Celeste, 1993
Bryn Mawr College was only two hours from Manhattan, but felt like a world away. That, along with its excellent graduate program in art history, was its selling point for Celeste.
The Philadelphia suburbs were the perfect place for her to lose herself in her studies. There were only two main newspapers, The Philadelphia Inquirer and the Daily News, and neither devoted much ink to gossip pages. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t one of the Pavlin sisters; she was just Celeste. She even went by her mother’s maiden name, Lowe, to stay under the radar completely. But she didn’t have to worry; the Main Line functioned like its own universe, with its local celebrities and socialites and big-money power players. And in her academic niche, her neighborhood populated primarily by health food stores, yoga studios, and coffee shops, no one cared about even local notables.
She lived in an apartment building just off Lancaster Avenue, shedding her Manhattan socialite skin like a chrysalis. She wore Birkenstocks and flannel shirts and hadn’t picked up a mascara wand in ages. She spent most of her time on campus or down the road at Ludington Library. Sometimes she ventured out with friends to hear indie bands play in Center City or passed entire afternoons at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. And best of all, she hadn’t gone to a Pavlin & Co event for at least a year. She told her parents she was studying or working and couldn’t get away. Her mother always quipped, “When you’re ready to be a member of this family again, you let me know.”
Celeste didn’t take the jab too seriously; her parents were guilty of a gross double standard. Her younger sister Paulina dropped out of school to run around Los Angeles and Europe, but because she was dating men with titles and was written about in Town & Country and Vogue, she was deemed “good for the Pavlin name.” Celeste’s descent into academic bohemia . . . not so much. As for Elodie, who had worked in the family business since her undergraduate years at Columbia, she now seemed to be pursuing a master’s degree in kissing their father’s ass.
After a while, both her parents stopped asking—aside from Thanksgiving and winter break—when she was coming to visit.
So Celeste was surprised one afternoon to return to her apartment to find an urgent answering machine message from her father summoning her to New York. She called him at the office, expecting that her usual excuses would work. But Alan was having none of it.
“This is non-negotiable. All three of you girls will be at this event.”
“Paulina’s coming in for it?” she said.
“She is indeed,” her father said.
And then the conversation took an even stranger turn: “And please bring your young man friend. We’d like to meet him.”
This left her speechless. She didn’t know how her father even knew of her boyfriend; Elodie must have mentioned it. She knew she shouldn’t have told her! But she was lulled into a false sense of safety when Elodie had uncharacteristically confided in her. Her wallflower sister had fallen in love with some guy who worked at the ad agency the company used. In their last few phone conversations, she’d been like a different person, bubbly and chatty. Celeste was happy for her, and when Elodie asked about her own dating life, she told her the truth: She’d met someone.
His name was Brodie Muir, a recent Villanova law school graduate toiling at a small Center City firm. Tall with dark hair, he’d been the only other person at a midnight showing of the movie In the Name of the Father. They both left the theater sobbing and ran into each other in the lobby. When they began chatting about the film, it was the first time she missed New York City. If they’d been in Manhattan, they could have gone to an all-night diner and talked about the movie. But since there was absolutely nothing open in the suburbs at that hour, they reached an awkward moment when the usher kicked them out of the theater and they walked to their respective cars in the parking lot.
Brodie had grown up in a blue-collar Delaware town he visited often, always without her. He came from a close-knit family of six boys. His mother taught middle school math and his father worked for the postal service. They were old-fashioned; if his mother called him on a morning when Celeste had stayed overnight, Brodie never let on that she was in his bed.
“I don’t want her to get the wrong impression of you,” he said.
And she didn’t want Brodie to get the wrong impression of her, either. Celeste never said much about her own family, except that her father was in the jewelry business and she had two sisters.
Eight months into their relationship, she still hadn’t met the Muirs. She wasn’t offended when Brodie said he was waiting until things were “serious.” She wasn’t in a rush to introduce him to her family and the circus that would inevitably follow, so living in their own little bubble suited her just fine. Besides, he worked long hours at the firm and she was committed to her studies. Neither of them wanted to put pressure on the relationship.
So when her father insisted she bring a date, she was at a loss. She tried to explain that they weren’t even serious, but her father wouldn’t take no for an answer. “If you want to continue making the most of my tuition dollars, I suggest you make an appearance with your beau. Really, Celeste—do we ask so much of you?”
The truth was, she did think she might be falling in love with Brodie. The day would come, sooner or later, when she had to admit that she wasn’t just a simple grad student. That there was a limestone building engraved with her family’s name on one of the most illustrious corners of Manhattan. That she’d been photographed in her mother’s arms by Scavullo for Vogue when she was born. That, unlike the Muirs, she would never have to work a day in her life.
Maybe it was better to get it over with. If he loved her, it wouldn’t matter. And it might be nice to bring someone home who she could roll her eyes with. She might actually have fun for a change.
Maybe the summons was a blessing in disguise.