The Wedding Sisters Page 18

  “So that’s what this is? You’re punishing me?”

  He shook his head. “No, Meg. I’m not. I’m just stating the obvious. You’re no longer a neutral third party to the ground you cover here. So it’s best if you resign.”

  “That’s not how it works, Kevin.”

  “Isn’t it, though? What happened when Maria Shriver found herself married to the governor of California? She resigned from NBC, citing a conflict of interest.”

  “She was the first lady.”

  “He was just a governor. We’re talking the White House, Meg. I’m sorry, but I have to do what’s best for the site. I’d like you to be out of here by noon. And we’ll tell everyone you’re moving on for other opportunities. Sound good?”

  Meg couldn’t speak. She watched him walk out of her office.

  Her first thought was to call Stowe, but his phone went straight to voice mail. She dialed his office line, and his secretary told her he was in meetings all day.

  She felt completely ganged up on: by the Campions with their closed circle, their family secrets. By Stowe for keeping her out of that loop. By Kevin, who had turned on her.

  Meg called the one person who was always on her side, and always would be. “Mom, I’m coming home for the night.”

  seventeen

  It was a day Meryl had dreaded: packing up her mother’s apartment. But at least, unexpectedly, she had reinforcements: both Hugh and Meg came along to help her.

  Hugh began folding the unconstructed moving boxes into shape, while Meg unspooled the roll of Bubble Wrap.

  Rose sat on the couch, resting back and closing her eyes.

  “Mother, you really didn’t have to be here. You could have just stayed at my apartment,” Meryl said.

  She wished her mother had just let her and Hugh—and, thanks to her surprise visit, Meg—do the packing on their own, but instead she had insisted on coming along.

  “It’s some extra time with Meg,” Rose said. Meg’s appearance yesterday had been a bonus for all of them. Though she suspected the visit was not so simple as Meg had made it out to be when she said breezily, “Things are quiet at work and it was just a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  Meryl didn’t push. She figured she’d talk to her during the packing up. And then her mother insisted on coming along. Always a private person, Rose no doubt hated the thought of Meryl and Hugh—especially Hugh—going through her things unsupervised.

  “Let’s get organized,” said Rose.

  Meryl and Hugh glanced at one another.

  “We are organized, Mother,” said Meryl.

  “You two pack up the living room and kitchen, I’ll do the bedroom,” said Rose. “But first I’m just going to take a quick rest.”

  She closed her eyes again, pressing back into the cushions.

  “Fine,” said Meryl.

  Meryl and Meg started in the kitchen. When Meryl had moved Rose into the apartment a decade earlier, she put the fine china and silver into storage. All they had to deal with were basic dishes, glasses, and mugs from Pottery Barn, serving trays and a few vases from Simon Pearce, and the Nespresso machine Meryl had bought her for her birthday five years ago.

  “So what’s really going on with Gran?” Meg asked quietly. “Is she sick? She seems competent enough to live here if she wants to stay independent.”

  Meryl glanced up from rolling a vase in Bubble Wrap. “You don’t find some of the things she says slightly out of touch with reality?”

  “Maybe. But that’s just Gran. Hasn’t she always been that way?”

  “Oh, honey. I don’t know. And I’d rather talk about what’s really going on with you.”

  Meg, busy with a row of mugs, didn’t look at her when she replied, “Mostly just work stuff.” But then, haltingly at first and then tumbling in a rush of words and tears, Meg explained that she had lost her job and she feared that in a marriage to Stowe, she would lose herself. “I just couldn’t go back to his house last night.”

  “Your house. It’s your house too now, Meg.”

  Her daughter’s shrug was exaggerated, like a child’s.

  “The few months leading up to a wedding are stressful for a lot of couples,” Meryl said. “Sweetie, don’t lose perspective. You love him. And he’s a good man. And you’ll find another job. It’s probably time to make a move anyway. You’ve only worked at one company since college. Of course they take you for granted.”

  If Meg heard her, she gave no indication.

  “Rose is asleep—out cold,” Hugh commented, walking into the kitchen. “I’m going to start on the bedroom. We don’t need to be here all day.”

  Meryl sighed. “Fine. She’s not going to like it, but you’re right—we should just keep things moving.”

  “Dad, it’s great you were able to take off from work,” Meg said.

  Meryl and Hugh glanced at one another.

  Before he could speak, Meryl said, “Your father has decided to take a leave of absence from Yardley.”

  “Really?” said Meg, her brow furrowing. “Is everything okay? Is it—are you taking sabbatical to finally finish the book?”

  Again, Hugh looked at Meryl. She nodded ever so slightly.

  “That’s part of it,” Hugh said, shifting uncomfortably. “Let’s focus on the task at hand here and we can talk about all that later.”

  Meg’s phone rang. She pressed it to voice mail. Meryl resisted the urge to ask who it was; the call left Meg so distracted, she drifted back to the living room.

  “Let’s get this over with,” said Hugh.

  Rose’s bedroom was pristine, the austere, Shaker-style quilt pulled tight, the curtains closed, the nightstand empty. It was so neat and lifeless; it gave Meryl a pang, as if her mother had died. She shook the thought away and surveyed the room. There were two small closets, one on either side of the heavy wooden bureau holding the television set.

  “So what’s the game plan with this stuff?” said Hugh.

  “I want to bring the bedding to our apartment so she feels at home, pack the clothes into garment boxes, and move anything else in the closet into storage.” She paused. “She’s going to kill us for going through her things.”

  “Please—she should be thanking us.”

  “Well, don’t hold your breath.”

  Meryl stood in front of the open closet, her hands on her hips. Her mother’s clothes hung neatly on the metal rack. Rose was not a fan of color, so the blouses were all white, cream, or black, and the skirts were black or gray or muted shades of moss green or slate. The dresses were all solid colors—no prints. Despite their limited palette, the clothes were all chic, timeless, and surprisingly expensive—silks, wools—labels from Saks Fifth Avenue and Bergdorf and cashmere sweaters from Manrico on Madison.

  “How bad does it look in there?” Hugh asked.

  “Luckily, it’s mostly clothes. But there are a few boxes in the back.” There had been a time when her mother had slight hoarding tendencies, and Meryl suspected the boxes harbored the last of her “tchotchkes,” as her mother called them.

  In the very back of the closet was a stack of oil paintings, a few Meryl recognized as having hung in the old apartment.

  “Hugh, look at these. Do you remember them from my parents’ old place?”

  “Meg loved that one—the Russian ballerinas. Maybe your mother will let her take one to her place in D.C. Help her make it more of her own place.”

  Meryl smiled. “Oh, Hugh, that’s a wonderful idea.”

  “I’m going to get those garment bags. Left them in the living room.”

  At the bottom of the stack was a painting she’d never seen before. It was a blue and white water pitcher on a wooden table, a still life that seemed it might have been a copy of a classic work. She looked at the signature. Roza Olszewski. She didn’t recognize the name.

  Meryl turned it over, looking at the back of the canvas. A manila envelope was taped there, sealed with wide clear packing tape. She looked around for Hugh, but h
e was still in the other room.

  She carefully peeled the tape away from the envelope, trying not to tear it but failing. Her heart pounded. She told herself she wasn’t doing anything wrong, but the fact that she was about to break open the envelope to see what was inside made it impossible to pretend this was just a casual glance.

  The envelope was packed thick with papers. She carefully withdrew the entire stack and set it on the floor beside her. She fanned it out and discovered photos among pencil sketches that were yellowed and curled with age. The subjects of the drawings—flowers, birds, trees—were so simple, they were clearly the work of a child. At the bottom, in the large awkward scrawl of a child, the name Roza Klasczko.

  Other drawings, more sophisticated, were signed the same way. And then the photos: a girl of about eleven, with blond curls and a narrow face—much like Meg as a child—standing next to a dark-haired young boy. Her hand was on his shoulder. The children, sandwiched between a man and a brunette woman, stood outside a café in some European city. Poland?

  More photos: the same girl with the woman and the boy, at a breakfast table, smiling and laughing. And then, a photo of the girl, now thirteen or fourteen, with another couple, blond and handsome but serious-faced, outside a farmhouse. And another of the teenaged girl with three smaller children, all blond and smiling. Behind them, a handmade sign on the wall, and on the table, a birthday cake.

  Meryl, perspiring, quickly flipped through the photos until she saw a still older version of the girl, now with the woman Meryl recognized as her grandmother—her mother’s mother, Rachel Weiss. Finally, a setting she recognized: her grandparents’ old house in New Jersey.

  Meryl’s mind tensed like a muscle, the pieces of the puzzle forming before she fully computed that she was looking at a puzzle in the first place. Clearly, these were the first, the only, photos of her mother as a child she had ever seen. But who were the adults? Aunts and uncles? And the boy? Were these people a few of the many family members who did not leave Poland in time, never to be seen again? Of course, Meryl understood why Rose never talked about the country of her birth. Her parents left when she was seven, just before the Nazi invasion. But most of her family had not been so lucky.

  But if her mother had left at seven, settling in New Jersey, shedding her Polish identity like a diseased skin, how could there be photos of her in Poland as a teenager?

  “Meryl?”

  She jumped, shoving what she could underneath the canvas. Hugh loomed above her, holding a stack of garment bags.

  Those drawings. That unfamiliar name.

  “Do you need help with the closet?” Hugh said.

  It was just too much—all of it. Her mother, the weddings, Hugh and his job, the money, Meg fighting with Stowe …

  “I can’t finish this today,” Meryl said, overwhelmed and near tears. She wanted to crawl into the nearest bed and throw the covers over her head.

  “Okay, okay,” said Hugh, leading her to the edge of the now unmade bed and pulling her close. “Don’t get upset. It will get done. It will all get done.”

  The apartment would get packed, but what about everything else? Hugh had been right all along. There was no way to throw three weddings. Even if he’d had a job, it was way beyond their means. She should just forget about her stupid pride and let Tippy Campion take over. She was sure Eileen Bruce would be happy to help with Amy’s wedding. And Jo—well, maybe she could wait awhile since her engagement seemed impulsive, to say the least.

  She looked at the pile of paintings on the floor. In her hand, she still clutched some of the photos. “Hugh, look at these. I think this girl is my mother.”

  He flipped through the photos. “She looks like Meg.”

  “I have no idea who any of those other people are. And this is clearly not the U.S., even though she said she was here by that age.”

  He shuffled through the pictures again. “You’re right. But why would she lie about that?”

  Meryl took the photos and slipped them into her handbag. “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  Jo had never experienced someone sucking up to her so completely. And this wasn’t some obsequious kid at school, or Amy trying to manipulate her into a favor, or even someone at work trying to get her to switch shifts. This was a real person, a professional, treating her like she was royalty.

  Which, she almost was. Sort of.

  The real estate agent steered her through the lobby of 56 Leonard Street. She was an attractive woman, probably around her mother’s age—but so Botoxed, it was tough to say. She wore a lot of jewelry and carried a Chanel bag. Her name was Katherine Green, but she told them to call her Kat.

  “As you can see, this building is as much a work of art as it is a home.” She said this to both of them, but she looked at Jo. Toby had made it clear that when it came to apartment hunting, it was “whatever his fiancée wanted.”

  Toby’s parents, the Lord and Lady Hedegaard-Kruse, had decided that since their son was engaged to be married, it was about time he had his own apartment. It was their engagement gift. The count and countess, traveling through Hong Kong, made no mention of when they might have time to meet their future daughter-in-law.

  “We’ll be lucky if they even make it to the wedding,” Toby had informed her. She could see that he tried to make light of it, but there was an obvious undercurrent of hurt.

  “Who did that sculpture outside?” asked Toby.

  “The Indian artist Anish Kapoor,” she said. “The tower itself was designed by Herzog and de Meuron.”

  Toby looked at Jo and they both shrugged.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Toby.

  The building was sixty stories tall and designed with staggered units so the tenants’ panoramic views were not obstructed by so much as an inch. The effect was that of a giant mah-jongg tower made of glass and steel.

  She took them up a private elevator to the thirtieth floor. The elevator opened directly into the apartment, a massive space as light and open and airy as if she were standing suspended in the middle of the sky.

  “As you can see, we have fourteen-foot windows, a custom-sculpted fireplace, and these kitchen islands are available in this trademarked piano shape.”

  She took them outside onto the wraparound deck.

  Jo looked at Toby. This place was beyond. She thought of the tiny little dark space she’d shared with Caroline in Greenpoint. Who needed passion when you had these views?

  “You absolutely must see the bathrooms. They are my favorite feature of these homes.”

  They followed Kat, the sound of her high heels echoing through the place.

  She slid open a door, and Jo laughed in delight. Even the bathroom had floor-to-ceiling windows! The tub was a freestanding chalk white oval, deep as a small pool.

  “These vanities are one of a kind, and while these marble tiles are designed to go with the space, you can also talk to them about retrofitting with tiles of your choice.”

  Toby turned a faucet on and off. Jo wanted to jump into the tub.

  Could she really call this place home someday?

  Kat led them back into the living room. “When you’re ready, I’ll take you to the roof. You would have a sky estuary with a seventy-five-foot infinity-edge lap pool.”

  “A lap pool,” Jo repeated, stunned.

  “Ms. Becker, Lord Hedegaard-Kruse, the amenities are truly the best you will find in the city—any city: fitness center and yoga studio, a library, private dining salon, a catering kitchen…”

  Jo smiled and bit her lip. It sounded crazy to hear someone address Toby as “Lord.”

  “What do you think, Jo?” he asked, leaning against the piano-shaped island in the center of the sparkling, ultramodern, off-the-charts kitchen.

  “I say when can we move in?”

  eighteen

  Meryl surveyed the dismantled living room. “We can finish tomorrow,” she said.

  “Tomorrow? Why not just get this over with?” asked Rose.<
br />
  “Hugh has to get to the library, I’m hungry, and Meg has to get back to D.C. before rush hour.”

  “Everyone’s abandoning the sinking ship,” said Rose.

  Ignoring her, Meryl suggested they at least grab lunch. Hugh passed on the idea, but Meg suggested Isabella’s on Columbus.

  Sitting in the signature wicker chairs by a table overlooking the street, Meryl tried to forget about the troubling photographs in her handbag.

  “I’ll have a Diet Coke,” Meg told the waitress, a beautiful young woman, no doubt an aspiring actress. Meryl remembered reading recently that Jennifer Aniston had waited tables there just before she was cast on Friends.

  “Vodka on the rocks,” said Rose.

  “Mother, it’s the middle of the day,” said Meryl. But then she gave in and ordered a glass of prosecco. She deserved a drink.

  Hell, it would be easier if they were all a little tipsy.

  Rose pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and turned to Meg. “So why aren’t you at work? And don’t give me any of that ‘oh, it was just a spontaneous day off’ crap.”

  Meg reached for her water glass, then sat back against her seat and tucked a lock of her gold hair behind her ear. She sighed. “I lost my job, Gran.”

  “You got fired! Meryl, did you know about this? She got fired! What for?”

  “I wasn’t fired. They just feel that … with Reed running for president, that I might have a conflict of interest down the line. That it might get in the way of my reporting.”

  Rose shook her head and made a tsk-tsk sound.

  The waitress, mercifully, appeared with their drinks. No one spoke until Rose, after a few sips of her vodka, said, “You see? A woman is better off alone than with the wrong man.”

  “Mother!” said Meryl.

  Rose shrugged. “If you don’t teach them anything, Meryl, then you leave it to me. So, stop your crying.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “Gran, it’s not Stowe’s fault.”

  “Then why are you sitting here with us instead of in Washington with him?”

  Good Lord, her mother had a way of cutting like a knife.