The Wedding Sisters Page 19

  Meryl, realizing the lunch conversation was already off the rails, decided there was no sense delaying the inevitable.

  “Mother, stop it. Meg, I’m actually glad you’re here today so we can discuss something. But before I get into that, let me just say you’ll find a new job—no doubt a better job. And then you’ll look back and say it all happened for a reason and you’re thankful it did. That’s how life works. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

  “That’s how life works in movies, certainly.”

  I give up.

  “Thanks, Mom,” said Meg. “I appreciate it. I know it will work out. And honestly, part of this is just me freaking out a little because I guess I didn’t fully realize how much the Campions’ high profile would affect my life. That’s why I needed to come home—to kind of … regain my equilibrium.” She reached across the table and squeezed Meryl’s hand, as if reassuring her. “So what do you want to talk about?”

  This was it. The point of no return.

  “Meg, you know I’m so excited about planning this wedding. And the reason I was irritated by Tippy’s insistence that I use the wedding planner is that I don’t want someone else taking over.”

  “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I don’t want that either. I was just trying to be diplomatic.”

  Meryl nodded. “The thing is, what I’m learning about wedding planning is that it’s about choices. You can’t get everything you want, so you prioritize. From my perspective, and tell me if I’m wrong here, having autonomy over this thing is a big priority.”

  “Definitely,” agreed Meg.

  Meryl took deep breath. “Okay. The challenge I’m having is that your father and I now have three weddings to plan. It’s just not feasible financially—not without outside help.”

  She could see Meg struggling to maintain a neutral expression. “You want Tippy and Reed to pay for the wedding? I mean, they will. That’s … it’s not a problem.”

  “But what do you want, Meg?” Meryl asked, thinking of Hugh’s admonishment—this isn’t about you. As much as he’d failed to be a partner in this whole thing, on that point at least, he’d been right.

  “I don’t want this to be a burden on you and Dad.”

  “It’s not a burden—you’re our daughter! I’ve thought about this day since you were all little girls. Remember how you used to dress up as brides with your tissue paper veils?”

  Meg laughed. “Yeah. Jo always refused to wear a dress.”

  “And Amy always complained you took the better dress.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming in all of this,” said Rose.

  Meryl could throttle her. Really.

  She turned to Meg. “Your father and I can pay for a wedding. One wedding. For the three of you.”

  “Okay. What does that mean?”

  “A triple wedding! I like this idea!” said Rose.

  “You do?” said Meryl.

  “Wait—hold up: You mean Amy, Jo, and I all get married together?”

  “Essentially. Yes.”

  “You realize Amy will never agree to that. She’d rather have the Bruces do her wedding.”

  “Let me worry about Amy. I’m asking you.”

  Meg nodded, thinking. “If it’s a choice between you throwing my wedding along with my sisters, or having Tippy do a Campion extravaganza that will probably turn into a campaign PR piece—I choose you and my sisters.”

  Meryl felt weak with relief. Meg was the one she didn’t want to disappoint. If Meg was okay with it, she felt right in her heart. And as for Amy and Jo—they’d get on board. Somehow.

  “When are you going to tell Amy and Jo?”

  “If you can stay in the city for a few more hours, I’ll ask them to come to the apartment tonight.”

  “You know what would be lovely?” said Rose. “A wedding at one of the old estates they have in Westchester or Long Island … one of those famous old mansions that they rent out.”

  “That’s a great idea, Gran. Maybe that will help convince you to actually come to the wedding,” Meg teased.

  “Well, it’s Amy’s wedding too. And Andy is a nice boy.”

  “It’s also Jo’s wedding. And I can’t see you approving of that match.”

  “Meryl, I might not know much,” Rose began, “but I know that pair will never make it down the aisle.”

  Meryl’s phone rang.

  She didn’t recognize the incoming number, and an unfamiliar woman’s voice asked for her by name.

  “This is Meryl Becker,” she said.

  “Joan Glass from People magazine returning your call.”

  Meryl glanced across the table at her mother and Meg. She held up a finger to say one second and walked to the front of the restaurant, where she began pacing in front of the bar.

  “Yes, thanks for getting back to me. The reason I’m calling—”

  “Your daughters. The Wedding Sisters.”

  “Umm, yes. How did you know?”

  “I read the papers, Mrs. Becker. Let’s talk about this in person, shall we? My office, four o’clock today? I don’t mean to rush you, but that’s the nature of the beast these days, ticktock.”

  Across the restaurant, she saw Meg take her mother’s hand. She knew with a sinking feeling that neither one of them would approve of this meeting. Then she thought of how Meg had lost her job and the manila envelope stuffed into her handbag. With everything going haywire, it was up to her to take control.

  “I’ll see you at four,” said Meryl.

  * * *

  The People magazine office on Sixth Avenue took Meryl back to the days when she belonged in Midtown. There had been a time when Meryl had lunch or coffee with magazine editors a few times every week. In the beginning, she was just trailing her boss, a silent guest at glamorous restaurants like La Grenouille, present only to listen and not speak. And then, she got her own corporate card and started taking out a few editors on her own. Younger editors who were on the rise, just as she was. She had been certain at that time that rise, she would.

  Those had been the glory days of publishing: expense accounts, lavish book parties. Jackie Kennedy as celebrity book editor. Meryl, in her early twenties, felt important. She felt a part of something. When she became pregnant with Meg, there was no question she would go right back to work after the baby was born.

  But when she first held that tiny bundle, Meg with her ocean blue eyes, those tiny hands—someone so vulnerable and pure, she felt like she should be taking every breath for her—she wavered. She told herself that in six weeks she would be ready, and not to think about it again until that day was closer.

  That day never came.

  At Meg’s one-week checkup, the pediatrician, holding the stethoscope to her tiny chest, looked up at Meryl and said, “I hear something.”

  Meryl didn’t know what he meant. She was still half euphoric and completely sleep deprived. Her brain processed conversation like mush.

  It wasn’t until the doctor suggested they take Meg back to the hospital for an ultrasound that she snapped out of it and realized something might be wrong. She left Hugh a message, but he was teaching. Still, she didn’t panic. Later, she would realize she was half in denial, even when the doctor told her that Meg had a ventricular septal defect—a hole between the left and right ventricles.

  “These sometimes self-correct. But with the size we’re dealing with, I think we’re looking at surgical intervention,” he said.

  Meryl thought she would dissolve into a puddle right then and there. She realized she could no longer indulge in her own needs, worries, or fears. She needed to talk to Hugh, but this, in the days before cell phones, would require a stop at a pay phone, and she couldn’t imagine taking that sort of time. She needed to get Meg home. Meg, who was crying and hungry. Meg, who had a gaping hole in her heart.

  The following weeks were a blur of trips back and forth to New York–Presbyterian’s Cornell Medical Center. Even thirty years later, walking south on York, she could remember pushing the
baby carriage fueled by what was a constant sense of panic. Meg was in congestive heart failure much of the time. She was “failing to thrive.” At the six-week mark, Meryl gave notice at her job.

  The cardiologist couldn’t seem to give her a direct answer when she asked about the timing of the surgery.

  “Hugh, you have to come with me to the next appointment. I don’t think the doctor is being straight with me,” she said.

  Meg’s heart defect scared Hugh. It scared Meryl too. But Hugh handled it in a different way. A detached way. It was the first time she saw that dichotomy she had come to resent so very much: his endless emotional investment in his students, and his maddening, cool practicality when it came to Meryl and the girls. She had caught a glimpse of it when he suggested the abortion, but that might be unfair. And now, again, he was more concerned with Janell South—a student who really, in the end, betrayed him—than with the girls. He was more excited about the prospect of finishing the Alcott project than the weddings. This was Hugh—she’d known it for years. Lived with it for years.

  The question now was did she want to continue living with it?

  She hated to admit that her mother had been right with her quip in the bridal shop. Somehow, these engagements had turned an unwelcome spotlight on the musty old problems with Hugh she’d thought she left stuffed in the back of her mental closet. But here they were, out in the daylight, unpleasant and undeniable.

  “Mrs. Becker, thanks for making it in on short notice,” said Joan Glass, who greeted her with a warm smile and a businesslike handshake.

  “Please, call me Meryl.” Joan appeared to be close to Meryl’s age. She had thick blond hair threaded with gray that she wore in a sensible cut just skimming her shoulders. She wore a crisp white blouse and chunky gold necklace. Her pants were well tailored. She was shorter than Meryl and she didn’t wear heels.

  Meryl liked her immediately.

  Joan led her down a corridor lined with framed covers of the magazine, a walk down memory lane of Meryl’s life in pop culture: John Travolta from his Saturday Night Fever days. Princess Diana with a baby Prince William, JFK Jr. as Sexiest Man Alive.

  Joan’s office was also filled with photos: Joan with Emma Stone, Joan with Steven Spielberg, Joan with Kim Kardashian.

  Meryl sat in a plush chair opposite the large glass desk. Joan sat behind the desk, and by way of opening the conversation, referenced the books editor whom Meryl had first contacted.

  “You work in publishing?” said Joan.

  “I used to work in publishing. The industry has changed a lot.”

  “Haven’t they all! Believe me, magazines are racing to adapt to this bold new digital world as well. But in some ways, books have it easy—just the format is changing. For us, the substance of what our readers are interested in has undergone a sea change.”

  Meryl nodded.

  Joan pointed to something behind Meryl—a photo of Joan and Julia Roberts. “No one cares about movie stars anymore,” said Joan. “Did you ever think we’d live to see that day?”

  “No,” said Meryl truthfully, although she suspected the question was rhetorical.

  “It’s all about reality stars, and real-life fairy tales. People want to believe it can happen to them. That’s why we’re so interested in your family.”

  “You are?”

  “Absolutely. As I mentioned on the phone, your girls were on my radar before you even called. And I hear through the grapevine there’s a New York magazine cover story in the works.”

  Meryl nodded. “The writer called me for a comment, but I didn’t speak with her.”

  “A hatchet job. That’s all that writer does. We can get something up fast and scoop whatever it is they think they’re going to say that’s newsworthy in that piece.”

  “Get something up? You mean, online?”

  Joan nodded. “A quick online story to establish ourselves as the source for all things Becker sisters. Followed by a print piece next month that expands on it. Sound good?”

  “You want to run a story about my daughters in the magazine?” Meryl had to bite her lip to maintain a poker face. She hadn’t known what to expect from the meeting—maybe drum up some interest in covering the wedding in the spring—vague interest that she could parlay into something concrete from a smaller publication. All she’d known was that the latent publicist in her had felt the need to take control of the press surrounding the girls. She hadn’t expected this.

  “Yes. But as I said—first, online to get ahead of this thing. And we want exclusive rights to the wedding photos.”

  “Exclusive rights?”

  “Which we’ll pay for, obviously.”

  Meryl’s pulse began to race. “What are you offering?”

  “Look, it’s an interesting story. Your girls are beautiful and on their way to something. The fiancés are all media magnets. But they aren’t Kardashians. You know what I mean?”

  Meryl knew she was suddenly in the middle of a negotiation. No, they weren’t Kardashians. They were so much more than that. What was it that New York magazine writer had said?

  “There hasn’t been anything like this since the Miller sisters in the ’90s,” said Meryl. “And with my daughter’s future father-in-law potentially the next president of the United States, I’d argue you could be asking for a scoop on the next Jackie Kennedy.”

  Joan leaned forward, clasping her hands in front of her. “What’s the date of Meg’s wedding?”

  Meryl was taken aback by the familiar way Joan used Meg’s name.

  “Actually,” Meryl said slowly. “The date we choose might be for all three girls. We’re considering a triple wedding.”

  Joan’s face flooded with color. She clapped her hands together, not bothering to conceal her delight. “Meryl, tell me the date is in May.”

  “We’re looking at May or June.”

  “We need May to make the summer wedding issue. So here’s my offer: If you schedule the wedding in May, and if we get exclusive rights to photos, and all three girls make it down the aisle—this publication is prepared to pay in the high six figures.”

  Meryl gasped. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll consider it. Let me talk to my people about the dollar amount, have the paperwork drawn up. You can talk to the girls. And we can take it from there.”

  Joan stood and Meryl followed her lead. Her legs felt shaky.

  “But in the meantime, at the very least, let’s get that online piece in the works. I’m going to take you over to my assistant to take all your information and your daughters’, and we’ll start setting up the interviews. Sound good?”

  “Yes,” said Meryl.

  They shook hands outside her office. An assistant appeared to show her to the lobby.

  “Looking forward to speaking soon, Meryl,” called Joan. “Get ready to be a household name!”

  * * *

  Before Meryl reached the subway, she texted Hugh to leave the library early and meet her at home. He responded that he was already working from home. Perfect.

  What would Hugh make of all this? On the one hand, this was a practical solution to the money problem. On the other hand, Hugh hated anything that smacked of ostentation or appeared to be attention seeking. A People magazine spread would certainly qualify on both counts.

  It shouldn’t even matter. She should just tell him this is what’s happening. He said he didn’t want to spend too much money on the weddings, and now he wouldn’t have to. Might even make some money on the weddings. How’s that for problem solving?

  The one thing it didn’t solve, however, was losing the apartment. That was unsolvable. And every time she thought about it, she wanted to punch Hugh.

  And when Meryl walked into the apartment, the impulse to punch Hugh intensified. Dramatically.

  Hugh was not alone. There, at the dining room table, behind a mountain of accordion files, index cards, and books, was a teenaged girl.

  “Hon! Great timing,” said
Hugh, standing up with a smile. “I’ve been wanting to introduce you two. This is Janell South. Janell, my wife, Meryl.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Becker,” said the girl politely. She was short and slight, a tiny slip of a thing, with dark skin and green eyes. Her hair was a cascade of dreadlocks to her waist. Meryl felt a ping of alarm; what was he doing with the student who essentially cost him his job? In their apartment?

  “Hugh, can I … can we talk in the other room for a minute?”

  She closed the bedroom door with a louder slam than she’d intended.

  “What the hell is she doing here?”

  “She’s my new research assistant.”

  “Are you out of your mind? The press is following our daughters around—how long before they take an interest in you and your ‘research assistant’?”

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. I couldn’t care less about all that media nonsense. This is a stroke of genius! One of the things holding me back on this project has been time management. Without a day job, and with a little help, I know I can get this thing to the finish line. Remember when I tried to get Meg involved? I wanted her to be my research assistant that summer between junior and senior year of Yardley? I thought it would be a great thing to include on her college applications. But she wasn’t interested.”

  “No, Hugh. She wasn’t.”

  “Most seniors at Yardley already have internships. I feel so bad that Janell lost her scholarship. I think the least I can do is give her a chance to bolster her high school transcript with a research internship.”

  “So which is it, Hugh? Is she helping you, or are you helping her?”

  “Both! That’s why it’s so perfect!”

  “Are her parents okay with this?”

  “She lives with her aunt.”

  “Okay—her aunt. Her guardian—whomever. You have to be careful, Hugh. She’s a minor.”

  “Her aunt doesn’t care and her social worker thinks it’s very constructive for her. It seems the only one who has a problem with it is you.” He put his hands on his hips, and Meryl sighed. She didn’t have the energy to argue. Not when there was so much other, very real stuff to get straightened out.