The Wedding Sisters Page 2

  In college, the bodice rippers were replaced by the classics and, of course, the mandatory Feminine Mystique and Mary McCarthy’s The Group. But by that time, her obsession with romance novels had been supplanted by her first real-life romance—a romance sparked by the worst English class Meryl had ever suffered through.

  It had taken Meryl three semesters to get into the coveted American Literature II: 1865 to the Present class with Professor Dunham. Students who loved reading—who lived and breathed it—wanted Dunham. They knew he was the toughest, but he was also charismatic and brilliant. For true lovers of literature, he was the only one to trust as their guide from Whitman to Roth.

  Unfortunately, Meryl got more than she’d bargained for. She struggled with Faulkner and stumbled with Thomas Pynchon. The optional “office hours,” run by Dunham’s TA, became essential to her academic survival.

  At first, the soft-spoken TA, Hugh Becker, barely registered with her. He was a means to an end, her lifeline in a class that she had wanted so badly but was now her personal Titanic. Becker was tall and thin, blond and blue-eyed—not at all her type. But he had the artistic hands of a pianist or painter, and when he spoke about “The Beast in the Jungle,” he was as passionate as Neil Young with a guitar. And she noticed—she wasn’t completely blind after all—that when he spoke of Henry James’s heroine May Bartram, he looked right at her. Every time.

  Disappointingly, Meryl got a B+ in Dunham’s class. She’d never earned anything less than an A in any English class, ever. She was angry at herself, annoyed with Dunham, and eager to wipe the slate clean with a new semester. She didn’t think about American Literature II, Dunham, or his fair-haired boy Hugh Becker again, until she got an invitation in the mail three weeks before spring semester ended. It was the final days of her sophomore year, and Hugh Becker had invited her to a party—his book party.

  He had published a book! Nonfiction. Abby May Alcott: An American Mother. It was incredibly impressive to Meryl, an almost unthinkable accomplishment. She toyed with writing a book someday—a novel. Or maybe short stories like Susan Sontag. But Hugh Becker had done it—he was a published author.

  The party was in a town house just off lower Fifth Avenue. Meryl dragged her roommate along, and they were the youngest people there. With feigned sophistication, they drank white wine and ate cheese and crackers. Meryl felt out of place and slightly bored and decided she would eat just enough that she wouldn’t have to buy food for dinner. And then she spotted Hugh Becker across the living room at the same time he saw her, and if there was such a thing in real life as “electricity” between two people, she felt it in that moment—an exhilarating spark.

  Hugh Becker was not nearly so uptight as he had seemed in class; he knew his way around the town house (his agent’s), and he confidently ushered Meryl into a small bedroom left vacant by the agent’s college-aged son. There, he proclaimed his overwhelming attraction to her, his desire for her—confessing that he had barely been able to contain it the entire semester and had never been more relieved for a class to finish. Meryl, astonished, asked, “Why?”

  “Well,” he said, giving this serious thought, as though answering a question posed in a lecture hall. “You’re beautiful. And temperamental. And you’re not overly impressed by work it’s taken me a lot longer not to be overly impressed by.”

  He asked if he could kiss her, and she was thrilled by the shocking turn of events. She had never even fantasized about Hugh Becker, and now she found herself wanting nothing more than to feel his hands on her body. She’d had sex with only two men in her life, and as soon as Hugh Becker’s mouth pressed down on hers, she knew that very night he would be her third. And, quite possibly, her last.

  * * *

  For the past decade, Meryl’s mother had lived alone in a six-story building that had a tiny lobby. Meryl did not know any of the other tenants; her mother had moved into the place the month she became a widow, and never bothered getting to know anyone. Not surprising: While Meryl was growing up, Rose had kept to herself even as the other mothers formed friendships and alliances at school drop-offs and pickups and on the PTA boards. But Rose kept a low profile. That’s how she put it, “low profile.” “I like it that way,” she’d said.

  Growing up, Meryl had taken these things as a matter of course, not recognizing the behavior as odd. Her mother was different from the mothers of her friends, but that was because Eastern Europeans were different. There was a wariness that ran bone deep.

  Her mother had stomach problems. And insomnia. All just a part of her mother, like her blue eyes and ash blond hair and Polish accent.

  The elevator was small, with a sliding door that had a round, gated window. Something about it made Meryl feel like any ride could be the one that ended in a free fall to the basement, so she opted for the stairs.

  On the third floor, out of breath and vowing to make it to the gym sometime that week (month?), she rang her mother’s bell.

  “I feel bad you wasted a trip over here, Mrs. Becker,” said Oona, opening the door and shaking her head.

  “I’m not leaving here without her, Oona. Now, where is she?”

  Oona led Meryl to the bedroom and briskly knocked once before opening the door.

  Meryl’s mother was fully dressed in a white blouse, gray tweed skirt, full makeup, her signature eyeglasses with the oversized round black frames, sturdy shoes, and her nails manicured with clear polish. She was watching The Bold and the Beautiful, a show she watched only begrudgingly now that they had recast the leading male character, Ridge Forrester. As a teenager, Meryl had watched soaps like The Young and the Restless and As the World Turns along with her mother. The common vocabulary of soaps was one of the few things they shared. Her mother had never been one for deep conversation. In her world, everything was black-and-white. There was very little to discuss.

  “Hi, Mom. Meg is coming early, so we have to get going.”

  Her mother shook her head and tsk-tsked. At first Meryl thought it was her irritation at being rushed, but then she realized the disapproval was directed at the television screen.

  “Her own sister’s husband,” her mother muttered.

  “Mom, did you hear what I said? We have to get going.”

  Her mother turned to her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  Not this again. Meryl inhaled deeply and took a brief reprieve from her mother’s stubbornness, instead appreciating the rare opportunity to look at Rose’s paintings, which hung on every wall. Her mother had only ever displayed her art in the bedroom while Meryl was growing up. It was as if her mother didn’t want anyone else to know that she was an artist, even now. At times, Meryl had encouraged her mother to try to sell some of her work. But Rose had huffed and said, “It’s just a hobby. Your generation only wants to turn play into work instead of finding an honest profession.” Meryl found it sad that her mother couldn’t even fully embrace the joy she got from painting. Her mother never seemed to find joy in much of anything—ever. And Meryl never quite understood why.

  “You’re really going to do this to Meg?”

  “I’m not doing anything. This is about the choices you made, Meryl.” When her mother was angry, the Polish accent became more pronounced. “What did you think was going to happen when you married a man of poor character? Of course your daughter doesn’t know any better.”

  Meryl sighed. “Mom, it’s just dinner. I’m not asking you to walk her down the aisle. It’s a family dinner, and I’d like for you to be a part of it. Don’t you want to meet her fiancé and his family?”

  “I don’t need to meet him. I know all about that family. A bunch of anti-Semites.”

  “They are not anti-Semites, Mom.” Just Republicans. Stop it, she told herself.

  “I can’t sleep at night, you know.”

  “Because of Meg’s engagement?” Meryl asked incredulously.

  “The club where they want to have
the wedding used to be restricted. I expected more from Meg,” said Rose. “But then, why should I expect anything when you’ve done nothing to make them value who they are and where they come from.”

  Meryl sighed. Rose’s criticism was nothing new, but it was difficult to take from a woman who never spoke about the country where she’d been born, never shared photographs of her childhood, had not raised her particularly Jewish—and yet had been endlessly, blatantly hostile toward her marriage outside the Jewish faith. Her mother acted as though Meryl had turned her back on some rich heritage—as if she’d raised Meryl in some parallel universe.

  Meryl had thought her relationship with her mother might mend when Meg was born. Surely there was nothing better for a mother and daughter to bond over than a new baby—a first grandchild! But any hope for a new beginning was dashed when, upon hearing Meryl and Hugh’s choice of name for their baby, her mother refused to speak to them or to see the baby for the first month of her life. And then, the only thing she said to Meryl was that she had “dishonored” her grandparents by failing to name the baby after one of them so that “their soul can rest in peace.” To be honest, the Jewish tradition of naming the baby after a deceased family member had never even occurred to Meryl. She had been so charmed by Hugh’s idea of naming the baby after a character in Little Women. Back then, she had found all Hugh’s quirks and obsessions romantic and endearing.

  Her mother turned back to the television, tight-lipped, her hands clutching the remote as if it were the controls of a plane losing altitude.

  Meryl thought of the food hastily shoved into the refrigerator at home, the flowers that needed to be bought, and the unfortunate possibility of Meg, Stowe, and Tippy somehow arriving at the apartment before her.

  “Look, Mom, I really would like for you to be there.”

  It was an understatement. She was surprised by how very much she wanted her mother by her side for dinner that night. Yes, she had three grown daughters of her own. Still, she sometimes yearned for her mother. But she had learned long ago to accept Rose’s limitations. As she used to tell Meg, Jo, and Amy: “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset.”

  Meryl took another deep breath, trying not to get too emotional. “And I know the girls want you to be there. It would mean a lot to us. But obviously I can’t force you out of this apartment and into a cab. So I’m going to ask you one more time: Will you please just get your shoes and coat and let me take you to my place for a nice family dinner?”

  Her mother turned, her blue eyes as bright and angry as the day Meryl had announced her engagement to Hugh. An anger that had forced them to elope; an anger that had not softened in three decades. And Meryl already knew her answer.

  “No.”

  It was Meryl’s own fault, really. It always had been. In the earliest, fragile days of her relationship with Hugh, she’d shared a secret with her mother that should never have been shared.

  And she’d been paying the price ever since.

  two

  “I’m nervous,” said Meg Becker in a stressed, quiet voice. Sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed in the hotel room overlooking Columbus Circle, she felt strange staying at a hotel in the city where she’d grown up.

  Meg moved uneasily toward the window, pausing as her reflection overcame the view. Her blond hair skimming her shoulders, her slim frame hugged by a cashmere V-neck sweater and black pencil skirt. Elegant, symmetrical features had always greeted her—wide blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, sensual but refined lips. But today, her outer composure belied her feelings. Inside, she was a scattered jigsaw puzzle.

  “What are you worried about?” Stowe, her fiancé—fiancé! She still wasn’t used to the word—glanced up at her from his laptop.

  “Your mother. My mother. My grandmother,” she said, sitting down on the bed again heavily.

  “You’re never nervous,” Stowe said as he slid closer to her, taking her hand. Kissing her neck, he sent a shiver of delight through her body. “And there’s no reason to start now, sweetheart.”

  “Untrue! I was nervous the day we met,” she said, smiling. Think about the beginning, she told herself. Focus on being in love. Forget about dinner!

  “That’s right. You were. But then, you were going on live television for the first time.” He gave her a wry smile in return. “So I think we can let that one slide.”

  She first saw him in the green room at the show Real Time with Bill Maher. Meg, a senior editor at Poliglot, a political Web site, had gained notoriety with an article on Elizabeth Warren calling out ABA lobbyists on the Senate floor and had been invited on the show as a panelist. The other two panelists were in the room, a loud, liberal actor with a new movie out and a chip on his shoulder, and Reed Campion, a rising star in Republican politics and a Pennsylvania senator. Campion and the actor chatted each other up while Meg was left to anxiously check her e-mails and mentally replay her talking points. She was the first person from Poliglot invited on such a high-profile show, and her bosses had warned her not to fuck it up—in pretty much those exact terms.

  And that’s when Stowe, a member of Campion’s entourage, approached her. If she hadn’t been so nervous about the show, she would have been cowed by his staggering good looks. But as it was, she was just relieved to have someone keeping her mind occupied before it was time to go on live television.

  It wasn’t until the show was over, until after he had already asked her out for a drink, that she learned he was the senator’s son.

  They were both strangers to L.A., and this, at least, put them on equal footing. Unsure of where to go, they took a recommendation from someone on Bill Maher’s staff and ended up at the Standard Hotel on Sunset.

  They sat out by the pool, under the stars. Meg’s first thought was that her sister Jo would fit right in, with her long hair and peasant blouses, her denim shorts and ever-present flip-flops. But Meg, with her ponytail and pearls and Chanel ballerina flats, was a fish out of water. Fortunately, Stowe—with his close shave and short dark hair, his fair skin that seemed like it had never seen a day at the beach, and his jacket and tie—was equally out of place. If anything, their contrast to the strange exotic birds of L.A. that surrounded them just made them seem all the more perfect for each other.

  With the show behind her and her confidence back, Meg was finally able to notice that Stowe Campion was GQ-cover-model gorgeous. And smart. And ambitious.

  And how hyperaware she was of his thigh next to hers.

  “How did you manage to take time off to come out here?” she asked, smiling playfully. “Don’t they keep you guys chained to your desk until you’re in your fifties, at least?” At thirty, he was the youngest partner at the D.C. law firm Colby, Quills, McGinty, and Dean.

  “The gods of timing were on my side,” he said, leaning closer to her. “We’re taking depositions out here on Monday. I was able to swing an extra day or two.”

  “Timing is everything in life. So they say.” Meg swallowed hard. She had never wanted a guy more. Her desire unnerved her. She had been so focused on work the past year and half that she’d barely even dated.

  Finally, when it was nearing one in the morning, she reluctantly stood to leave. She could have sat there talking to him all night, but the control freak in her needed to be the one to punctuate the evening.

  “So.” They locked eyes, and her stomach fluttered.

  She was staying at a hotel on Santa Monica, and he was staying at a family friend’s house in Beverly Hills—with his father. Clearly, if they were going to take their little party elsewhere, it would have to be to her place. But she couldn’t bring herself to invite him. Meg Becker did not make the first move. Ever. Plus, if she was going to sleep with someone on the first date, it would at least have to be an actual date.

  And yet she regretted her unflinching stance when, two weeks later, she still had not heard from him—despite the fact that he’d tapped her number into his phone before walking her to her car.

  Back
in D.C., Meg suddenly became overly interested in the work of the senator from Pennsylvania. She sat in on a few less-than-newsworthy votes on the Senate floor, justifying it to herself—and to her boss, Kevin—that he was an up-and-comer, a politician worth watching closely.

  But she never managed to see Stowe, try as she might—though Meg would never, ever, admit to trying to run into him.

  And then she got annoyed. Why hadn’t he called? Just like that, her interest in Reed Campion’s senate voting activity disappeared entirely. But one afternoon, while she was running up the steps to the carriage entrance of the Capitol to record a quick interview with the senator from South Carolina, Stowe was walking out.

  He noticed her first. “Meg Becker,” he called happily.

  Before she turned, she knew on some subconscious level, some animalistic part of her soul that was already half in love with him, that it was Stowe.

  She pretended not to remember his name.

  Stowe held out his phone, displaying her name and number in his contacts, and gave an apologetic smile. “I was premature in saying they don’t keep me chained to my desk,” he said. “But I’ve escaped for the day. Is there any chance in hell that you’re free for dinner tonight?”

  And that, as they say, was that. Deep down, in her heart of hearts, Meg knew she was done—off the market. One year later, he put a ring on her finger. And it was official.

  And now, they were mere hours away from their parents meeting for the first time. Well, his mother and her parents anyway. As soon as people got wind of Reed’s calendar putting him in New York that weekend, his office started getting calls. Meg understood; after a year with Stowe, she knew that Reed—traveling constantly from their home in Haverford, Pennsylvania, to his office in the capital, Harrisburg, to D.C. for meetings and votes on the Senate floor—was difficult to pin down, family occasion or not. But her mother would never understand. She would consider this yet another example of the Campions “not making an effort.”