The Wedding Sisters by Jamie Brenner Page A

employment, the ranks had thinned considerably. This made her feel a little better about the premature end to her corporate career.
    â€œMeryl, trust me. Having the wedding planner will keep things on track,” Tippy said. “And then you and Meg can just enjoy the fun parts. Plus, Leigh works with all the vendors so frequently, she gets deals on everything. It’s win–win.”
    The kitchen door opened, and both women turned to find Meg. Meryl’s stomach seized up and she wondered how long she’d been at the door, how much she’d heard.
    â€œSorry to interrupt—but, Mom, Jo just texted me. She’s not coming.”
    *   *   *
    Jo spent nearly a full day’s tips taking a cab from Greenpoint to the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and cried the entire way.
    When she called Toby, he had answered on the first ring.
    â€œWhere are you?” Jo sobbed.
    â€œAt my flat. What’s wrong?”
    â€œI’ll tell you when I get there.”
    Now she wished she were still in her bed at the apartment. Caroline was gone, but she could curl up in a ball and just wait for the pain to kill her, because surely this much agony could only result in death. There was no recovering from it.
    â€œI love you,” Caroline had said. “You know I do. And because I love you so much, what happened between us happened. But I’m not in love with you.”
    â€œâ€˜What happened between us happened’? What the hell does that mean?”
    â€œIt means that I don’t think I’m gay.”
    Gay, straight—what the fuck difference did it make? They were in love. They were. They had passion. They had best friendship. They had everything.
    â€œSo what are you saying? You’re ‘in love’ with this guy?”
    â€œYes.”
    Yes. The single word, a bullet.
    Caroline was moving out. “But I don’t want to lose you as my best friend. I would die if I lost that,” she said.
    She would die? She was the one who would die?
    The cab left her off at Eighty-first and Central Park West in front of the Beresford, a magnificent, storied Italian Renaissance building.
    After three hours of anguish, her eyes were swollen, her nose red, and she was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn to her eight-hour shift at the coffee shop. She was embarrassed to present herself to the doorman, a white-haired Irishman in a green and gold uniform.
    After the doorman confirmed her status as an approved visitor with a quick call up to Toby, she made her way to the gated, prewar Otis elevator, complete with a white-gloved operator.
    â€œGood evening, miss,” he said when they reached the twentieth floor. He slid open the gate, and Jo hastily made the quick left turn to Toby’s apartment, one of two on the entire floor.
    Toby was waiting in the doorway. “Lovers’ quarrel?” he said.
    Jo burst into tears.
    â€œOh, for fuck’s sake, come inside so I can pour you a drink.”
    Jo was not entirely comfortable at Toby’s apartment. She always half expected his parents, the count and countess, to descend from the spiral staircase in the center of the duplex (never happened).
    She folded herself into a ball on the couch, underneath an enormous oil painting of the royal arms of Denmark, the coat of arms of Prince Henrik, Denmark’s prince consort and Tobias’s uncle.
    The furniture was antique and heavy and distinctly European, with ornate rugs and lots of dark wood and heavy curtains. The place was, for lack of a better word, palatial. Tonight, for the first time, it felt welcoming and safe. The Beresford was a fortress against the outside world, and Jo, a wounded bird, needed its protection.
    Toby poured two vodka and tonics into crystal tumblers and joined her on the couch. True friend that he was, he did not demand to satisfy his own curiosity but instead let her sip her drink and calm her nerves.
    When Jo finally spoke,