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"Didn't we cover this at dinner?" Maggie ignored her. "I remember him from that party," she said. "He was cute! Short, but cute. Tell me what kind of wedding you're going to have." "Small," said Rose, who'd decided that the shorter the answers, the better off she'd be. "Sydelle's helping." "Oh, no. Disaster waiting to happen. Do you remember My Marcia's wedding?" "Vaguely," said Rose. "I was only there for the ceremony." Sydelle, considerate as ever, had slated My Marcia's wedding for the weekend of Rose's last law-school finals. She'd stayed for the vows, then ducked back home to study. "Oh. My. God," Maggie breathed. "It could've been a Fox special. America's Worst Weddings." "I saw pictures. It looked beautiful." But Rose was starting to get a nagging feeling that there had been some story about My Marcia's nuptials, something her father and Sydelle hadn't wanted to talk about. "Did you notice," asked Maggie, "that none of the pictures showed anybody's feet?" Rose couldn't remember. "Let me tell you why," said Maggie. "The wedding was on the lawn behind this fancy country club, remember?" "Silver Glen." "Silver Glen, Silver Lake, Silver Somertiing," Maggie said impatiently. "And it was really pretty—gardens, lawns, all of that—except the automatic sprinklers malfunctioned, and the tent didn't have a floor and there was, like, six inches of muck on the ground. All of the tables started sinking, and it was freezing cold ..." "You're kidding," said Rose. "I'm not!" Maggie said gleefully. "My Marcia was, like, crying her eyes out in the bathroom." Maggie raised her voice to a hysterical warble. '"My special day is ruined! Ruined!'"
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"Oh, God," said Rose, who was starting to feel sick—and a certain degree of sympathy for My Marcia. "Oh, there's more," said Maggie. "Sydelle forgot to get a parking variance, so everyone had to keep running out of the reception to move their cars. Then the sprinklers went off again, in the middle of their first dance, and everyone fled. And," she concluded, "they forgot to assign me a seat, so I had to sit with the band. We had boxed lunches instead of surf and turf." Rose decided that Maggie's absence from the seating chart was probably not an accident, but decided not to say so. "It was a horror show," Maggie concluded happily. "But there was an open bar. The one redeeming feature. I enjoyed many cocktails." "I'm sure," said Rose. "There was a drink parade with me as grand marshall," Maggie continued. "Were you even twenty-one then?" "Not so much," said Maggie. "So what else, what else?" "Not much," said Rose slowly. It wasn't true, she knew, but why fill Maggie in on her disastrous shower, her fight with her father, running into Jim Danvers? It wasn't time yet. She still had to figure out what was responsible for her sister's miraculous transformation into a responsible, non-attention-seeking, job holding, senior-citizen-appreciating citizen of Golden Acres. "Tell me more about the wedding. Are you going to have bridesmaids?" There was a short, tense silence. "Just Amy, I think," said Rose. "And you, too, I guess. If you want." "Do you want me to be a bridesmaid?" "I don't care that much," said Rose. "If you want to be in it, you can." "Well, it's your wedding," said Maggie. "You should care." "That's what everyone keeps telling me," said Rose. "Well," Maggie said stiffly. "Good night, then."
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"Good night," said Rose. "Goodnight," said Maggie. Silence. "Rose?" Maggie said. "Hey, Rose, could you get me a glass of water with one ice cube, please?" "Get your own water," said Rose. But even as she was saying it, she swung her legs out of the bed, realizing that she'd forgotten this fact, too: she always got Maggie's water. She'd been bringing it to her since they were little. She'd supplied Maggie with her evening glass almost every night during Maggie's stint in her apartment. And, probably when they were in their eighties, after they'd outlived husbands and left their jobs and moved to whatever the 2060s version of Golden Acres would be, she'd still be fetching her little sister glasses of water with one ice cube. When Rose got back to the bed, there was something glimmering on her pillow. She looked at it carefully, thinking it could be a bug of some sort. But it wasn't a bug. It was a foil-wrapped square of chocolate. "Just like in the fine hotels," said Maggie. "Go to sleep," said Rose. "Fine, fine," said Maggie. But before she finally closed her eyes, she set the chocolate on the bedside table, so that it would be the first thing that her sister saw in the morning.
In her own bedroom, Ella released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding and sank onto her bed. Her brain was spinning with questions. What was the story with Sydelle? ho was My Marcia? Why wasn't Rose really talking to Maggie? Why did Maggie seem so desperate to please her older sister? Would Rose really have a wedding without including Maggie? Would Ella even be invited? She bit her lip and closed her eyes. There was a story here. Ella was sure of it. There was a reason why Maggie had left Rose's apartment and gone to Princeton, a reason she hadn't talked to her only sister in ten months. Give it time, Lewis had told her. "I'll try," she whispered to herself, and blew two kisses toward her granddaughters' bedroom wall.
FIFTY FOUR
Rose shoved one gloved hand into a pot filled with boiled turkey legs, extracted one of them, and began pulling the meat off the bone. "Thank you so much for coming to help," said Ella, who stood beside Rose, peeling carrots, in the synagogue recreation room where they served lunch to the homeless every Friday. "Are you sure you're okay with that?" "Fine," said Rose. "It's better than the onions, right?" "Oh, absolutely!" said Ella, wincing at her too-enthusiastic, too-loud tone. She bent back to the carrots, trying hard not to stare at her oldest granddaughter. Rose had been in Florida for three days, and she was still mostly a mystery to Ella. She answered all of Ella's questions completely and politely, and asked plenty of her own, mostly all of them couched so well that Ella could tell that asking questions was part of what she did for a living. Or part of what she'd done, since Rose explained that she was taking a break from legal life. "What do you mean, taking a break?" Maggie had asked. "I meant what I said. Taking a break," Rose had said, without looking at her sister. Something bad had happened between the two of them, Ella knew. But she couldn't guess what it was, and Maggie
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had been tight-lipped on the subject while she trailed her sister around Golden Acres like a lost puppy dog. Rose peeled off her gloves, put her hands on her hips, and stretched, rolling her neck. Even in a hairnet, her granddaughter was beautiful, Ella decided. Rose looked the way she'd imagined a biblical heroine to look—tall and strong and stern, somehow, with powerful shoulders and capable-looking hands. "Are you okay?" she asked. Rose sighed. "Well, I'm done with the turkey." "Let's take a break," said Ella. They walked over to a card table in the corner, where Mrs. Lefkowitz sat, reading the latest issue of Hello! (because, as she'd said, the gossip from England was always much more interesting). "The bride-to-be!" she hailed Rose. Rose smiled faintly and sat down in a folding chair. "So let's hear about the wedding," said Mrs. Lefkowitz. "You got your dress?" Rose flinched. "The wedding. Um. Well, Sydelle's helping." "What's a Sydelle?" "My stepmother," Rose said. "The Cruella De Vil of Cherry Hill." She looked at Ella. "What was my mom's wedding like?" "It was small," said Ella. "They planned it themselves. They got married in the rabbi's study, on a Thursday afternoon. I wanted to help ... to make her a wedding . . . but Caroline didn't want much, and your father didn't want anything that Caroline didn't want." "Sounds familiar," Rose said. "My father's not . . ." Her voice trailed off. "He's not a very strong-willed person." Except when he's cutting me out of your life, Ella thought. "He loved your mother," she said instead. "Anyone who saw them together knew that. He tried to take care of her, to make her happy." "I want to talk about your wedding!" said Mrs. Lefkowitz, setting aside her account of Fergie's latest dalliance. "Tell me everything!"
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Rose sighed. "Not much to tell, really. It's being planned by a monster, who completely ignores me when I tell her what Simon and I want, and keeps trying to cram her ideas down our throats." "A lemon," said Mrs. Lefkowitz, and nodded. "Huh?" "Think about fruit," she continued. "When you squeeze an orange, what do you get?" Rose smiled. "Trouble?" "No, no, Mrs. Smart. You get orange juice. You don't get grapefruit juice, you don't get apple juice, you don't get milk. You get orange juice. Every time. People are like that. They can only give you what they have inside. So if this Sydelle character is giving you so much trouble, it's because she's nothing but trouble on the inside. She's just delivering what's in her heart into the universe." And Mrs. Lefkowitz sat back, looking pleased with herself. "Where'd you learn that?" asked Ella. "Dr. Phil," said Mrs. Lefkowitz. Ella made a mental note to find out who Dr. Phil was. "So," said Rose, "what kind of fruit is Maggie?" "A sweet one," said Mrs. Lefkowitz. Rose laughed. "If that's what you think, then you don't know my sister very well." "She's not sweet?" asked Ella. Rose got to her feet. "She takes things," she said. Finally, Ella thought, as Rose started pacing. Finally, we're going to get to the root of this, and find out what went wrong. "She takes everything," Rose continued, her voice cracking. "Haven't you noticed? My sister feels a certain sense of entitlement. Like, she's entitled to anything that's yours. Clothes, shoes, cash, cars . . . other things." Other things, Ella thought. "Don't tell me that in all the time she's been with you nothing's ever gone missing." "I don't think so," Ella said.
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"We don't have anything she'd want," said Mrs. Lefkowitz. Rose shook her head. "Figures," she said, "that once she was done with me, she'd decide to walk the straight and narrow." Other things, Ella thought again, and she took her best guess at what the heart of the trouble might be. "What did Maggie take?" she asked. Rose's head whipped around. "Huh?" Ella repeated the question. "I think she took something that meant a lot to you. What was it?" "Nothing," Rose said. And now she didn't just sound angry, she sounded furious. At Maggie, Ella thought. And maybe at her, too. "Nothing that meant that much." "Dear," said Ella, stretching out her hand. Rose ignored her. "I think Maggie's okay," Ella continued, blundering desperately forward. "She's saving her money, I know, and I think her business idea's a good one. She's found outfits for a bunch of people that I know of. Her friend Dora, my neighbor Mavis Gold ..." "Just be careful," Rose said. "If she hasn't taken anything of yours yet, it doesn't mean she isn't going to. She might look sweet, but she isn't. Not always." And Ella sat, openmouthed and frozen, as Rose walked out the door.
FIFTY FIVE
Two days later, Maggie watched Rose as she slept on the lounge chair beside her. "She's tired," Dora observed. "Your insights are overwhelming," said Jack. "She seems nice," said Herman, in one of his rare non-tattoo-related remarks. "She is nice," said Ella. Maggie sighed. "I think she's going home," she said. She'd heard Rose on the phone that morning, when she was coming out of the shower, talking quietly to someone who must've been Simon, apologizing quietly, asking him to check flights back to Philadelphia for her. But Rose couldn't leave. Not like this. Not without Maggie convincing her that she really had changed, that she really was going to be better, and that she really was sorry. She rolled onto her side, thinking. Rose needed peace and quiet, and Maggie had made sure that she got naps every day, quiet time at the pool, walks at night after dinner. She made sure that Ella had laid in a stock of her sister's favorite foods, including the cheese curls and ice cream that Rose was secretly fond of. She always let her sister have the remote control when they watched TV and didn't complain
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when Rose went pawing through her library books in search of the poems she'd remembered from college. None of it seemed to be working. Rose stuck close to Ella, asking her questions about their mother, looking at pictures, accompanying her on her rounds. The two of them were thick as thieves, a perfect circle of two. And Rose wasn't inclined to make room for Maggie. Maggie, it was clear, had not yet been forgiven. And Maggie had no idea how to get forgiven, except for telling Rose that she was sorry. Which she'd done over and over again, to no avail. There had to be something she could give Rose, some act she could perform to convince her sister that she was sorry and that she'd do better from now on. Well, she thought, flipping onto her belly, at least Rose had another boyfriend. A husband-to-be. A wedding she was probably planning with all of the ruthless efficiency she'd once brought to bear on her career. Maggie imagined the guest list on a spread sheet. A computer-generated seating chart. A florist cultivating the perfect blooms for her bouquet. But what about wedding dress? Maggie sat up so fast she spilled her water, causing Dora to shriek and Jack to scold and Ella to pass her a towel. "Hey, Rose!" she called. Rose woke up with a start and stared at her sleepily. "Do you have a wedding dress yet?" Her sister closed her eyes again. "I'm looking," she said. "Go back to sleep," said Maggie. It was perfect! If she could find Rose the right wedding dress . . . well, it wouldn't fix everything, but it would be a start. More that a start, it would be a sign—a sign that Maggie was sincere, and that she meant well. Plus, the more she thought about it, finding the perfect dress for her sister would be symbolic. She remembered that from her class called the Manufa cture of Myth, when the professor had talked about sacred quests, how the hero had to go into the world and bring something back—a sword, a chalice, a glass slipper, or enchanted beans. Gawain and the Green Knight, the professor had said. "Jack and the Beanstalk." Lord of the Rings. And what were the objects a symbol for? the professor had asked. Knowledge. Once the
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