The Wedding Sisters (28 page)

“I should go rest now.” She retreated back into her bedroom.

“Meryl…,” Tippy said.

“I understand your concern,” said Meryl. And then, the olive branch she had been planning. “But if it makes you feel any better, I will definitely need Leigh Beauford's help. In fact, she can come with us when we go dress shopping for Meg's sister.”

“I thought Jeffrey Bruce was doing her dress?”

“My youngest. We have three, remember? Triple wedding?”

Tippy paled. “I'll talk to Leigh.”

*   *   *

Meryl told herself that the decision to stop by the hair salon had nothing to do with drinks that night with Scott.

She had a wedding coming up. And before that, bridal showers and all the photos that entailed, and anyway, it was time. So she stopped in at the Aveda salon on Eighty-sixth Street, where she told Jo-Ellen, the woman who had cut her hair for years and years, that she was ready to cover up the gray.

Jo-Ellen was delighted and didn't question the sudden decision, though Meryl still had found it necessary to justify the change with, “For the wedding…”

Meryl had never colored her hair before. So she didn't know what to expect when it came to turning back the clock on her hair, which had been gradually graying since her midforties. Maybe I'll color it, she had thought once. When it gets really “bad.” And then one day a woman at the checkout counter at Eli's had commented that she really liked when women let their hair stay natural. That's when Meryl realized she was nearly completely gray. The thing was, she hadn't noticed. And then when she did notice, she didn't care.

But now she did.

“Oh my God,” she said, looking in the mirror. She looked, if not ten years younger, at least more like herself of ten years ago. And it was a welcome sight.

She had an hour before meeting Scott. The bar—or, as the place billed itself, gastropub—was just two blocks from Aveda. She didn't want to go home first, didn't want to go through the trouble of explaining her hair to Hugh. He would notice—of course he'd notice. He might have his head up his ass half the time, but he wasn't blind. Maybe he'd even like it.

Did she want for him to like it? Did she even care anymore?

As for her evening plans, she'd told Hugh she was having drinks with an old work friend.

“You think it could lead to something?” he asked.

She'd bitten her lip. “No. It's just drinks.”

Bondurants had very few tables, but she'd called ahead to reserve one. She was the first to arrive, and sat reading the menu over and over again. She was so nervous, and she knew that alone was a sort of betrayal of Hugh. To combat her guilt, she reminded herself that she was meeting him for a reason. Wasn't she?

Without watching the door, she somehow sensed when Scott walked in.

She stood to greet him and he kissed her on the cheek.

“Is it my imagination or do you look different?” he said, looking her up and down in a way that made her blush.

“I'm not sure,” she said, resisting the urge to touch her hair.

He sat across from her, looking around the small room. The bar was already packed.

“Interesting place,” he said.

She couldn't tell if he meant that as a compliment.

“There's a Ranger game on tonight,” she said. “This is the only bar in walking distance without a screen.”

“No, this is great.”

They ordered drinks. Another thing about Bondurants—which she hadn't known ahead of time—was that there was no table service, so Scott had to walk up to the horseshoe-shaped bar and order for them. Another minute to collect herself.

Scott returned with their drinks—a club soda for him, and prosecco for her.

“You don't drink?” she asked. She knew that wasn't something you were allowed to ask. But she felt a compulsion to hear everything about his life.

To her relief, he didn't seem to mind the question. “I don't anymore. Got a little out of hand when I was younger. You know how it is in your twenties.”

She didn't say anything. Then, “I had three kids in my twenties.”

He whistled. “I can't imagine. How old were you when you got married?”

“Twenty-three.”

“What's it like? Being with the same person for … how long has it been again?”

“Thirty years,” she said.

“Impressive.”

“It's not easy.”

“No kidding. I've never had a relationship last longer than a year.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It's fine. I have no complaints. The truth is, I prefer being single. I really enjoy never knowing what life is going to bring my way—who I'm going to meet. Running into you, for example.”

Meryl gulped her drink, coughing on the bubbles. “Running into me.”

“Crazy, after all this time. I still remember that night on the boardwalk. God, we were so young.”

Meryl couldn't look at him. She was afraid of what her eyes would give away. She was still that girl on the boardwalk. And that kiss suddenly felt like very unfinished business.

“So—a lot's happened in the last few weeks,” he said.

“What?” She looked up, conversationally disoriented.

“Hasn't it? Your third daughter got engaged, and I feel like I'm reading another article about the wedding every day.”

“Oh—yes. A few things here or there, but—”

“You know what I mean. Really, it has all the makings of a phenomenon, Meryl. We need to talk about the show.”

The show. As if it were already a thing.

“I know there's an interest in my girls—”

“A rabid interest.”

“Okay, well. Yes. But the thing is, they don't want that kind of exposure.”

“Have you actually talked to them about it?”

Meryl shook her head. “No. There's been too much going on. But the truth is, I could barely get them to agree to the triple wedding,” she said.

“So that's true? I thought that was just gossip.”

“No. It's true.”

“You sure you don't want a publicist?”

“I'm already in talks with
People
magazine. I have it covered,” she said.

“Good for you! Maybe when all this wedding stuff quiets down, we can talk about bringing you into my production company's marketing department. I mean, if you'd be interested in something like that.” His dark eyes flashed at her.

She felt a surge of energy, a sense of possibility. She touched her hair. “That could be interesting,” she said evenly.

“But in the meantime, talk to your daughters about the show. And I'll write up a pitch.”

“Just like that?”

“Sure. I can see the show, Meryl. I already have a sense of your daughters' different personalities. And of course, I know you. The missing puzzle piece is your husband. How does he fit into all of this?”

Meryl's stomach tightened. She sipped her drink. “Oh, I don't think Hugh will go for this.”

“Look, Meryl, not everyone is going to understand our vision,” Scott said. “People take a little convincing sometimes. If this stuff were easy, everyone would have a show, right?”

“I suppose,” she said. “But please—don't do anything yet. I have a lot to think about. And it's really up to my family.”

“Understood. But, Meryl—don't take too much time thinking. Hot today, gone tomorrow. You know the life cycle of these things.”

She nodded.

He raised his glass. “To old friends,” he said. “And new beginnings.”

They touched their glasses together, but she knew no matter how intrigued she was, the show would never happen. No one would agree. So why did she keep talking to Scott about it?

She just wanted an excuse to keep seeing him.

*   *   *

The apartment was dark by the time Meryl walked in at ten thirty.

It was possible Hugh was still awake, watching TV in bed. But she hoped not. She wasn't drunk, but she wasn't exactly sober. She realized now, in the quiet stillness of her home, the excitement of the evening behind her, that she shouldn't have lied about whom she was meeting. The next time she saw Scott—and she was sure there would be a next time—she would tell Hugh the truth. She had nothing to hide.

“Well, well—look what the cat dragged in.” Her mother switched on the living room light.

“Jesus! You scared me. What are you doing sitting there in the dark?”

“Don't try to change the subject.”

Meryl shrugged off her coat. “Mother, I'm not in the mood for this. I'm going to sleep and you should too. Good night.”

Rose followed her through the hallway. “You are a married woman,” she said.

Meryl turned and walked back into the living room. “Mother, since when do you care about my marriage?”

“I care about marriage as an institution!” she said.

“Shhh! Hugh is sleeping.”

“How
convenient
for you. Were you out with that lifeguard?”

Meryl sighed. “Don't say it like that. I wasn't out with him in that sense. And he's not a lifeguard anymore, Mother. He happens to be a very successful TV producer.”

“You shouldn't lie to your husband.”

“Oh! That's rich coming from you. You know what, Mother? You shouldn't lie to your daughter.”

“I don't lie to you. I tell it to you straight—even when you don't want to hear it. Like right now.”

“Really? You know what I want to hear? I want to hear why you were in Poland as a teenager when you told me you moved here before the war.”

It came out before she could stop it. It came from a place of pure hurt and frustration—all the years of being judged by her mother, all the years of being held at a distance yet smothered at the same time. And it came too from a place of worry that something was deeply wrong—had long been deeply wrong—with her mother.

Her mother sat down, her lips pressed together in a thin, white line. Clearly, no response was forthcoming.

“Mother, I'm not angry. I want to help you. I just want to know the truth.”

Still, nothing. Meryl, trying to stay calm, walked back to her bedroom. It was almost dark, but the TV was still on and the room was lit by the glow of
Last Week Tonight
on HBO. Hugh was still propped up on his pillows, his reading glasses on, a library book folded open on his chest. Moving slowly and quietly, Meryl opened her closet and retrieved the manila envelope from its hiding spot under a pile of shoe boxes. She tiptoed across the room and closed the door behind her.

A part of her wanted Hugh to wake up, to be by her side. But would it be any comfort, any support? She didn't know anymore. She'd forgotten what to expect from her own marriage.

Her mother had left the living room. Heart pounding, Meryl slowly walked to her bedroom. She couldn't put this off any longer.

She didn't bother knocking, and opened the door to find her mother sitting on the edge of the bed, in the same position as she'd found her in the times she was screaming. But she wasn't making a sound, just staring straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap.

Meryl swallowed hard. She wasn't ready for this.

And then Hugh appeared in the doorway. She was flooded with relief.

She looked at him gratefully, and his gaze fell to the envelope in her hands. He nodded, squeezing her arm.

Meryl opened the envelope and spread the drawings and photographs on the bed.

“You went snooping through my things,” said Rose.

“I was helping you pack the apartment.”

“Some help.”

Meryl picked up the photo of the eleven-year-old girl, the young boy, and the dark-haired couple. “Who are these people?”

Rose barely glanced at the picture. “That's me.”

Meryl nodded. “You look just like Meg. Or, rather, she looks just like you. Who are the adults?”

“Relatives.”

“You said you came here when you were eight.”

“What is this, an interrogation? So I was off by a few years.”

Meryl tried to show her the photo of the teenager, but Rose refused to look at it. “This is more than a few years. You have to be at least fourteen here.”

“You know I don't like to think about the family that didn't make it out of Poland. Why bring up the past when we have so much to look forward to now. Our family is the future—the girls and their marriages. If you can manage the wedding,” she said with a contemptuous glance at Hugh.

“I'll let you two talk in private,” he said.

“No,
you
two go talk in private,” said Rose. “Meryl, clear your conscience instead of pestering me.”

Meryl turned to glance uneasily at Hugh, but he was already gone. “Fine,” she said, standing up. “Have it your way—as usual, Mother.”

 

twenty-one

Jo stared at the image of herself on the cover of
New York
magazine.
THE WEDDING SISTERS
. It had been taken outside Monique Lhuillier, Meg in the center, flanked by Amy and Jo. Amy, the only one looking directly at the camera, was also the only one who looked happy.

The tagline of the article:
THE NEW FACES OF MARRYING WELL
.

“Don't make any plans for next Thursday night,” Toby said, bringing a cup of coffee into the bedroom and handing it to Jo.

“This article makes us sound like gold diggers,” Jo said.

“American media is a funny thing. I kind of love it. Did you hear what I said about next Thursday?”

“Yeah,” she said, reaching for the mug. “What's next Thursday?”

“My parents are coming to town.”

She'd known she would eventually have to meet the count and countess. But the introduction had been abstract. Even Toby hadn't seen them in close to a year, so she figured she had some time.

“Apparently, they are quite eager to meet their future daughter-in-law.”