The Wedding Sisters Read online

  “When she’s sitting in my house at nine at night, drinking wine with my fiancé when I’m out of town, it feels very fucking personal.”

  “Meg, come on. You don’t really think I have something going on with my dad’s press secretary?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

  “So then what’s this about?”

  “You tell me? What business do you have to discuss that was so important?”

  “Well, there are decisions to be made.”

  “Like what?”

  “My dad wants me to take a leave of absence from the firm to help with the campaign full-time.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen.” But she could see by the look on his face that she was probably the only one of that opinion. “Is it?”

  “I don’t know, Meg. This is a really big deal—a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I’m really proud of him, and frankly, I’m honored that he wants me on board.”

  Meg leaned over the counter, her head in her arms. “Isn’t this something we should be discussing before you talk about it with Hunter Cross?”

  “I wanted to get all the information before I talked to you—what it would really entail, when it would start—”

  “Goddamn it, Stowe!”

  “What? Why is this such a problem for you?”

  “Because I’m completely shut out! All of this affects me too, you know. I just lost my job—in case you forgot. And yet every single decision is made behind closed doors—even the doors of our home.”

  “I know it might feel that way, but it’s just because this is all new and everyone is figuring things out.”

  He hugged her, but this time, she found no solace in his arms.

  “Are you going to do it?” she said. “Quit your job?”

  “Not quit. Just take leave.”

  “You’ll never go back.”

  “Meg, no one knows what’s going to happen down the line. We need to just take it one step at a time.”

  “I have some news too, you know.” She pulled away from him, finished her glass of wine in one gulp. And she poured another before saying, “We’re having a triple wedding. Me, Amy, Jo—same day. One party. And it won’t be at your parents’ country club. You can do the honors of telling your mother.”

  twenty

  At the top of Meryl’s list of a million and one things to do: find a wedding venue.

  Tippy had suggested, if they insisted on throwing the wedding in New York, that they consider the Vesper Club.

  “They have rooms for at least some of the out-of-town guests to stay in, and then of course, the Carlisle is nearby for the rest.”

  Leigh, learning of this plan, called Meryl and told her that while she “didn’t hear this from her” the Vesper Club was “not a good idea.” When Meryl asked why not, Leigh said the sister club to the organization, the Women’s National Republican Club, had recently been very vocal about not wanting lesbian members, and the Vesper Club was not far behind.

  “I don’t think Jo would feel comfortable getting married in a place like that, even if she is marrying a man. Do you?”

  Meryl, surprised that Leigh knew enough about Jo to make such an observation, admitted that, no, the place didn’t sound like the right fit.

  So there was that.

  And just as pressing, the interview dates needed to be set with People.

  She waited until 9 A.M., and then called the number for Joan Glass’s assistant to schedule the interviews for Meg, Amy, and Jo. Getting voice mail, she left a message, checking against the note she’d made last night about what days worked for which of the girls.

  That’s when the screaming started.

  The sound coming from her mother’s room, shrill and primal, froze Meryl for a second. The startled reaction of her body debating fight or flight, before it put the alarm in context.

  She rushed into the bedroom to find her mother exactly how she had found her back in her own apartment: perched at the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead.

  Meryl sat next to her and put her arm around her. “Mother, it’s okay,” she said, trying to sound calm even as she felt herself panicking. What was this about? And for the first time since packing her mother’s apartment, she thought about the drawings and the photos. She’d been so distracted by getting the girls on board with the triple wedding and People magazine, she’d completely forgotten about the envelope she’d stuffed in the bottom of her bag.

  Now, obviously, was not the time for it.

  After Meryl spent a few minutes talking calmly to her mother, Rose snapped out of it.

  “You were doing it again,” Meryl said.

  Rose looked at her. This time, Meryl understood that her mother was aware of it. Was, in fact, as alarmed as she was.

  “You’re going to have to see someone,” Meryl said.

  “What good will that do?”

  Meryl was encouraged by the response; it wasn’t a no.

  The wedding calls would have to wait. People would have to wait. Meryl needed to find a psychiatrist. And she wanted someone today.

  Her phone rang. She let it go to voice mail while she rifled through one of the mini legal pads she kept in her desk, looking for the numbers Dr. Friedman had given her a few weeks ago. After an hour of phone calls to the insurance company and leaving messages for half a dozen psychiatrists, she could do nothing but finally get dressed and wait.

  Meryl looked at herself in the mirror. Yesterday, on the way to meeting with Joan, she had stopped into Sephora. She just wanted to kill a few minutes—she had been early—but ended up buying a new lipstick. One of the saleswomen, in her all-black uniform and headset—looking more like a backup dancer at a concert tour than the type of makeup ladies who used to help her mother back when they shopped together at Saks—picked one out for her. It was deep red and matte, the brand Nars. It had been a long time since Meryl bought—let alone wore—makeup aside from mascara. But she had to admit, gazing into the handheld mirror amidst the blaring hip-hop music, that it looked good. And it felt good.

  Maybe it was time to do a little more in the sprucing-up department. She knew—as if Hugh didn’t remind her enough—that none of this was about her. But she was a part of it. She was the mother of the brides. She should look presentable. More than that, even. She should look good. She should feel good. It was time to start enjoying this moment a little more.

  “The house phone rang,” Rose said, appearing in the bedroom doorway. Her glasses seemed more enormous than usual, and Meryl remembered Amy calling her Grandma Owl, though not to her face.

  “Oh, it’s probably a package at the front desk. I’ll get it later. Thanks.”

  “No, actually your machatunim is on the way up.”

  “What?”

  Meryl knew what she meant—machatunim was Yiddish for “in-laws”—she just couldn’t make sense of it. Was her mother still having an episode?

  The doorbell rang.

  Meryl, with one more glance in the mirror, hastily pulled a cardigan over her T-shirt and hurried through the apartment to the door and looked out the peephole. Sure enough, Tippy Campion, in all her Tory Burch–wearing, bleach-blond-haired glory, waited on her doorstep.

  Oh my God.

  “Tippy. What a surprise. Come in.”

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if you answered my calls,” she said.

  “What calls?”

  “I called you late last night—later than I should, admittedly—and just an hour ago. I finally reached your husband, who told me you were home.”

  Meryl turned and looked at her mother, who shrugged. A small smile played on her lips. Great. At least someone was amused.

  “I didn’t know you were in New York,” said Meryl.

  “Well, here I am. So would you care to tell me what this triple-wedding nonsense is all about?”

  “Come in. Let’s sit in the living room. Would you like coffee?”

  Meryl had known this conversation would have to take place
. She just imagined it happening over the phone—where she could present her justification matter-of-factly and then pretend to have another call and get out of the conversation quick and easy. Of course, Tippy would not like the change in wedding plan. For reasons Meryl could imagine, and probably for reasons Meryl didn’t even yet know about. But none of that was Meryl’s concern. Meryl’s job was to keep things on track.

  “I don’t want coffee,” Tippy snapped. “I want to know what this is all about. Stowe communicated very little to me over the phone except that this was Meg’s wish and he was willing to go along with it. But I can’t imagine he’s very happy about it, either. So I would appreciate it if you would tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s my fault,” said Rose.

  Both women looked at her, and Meryl didn’t know who was more surprised—she or Tippy.

  “Hello, Rose. I didn’t see you standing there,” said Tippy, fighting through her irritation to find her manners. “How are you?”

  Impeccable manners. Meryl had to respect that. She did just barge in there, but at least she called first. Note to self: check voice mails more often.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation,” Rose said. “And I have to admit the change in wedding plans are my doing.”

  Was it Meryl’s imagination, or was her mother’s Polish accent suddenly twice as heavy?

  “You?” said Tippy, echoing Meryl’s own thoughts.

  “Yes. It’s a Polish tradition.”

  “Triple weddings are a Polish tradition?” said Tippy.

  “If three daughters get engaged the same year, it’s bad luck not to get married on the same day.”

  Meryl had to bite her lower lip not to laugh. She couldn’t tell if her mother was messing with Tippy for sport, or if she was actually trying to somehow come to Meryl’s aid.

  “Well, with all due respect, Rose, we can’t be ruled by superstition.”

  “I had a double wedding,” Rose said, as if Tippy hadn’t spoken. Meryl covered her mouth with her hand. There was no other way to stifle the smile. Her mother most certainly had not had a double wedding. Now she knew that the answer to her question was both: her mother was messing with Tippy and she was coming to Meryl’s aid. “I dreamed of the same for my daughter, but I wasn’t blessed with another daughter. And then my daughter has three daughters! God works in funny ways.”

  “Yes,” Tippy said, glancing at Meryl. “But I don’t think…”

  “I don’t know how much time I have left,” said Rose. “But now, whenever God comes for me, I go happy.”

  “Okay, thank you, Mother. I think you should rest now,” said Meryl.

  “I should go rest now.” She retreated back into her bedroom.

  “Meryl…,” Tippy said.

  “I understand your concern,” said Meryl. And then, the olive branch she had been planning. “But if it makes you feel any better, I will definitely need Leigh Beauford’s help. In fact, she can come with us when we go dress shopping for Meg’s sister.”

  “I thought Jeffrey Bruce was doing her dress?”

  “My youngest. We have three, remember? Triple wedding?”

  Tippy paled. “I’ll talk to Leigh.”

  * * *

  Meryl told herself that the decision to stop by the hair salon had nothing to do with drinks that night with Scott.

  She had a wedding coming up. And before that, bridal showers and all the photos that entailed, and anyway, it was time. So she stopped in at the Aveda salon on Eighty-sixth Street, where she told Jo-Ellen, the woman who had cut her hair for years and years, that she was ready to cover up the gray.

  Jo-Ellen was delighted and didn’t question the sudden decision, though Meryl still had found it necessary to justify the change with, “For the wedding…”

  Meryl had never colored her hair before. So she didn’t know what to expect when it came to turning back the clock on her hair, which had been gradually graying since her midforties. Maybe I’ll color it, she had thought once. When it gets really “bad.” And then one day a woman at the checkout counter at Eli’s had commented that she really liked when women let their hair stay natural. That’s when Meryl realized she was nearly completely gray. The thing was, she hadn’t noticed. And then when she did notice, she didn’t care.

  But now she did.

  “Oh my God,” she said, looking in the mirror. She looked, if not ten years younger, at least more like herself of ten years ago. And it was a welcome sight.

  She had an hour before meeting Scott. The bar—or, as the place billed itself, gastropub—was just two blocks from Aveda. She didn’t want to go home first, didn’t want to go through the trouble of explaining her hair to Hugh. He would notice—of course he’d notice. He might have his head up his ass half the time, but he wasn’t blind. Maybe he’d even like it.

  Did she want for him to like it? Did she even care anymore?

  As for her evening plans, she’d told Hugh she was having drinks with an old work friend.

  “You think it could lead to something?” he asked.

  She’d bitten her lip. “No. It’s just drinks.”

  Bondurants had very few tables, but she’d called ahead to reserve one. She was the first to arrive, and sat reading the menu over and over again. She was so nervous, and she knew that alone was a sort of betrayal of Hugh. To combat her guilt, she reminded herself that she was meeting him for a reason. Wasn’t she?

  Without watching the door, she somehow sensed when Scott walked in.

  She stood to greet him and he kissed her on the cheek.

  “Is it my imagination or do you look different?” he said, looking her up and down in a way that made her blush.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, resisting the urge to touch her hair.

  He sat across from her, looking around the small room. The bar was already packed.

  “Interesting place,” he said.

  She couldn’t tell if he meant that as a compliment.

  “There’s a Ranger game on tonight,” she said. “This is the only bar in walking distance without a screen.”

  “No, this is great.”

  They ordered drinks. Another thing about Bondurants—which she hadn’t known ahead of time—was that there was no table service, so Scott had to walk up to the horseshoe-shaped bar and order for them. Another minute to collect herself.

  Scott returned with their drinks—a club soda for him, and prosecco for her.

  “You don’t drink?” she asked. She knew that wasn’t something you were allowed to ask. But she felt a compulsion to hear everything about his life.

  To her relief, he didn’t seem to mind the question. “I don’t anymore. Got a little out of hand when I was younger. You know how it is in your twenties.”

  She didn’t say anything. Then, “I had three kids in my twenties.”

  He whistled. “I can’t imagine. How old were you when you got married?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “What’s it like? Being with the same person for … how long has it been again?”

  “Thirty years,” she said.

  “Impressive.”

  “It’s not easy.”

  “No kidding. I’ve never had a relationship last longer than a year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s fine. I have no complaints. The truth is, I prefer being single. I really enjoy never knowing what life is going to bring my way—who I’m going to meet. Running into you, for example.”

  Meryl gulped her drink, coughing on the bubbles. “Running into me.”

  “Crazy, after all this time. I still remember that night on the boardwalk. God, we were so young.”

  Meryl couldn’t look at him. She was afraid of what her eyes would give away. She was still that girl on the boardwalk. And that kiss suddenly felt like very unfinished business.

  “So—a lot’s happened in the last few weeks,” he said.

  “What?” She looked up, conversationally disorie
nted.

  “Hasn’t it? Your third daughter got engaged, and I feel like I’m reading another article about the wedding every day.”

  “Oh—yes. A few things here or there, but—”

  “You know what I mean. Really, it has all the makings of a phenomenon, Meryl. We need to talk about the show.”

  The show. As if it were already a thing.

  “I know there’s an interest in my girls—”

  “A rabid interest.”

  “Okay, well. Yes. But the thing is, they don’t want that kind of exposure.”

  “Have you actually talked to them about it?”

  Meryl shook her head. “No. There’s been too much going on. But the truth is, I could barely get them to agree to the triple wedding,” she said.

  “So that’s true? I thought that was just gossip.”

  “No. It’s true.”

  “You sure you don’t want a publicist?”

  “I’m already in talks with People magazine. I have it covered,” she said.

  “Good for you! Maybe when all this wedding stuff quiets down, we can talk about bringing you into my production company’s marketing department. I mean, if you’d be interested in something like that.” His dark eyes flashed at her.

  She felt a surge of energy, a sense of possibility. She touched her hair. “That could be interesting,” she said evenly.

  “But in the meantime, talk to your daughters about the show. And I’ll write up a pitch.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Sure. I can see the show, Meryl. I already have a sense of your daughters’ different personalities. And of course, I know you. The missing puzzle piece is your husband. How does he fit into all of this?”

  Meryl’s stomach tightened. She sipped her drink. “Oh, I don’t think Hugh will go for this.”

  “Look, Meryl, not everyone is going to understand our vision,” Scott said. “People take a little convincing sometimes. If this stuff were easy, everyone would have a show, right?”

  “I suppose,” she said. “But please—don’t do anything yet. I have a lot to think about. And it’s really up to my family.”

  “Understood. But, Meryl—don’t take too much time thinking. Hot today, gone tomorrow. You know the life cycle of these things.”