Sloane Sisters (13 page)

A
ndie's stomach let out a loud, wild-animal growl. She wrapped her arms around her sides and walked down the hallway, toward the mahogany staircase. She could add “missed dinner” to her list of how this day went horribly wrong, right under “rejected by Ayana Bennington,” “betrayed by stepsister,” and “helped ruin father's wedding.”

She stopped at the top of the stairs and stood listening to her father's muffled voice in the study. She tiptoed toward the door and pushed it open a crack. Winston was pacing back and forth across the room, clutching the cordless phone.

“No, it's the kids,” he said, holding the back of his neck in his hand. “We've decided to postpone the wedding…indefinitely.” Winston paused. “Yes, I understand. Thanks, Gloria.” He set the phone down on the rolltop desk. It was dark outside and he was still in his suit for the rehearsal dinner, except now his crisp blue shirt was unbuttoned, and he was walking around in his black dress socks. He caught a glimpse of Andie's reflection in the win
dow and turned around, his face drawn, his eyes red and wet.

Andie grabbed the bottom of her T-shirt, suddenly nervous. “Daddy?” she asked, her voice trembling. Winston coughed and rubbed his face with both hands. She hadn't seen her father cry since her mom died.

“Yes?” Winston muttered, not looking Andie in the eye. Before he could say anything else, Andie ran toward him and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. She rested her cheek against his chest and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She couldn't stand seeing her father sad. She wished she could rewind the whole night—the whole week, even—and just start over.

“Dad, I—” She sniffed back her tears. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to ruin the wedding.”

Winston rubbed Andie's back. “You didn't ruin anything,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm the one who should be sorry. I was just—” His voice sounded like it might crack. He coughed loudly and rested his hands on Andie's shoulders. “I was just so excited about Emma, and you girls seemed like you were getting along so well. I got carried away and rushed everything. I never should have pushed you girls—you weren't ready for this.” He kissed Andie twice on the top of her head.

“I was fine, Dad, really,” Andie whispered.

“We've all had a long day,” he said, starting for the door. “Let's talk more about this tomorrow.” And with that, he rubbed Andie's cheek and walked out of the study.

 

Andie sat at the cherrywood table and stared down at the snack she'd made for herself—blue cheese with baby carrots and celery. The food suddenly looked unappetizing, like seagull-poop crudités. She walked over to the garbage and emptied the plate into the bin.

In the recycling box, sitting on top of a stack of salmon pink
Financial Times
es, was an unopened card addressed to Emma and Winston. Andie picked up the beige envelope and held it in her hands. As she ripped it open, a photo of Winston and Emma tumbled out. Winston had his hand on Emma's back and was leaning in close to her, smiling, as though he were telling her the most amazing secret.

It was from their uncle Paul, who had just broken his leg in a motorcycle accident on the Pacific Coast Highway.
Dear Winston and Emma,
it read.
If only I had used my turn signal, I could be telling you this in person! Congratulations on the wedding. Emma—thank you for making my brother so incredibly happy.

Andie set the card down on the counter, unable to read another word. Her stomach lurched as she imagined sitting in the den tomorrow, sprawled out on the couch watching
The Hills
, when her dad and Emma should have been getting married.

Just then Lola walked into the kitchen in her Harry Potter pajamas. When she saw Andie she yanked open the refrigerator door.

Andie could hear the plastic drawers opening and closing. “Lola—look at this,” Andie said slowly, holding out the wedding card to the back of the fridge door.

Lola slammed it shut. “I can't believe you're trying to talk
to me!” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “You practically snogged Kyle right there in the foyer.” She still had her headband on, but her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were swollen. “I really fancied him,” she said again, her voice cracking.

Andie turned the card over in her hands, not wanting to look Lola in the eye. She hadn't felt so guilty since she'd spit in Cate's Clinique eye cream, payback for Cate telling the entire sixth grade Andie was adopted. Sure Cate had deserved it, but Andie hadn't wanted her to get pinkeye or anything.

Andie tugged the blond highlight in her bangs. “I'm sorry,” she muttered. “But I really don't like Kyle—I swear.”

Lola hugged a jar of gherkins to her chest. “You don't?” she asked.

“No!” Andie cried. “I barely know him! I was just mad about what happened at Ford.”

“That agent only liked me because of my mum!” Lola said, her nose twitching. “She's already sent me two e-mails asking for Mum's mobile number. Look at me—I'm not a bloody model.” Lola pointed at her bare toes, which pointed inward like they were kissing each other. “I'm bowlegged! And my ears stick out like Dumbo.” She lifted up one side of her headband so Andie could see.

Andie looked at Lola's big ears and couldn't help but laugh. “No, Lola, I think Ayana really did like you. You should do the test shots. What do you have to lose?” Andie shrugged, deciding then and there that she was over the Ford snub. Yeah, Ayana Bennington was a famous agent, but she wasn't the only one out
there. Andie had already gone to the yellow pages online and found three listings—all looking for tween models. After all, your first agency rejection was a rite of passage. Tyra, Kate, even Twiggy all had to face adversity before they got their big breaks.

Andie grabbed the picture of Winston and Emma. “My dad was calling Gloria in the study and he was…” Her voice trembled. “Really upset—really,
really
upset.”

“My mum was crying before, in the den.” Lola took the picture from Andie's hand and studied it. Then she pressed her hands into her cheeks. “We can fix things,” she suddenly cried. “We have to!”

“Yeah…” Andie agreed. “But how?” It was over. The damage was done.

Lola clapped her hands. “
They
want to get married. We just need to prove
we
want them to.” Her green eyes were wide. “I have an idea.”

S
tella opened the pantry and moved a jar of kalamata olives, looking for some pita bread. After unpacking the last of her beauty supplies and “Dress Tops III,” reclaimed from Lola's room, she'd crept out of her room to scavenge for food. She found Andie and Lola in the kitchen, sitting at the round table in the atrium, whispering secretively, as though they were plotting to nick a Van Gogh from the Met.

“That's brilliant, Andie!” Lola cried, scribbling something down on a pad of paper.

Stella looked at them curiously. They had gone from wanting to kill each other to being best mates in less than four hours. She, however, intended to never speak to Cate again.

And if their parents really were splitting up, maybe she wouldn't have to.

Stella pulled a pita from the plastic wrap and took a bite, the flour dusting her lips. Even if Cate
had
been a nitwit, Stella kept thinking about her mum's swollen eyes. When her mom had
walked into the den earlier, Stella's head had spun—she'd felt like she was back in her kitchen in London last year, the day her mom and dad had told her about the divorce. Stella had just stared at the grandfather clock against the wall, tears welling in her eyes. But everything had changed when her mum met Winston—she'd stopped disappearing into her room whenever “Kick It” came on the radio; she'd stopped spending hours sitting at the dining room table, looking through old family photos from holidays in Nice and Morocco.

Lola sat back in her chair and squealed. “We can buy streamers and pick flowers from Central Park!”

Stella took another bite of her pita and walked toward the foyer, curious.

“We could probably get the Ashton band to play,” Andie said. “And maybe you could play Pachelbel's Canon on your viola.”

Stella stopped in the doorway. It sounded like Andie and Lola were planning a party. A really, really lame party. Stella hadn't seen a streamer since Lola's ninth birthday, and even then they weren't cool. “What are you doing?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at the girls.

“Um…” Andie muttered. “We just—we want to do something for my dad and your mom. We were thinking of having a wedding for them…in the garden?” She waited for Stella to laugh, but Stella just tilted her head to the side, thinking.

“Hmph.” Stella
did
want to do something for her mum, but a garden wedding seemed like a sad consolation prize—especially one planned by two clueless twelve-year-olds. They'd have the guests playing Twister and eating pizza and Twizzlers. Stella
looked out the glass wall at the wide brick patio, which was lit up by one small lamp. She eyed the latticework archway in the corner, which had been practically devoured by ivy. A garden wedding would be hard to plan in one day, but the space had potential.

Lola pressed her hands to her cheeks. “We're going to make a cake!”

Stella shook her head and sat down next to them at the round cherry table. “No—definitely not. We should call Greene Street Bakery and get something simple, elegant, and ready-made. Mum loved the buttercream frosting.” Stella stood and paced in front of the table. “And then we have to find a caterer and a photographer.” Lola diligently scribbled each of Stella's instructions on the pad. “We'll need the numbers of everyone on the guest list, though….” Stella trailed off.

Lola stopped writing and looked up, staring at something behind Stella. Stella turned to see Cate leaning against the door frame in her ballet-slipper pink J. Crew nightgown, her arms crossed over her chest. She'd clearly overheard everything. The last thing Stella needed was Cate telling her how daft she was for encouraging Andie and Lola to plan an impromptu wedding. Nowhere—not even the kitchen, at ten at night—was safe from Cate Sloane.

Cate ran her tongue over her teeth and walked into the atrium, snatching a raspberry folder off the granite island on her way. She pushed past Stella and sat down at the table next to Andie.

“If we're going to plan a wedding—this is our bible,” Cate said, dropping it on the table. “Gloria gave it to Dad and Emma.
It has the guest list, the numbers for the photographer and the florist—everything.”

Lola slowly nodded at Cate, like she wasn't sure if it was actually Cate talking or some nicer Cate imposter. “We should definitely get flowers from Anne Bruno—they're around the corner, and they could probably do some quick, simple centerpieces.”

“It should just be family and close friends,” Stella continued, tugging on her golden blond curls. “We could call them tomorrow morning. And Andie wanted to use the Ashton band.” Stella winced.

“No way!” Cate let out a little laugh and poked Andie in the arm. “No one wants to dance to a flute solo of ‘Hey Ya.'”

“That's what I thought too,” Stella said, looking at Cate. For the first time all day, she didn't cringe when she looked into Cate's deep blue eyes.

“Well, now that we have the band's number, I can just tell them to come here, instead of the boathouse,” Andie offered.

“We're going to plan a wedding!” Lola suddenly cried.

A
flock of tuxedoed waiters slowly placed trays on the long buffet table. On the garden terrace above, the band was rehearsing. The lead singer's silver dress reflected the afternoon sun as though she were a human disco ball.

“In my life,” she sang softly into the microphone, “I've loved you more.” A balding man in a blue suit played a few chords on an electric keyboard, his head well on its way to sunburn.

“Throw me that tablecloth?” Cate asked, glancing at Stella. She set two crystal vases filled with exotic orchids down on the table. Stella picked up the pale green linen and tossed it to Cate, who nodded silently in thanks.

Cate wasn't over the whole Pierre incident, especially since she still hadn't heard from her friends. Not a text, not an IM—nothing. They must have talked to Gloria by now—she had called every person on the guest list, one by one, and told them the wedding had been postponed. If she didn't hear from Blythe by tonight, she would march over to her penthouse and demand
answers…or, well, ask really nicely. For the first time ever, she wasn't in a place to demand anything.

Stella handed Cate a pile of folded napkins that reminded her of those silly newspaper hats kids made in elementary school. Cate had to admit, even if she and Stella were mad at each other, they made a fierce team. This morning they had delegated their hearts out, sending Lola to Godiva for party favors and Andie out for flower arrangements. Stella had whittled down the list of guests to a few dozen and called them all personally to invite them over. Then Cate had asked her aunt Celeste, Winston's younger sister, to call in favors to all her contacts at
Food & Wine
magazine, where she was editor in chief. Celeste had found them a caterer, waitstaff, and bar staff in less than two hours, and Andie had gotten the Ashfords across the street to donate the portable furniture they used for the Harvard Club socials they threw in their drawing room. In less than a day they had pulled together a wedding. Forget Gloria Rubenstein—the Sloane-Childs sisters were the power party planners in New York.

Cate straightened the thin white china plates. In a few minutes the guests would start arriving, and her parents would be there in an hour. The girls had made breakfast for them that morning as an apology, and Lola had told them they should keep their massage and haircut appointments at Red Door Salon that afternoon—to unwind. She'd even arranged for Winston's driver, George, to come pick them up.

In the corner of the garden Andie stood on a step stool, forcing one last rose into the latticework arch.

They were almost ready. As Cate centered the vase on the
table, her iPhone chimed. She pulled it out of the pocket of her Juicy terry pants and stared at it. It was a text…from
Blythe.

“You too?” Stella asked, holding her iPhone up.

Cate imagined herself buying all of Blythe's new C-cup bras, proofreading all her English essays, and touching up her back with Neutrogena sunless tanning foam. She imagined spending every afternoon at
Blythe's
penthouse, in
Blythe's
room, sitting on
Blythe's
couch. Of course Cate still wanted to be part of the Chi Beta Phis. Ashton Prep would be impossible without her friends—like going to war with nothing but a butter knife. But Cate had swallowed enough pride these last two days—any more and she'd need her stomach pumped.

Stella tugged on a blond curl. “This is textual harassment,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Cate laughed, despite herself.

“Cate! Andie!” Lola poked her head out of the dining room door. She was wearing a black Gap dress and clutching an armful of programs that Andie had spent the night designing and printing out. “Your uncle Mark is already here! You have to get dressed!”

Cate took one last look at her cell phone and tucked it back into her pocket. Then she slowly pulled out her Stila lip gloss. If she was going to have to kiss up to Blythe all year, she could at least make sure her lips were hydrated.

 

Back in her room, Cate pulled on her canary yellow Nanette Lepore dress. The girls had agreed to scrap the bridesmaid dresses for any dress they wanted to wear, as long as it was tasteful and elegant (Cate and Stella held veto rights on Lola and Andie's outfits, of course).

Cate spun around once in the mirror, but she didn't get the clothing high she usually did when she wore the yellow dress. Stella had been right all along about Blythe—she
had
wanted Cate's throne.

Cate pushed a black patent leather headband over her forehead and smoothed down her dark brown hair. Telling all the girls about Cloud McClean had been a little harsh. Fine—it wasn't just harsh. It was kind of…
wrong
…like pouring your cappuccino on someone's new white linen Prada dress. She'd gotten caught up in the vote. She'd just wanted so badly to win, and she'd seen it slipping away. But still…

Cate opened the door. Even from the hallway, she could hear the sounds of the guests arriving. She made her way down the stairs and saw her aunt Celeste in the foyer, petting Andie's head like Andie was one of her Saint Bernards.

“Cate!” Celeste cried, spotting her niece. In her cerulean Zac Posen dress, fresh off her second round of microdermabrasion, Celeste looked twenty-five. She grabbed Cate's hand and pulled her into the kitchen, pointing at the garden through the atrium's huge windows. “You, my dear, are absolutely amazing. Your father is going to be thrilled.” The garden was packed
with guests, downing their last drinks before the ceremony began. Greta, who always attended Cate's plays when Winston couldn't, was standing by the buffet, taste-testing the baby lamb chops.

“I know, it's—” Cate stopped, feeling like someone had shoved an hors d'oeuvre down her throat. Outside, Stella was standing by the bar…wearing
Cate's
dress. Cate could have spotted the embroidered yellow fabric out of three hundred racks at Barneys. “I'll be right back,” she muttered.

She walked toward the door, watching as Stella sidled up to the bar and ordered a drink. Cate's mind raced. Maybe Stella had known Cate was going to wear it. Maybe she had seen it in her closet and gone out and bought it herself. It was from last season, though—one of the few pieces Cate still wore.

Stella was so busy squeezing lime into her Diet Coke, she didn't even notice Cate next to her.

The bartender, a hipster with a handlebar moustache, shook a silver cocktail shaker like a maraca. “You guys look like twins,” he said. Stella turned and looked Cate up and down, her face a little pale.

“Nice dress,” Cate said. Then she looked Stella in the eyes, her lips curling into a smile.

“You too,” Stella said softly. “Though I have to say—” Stella pressed one finger into Cate's arm, “—you look a little pale. Think we have time for a quick spray tan?”

“If I have to be bossed around this year by a burnt sienna crayon,” Cate laughed, “at least I'll be in good company.”

“Do you think maybe…” Stella began but trailed off.

“What?”

“Maybe we're better off on our own?” She raised a blond eyebrow. “Chi Sigma?”

Slowly, Cate nodded. “That could work.”