The Wedding Sisters (27 page)

“I know. And I know I said this on the phone, but I just want to reiterate: It will work out. Probably for the best.”

Meg was surprised by how good it felt to be in his arms, to hear his reassurance despite her lingering doubts about how much he knew and when. But really, she had two choices: move on from it or end it. And she didn't want to end it. She loved him. She wanted to be his wife—as complicated as that might be. She now knew their challenge—and every relationship had them—was to help him find the balance between his life as a Campion and his life as her partner.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.”

Why was he whispering?

Meg pulled back, a sudden unease chilling the warm glow of her homecoming. “Is someone here?”

As if on cue, Hunter Cross strolled into the room. Meg gasped, feeling as if she'd walked in on Stowe in bed with someone.

“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly, realizing her response lacked a certain grace. Why did Hunter Cross rankle her so much? Maybe it was because from the first moment Meg saw her in Reed's office, things had been going haywire.

Hunter smiled, pulling a pen from the knot in her high ponytail. “We're working,” she said. Hunter was dressed in a cream-colored blouse and matching pencil skirt. The blouse had a black, gauzy loose bow that tied at the neck in an oversized way that was dramatically chic. Meg felt sloppy and wrinkled after the three-hour drive, but she stood up straight and tucked her hair behind her ear and said with all the regal authority she could muster, “Well, you'll have to excuse us. The workday is over and I need to talk to my fiancé.”

Hunter looked to Stowe, and he nodded. “We can finish this tomorrow,” he said.

Hunter nodded. “I'll get my things.”

When she retreated back to the kitchen, Meg glared at Stowe. “What's this all about?”

“Campaign stuff.”

She looked pointedly at her phone. “At … nine at night?”

“I just got back from the office an hour ago.”

Meg walked to the kitchen, to see exactly what they were “working” on. The marble island in the center of the kitchen was filled with files, two laptops, and two legal pads. And an open bottle of wine.

Hunter was packing up her papers and computer into her Louis Vuitton briefcase. She glanced up at Meg. “You'll have to get used to unconventional business hours,” she said. “A campaign is twenty-four–seven.”

“Stowe isn't running for office,” said Meg.

Hunter smiled tightly. “When one member of the family runs, you all run. Really, Meg—if you're going to marry into the Campions, you need to get with the program.” She brushed past her on her way to the door.

Meg, her hand shaking, poured herself a glass from the open bottle of cabernet. She heard Stowe walk into the room, but didn't look at him.

“What's the problem?”

“Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

“I do—if you can stop looking at me like I did something wrong.”

“I don't like her.”

Stowe laughed. “Really? You hide it so well. Come on, Meg—you don't like being told what to do. Ever. But that's Hunter's job—to tell people what to do, say—sometimes even what to think. It's not personal.”

“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.