The Wedding Sisters Read online

  Caroline met him in psych class, partners assigned to do a group project on Skinner. Jo was disturbed to notice that Caroline found every excuse possible to talk about him. The nights spent working on the Skinner project became later and later. And then one night when Caroline didn’t return to the dorm room, Jo burned with the fury of a spurned wife. But unlike a wife, she had no grounds to complain.

  Caroline and Derek became a couple.

  Jo started drinking. She smoked a lot of weed. Anything to keep the images out of her mind: Derek Ebernoff kissing Caroline’s lips. His hands on her small breasts, his fingers between her legs, cracking Caroline’s patrician reserve in ways that Jo could only fantasize about. Derek, hearing what Caroline’s moan sounded like. He would see her cheeks flush in ecstasy. Derek, holding her naked and trembling body in his arms, that long russet hair falling against his chest.

  It was, in a word, hell.

  Jo tried to muster some romantic interest in other people. There was no shortage of attention, male and female. Jo, with her long brown hair fading to a burnt umber color midway down her back, her high cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes, her effortless boho chic style of a young Sienna Miller, and most attractive of all, her indifference. But her few hookups during that time left her cold.

  She made a new friend, a cute blond guy named Toby—Tobias Hedegaard-Kruse. They met in line at the Genius Bar in the SoHo Apple store, and when they bumped into each other again on the way out, they discovered they were both NYU students. There was something different about Toby—he had a quiet confidence, a deeply contented way about him that disarmed her. Months later she learned that at least part of this reserve stemmed from the fact that he was Danish royalty. But by that time, Toby had become her new BFF. It was as platonic as her friendship with Caroline—minus the searing, desperate attraction. At least, not on her part. She began to suspect that Toby had feelings for her, but she tried to ignore that terribly inconvenient realization.

  And then, just when she was starting to emerge from the depths of her heartsickness, when she had accepted the loss of Caroline to Derek Ebernoff, it happened.

  “It’s over,” Caroline sobbed.

  For forty-eight hours, they didn’t leave their dorm room as Jo ministered to her like a parent with a bedridden child. When the fever broke, she had her best friend back. Jo introduced Caroline to Toby, but they didn’t really work as a threesome. When Jo and Caroline were together, their closeness sucked all the oxygen from the room. And then summer came. Toby went to Europe, Jo stayed in New York, and Caroline returned to Vermont.

  Jo was back in agony. She lasted not even a week before buying a plane ticket to Vermont. There was a heat wave in Bennington. Late at night, Jo and Caroline lay on top of the patchwork quilt, wearing tank tops and their underwear, as the window units wheezed out a paltry amount of cool air. What had they been talking about that first night? Jo couldn’t remember now. But she did remember—would always, until her deathbed, remember—how Caroline had leaned forward and brushed her lips against Jo’s. A lit match to kindling.

  “What are you doing?” Jo had asked, barely daring to speak, to breathe.

  “I know how you feel about me,” she’d said, her voice surprisingly steady and even.

  “Oh.”

  “And I love you too.”

  Three years later, it felt as fresh and new and exciting and unbelievable as that first night they’d made love. It was everything Jo could ever ask for, and so there was no reason to think about next steps, about the future—if it weren’t for Meg’s engagement. As soon as Meg and Stowe announced their intention to spend the rest of their lives together—and to make that vow in front of all their family and friends—Jo couldn’t help but think about doing the same.

  She didn’t envision diamond rings and white gowns and walking down an aisle on her father’s arm. But … something. Because she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Caroline. And maybe it was time she made that official.

  Jo looked up from the espresso machine. She felt Toby’s presence before she saw him. This, she suspected, was because mostly everyone in the café had turned to look at him. Aside from his height and his blond good looks and his vague familiarity (Toby had briefly dated an actress from an HBO drama and became a temporary Us Weekly staple), something about him simply screamed I Don’t Belong in Brooklyn.

  “I was just nowhere near your neighborhood,” he said, leaning over the counter with an impish grin. It was a quote from Singles, one of their favorite movies, which Jo had unearthed during her obsessive retro grunge phase junior year.

  “I hate to tell you, this is so hardly worth your while—I have to bolt in, like, five minutes.”

  “Big plans?”

  “Dinner. Command appearance. Meeting the in-laws.”

  “Great. I’m starving.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Not really. As much as I’d love to meet a real live Republican in New York City.”

  “I think we’ll be steering the dinner conversation as far away from politics as possible.”

  “Can Meg get through a dinner without talking about politics?” Toby raised an eyebrow.

  “Something tells me she is learning—fast.”

  “Right. So let’s grab a drink after. I know your ball and chain is working too much to go out, and you’re becoming an old lady.”

  “For your information, I didn’t get home until three this morning. And there’s not enough caffeine in this whole place to power me through another night out.”

  She glanced at the clock. Her shift was officially over. Reaching behind her waist, she untied her orange apron and hung it on a low hook.

  “Meet me out front,” she told him while she headed to the basement to clock out.

  The day was brisk, the daylight low and fading fast, leaving no doubt that the colder temperatures were there to stay. Jo hated this time of year. She was a child of summer—flip-flops, tank tops, sun-kissed skin, sand in her hair. She had considered going to Berkeley for college but knew she would miss New York too much—cold winters and all. And thank God she hadn’t. She would never have met Caroline.

  Toby walked her the two blocks home to North Henry Street, pausing to look up at the five-story redbrick building with a shingled awning over the entrance door. “This place looks like such a shithole,” he said.

  “Cranky much?”

  “I just miss you. I knew things would be different out of school, but … they’re really different.”

  “You just need to stay busy. You need a job, Tobe.”

  “Jobs are for money, and I have plenty of money.”

  “Jobs aren’t just for money.”

  “Oh? Are you getting some deep-seated satisfaction from serving the country’s favorite legal drug topped with foamed milk?”

  “Ah, fuck off, Tobe.”

  He looked at her then with a thinly veiled longing she recognized. It had been painful when she experienced it with Caroline, and it was difficult to see that same unrequited passion reflected back at her. She reached up and hugged him tightly.

  “Have fun tonight. I’ll catch you later in the week.”

  Jo climbed the stairs, her exhaustion lifting.

  She wiggled her key in the stiff lock, then pushed open the heavy door.

  “Hey, babe,” she called out, dropping her keys in the bowl on the flea market table in the entrance foyer. “Caroline?”

  Jo shrugged off her coat—a long suede treasure lined in faux fur that she had found at Vice Versa Vintage (“Vintage garb for man, woman, and beast”)—and headed to the alcove in the back, where Caroline had set up her office. The desk was empty.

  “I’m in the bedroom.”

  Jo smiled, tossing her coat and bag on a chair. She pushed open the bedroom door. Caroline was on the bed, the end of a pen in her mouth, her books spread out. She was in a V-neck white T-shirt and yoga pants, her long red hair up in a messy knot. Her complexion was paler than usual, bord
ering on wan. Her mascara—brown, not black—had migrated to smudges beneath her lower lashes. And her mouth—oh, her mouth.

  She wasn’t dressed for dinner.

  “Hey, we gotta get going.” Jo climbed onto the bed, moving her laptop out of the way, and pulled the pen from her lips so she could kiss her. She tasted like cinnamon raisin toast.

  “Uh-huh,” Caroline said. Her voice sounded husky, like she hadn’t spoken all day. Either that, or like she’d been crying.

  “Everything okay?” Jo said.

  “No,” Caroline said, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t go to dinner.”

  “Why not?”

  “I … I’ve met someone,” she said.

  Jo didn’t fully process what Caroline was saying. She’d met someone and … what? The words could have meant anything. But the expression on her face could mean only one thing.

  “You met someone? Who? Where?” But even as Jo asked it, she knew. The study group. The study group that took up more of Caroline’s time than was even remotely reasonable, even for law students.

  “Jo, please don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

  Jo sat on the edge of the bed and whispered disbelievingly, “You cheated on me?”

  Caroline nodded.

  Jo bit her lip, willing herself not to cry and trying not to lash out at her. “Okay. I’m … I’m glad you told me.” She wasn’t. “I’ll get over it with time. I will. I just need to know it won’t happen again.”

  “Jo.” Caroline’s face softened, her expression pained. And that’s when Jo knew, but she refused to know.

  “Jo, I’m in love with him. I’m moving out.”

  * * *

  The fashion headquarters of Jeffrey Bruce International were in the heart of the Meatpacking District—the trendiest neighborhood in all of Manhattan, and one of the farthest from Amy Becker’s parents’ apartment on the Upper East Side. She was going to have to leave work early for the command appearance to meet Meg’s future in-laws. Amy didn’t know how she was going to stomach the next nine months of everything revolving around Meg. Well, really, everything always revolved around Meg. But now, with her engagement, it was official. And justifiable. And more intolerable than ever.

  Amy knew she should be happy for her sister. And on some level, she was. Truly. But for God’s sake, she’d been dating Stowe Campion for only a year! Amy had been with Andy for five years, and they weren’t even engaged! Why was everything always so easy for Meg?

  A knock on the glass door. She looked up to find Andy.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling. “What time do we have to get going?” Andy had curly dark hair and big puppy-dog brown eyes. The first time she saw him, in a friend’s dorm room, pregaming with shots of tequila before a night out, she’d thought, That guy’s cute. “Cute” summed up Andy. At age twenty-five, he still had something boyish and collegiate about him. Maybe because she’d met him while they were still teenagers, he would always seem like one to her.

  “Ugh—I don’t know. Soon.”

  “Did you tell Stella? We’re going to miss the four-thirty marketing meeting.”

  No, she hadn’t told her boss, Stella. Stella Chung terrified her. She had a fashion-industry résumé a mile long, and she was only thirty—having started as an assistant to Anna Wintour, then on to a couple of years at Vera Wang before becoming the marketing director at Jeffrey Bruce. Oh, and she’d pretty much made it clear that she hated Amy. “Hate” was maybe a strong word, but Stella was obviously resentful at having Amy dumped on her desk. Every time Stella called her name, practically spitting it out, it was like she was muttering “nepotism” under her breath. Amy didn’t want special treatment at the office. Of course, if it weren’t for special treatment, she wouldn’t have this job. But she tried not to think about that. On a day-to-day basis, she worked hard to earn her keep like everyone else. If anything, she worked extra hard to prove her worth. She wanted people to forget that she was Andy Bruce’s girlfriend.

  Which made it seriously uncomfortable to have to knock on Stella’s door and tell her, “I just wanted to remind you that I have to miss the meeting at four thirty.”

  Stella looked up from her stainless steel desk, which was spotless except for a razor-thin laptop. Her black hair framed her face in a bob so sleek, it looked like a helmet. “Did you tell Jeffrey that you were going to the shoot next week?”

  “Um, no. I think maybe Andy did?”

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t make presumptions. I don’t need you at the shoot—I need you here at the office. Understood?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Understood.”

  Amy tried to hide her disappointment. She loved going to photo shoots for the print ad campaigns. Jeffrey had taken her along with him once or twice when he visited the sets. The glamour of it was dizzying.

  When they were growing up, her sister Meg had always been the glamorous one. The infuriating thing was that Meg was so stylish yet had zero interest in fashion. Like everything else, style was effortless for her. And, like everything else, Amy had to work at it—hard. Even now, a junior executive at Jeffrey Bruce, likely marrying into the family of one of the biggest American designers of the past thirty years, having hung out with the top stylists in fashion, Rachel Zoe to name one, and having worked on fashion shoots with Cara Delevingne and Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid, Amy was still awed by Meg. The more she met fabulous people, the more she knew that Meg was the chicest of them all. Apparently, Andy’s father agreed with her, having said (jokingly?) on more than one occasion, “We should get your sister into one of our ads.” The comment had left her with a pit in her stomach that never quite seemed to fully disappear.

  Her only consolation was the certainty that Meg would never. Meg was serious. Meg was a journalist. She was into Politics with a capital P. She might look like Grace Kelly, but she talked like Andrea Mitchell.

  “Oh, and I hear congratulations are in order,” said Stella, looking at her pointedly. “I hear your sister is marrying into the Campion family. She’s like the new Jackie Kennedy. Which would make you—What was her sister’s name? Oh, who can remember. At any rate—have a lovely dinner.”

  four

  It was time.

  Meryl opened the front door with a flutter in her chest and a bright smile on her face. “Hi, everyone!”

  “Hi, Mom.” Meg leaned in to hug her, and Meryl happily breathed in her eldest daughter’s Chanel Allure.

  And then, because she couldn’t hesitate any longer, Meryl turned to the woman by her daughter’s side. Tippy Campion.

  “So nice to finally meet you!” Meryl said warmly.

  “Tippy Campion,” the woman replied, extending her hand.

  Meryl was startled. She had been going in for the cheek kiss. Instead, she took Tippy’s lead. Then she greeted Stowe with a kiss and ushered them inside.

  Stowe handed Meryl a bottle of red wine. She caught a glimpse of the label and did a double take: Screaming Eagle. Arguably the most coveted cabernet in the country—available only by mailing list or at auction.

  “Stowe—you shouldn’t have,” she admonished him, trying to hide her shock.

  Tippy handed her a box from Ladurée SoHo. “I couldn’t resist stopping by. It’s just my favorite bakery outside of Paris,” she said.

  Meryl thanked them and steered everyone to the living room, where the cheese, crackers, a sliced baguette, and five varieties of pitted olives were set out.

  “Is Gran here yet?” Meg asked.

  Meryl tried to keep her expression neutral. “Gran was feeling tired, sweetheart. Another night. I’m sorry.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Fine. Just tired,” Meryl repeated.

  “And Dad?” said Meg.

  Where was Hugh? “Excuse me for one minute.” Meryl took the wine, making her way to the back of the apartment. Hugh’s office door was closed. She knocked once, impatiently, before
turning the brass knob. “Hugh, they’re here. What are you doing?”

  He looked up from his computer. “I was trying to get an hour in on the book.”

  The book.

  He had not published anything since Abby May Alcott: An American Mother—a book that was heralded by reviewers as “definitive” and “groundbreaking.” At the time, he had told his agent that his plan was to publish books about Louisa May, and then follow these with a collection about the entire family dynamic. But this proved overly ambitious, and somewhere along the line, he pared it down to just the Louisa May biography.

  That was twenty-five years ago. The book was still a work in progress. His agent had retired.

  “Now?” Meryl asked, exasperated.

  “Okay, okay—I’m coming.”

  Back in the living room, Meryl found everyone still standing. Awkwardly.

  “Please—everyone. Sit.”

  Meg introduced Tippy to Hugh, who ignored all social cues and kissed Tippy on her cheek.

  “I apologize that my husband couldn’t make it,” said Tippy. “One of his fund-raisers got wind that he was in town, and it’s the only time they overlapped.”

  “We understand. Another time,” Meryl said automatically. Except she didn’t. At all.

  “Where do you stay when you’re in New York?” Hugh asked.

  “The Vesper Club.”

  The front door opened.

  “Amy! Hi, honey!” Meryl rushed to hug Amy as if she hadn’t seen her in months and extended a hug to Amy’s boyfriend, Andy.

  He handed her a bottle of prosecco, Meryl’s favorite.

  “You didn’t have to bring anything,” Meryl told him with a smile, as she did every week. Andy had been coming to family dinners since their sophomore year at Syracuse. And his parents, Eileen and Jeffrey, had come once or twice. She hated to compare, but it was a stark contrast to the Campions. And Jeffrey could easily have found the same excuses if he’d wanted to. Jeffrey Bruce was just as high profile as Reed Campion—more so, really. But for some reason, Meryl had never felt uncomfortable around the Bruces. Maybe it’s because she knew that even though Jeffrey Bruce had a fashion empire, he had at one time been just an Upper West Side kid like herself. There was something familiar about them—relatable.