The Wedding Sisters Read online

  “Thanks so much for making it here early,” Meryl said to Andy.

  “No problem! I’m starving. Early dinner is always good with me.” He grinned.

  “We barely could finish out the workday,” Amy said. “What was the big rush?”

  Amy had been in a foul mood for weeks. Since Meg’s engagement, to be precise.

  Meryl supposed that was normal—jealousy between sisters. The day Meg announced her engagement, Amy snorted, “Well, that was quick.”

  “They’ve been together a year, hon,” Meryl had said, then immediately realized her mistake. By then, Amy and Andy had been together five years, and no ring had yet been forthcoming.

  “Everyone’s in the living room. Go say hello while I go open the wine.”

  In the kitchen, she leaned against the counter, thankful for the minute to catch her breath. While she had been disappointed that Reed couldn’t make it tonight, now she was thinking it might be for the best. Hosting the senator would have been far more pressure.

  “Can I give you a hand?” Tippy appeared in the doorway, startling her.

  Meryl was about to say she was already finished and would be right out, but realized she hadn’t even retrieved the wine opener yet. “Oh, I’ve got it! Please, relax. I’ll be right out to join you.”

  “Actually, I’m happy for the moment alone. Before we all sit down to dinner.”

  “Oh?” Meryl tried to seem nonchalant, maybe even pleased for the chance to chat, but she felt self-conscious as she uncorked the prosecco.

  “The kids have us on quite a timeline, don’t they? Nine months! Who can get something major accomplished in just nine months?”

  Well, Mother Nature, thought Meryl.

  “Meg and Stowe seem to know what they want. So that helps.”

  Tippy seemed not to have heard her. “It’s going to be a large affair,” Tippy continued, “and I just want you to know that we are happy to pay for everything. We don’t want the kids to feel they have to cut corners. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime event, after all. At least that’s what we all hope, isn’t it?” Tippy laughed lightly.

  Meryl didn’t know whether to feel appreciative or insulted. Was this just a gesture acknowledging that the Campions clearly had the money, so not to offer would be rude? Or did they really think that Meryl and Hugh couldn’t provide an adequate wedding? The distinction between the two was vital, and as she stood there wrestling with it, she found herself speechless.

  “Having the wedding at the club makes it so easy,” Tippy said. “Just a few phone calls, and we can take care of everything—”

  Meryl finally snapped to attention. “No—you don’t have to take care of everything—anything, actually.” Then, realizing how it sounded, she soft-pedaled. “Thank you, though. For the offer. But Hugh and I are happy to throw the wedding. Parents of the bride—part of the deal, right?” She laughed awkwardly.

  “Well, at the very least, you absolutely must take advantage of our event planner, Leigh. I insist. She is a genius, and does all our affairs—I don’t make a move without her.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “And it’s not just campaign events and fund-raisers. She did the Prescott wedding last spring. You must have seen that in Town and Country. Breathtaking.”

  “Tippy, I appreciate the … thought. Really. But I’m looking forward to this being a project for Meg and me. And of course—your input is always welcome. But aside from that, I don’t think we need another person in the mix.”

  Tippy looked at her as though she were about to speak to a delightful but very young child. “Meryl, I completely understand the sentimental aspect of the event. And there will be plenty for you and Meg to do together! But if we’re going to really pull this off by the spring, we need someone on the ground full-time. And I’m sure you have other things to do.”

  Meryl didn’t want to admit that, no, she had little else to do. That her freelance work had all but dried up recently. In the age of blogging and “virtual” book tours, a time when most major newspapers had done away with their book review section, the need for a freelance book publicist was not what it had once been. Even just ten years ago, small authors were going on multicity book tours. When she started at HarperCollins in 1984, the publicity department at the publisher had taken two entire floors at the office on East Fifty-third Street. From what she was hearing from the few of her peers who had managed to hold on to full-time employment, the ranks had thinned considerably. This made her feel a little better about the premature end to her corporate career.

  “Meryl, trust me. Having the wedding planner will keep things on track,” Tippy said. “And then you and Meg can just enjoy the fun parts. Plus, Leigh works with all the vendors so frequently, she gets deals on everything. It’s win–win.”

  The kitchen door opened, and both women turned to find Meg. Meryl’s stomach seized up and she wondered how long she’d been at the door, how much she’d heard.

  “Sorry to interrupt—but, Mom, Jo just texted me. She’s not coming.”

  * * *

  Jo spent nearly a full day’s tips taking a cab from Greenpoint to the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and cried the entire way.

  When she called Toby, he had answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” Jo sobbed.

  “At my flat. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  Now she wished she were still in her bed at the apartment. Caroline was gone, but she could curl up in a ball and just wait for the pain to kill her, because surely this much agony could only result in death. There was no recovering from it.

  “I love you,” Caroline had said. “You know I do. And because I love you so much, what happened between us happened. But I’m not in love with you.”

  “‘What happened between us happened’? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that I don’t think I’m gay.”

  Gay, straight—what the fuck difference did it make? They were in love. They were. They had passion. They had best friendship. They had everything.

  “So what are you saying? You’re ‘in love’ with this guy?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes. The single word, a bullet.

  Caroline was moving out. “But I don’t want to lose you as my best friend. I would die if I lost that,” she said.

  She would die? She was the one who would die?

  The cab left her off at Eighty-first and Central Park West in front of the Beresford, a magnificent, storied Italian Renaissance building.

  After three hours of anguish, her eyes were swollen, her nose red, and she was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn to her eight-hour shift at the coffee shop. She was embarrassed to present herself to the doorman, a white-haired Irishman in a green and gold uniform.

  After the doorman confirmed her status as an approved visitor with a quick call up to Toby, she made her way to the gated, prewar Otis elevator, complete with a white-gloved operator.

  “Good evening, miss,” he said when they reached the twentieth floor. He slid open the gate, and Jo hastily made the quick left turn to Toby’s apartment, one of two on the entire floor.

  Toby was waiting in the doorway. “Lovers’ quarrel?” he said.

  Jo burst into tears.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, come inside so I can pour you a drink.”

  Jo was not entirely comfortable at Toby’s apartment. She always half expected his parents, the count and countess, to descend from the spiral staircase in the center of the duplex (never happened).

  She folded herself into a ball on the couch, underneath an enormous oil painting of the royal arms of Denmark, the coat of arms of Prince Henrik, Denmark’s prince consort and Tobias’s uncle.

  The furniture was antique and heavy and distinctly European, with ornate rugs and lots of dark wood and heavy curtains. The place was, for lack of a better word, palatial. Tonight, for the first time, it felt welcoming and safe. The Beresford was
a fortress against the outside world, and Jo, a wounded bird, needed its protection.

  Toby poured two vodka and tonics into crystal tumblers and joined her on the couch. True friend that he was, he did not demand to satisfy his own curiosity but instead let her sip her drink and calm her nerves.

  When Jo finally spoke, it was only to keep her mind from replaying the image of Caroline’s face as she walked out the door. “It’s over with Caroline. She ended it.” The words didn’t sound real. They sounded like lines from a play about someone else’s life.

  “Damn, Jo. I’m sorry.” He retrieved a bottle of Stoli and two shot glasses. “Did you see it coming?”

  “No. Not at all. I was completely blindsided.”

  “Was this a fight?”

  “No. It wasn’t a ‘heat of the moment’ thing. She’d clearly—” Her voice broke. “—she’d clearly thought it out. Planned to tell me. Was tormented by it.”

  “I hate to ask you this—I don’t want to upset you more, but…”

  “Yeah. There’s someone else. A guy.” With this, a sob came loose, hard and abrupt, a branch suddenly falling from a tree with a sickening crack.

  “Fuck,” Toby said, pouring two generous shots. “There’s only one thing to do at a time like this. And lucky for you—though you mock my lack of gainful employment—I have nowhere to go tomorrow and am therefore available to get completely, irrevocably annihilated with you.” He handed her a shot, then raised his own for a toast.

  She ignored him and downed the drink, welcoming the burn. “I just don’t know what to do,” she said, lost.

  “There’s nothing to do,” said Toby wistfully. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t make someone want you.”

  “How could she do this to me? We love each other.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Jo,” Toby said, pouring another round. “The best thing to do tonight is not think too much.”

  Jo drank, and she drank some more. “I started in the friend zone, and I’m ending in the friend zone,” Jo said just as it became difficult to speak clearly.

  “I hate the friend zone,” Toby said.

  “What do you know about it? You sleep with every woman you meet.”

  “Except the only one who matters,” he said softly.

  Even through the haze of alcohol, there was no missing the intensity in his blue eyes. His eyes were filled with longing, the longing she had recognized when they first started hanging out but had become inured to over the years. Now, raw with her own grief, she couldn’t ignore the pain that was just under the surface of his gaze.

  “No, no, no, Lord Tobias Hedegaard-Kruse. Don’t do that. Don’t make me feel bad. You are rich, you are gorgeous, and you get laid more than any guy I know. I will not feel bad for you!” She poured them both another shot. The room tilted, and the heaviness of her heart lifted. The small shred of rational thinking she had left told her that she would be sorry in the morning, but for now it was sweet relief.

  “Sex is nothing,” he said, now slurring too.

  “Sex is nothing? Can I quote you on that—when we’re not hammered, I mean.”

  “Let me finish,” he said, taking another shot. “Sex is nothing compared to love.”

  “What do you know about it?” she countered.

  “I know I’m in love with you.”

  I’m in love with you. Even through the thick sludge of alcohol slowing her brain synapses to a fuzzy mess, she couldn’t avoid the irony. The love of her life had told her just hours ago that she loved her but was not in love with her, and now her best buddy was telling her that he was in love with her.

  “Oh God, Toby.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

  five

  “I’ll help you clear,” Meg said, the first one to offer when it was obvious the dinner party was hurtling toward its conclusion. All that was left was dessert.

  All in all, Meryl felt it had been successful. The conversation, while lively, had steered clear of politics. Hugh entertained Tippy with a long-winded but charmingly eccentric story of his trip to Germantown, Pennsylvania, to visit the birthplace of Louisa May Alcott. The building was apparently not far from the Campions’ house in Haverford, and Tippy realized that, come to think of it, that was where she’d bought one of their pianos. There was a plaque outside.

  “And wasn’t Louisa May Alcott’s father a teacher, too?” Tippy asked.

  “Yes!” Hugh said, delighted.

  “I guess I do remember a few things from school!” said Tippy, equally delighted.

  Stowe and Andy found they shared an interest in the NHL, and debated the Rangers versus the Philadelphia Flyers. The only one who didn’t get into the spirit of things was Amy, who resisted contributing to the conversation no matter how often Meryl or Andy tried to engage her. Luckily a copious intake of wine had kept Meryl calm and smiling. They’d gone through three bottles at least. Still, she made a mental note to talk to Amy about this tomorrow. She couldn’t act out for the next eight months until the wedding. She would have to get over it.

  “Oh, before I forget,” said Tippy. “And this is something Reed and I had planned to share with you together, but goodness knows when he’ll be available!” She laughed before continuing, “But I can’t possibly wait any longer: We’d like to throw an engagement party.”

  Meryl looked at her, stupefied. The bride’s parents were supposed to throw the engagement party, at least according to the small stack of books on modern wedding etiquette she’d bought. She wanted to do everything just right for Meg and had already marked key passages.

  Meg and Stowe, beaming at each other, were the first to speak.

  “Mom, that’s really generous. Thanks,” Stowe said.

  “That would be amazing,” said Meg.

  Amazing? Meryl looked at her daughter incredulously. Meg wasn’t typically prone to hyperbole.

  “Sounds terrific,” said Hugh, refilling Tippy’s glass.

  Meryl shot him a glance, but he didn’t notice.

  What could she say? Thanks, but that’s not necessary? The truth was, she hadn’t thought about throwing an engagement party. It wasn’t essential, and it was a huge added expense. But if the Campions wanted to contribute in that way, fine. All it did was solidify her feeling that she absolutely didn’t want any more input from them—financial or otherwise.

  The only one who looked as unhappy as she felt was Amy. And as irritated as she was with her, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge at her middle child’s being so unhappy.

  “I think it’s time for dessert,” Meryl said, picking up her plate and Hugh’s. Meg stood and collected her own and Stowe’s.

  “Let me help,” Tippy said, making a polite, halfhearted attempt to rise from her seat.

  “No, please—relax. We’ll be done in no time,” Meryl said, and waved her away.

  She couldn’t help but glance at Amy, who made no move to help clear the dishes.

  Andy did not fail to notice, however. “Why don’t we take a quick walk before dessert?” he said to her.

  Amy shrugged.

  “It’s so lovely that you live right on the water like this,” said Tippy. “If I didn’t have to meet up with my husband, I’d suggest we all take a stroll.”

  Andy, not wanting to wait for Tippy to reconsider her stance on the matter, hustled a reluctant Amy out the door.

  Hugh, left with an audience of three, opened another bottle of wine.

  “I haven’t seen your father drink this much in a long time,” Meryl commented in the kitchen.

  “At least everyone is enjoying themselves,” Meg said.

  “Did you know about this engagement party?” Meryl said.

  “No—total surprise. But really nice of her, don’t you think?”

  “Very nice.”

  Meg pulled on one rubber glove, and Meryl’s eyes unwillingly fell to the two-carat, flawless solitaire diamond on her daughter’s left hand. It was a beautiful ri
ng. When she’d commented to her youngest daughter that the ring belonged in a Tiffany’s ad, Jo said it belonged right where it was: on Meg’s finger. Meryl was duly chastened. Time to get on board the Campion train. It seemed it was going to be quite a ride.

  “What was Tippy talking to you about in here before dinner?” Meg asked.

  She didn’t turn around, and Meryl was relieved that she didn’t have to face Meg. She didn’t want to tell her that Tippy offered to pay for the entire wedding. She knew Meg would be equally mortified, but at the same time, it was a lie of omission and Meg would see it on her face.

  “She suggested we use her wedding planner,” Meryl said.

  “And what do you think about that?” Meg asked nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly. This was clearly not news to her.

  “I told her thanks but no thanks,” Meryl said. “What did you think I’d say?”

  Meg turned around, an exasperated edge to her voice. “Mom, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Be offended.”

  “I’m not offended. Why didn’t you talk to me about this if you knew she wanted it?”

  “Stowe only just mentioned it to me today. You know, it really will save money in the end because she gets such great deals from the vendors.”

  “Yes, so she said. It’s not so much the expense, Meg. Your father and I are more than capable of throwing your wedding. I don’t need the Campions trying to make it into one of their events. Not to mention, I don’t need them overly involved with the cost and the budget and other things that frankly aren’t their business.” This came out harsher than Meryl intended, and Meg had registered her resentment.

  “I think she’s just trying to help. In her own way,” Meg responded stiffly.

  Meryl’s face softened. “Honey, I don’t doubt it. But I told her—nicely—that I am really looking forward to planning my daughter’s wedding—your wedding, with you—and I don’t need help from a stranger.”

  “How did she seem to take it?”

  Meryl looked closely at her daughter. “Are you worried about offending her? Meg, it’s your wedding.”