The Wedding Sisters (22 page)

Excitement, not surprise.

She realized she was the only one in the room not applauding. The entire room was on its feet. Tippy joined her husband in the middle of the dance floor and beckoned for Stowe, Meg, Sutton, and Cutter to join them.

And she knew, in no uncertain terms, making her way back on the dance floor to thunderous applause and the sound of the band playing “My Way,” that her husband-to-be was a liar.

 

sixteen

On the surface, it was a normal Monday morning. Hugh with his tattered brown leather briefcase in hand—Meryl could almost pretend he was on his way to Yardley. But she knew that inside the briefcase, instead of student papers to grade and laptop filled with lesson plans, his computer was loaded up with his manuscript in progress.

“Meryl, don't make any commitments with wedding vendors until we finish this conversation,” Hugh said, closing the door behind him. By “this conversation,” he meant the two-hour argument they had driving home from Philly about Jo's engagement—the third wedding.

“I'd always known suicides were contagious,” Hugh had said, “but not engagements.”

“That's a terrible thing to say. These are our children.”

“Meryl, it doesn't matter. We're throwing one party—
one
—and the girls can share it, or you can hand all this off to their rich future mothers-in-law and let them take care of it. Or we can find some way to space this out over time. But I'm not going to go bankrupt throwing three weddings this year.”

It was difficult to argue with him. Two was challenging enough, but now three? She was fighting a losing battle, and her moral high ground had turned into a wet, slushy marsh.

The phone rang, jolting her from her thoughts.

“Hello?” she answered, opening up her DayMinder calendar on the kitchen counter. She still couldn't convert to a digital planner. If she couldn't see the day's tasks written in front of her in her own handwriting, she felt unmoored.

“I'm calling for Meryl Becker,” a woman said.

“Speaking.”

“Hi, Meryl—this is Jennifer Jedell from
New York
magazine. I'm working on a piece about your daughters' engagements.”

“My daughters?”

“Yes. It's quite a story and apparently keeps getting better. A political powerhouse, fashion royalty, and actual royalty. I mean, bravo, if I do say so myself. We haven't seen a trio of New York women marry this well since the Miller sisters in the late '90s.”

Meryl had no idea how to respond to that.

“Can you tell me anything about the wedding plans?” the woman asked.

“It's still early.”

“Will all three weddings take place within this calendar year? Because frankly, that makes it an even more interesting story.”

A little too interesting, Meryl thought.

“We really don't know yet.”

“Okay, well, let me give you my contact info. It would be a huge help if you could keep me posted.”

After the initial surprise wore off, the publicist in Meryl snapped to attention. “Whom are you speaking to for this article?”

“I can't share my sources. But if your daughters would like to cooperate, I would of course welcome their input.”

“What did you say your name was again?” Meryl wrote her name and phone number down, and as soon as the call ended, Googled her. The search produced a dozen articles about socialites and celebrities, with snarky headlines like,
PRETTY IN THE AGE OF SUCK CITY
. The content of the articles had no less bite. She immediately called the girls and left them voice mail messages.

“It's Mom. If a reporter from
New York
magazine calls, don't speak to her. And call me later.”

Will all three weddings take place within this calendar year? That makes it an even more interesting story.

How interesting was the story if the weddings all took place within the same
evening
?

Very interesting, Meryl would imagine. The publicist in her, dormant, underemployed, kicked into high gear. She felt a simmering sense of purpose. If she couldn't manage the weddings the way she wanted, she could at the very least manage the press.

Next she left a message for her friend Shelley Kale, the books editor at
People
magazine. Same with her contact at
Vanity Fair.

Her phone rang. Scott.

“Hello?”

“Meryl—tell me that it's true.”

“What's true?”

“Your youngest daughter just got engaged to a Danish lord?”

Meryl had to think for a minute. Toby
was
technically a lord, though she never thought of him that way. Another set of imposing in-laws-to-be. But the countess couldn't possibly be worse than Tippy.

“Yes, Jo got engaged this weekend.”

“This is big. Huge. Meryl, I know you're hesitant about exploring a TV deal, but as your friend, I have to tell you: You're sitting on a gold mine here.”

“There's just a lot going on—”

“I have to go to London for a week. Then I'll be in New York. We should really sit down and put together a game plan.”

A game plan?

“I don't know—”

“I'll touch base soon. And, Meryl—have fun with it!”

Fun with the wedding planning. That was a novel idea.

*   *   *

The photos from the Milk Studios shoot came back phenomenal. At least, that's what Andy said.

Amy could barely look at them.

“You did a great job,” he said to her. “I'm glad you went along.”

“I really didn't have much to do with it.”

“Why don't you ever want to take credit for anything?”

The
New York Post
was open on her desk, Page Six. “Is that your sister?” Andy said, peering over at it. Another article about the “wedding sisters,” and another photo of Meg. This time, she was walking out of Monique Lhuillier, caught in motion, her sunglasses in one hand on her way to her face, but the shot happened first. It reminded her of that famous Ron Galella photo of Jackie Kennedy on the city street.

“Yeah. It's from the day she was dress shopping. They were waiting outside like wolves.”

Andy leaned forward to read the short piece:

Here Come the Brides

Wedding sisters
Meg
,
Amy
, and
Jo Becker
will all be walking down the aisle in
Monique Lhuillier
. Youngest sister Jo just this weekend announced her engagement to Danish
Lord Tobias Hedegaard-Kruse
. Oldest Meg is marrying the son of Republican Senator (and presidential hopeful)
Reed Campion
, while middle sister Amy is hitching her wagon to the
Jeffrey Bruce
fashion empire. The wedding dates have not been set.

“You're not all wearing Monique Lhuillier,” Andy said.

“Can your dad call someone? This is just obnoxious.” Of course the paper used Meg's photo yet again. And what was with them saying she was “hitching her wagon”? What was that supposed to mean?

The bottom line was that no matter what they wrote or didn't write about her, she didn't want her engagement in the limelight—not today. It wasn't just the guilt that was eating at her. It was also the fact that she couldn't help but wonder if “the incident,” as she'd come to think of cheating—signified something she couldn't ignore. Jo was right. Amy had to figure it out. But how?

“Gotta run to a meeting with Stella.” He kissed her on the forehead and left her with a screen filled with images of Marcus. Her eyes gravitated to the shots in which he wore the white T-shirt and chocolate brown leather jacket. Moments before those were taken, he had been talking to her. And it was that brief conversation that pressed pause on her life as Andy Bruce's fiancée. For two minutes, she was just a girl talking to a gorgeous guy. And while she hadn't admitted it to herself in that moment, she had been flooded with hot, agonizing desire.

Amy closed the window of images and put her head in her hands. This was a mess and she was going to fix it. She was going to throw herself into wedding planning. That would keep her focused on the right thing, the important thing: Andy.

She texted her mother.
Come with me to look at invitations this week?

She needed coffee.

Amy headed to the elevator bank. There was a department assistant she could send to the Starbucks across the street, but she needed fresh air. Maybe she would stay away from any shoots until after the wedding. Just to be safe. She didn't know how she'd explain that to Jeffrey, but she was sure Stella wouldn't complain.

The first elevator made a ding and the doors slid open. She walked inside, looking at her phone. Her mother had responded to her text,
Later this week. And did you get my message about the New York magazine reporter?

What
New York
magazine reporter?

“Amy!”

She looked up and the phone fell from her hand. Marcus bent down to retrieve it for her, and she bent down at the same time and they nearly collided.

“What are you doing here?” she said, taking the phone from him, trying not to look at his face. She was like Perseus trying to avoid Medusa. Or was that Athena trying to avoid Medusa?

“I have a meeting with Stella and Mr. Bruce. This is my agent, Karen.”

Amy shook hands with the young woman, barely able to register her. It was all she could do to maintain some semblance of a normal, professional demeanor.

“This is Amy,” Marcus said. “She was at the spring shoot.”

“I guess the shots came out pretty damn well,” Karen said.

“They did! We just got them in late Friday. I was away, so I just saw them this morning.”

“They want to talk to me about expanding my relationship with the brand,” Marcus said.

“What?”

He smiled and shrugged. “That's what they said.”

The doors opened into the lobby.

“Who said?”

“Mr. Bruce and Stella. Your boss who was at the shoot?”

His agent's phone rang. She answered quickly and gave Marcus the “one sec” finger.

“Hey,” Marcus said when Karen was out of earshot. “So great to run into you. Really.”

Amy couldn't speak. All she could do was soak in his eyes, his lips, the perfect contours of his face. She felt herself leaning toward him, a plant in photosynthesis.

“I have to go,” she said. He touched her arm. Her heart fluttered.

“You ran off before I could get your number last time.” His phone was out, and he handed it to her. “Type it in for me, okay?”

She took it wordlessly, the screen swimming before her eyes, blurry and unreadable. She couldn't type—she couldn't think. “I don't know.…”

He took it back from her. “It's just ten digits, Amy.” He smiled to show he was joking.

How was she going to know what this was all about? There was only one way.

She recited her phone number and then rushed out the revolving door.

*   *   *

Meg and Stowe did an awkward dance around each other that morning. Stowe made a point of bringing her coffee while she dressed and offering to stop by Whole Foods for groceries for dinner on his way home. But Meg kept her eyes glued to her phone, silently scrolling through news sites as she stood at the kitchen counter, eating a toasted bagel. The news of Reed's candidacy was everywhere, including Poliglot. Kevin had cobbled together an article based on secondhand sources.

He hadn't responded to her calls or e-mails all weekend.

Meg dropped her plate in the sink, dreading the office but unable to stand being around Stowe. She had every intention of maintaining the wall of silence that had stood between them since Reed's announcement Friday night—not an easy task, considering the entire weekend was a celebration of their engagement, culminating in brunch at his parents' for fifty people.

But then she got the Google Alert.

“You've got to be kidding me,” she muttered, clicking the link to the headline reading
HERE COME THE BRIDES
. A photo of herself outside Monique Lhuillier filled her screen.

“What?” asked Stowe, jumping at any chance for a dialogue. The last words she'd spoken to him were “You lied to me,” to which he'd replied, “I didn't know.” To which she'd replied, “Bullshit.”

Meg didn't answer, simply sliding her phone across the kitchen counter. He looked at it and said, “I guess we'd better get used to it. Soon, it won't just be the
Post.
”

“Yeah, thanks for the news flash. I
do
work in the media, you know. If I still have my job, that is.”

“Meg, please stop with this anger. I know you're frustrated. But I didn't lie to you. I didn't know he was declaring a run for the ticket. I mean, in politics nothing is out of the question. But I absolutely did not know.”

It was nothing she hadn't heard all weekend. And what she hadn't been able to articulate through her hurt and fury was the one thing that he couldn't explain away:

“But you wouldn't have told me anyway.”

He paused, then took her hands and pulled her in front of him. He forced her to look at him before he said, “Honestly? I don't know. It would have been tough for me, and maybe that's why my dad didn't put me in that position. He really likes you, Meg. He really likes
us.
I think he was protecting our relationship by not telling me.”

“I wouldn't have leaked the news. Does he think I would do that? Does he think I couldn't handle being put in that position?”

“Babe, again, I don't think he wanted you to have to make that choice.”

“Why couldn't he have just told me and let me work with the story? It would have been huge for me.”