack some things. We’ll talk about it in the cab.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about, Meryl.”

  They looked up at the sound of Oona storming into the room. She was crying. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Becker, but I can’t be doing this no more. I quit!”

  * * *

  Her mother admitted to having “episodes.” The nature of these episodes was vague, and her mother was not enthusiastic about clarifying. “I guess you could say it’s like a bad dream. But I’m awake.”

  “What are you dreaming about?”

  Her mother shook her head. “Nothing.”

  But Meryl knew it was something. She would take her to Lenox Hill for a brain scan and whatever else Dr. Friedman wanted to do to rule out a mini stroke or Alzheimer’s or any of the myriad things Meryl was petrified of hearing. But deep down, Meryl suspected it wasn’t anything a brain scan would find. On some level, a deep, primal gut sense, she knew something was bothering her mother. Had always been bothering her mother. And that something was finally catching up with her.

  After dinner, when her mother was settled into Meg’s old bedroom, Meryl told Hugh, “She needs to be here with us. At least for the foreseeable future.”

  “Meryl, is that practical?”

  “She’s my mother.”

  “I know. And I also know your mother. I can’t imagine she’d agree to this. I mean, the woman refuses to so much as come for dinner, and now she’s going to live here?”

  “She’s not happy about it, but she’s not really fighting me either. I think she’s scared. These episodes … she’s not even aware of them happening. This is a problem I have to deal with.”

  He hugged her. “I get that. It’s fine. Of course she can live here. Although, with Jo back, it’s getting to be quite the full house.”

  “Jo isn’t staying here tonight. She’s with Toby.” Meryl raked her hands through her hair. “It isn’t exactly a cake walk for me, Hugh. My mother drives me crazy from across town, never mind under our roof. I just can’t imagine how this is going to go.”

  “Not to mention we might not have this much space next year.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, if I lose my job, we won’t get to stay in this apartment.”

  Meryl felt like someone kicked her in the chest. She literally gasped, reaching for her nightstand to steady herself. “The apartment. I hadn’t even thought about the apartment.”

  She was so busy worrying about the weddings, she hadn’t thought about the other collateral damage from Hugh’s job being in jeopardy.

  “How can you say that so casually? And you’re not going to lose your job. That’s not happening.”

  Her phone rang. She checked just to make sure it wasn’t the girls before she ignored it. It was a 310 area code. Oh my God. Scott.

  She’d completely forgotten.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey—you picked a great spot, but it would be better if you were here, too,” Scott said. She heard the noise of the gastropub in the background.

  “I am so sorry—family emergency,” she said. “I feel terrible. Any other night this week?”

  “Tomorrow breakfast? I’m heading back to L.A. tomorrow.”

  “Yes—that works.”

  “I’m staying at the W Union Square. What’s good around there? City Bakery? Say, nine?”

  “Perfect. See you there.” She hung up the phone.

  Hugh looked at her quizzically. “Who was that?”

  “Oh … a job lead. A publicist I was supposed to meet for a drink,” she lied. Why was she lying about it?

  “Great!” he said. “We might need your steady income around here.”

  She glared at him. “Are you happy about all of this?”

  “Of course not. I just don’t think it’s the catastrophe that you’re making it out to be. Most people these days don’t have the same job decade after decade. We’ve been fortunate. And frankly, I’m ready for a change.”

  “Well, I’m not! This is … too much change. Everything is out of control,” she suddenly started sobbing.

  “Meryl, we’ll figure it out.”

  “We’ll figure it out? You figure it out! I’m tired of being the one to figure everything out!”

  Walking into the bathroom and slamming the door, she indulged in a good hard cry. She cried over leaving Meg with the wedding planner to register. She cried over her mother’s behavior.

  And she cried over lying to her husband.

  twelve

  Jo wondered what heartbroken women did in the days before Netflix and HBO Go. The ability to lie in bed for hours on end, binge-watching entire seasons of her favorite shows strung together like an emotional all-you-can-eat buffet, was the only thing getting her through this.r />
  That, and Toby.

  They sat propped up side by side in his king-sized bed, surrounded by bowls of popcorn, bags of Doritos, his laptop and phone, her phone and her e-reader, and the remote.

  “I could seriously stay here forever,” she said, cueing up yet another season of Girls.

  “We really don’t have to leave the apartment. At least, not until we want to,” he said.

  “If only! I need to find another job.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “What do you think, I’m going to charge you rent?”

  “I still need money, Toby. Unlike you, I don’t have someone funneling cash into my Chase account every month.”

  “I’ll get you a debit card to my account,” he said.

  “Oh my God, stop. Tobe, I love you, but you don’t have to take care of me. Honestly, all I need is your company. And maybe a copilot over the next few months as I deal with all this wedding shit. I love my sisters, but God, it’s just so not my thing.”

  She thought of the bridal registry department, the cabinets and tables filled with expensive, delicate, shiny things—some useful, some absurd. She could never imagine owning any of it. If she and Caroline had gotten married, they would have eloped. Scratch that. Her mother would be devastated. Instead they would have done some cool destination wedding—maybe Jamaica. And they would have told people no gifts, and then when they came back to New York, they would have woken up on a lazy Sunday, made love, and then headed to Bed Bath & Beyond to buy a few things that would signify the start of their life as a married couple.

  Jo reached for her drink. It was a kamizake, made with fresh lime, triple sec, and Tito’s vodka. Toby said it was the one cocktail he knew how to make, and clearly he’d perfected it.

  “I don’t know,” Toby said. “This whole wedding thing sounds like a good gig to me. You basically have people buying you things for a year straight, culminating in a big dinner with all of your friends and family and then a vacation with your favorite person in the world. Hell, I’m jealous.”

  “Yeah. Me too,” she said quietly. “But I can tell you it’s not in the cards for me. I am never going to let myself fall in love again. It’s just too painful.”