Meryl could finally breathe easy.
The battery of tests came back negative. Her mother was healthy.
The CT scan, the X-rays, the brain MRI, and something Dr. Friedman called an MMSE showed no sign of anything wrong.
“I can refer you to a geropsychiatrist. Depression is very common at this stage of life.”
Meryl took the name and number, but knew her mother would never agree to see a psychiatrist. This was one of the few arenas in which she resisted embracing American culture: medication and psychiatry. That, and dieting. Though her mother never needed to diet; she was always incredibly, effortlessly slim.
So: no evidence of dementia, Alzhiemer’s, stroke, or brain tumor. So what, then?
* * *
“Fancy,” said Rose outside the Monique Lhuillier bridal boutique on East Seventy-second Street. It was not a compliment.
Meryl shot her a look. “Mother, if you’re not going to be positive—”
“Seriously, Meg. I feel like I should have worn a ball gown just to come along today,” said Jo.
“You look fine,” Meryl said, suddenly wishing she’d taken Meg dress shopping alone.
“Gran, she is the most incredible dress designer,” said Meg. “You’re going to love everything, I just know it.”
“We’ll see,” said Rose.
Meryl glared at her mother. The least her mother could do was fake it for an hour. She wasn’t even sure why Rose had agreed to come along.
Meryl also wished Amy had mustered some enthusiasm and joined them. She had an image of all three sisters together on this occasion, but Amy had insisted she needed to be at work.
Not wanting to take no for an answer, Meryl had tried another tack: “You should at least see what Meg picks out so you know when you’re telling Jeffrey what style you want.”
“I’m not telling Jeffrey anything, Mother. He’s an artist. And I’m certainly not letting Meg’s dress choice dictate my own.”
And that was the end of that.
The door opened and they were greeted by a woman in a charcoal gray pantsuit. She had dark hair and olive skin and she could have been twenty-five or forty-five—Meryl could not for the life of her tell which.
“Meg? So nice to see you. I’m Edith.”
Edith shook all their hands, and another woman trailed behind her, offering them water or a glass of wine. Everyone declined except for Rose, who asked if they had vodka.
“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it, Mother?”
“Oh, it’s not a problem,” said Edith. “When brides come here, it’s like the celebration is starting! Would you like that on the rocks or with soda?” she asked.
“Rocks, thank you, dear,” said Rose.
“Do you have anything caffeinated?” asked Jo. Edith told an assistant to make her a latte.
The room was spare, with putty-colored walls and matching plush carpet. Edith led them into an interior room lined with two racks of white wedding gowns.
“I would have worn my mother’s wedding dress if it had been available to me,” said Rose. The dress had been left behind in Poland, when they moved away, thinking they would have time to return one day for their belongings. Meryl had heard this story when she herself got engaged.
“Oh, I know, Gran. Mom doesn’t have her dress anymore, either. Isn’t that right, Mom?”
“That’s right,” Meryl said.
The truth was, she hadn’t worn a dress. She hadn’t had the heart to tell this to her daughters when they first asked to see it as young girls, dressed up for their favorite game: playing wedding.
“I don’t have it anymore—it must have gotten lost in the move,” Meryl told them.
“But what did it look like?” Meg had pressed, her intelligent eyes relentless for the truth and for answers, a budding journalist even as a third grader.
“Like a princess dress!” Amy had surmised.
“Yes,” said Meryl, “like a princess dress.”
She had not bought anything special for her marriage to Hugh, and even if she had gone dress shopping, she wouldn’t have had the sort of entourage that Meg had with her that afternoon. Her mother, while not yet officially boycotting the wedding, had been barely speaking to her. Her best friend at the time was backpacking across Europe and unreachable. And she didn’t have sisters.
Meryl had worn jeans and a white lace top that she found in a thrift shop on Greenwich Avenue. The most she could say about the outfit was that it hadn’t involved shoulder pads, which was a small miracle in 1984.
Meg approached the first rack of dresses, gingerly touching a sheath dress in ivory duchess satin. Her face was as flushed and happy as Meryl had ever seen it.
“I just can’t even believe I’m here, doing this,” she said.
The room was bright and airy, filled with the natural light of the three large windows overlooking the street and the town house across from them. Meryl and Rose sat in matching putty-colored chairs, between them a glass table with a vase of white tea roses. Jo slumped into a nearby chair, fiddling with her phone.
Meg followed Edith to the first rack of dresses.
“Do you have a specific silhouette in mind?” the woman asked her.
“Yes, I’m thinking A-line.”
Edith nodded in approval.
“Meg, don’t be too minimal,” said Meryl. “You have every other occasion to dress understated. This is your wedding dress.”
“Mom, please. I know what I’m looking for.”
The assistant appeared with Jo’s latte and a crystal tumbler filled with vodka for Rose. She handed Meryl a glass of champagne. “Just in case,” she said.
Meryl gulped it.
Meg and Edith disappeared into another room, with promises to return as soon as she had her “top candidates.”
“Cheers,” said Rose.
“Mother, really. I wish you wouldn’t.”
“How about this: When we come for Amy’s dress, I won’t need a drink.”
“We won’t be shopping for Amy’s dress. Andy’s father is designing one for her.”
“See! You marry a nice Jewish boy, and you get a tailor in the family.”
“Ha! Good one, Gran,” laughed Jo. “I need to go find someplace to charge my phone.”
“Don’t wander off too far,” Meryl said. “I want you to see Meg in the dress when she comes out.” She turned back to her mother. “He’s not a tailor, Mother. He’s one of the biggest fashion designers in the world.”
“And yet he’s still got time to make his future daughter-in-law’s dress. A mensch!”
“Okay, Mother. Please don’t talk like that around the girls. It’s divisive.”
“You’re being sensitive. Probably because of your fighting with that husband of yours. Woke me up out of a sound sleep.”
Meryl looked at her, surprised. “We weren’t fighting. It was just a … discussion.”
Rose nodded knowingly. “Wouldn’t be the first marriage to end just as a child is getting married.”
“No one’s marriage is ending, Mother. Sorry to disappoint you.”
* * *
Jeffrey Bruce called Amy into his office.
What did he want? Had Stella said something about Marcus and her? God, Stella would probably love the opportunity to knock her down a few pegs. Or knock her out entirely. And Amy had handed it to her! What had she been thinking?
She felt like she was walking down a gangplank.
But really, what could Stella have said? That they were flirting? Had they been flirting at the bar? She couldn’t remember now—anything that had happened before the roof at Rupert’s town house was a blur. But everything that happened after was etched like a deep, raw, but delicious scratch down her back.
The way Marcus had looked at her afterwards. His eyes, a smoldering—yes, a smoldering and stormy blue, locked on to hers. He kissed her mouth. “I really wanted you,” he said. “I wish I could have tasted you.”
Amy’s stomach had flipped. Who talked like that? In all their years together, Andy had never said anything like that to her. And never would.
She hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night since. She was a walking zombie, fueled only by her guilt and her fear of somehow getting busted.
The worst part—the worst part by far—was that she couldn’t stop thinking about Marcus. She wanted to have sex with Andy to press reboot on her body, but she was also afraid that he would somehow sense that another man had been inside her. It seemed impossible that a physical encounter of that intensity had failed to leave a trace.
Her biggest fear, though, was that she would think of Marcus when she was making love with Andy. It was one thing to occasionally find her thoughts drifting to the guy from Spain. That was so long ago, it felt like a dream. And it hadn’t been cheating. But this—this was wrong in so many ways. She was engaged. She was in love.
She was standing in front of her future father-in-law.
“Amy! Come in, come in—close the door behind you.”
Jeffrey Bruce was, if not classically handsome, a distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair, a perennial tan, and of course, the most impeccable clothes. He wasn’t a big suit-and-tie guy, but even in jeans and a button-down, he looked tailored and regal. He was also warm and informal, and Amy wondered if, even now—as he was potentially about to fire her from her job, from her engagement—he couldn’t help being congenial.
“Thanks,” she said, for what she didn’t know. He had summoned her, and she had appeared.
“How are things on the fourth floor?” he asked, and for a moment she felt a rush of relief. He wouldn’t be making small talk if she were busted. Would he?
“Great. Everything’s great,” she said.
He gestured for her to take the seat in front of him. He perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded, just a few feet in front of her. “That’s good to hear. But you know, I didn’t call you in here to talk shop.”
“You didn’t? Okay…”
She would deny it. There was no proof. Stella could say she saw this or that, but whom was Jeffrey going to believe—his future daughter-in-law or a jealous staffer? It totally burned Stella’s ass that she couldn’t completely pull rank on Amy. That’s all this was about.
“We have some dresses to talk about, don’t we?” he said with a smile.
“Dresses?” The relief almost brought tears to her eyes.
“Why do you look so surprised? Ah, a girl after my own heart. It’s hard to think about yourself when there’s so much going on at work, I know. But yes, my dear, we need to get started on your wedding gown. But the more pressing issue is the dress for your sister’s engagement party. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I … uh … I didn’t think about it.”
“Andy thought you were being shy. Didn’t want to ask too much. But, Amy, I meant what I said about you being our brand ambassador. If it’s not too presumptuous of me, I’d like to dress you for any public appearance. There’s no better ad for our clothes than you, the woman who is living the lifestyle. Don’t you agree?”
Amy felt herself shaking. She held her arms in front of her chest, squeezing tight. Keep it together.
“Yes. Of course! I’m honored, Jeffrey.”
“Dad.”
“Dad.”
I’m such an idiot! What is wrong with me? How could I do something so stupid and risk everything?
“I’m not going to have time to design you something custom for the engagement party. But I want you to head down to the showroom today and pick something out. I’m going to need at least two weeks to have it altered properly. Fit is everything, right?”
“Right.”
“Excellent.” He slapped his palms on his thighs and smiled as if something complicated had just been solved. “And Eileen is going to call your parents this week to have them to Stonehill one weekend soon. I want them to get the lay of the land, feel at home with us having the wedding there.”
“Sounds great. Thanks so much. For everything.” She found herself tearing up. The guilt was throbbing, unbearable.
Mistaking her tears for a rush of happiness, Jeffrey embraced her. “It’s going to be a great year,” he said. “All good things.”
She stifled a sob, a loud one that would surely have given away the fact that her crying was anguish and not joy. Embraced by her fiancé’s father, in the majestic office of his world-famous design company, she felt like a ten-year-old; all she wanted in that moment was her mother.
* * *
Meryl, Jo, and Rose moved to a low couch in front of a mirrored wall. At the end of the hall, Meg was busy in the dressing room.
“Shouldn’t you be in there with her?” Rose asked.
“I don’t know, Mother. I haven’t done this before. As you recall, I did my dress shopping alone.”
“Yes, well, you were quite good at making decisions for yourself, by yourself, everyone else’s opinion be damned.”
Meryl felt Jo’s curious eyes on her, and could only imagine the questions that would come later. That was fine. It was time to let go of the tall tale of her nuptials. Now the girls could create their own fantasy weddings. Maybe theirs would actually come true.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Becker? Your daughter is here.”
The three of them turned—and sure enough, there was Amy, wearing oversized black sunglasses, a navy blue Jeffrey Bruce trench coat, with her brown hair loose and windblown. She looked self-conscious, as if she were stepping into a play already mid-scene.
“Amy! You came after all.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t so busy at the office as I thought I’d be.”
“Come sit next to your grandma,” Rose said. There was no space for Amy on the couch, so Meryl moved to a side chair. Rose, flanked by Amy and Jo, had a rare smile on her face. “Now, wouldn’t this make a nice picture?”
“Totally. Let’s do it, Gran. Selfie time.” Jo whipped out her phone and held it out arm’s length in front of them, snapping the shot.
Rose bent forward and examined the phone. “What good is it on that device? You can’t frame it; you can’t put it in an album. You lose your phone and that’s it. Gone.”
“I can download it and print it,” said Jo.
“But no one ever does.”
And just like that, her mother went from sounding clueless to speaking the truth. It was the thing about her that was so infuriating.
The dressing room door clicked open.
Meryl gasped.
Meg walked toward them, so slowly and with such poise and grace, it was as if she were walking down the aisle. The ivory dress had a bateau neck and long sleeves, and was head-to-toe duchesse lace with a magnificent A-line skirt.
“The skirt is all hand-appliqué,” said Edith.
“What do you think?” Meg asked quietly, turning to face herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
“Oh, honey. It’s perfection.” Meryl felt her eyes tearing.
“Well, you can’t beat that,” Rose said to Amy.
Meryl turned to shoot her a warning look, but her mother was oblivious.
“Yeah, well, I’m not Kate Middleton. And neither is she, hate to break it to everyone,” said Amy.
“I would normally show this with a waterfall veil, but she could definitely pull off a cathedral if she wants to commit to it,” said Edith.
Meg, eyes shining, turned to Meryl. “I think this is it,” she said, almost a whisper.
“But it’s only the first one,” Meryl said, though she couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful.
“I know. But this is it.”
“God, Meg—it makes me want to get married,” said Jo.
“You must have some budget,” Rose said, looking at the price tag.
Meg looked momentarily stricken. “You don’t have to pay for this,” she said to Meryl.
“I want to! Mother, please,” said Meryl. She would figure it out. She would buy her daughter her wedding dress.
“It’s truly stunning on you,” said Edith. “Ordinarily, I encourage brides to try on a few gowns, at least for a point of comparison. But honestly … you shouldn’t even bother.”
“Yeah,” said Amy. “Why bother?”
* * *
Outside, the bright, wide-open street felt jarring to Meryl after the cocoon of the bridal salon. The shopping had taken another hour after the wedding dress selection. Meg had been much less decisive when it came to the cocktail dress for the engagement dinner in Philadelphia. Apparently, Tippy had told her that there would be photographers from the Main Line Times and Philadelphia magazine, and so she had to be sure to wear something “appropriate and on the conservative side.”
“Don’t I always dress that way?” Meg asked, and Meryl had agreed that, yes, of course she did. Still, Tippy’s comment somehow made Meg second-guess her own judgment as she perused the Monique Lhuillier cocktail dresses.
“Maybe we should have invited Leigh Beauford,” she had said. Meryl chose to ignore that, while Jo, getting restless at that point, had perked up suddenly with, “Really? Are you guys using her?”
After much debate, Meg had finally chosen a rose-colored lace dress with a boat neckline, elbow sleeves, and a fitted bodice. The hem hit above her knee, but the overall effect was demure and absolutely lovely.
When the momentous shopping expedition was finished, Meryl wasn’t yet ready to separate from the girls. “Let’s all get scones at Alice’s Tea Cup,” she said.
“I have to catch a train,” Meg said.
“And I need to get back to the office,” said Amy.
“I’ll go with you, Mom,” said Jo. “Nothing better to do.”
But before Meryl could respond, she was silenced by a sudden flash of light. And then, another one.
“Meg, over here!” someone called.
“Oh my God—paparazzi,” said Meg.
“What?” Meryl asked. The word didn’t sink in, it was so outrageous.
“Hey—other wedding sister. Over here.”
Amy stepped forward, smiling, and Meg pulled her by the arm back to Monique Lhuillier.
Meryl looked up the street, hoping for a cab. No luck.
“Mother, back inside,” Meg said, ringing the bell to the salon.
Edith opened the door and ushered them in, locking it behind them and closing the shade.
“How did they even know I was here?” Meg asked, looking stricken.
“Did you hear what they called us?” Amy said. “The wedding sisters. Isn’t that great! We’re like Kimye. Or Brangelina.”
“This is not funny, Amy,” Meg said. “This is not okay.”
“Sweetheart, calm down. You’re marrying into a very prominent family. It comes with the territory.” Meryl tried to seem casual, to act like it was no big deal. But deep down, it was thrilling. It was one thing to be excited about her daughter getting married. But to think that the larger world of New York—maybe the entire country—was interested?
Scott was right. There was something there—something big. Maybe the idea of a reality show wasn’t so crazy after all. Maybe the answer to their money problems was right there, staring her in the face.
“You lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas,” said Rose.
The four of them stood silent, peering out the window.
* * *
Jo had to admit, a part of her had been wondering if the Chanel boots woman, aka the Wedding Planner, would be at the bridal salon. Not just wondering, but on some level, hoping. This was the sort of weakness she just couldn’t tolerate in herself. How could her heart, virtually in pieces over Caroline, still have the strength to want, to yearn, for the same thing that had gotten her into this horrible misery in the first place?
Maybe the bridal salon itself had inspired such whimsy. There was something about being surrounded by tulle and silk organza and chilled champagne that could make even the most practical woman lose her senses. It wasn’t just that she was happy for her sister; there was a palpable giddiness in the air. Even her grandma, who notoriously didn’t have a nice thing to say about much of anything, couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Meg in head-to-toe lace, so beautiful and luminous, it confirmed what Jo had always thought for as long as she could remember: Meg was the special one.
All of it should have made her miss Caroline more, but instead the dress shopping helped her feel removed from her own misery. Maybe this bridesmaid gig wouldn’t be so bad after all.
She was so caught up in the spirit of the afternoon—a spirit that wasn’t even diminished by the crazy onslaught of photographers trying to get pictures of Meg and Amy—she asked Toby to meet her at Ocean Grill for a drink.
The seafood restaurant Ocean Grill, on Columbus and Seventy-eighth Street, was the place her parents had always taken them to celebrate excellent report cards and birthdays. Jo loved the towers of seafood on shaved ice, the perfectly chilled shrimp, the “lobster cocktail.” It was the first place she’d tried sushi, and when she graduated high school, the first place her parents let her drink a glass of champagne. It wasn’t the trendiest place in town, but to Jo it was synonymous with happy times. And she wanted to feel happy, to continue the good vibes of the afternoon.
“This is old-school,” Toby said, bending down to kiss her on the mouth. She had a table near the front windows in the barroom. He sat next to her, sweeping his hair away from his eyes in that way he had. She felt a fondness for him, a rush of gratitude that she had such a best friend.
“I know. I love it.”
“You look gorgeous. And happy! I take it the dress shopping wasn’t such a nightmare after all?”
“No,” she said. “It was actually kind of great. The craziest thing was that when we came out, there were all these photographers trying to get pictures of my sisters.”
“Why?”
Jo shrugged. “I don’t know. Their fiancés have shitloads of money. You know how things are.”
“I have shitloads of money. No one’s taking pictures of you.”
“I’m not your fiancée.”
“That can be fixed,” he said.
“Okay, stop. You’re weirding me out, and I’m not going to be able to ask you what I want to ask you.”
“I’m intrigued! Don’t let my witty banter stop you.”
“That was witty banter?”
“Don’t stall. Spill it.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay. Do you want to come with me to Meg’s engagement dinner?”
“You mean, as your date?”
“Toby.”
“What? I need clarification here.”
“As my friend.”
“Jo, as your friend—who is currently living with you and occasionally having earth-shattering sex with you—I would be delighted to accompany you to your sister’s engagement dinner.”
“Okay, now I regret asking you.”
He smiled and cocked his head—looking adorable, she had to admit. “You won’t regret it for a minute. I promise.”