The Wedding Sisters (14 page)

“Uh-huh,” she said, certain the elderly Asian woman next to her, peering up at Meryl intently, was more interested in this conversation than she was.

“I mean, I'm sure it's a perfectly fine venue, but the wedding is usually in the hometown of the bride's family, not the groom's.”

“Whatever, Mom. I think you should just roll with it.”

Meryl, squinting up at the map of station stops above Jo's head, ignored her.

“We're next,” she announced, as if Jo hadn't been riding the 6 train her entire life.

At Fifty-ninth Street, Jo took comfort in the tide of people sweeping her off the train. Her mother, a few feet ahead, glanced back to make sure Jo was behind her. She could have caught up with her mother, but she was happy to have the temporary buffer.

Lexington was crowded, and her mother walked with brisk purpose. Jo's legs were longer, but she still practically had to trot to keep up with her.

“Are we late?”

“A half hour early, actually,” said Meryl. A white-gloved attendant opened the door for them. “I want to get the lay of the land first.”

Oh God. She didn't need an extra thirty minutes of looking at china and flatware.

Her mother fumbled for her glasses and scanned the directory. “We're headed to the third floor,” Meryl announced, loudly enough that a passerby looked at them.

“I'm going to check out the shoe department. I'll meet up with you at eleven thirty.”

“Oh, come to the registry with me. It will be fun!” her mother said.

“Later, Mom.”

They parted on the escalator when Meryl got off first.

Alone in Designer Shoes, Jo felt lost. She should have stayed with her mother. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, she thought.

The salespeople appraised her—was she worth their time? Was there a commission to be had in talking to the woman in jeans and Converse sneakers with the lank unwashed hair?

The verdict must have been no, because she moved to the shelf of Chanel boots without interruption. She thought of Amy and Meg, and how if they were the ones walking into this department, they'd be surrounded, swarmed, bees to honey.

Maybe Amy was on to something with her love of shopping. Would trying on a pair of nine-hundred-dollar Chanel combat boots fade the memory of Caroline? Somehow she doubted it—even if she could afford to buy them.

“They would look good on you.”

She turned, prepared to tell the salesperson thanks, but that she was just looking. But the woman—dressed in a baby blue cashmere cardigan, a scarf knotted loosely but perfectly around her long neck, and carrying a really cute Marc Jacobs—was not a salesperson.

Their eyes met, and Jo felt something. A ping. A jolt. Impossible. Jo was in love and Jo was heartbroken and any illusion of feeling was just a traumatized mind and heart playing tricks on her. It was like someone who had lost a limb, waking at night with pain in the foot that no longer existed. But she had to admit, this woman was exquisite. She had flawless, creamy skin, shiny dark hair cut into long layers framing her face and falling past her shoulders, and intense, nearly black eyes that were big and almond shaped and slightly exotic looking.

“These would look good on anyone,” Jo said. She turned them over to look at the price tag again. “And for nine hundred dollars, they should.”

“I couldn't pull those off. I'm stuck with this sort of thing.” She held out a ballet flat.

“Don't sell yourself short,” Jo heard herself saying, her tone—dare she admit it—flirtatious. “Try them on.”

The woman smiled at her, as if accepting an outrageous dare.

A bow-tied salesman appeared. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, actually. I'll try these in a seven.” She held Jo's gaze as she said it.

Jo, her heart beating fast, her body responding in a way that she hadn't even felt for Caroline in a long time, felt like she was having some sort of anxiety attack. It's fuck or flight, she told herself.

“Good luck with the shoes,” Jo said.

And she got the hell out of there.

On the third floor, her mother was deep in conversation with an older saleswoman. She had dyed red hair and a tweed jacket and black slacks that did nothing to slim her extremely wide hips and ass. The woman wore glasses on a beaded chain around her neck, and nodded at whatever Meryl was saying, her face tight with extreme seriousness as if matters of national security were being discussed.

Meryl spotted her and waved vigorously, as if guiding a plane to landing.

Yeah, Mom, I see you.

“This is my youngest daughter, Josephine,” Meryl said as soon as Jo was in shouting distance. She was holding a gilt-edged dinner plate with a giant H design in the middle of it.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” the woman said.

“Uh, no. I'm not the one getting married.”

“The bride-to-be is my eldest daughter, Meg,” said Meryl.

Jo, still rattled by her odd attraction to the stranger in Designer Shoes, just nodded distractedly. She wandered off to look at a glass case filled with Lalique figurines—fish, goddesses, Buddhas. She wondered which ones Meg would pick out. Maybe the ballet dancer on the top shelf. Meg had always liked ballet. She took Jo to see
Swan Lake
when Jo was in ninth grade, and then when the Natalie Portman movie
Black Swan
came out, they went to see it together. Jo was so turned on by the sex scene with Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis, she was too embarrassed to enjoy the rest of the movie, as if her sister could somehow guess what she was thinking in the close darkness of the movie theater.

“Honey, Meg's here!” her mother called excitedly. Jo turned to see her sister, practically glowing with her classic beauty, turning heads in her camel cape, her blond hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, her face pale but her blue eyes shining.

Meg kissed her mother hello but then made her way quickly to Jo, pulling her into a warm, Chanel Allure–scented hug.

“I'm so sorry, kiddo,” she said. “It totally sucks.”

“Yeah,” Jo said, holding her tight, feeling the prick of tears.

“You're going to be okay,” she said, a whisper. Then, kissing her on the cheek before pulling back, she put an arm around her and they faced the room together.

“So how much of this crap do you think I need?” she said.

Jo laughed.

“Meg, come over here. This is Helen, and she's going to help us get organized.”

“Okay, but we should wait until Leigh gets here.”

“Who's Leigh?”

“Leigh Beauford. The wedding planner. Tippy told you about her, right?”

Jo saw her mother's face turn a shade of purple she'd never seen before.

“I told Tippy we didn't want a wedding planner.”

“Well, Mom, she didn't get the message, because Leigh came in from Philly this morning just to help out, so let's keep that thought to ourselves, okay?”

“No, it's not okay—”

“Shhh—she's here. Hi, Leigh!”

Jo turned to follow the direction of Meg's greeting, but all she saw was the woman from the shoe department. Jo couldn't help but look down at her feet.

She was wearing the Chanel boots.

Their eyes locked. Had she followed her here? How had she known? Surely, the woman was not going to the bridal registry—

And why was Meg talking to her? Why was Meg waving them over?

“Mom, Jo, this is Leigh Beauford. Our wedding planner.”

 

eleven

Meryl felt like hurling the Hermès dinner plate at the pretty brunette wedding planner.

“I'm sorry—there must have been some miscommunication. We don't need a wedding planner,” she said instead.

She didn't dare look at Meg, who was no doubt giving her a death glare. And Leigh Beauford didn't even seem to be listening. She was looking at Jo, whose cheeks were undeniably flushed.

“I've got to go,” Jo said. “Meg—good luck. I've got a … thing.”

Go? Go where? But Meryl couldn't worry about Jo's abrupt departure when Tippy Campion's minion was busy crashing her party.

“Mom, it's fine. No harm in having a third opinion. Let's consider Leigh our tiebreaker,” Meg said, smiling graciously at the woman standing before them.

Helen, sniffing out a budding argument in her midst like a narcotics canine at Penn Station, had distanced herself, and was nowhere to be seen.

Why was she so upset? Meryl didn't know if it was Hugh's job fiasco, Tippy's wedding planner, or Meg's refusal to take her side, but she suddenly felt like crying. She knew she was being irrational, so when she felt her phone vibrate, she was grateful for the distraction and the chance to pull herself together.

She fished her phone out of her bag.
Any chance you're free for drinks tonight?

Meryl looked around the room, as if therein was the answer to who on earth was texting her.

“Mom?” Meg prompted. “Leigh suggested we start with the dinnerware.”

“Kate Spade is doing some really modern, fresh things for casual dining,” said Leigh.

Who is this?
Meryl texted back.

“For the fine china, I'm partial to Wedgwood,” said Helen, who had reappeared, somehow sensing the storm had passed.

“Yes, I agree. Shall we start there?” said Leigh.

“Absolutely. As I was telling Meryl, I like to start our brides with the formal ware and build out from there.”

It's Scott. I'll be in your neighborhood around seven. Work for you? Pick any place.

Tonight. Was she free? Of course. When was the last time she and Hugh had gone out after dinner? Hugh probably wouldn't even notice she was gone.

Meryl smiled to herself. Where could they go in her neighborhood? Someplace that wasn't too old and stodgy or too loud with a million TV screens airing the hockey game. Jo had mentioned someplace recently—a place she said was “More Brooklyn than Brooklyn.” Meryl typed back,
There's a place called Bondurants on 85th.

See you there.

“Mom, are you coming?”

Meryl looked up. Helen and Leigh were already walking to the next room. Meg took Meryl by the arm. “Are you all right? Everyone's acting crazy. And where did Jo run off to?”

“I don't know,” said Meryl. “I'm sorry, honey. I was distracted. Oh, but Meg, this woman Leigh. It's not necessary and I don't think we should encourage her by bringing her along today. I'm not using a wedding planner. We're not celebrities.”

“Why is this so threatening to you? It can only help. We have a lot to do in not a lot of time. I'm working like crazy, and you could get a freelance job any day because you know how that is with you. Tippy's in Pennsylvania and I'm in Washington with Stowe. If we can have another person on board to fill in the gaps, I say great.”

Meryl didn't know what to say. That Hugh had lost his job and she felt like the entire wedding was slipping through her fingers? That she felt less important than the mega-family Meg was marrying into? That she was afraid Tippy, with her well-preserved beauty and WASPy elegance and contacts all over the place, was going to replace Meryl in Meg's life? That Tippy could hire someone to do Meryl's job made her feel all the more useless? She could barely admit these things to herself.

“Mom. Mom! Your phone's ringing,” Meg said impatiently. Good Lord, she was right. Meryl pulled it out again.

“Mrs. Becker?”

She recognized the Queens accent, and her stomach tightened into a knot. Mr. Curello.

“Yes?”

“We need you to come get your mother. Now.”

*   *   *

This time, when Meryl arrived to find her mother screaming, the police were waiting for her.

“We can't tell you what to do, Mrs. Becker,” an officer said. “But you probably should consider a different living arrangement for your mother sooner than later.”

Meryl could barely register what he was saying, not while her mother was screaming like that. She looked around for Oona. “Where's her caretaker?”

“We're talking to the nurse,” the officer said.

“Talking to her … about what?”

“Just to make sure there's no problem—you know how things can be sometimes. We need to file a report.”

“Oh, I don't think Oona is causing this. But for God's sake, I don't know what is!” She pressed her hand to her head.

Her mother was perched at the edge of her bed, staring at the wall with her eyes wide open again.

“Mother,” Meryl said quietly, then again, more loudly. Her heart raced at the volume and pitch of the scream. Feeling frantic, she paced for a minute by the bedside. Then, remembering what had worked last time, she threw her arms around her mother and held her tight. Sure enough, the screaming stopped.

Then, as if waking from a dream, her mother shook her head slightly, looking at her askance. “Meryl. Did you call before you stopped by?”

Meryl shook her head, choking back a sob. “No. No, Mom, I didn't call. I'm sorry.”

She sat next to her on the bed, searching for the remote to turn off the television. Since when did her mother have the TV on all day? She knew she watched
The Bold and the Beautiful
and
The Young and the Restless,
but it was too early for those shows. “Mom, I want you to come stay with me tonight.”

“With you? At your apartment? Don't be ridiculous, Meryl. Why would I do that? Are you okay? Is it the girls?” Her voice lowered. “Did Meg break off that engagement?”

“It's not me. Or the girls. We're fine. It's you I'm worried about.”

Before her mother could erupt in protest, one of the police officers came near the bedroom doorway, gesturing for her.

“Why are the police here?” her mother asked.

“Mom, pack some things. We'll talk about it in the cab.”