Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?

by Melissa Senate

  “Loving your brother is one of the best things you can possibly do,” my mother had said.

  I grabbed the phone and punched in Emmett’s telephone number. After the You know what to do recording, I said, “Look, I’m getting married and I need you to show up for a photo shoot I’m doing for Wow Weddings.” I rambled on for a minute, then said, “So if you can come, great, and if you can’t, that’s okay too. Whatever.”

  chapter 6

  On Monday morning, Emmett Manfred was sitting in the reception area of WowWeddings, reading a battered paperback copy of Ulysses. The receptionist, Lorna, was staring at him. Salivating over him at 9:00 a.m. as though he were a bagel and cream cheese and a cup of strong coffee.

  The bagel and cream cheese will last longer, I wanted to tell her.

  “Eloise, your brother is here to see you,” Lorna said.

  “I see. Thanks.”

  He needed a haircut. His sandy-brown hair flopped in his eyes, which were huge and golden-hazel and both puppy dog and penetrating.

  Relief sagged through me at the sight of him. This past year, I knew he was okay, that he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere, that he wasn’t begging for change on a street corner or selling his body or involved with loan sharks or anything else I might have seen on Law and Order. I knew from the tone of the postcards he sent to my grandmother that he was absolutely fine.

  But here my baby brother stood, alive and well and his usual self, wearing a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and frayed jeans and a very expensive-looking brown leather jacket.

  He nodded at me, put Ulysses in the messenger bag slung around his torso and stood up. “So I’m here.”

  “I see,” I said again.

  We stepped toward each other in an awkward should we make some kind of physical gesture movement? then decided being in the same room was, for the moment, enough.

  “Do you need somewhere to stay?” I asked. “Money?”

  “I’m just here, okay? No big deal.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  Astrid came sweeping into the office, her assistant and Mini-Astrid at her heels. I introduced Emmett.

  Astrid smiled a smile usually reserved for strong circulation numbers. “Lovely to meet you, Emmett. You’re everything the Modern Bride’s brother should be.”

  “That’s quite a compliment coming from you,” he drawled, as though he were from Texas or had any idea who she was.

  Triple eyeroll.

  She smiled and gave him an official once-over. “I don’t want Devlin to change a thing. You are absolutely perfect as is for the shoot. Come, let me show you around our offices.”

  As Emmett flashed his dimples and opened the inner door for Astrid like the gentleman he wasn’t, I ran to my cubicle, called Perfect People and canceled my fake brother.

  Wow rented space in a photography studio on West Seventeenth Street. Emmett and I shared a cab and didn’t say a word to each other. He looked out his window; I looked out mine.

  “Thanks for coming, by the way,” I finally said.

  He glanced at me and nodded.

  “Do you remember Noah?” I asked him. “My fiancé? You met him a couple of times at Grams’s.”

  “Tall guy, right? Smart. Likes spinach.”

  “That’s Noah,” I said, smiling at the memory of his having two helpings of my grandmother’s spinach despite the fact that he hated green vegetables.

  “So what do I have to do at the photo shoot?” Emmett asked.

  “The photographer will direct you,” I said. “You just smile a lot, basically.”

  He nodded. “Your boss thinks I could be a model. She said so while she was showing me around the offices.”

  “She knows what she’s talking about,” I told him. “She’s the editor in chief. She could hook you up with the agency we use at Wow.”

  “I’d never sell out like that,” he muttered. “Like I want a bunch of assholes to go buy five-hundred-dollar shirts because of me?”

  “You’d make five hundred dollars just to wear that shirt for an hour,” I pointed out.

  “I’d rather earn my money the hard way.”

  “How do you earn your money?” I asked him.

  “This and that,” was his response.

  This was very likely having sex with wealthy older women and that was probably waiting tables in trendy restaurants to meet them in the first place.

  “This and that is better than smiling for an hour?” I asked.

  “This and that is honest.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “No you don’t,” he responded.

  “No, you’re right. I don’t.”

  The taxi stopped at our destination, and he pulled out his wallet. “Look at that, we agree about something.”

  “Put your money away,” I told him.

  “This and that pays,” he said. “I have money.”

  “It’s on Wow.”

  He slid his wallet back into his pocket. “In that case…”

  We headed inside the studio and found half the staff of Wow Weddings in room three, where it was summertime in the city. A huge bright blue backdrop with fluffy white clouds, a park bench and even a terrier scampering about a tree was in front of one wall. Philippa and a guy who had to be her brother, both of them dressed in summery whites with pink accents for her and blue for him, stood in front of the backdrop, turning this way and that and fake laughing. Her brother kept throwing back his head and fake laughing, his mouth open wide.

  “Great, Weston!” Devlin said. “Okay, one more big laugh. Yes, that’s it. Move slightly to the left. Philippa, take out a photograph of your fiancé and show it to your brother with a wistful expression.”

  “Ooh, I have soooo many pictures of Parker,” Philippa said. “Which one should I pick?”

  “Just pick a good one,” Devlin told her.

  “As if there could be a bad one,” Weston Wills said, tsktsking Philippa with a wag of his finger.

  Emmett stared at them, clearly waiting for Weston to turn sarcastic. It didn’t happen.

  Philippa selected a photo from her purse album and showed it to her brother. “Just think, Wes, Parker is going to be your brother-in-law!”

  “It’s so exciting,” Weston said. “Nothing is more important than family, and now our family is expanding.”

  Emmett was staring at them as though they were from outer space.

  “Philippa, point at the photo and beam,” Devlin said. “Weston, smile proudly.”

  They beamed and smiled proudly and Devlin clicked and clicked and clicked.

  “Okay, Classic Bride, that’s a wrap,” Devlin said.

  “Excellent, Philippa,” Astrid said. “Simply excellent. I couldn’t be more delighted.”

  Philippa beamed and squeezed her brother into a hug. “Yay for us!” she shouted.

  I tried to remember the last time Emmett and I hugged. Not in years. He wasn’t a hugger; he was more a knuckle-acknowledger, like the Yankees.

  The last time we hugged was at our mother’s funeral. And that had taken some doing on my part.

  Weston was now giving Philippa a piggyback ride around the studio. He looked a lot like Philippa, down to the thick, fine white-blond hair, the dark blue eyes, the perfect complexion, the preppiness. He was as all-American clean-cut as you got.

  “I love you, sis,” Weston said as they piggybacked over to where the Wow crowd was prepping for the Modern Bride’s sibling shots.

  Did people really say that? Sis? Clearly they did.

  “You’re the best, Philly!” Weston added, giving her long blond hair a little yank.

  “No, you’re the best,” Philippa said, slugging him on the shoulder.

  Weston pointed a finger at her. “No, you’re the best.”

  “No, you’re—Nope, you’re right. I am the best!” she said.

  He hooted with laughter and chased her around the studio, culminating in catching her and giving her a gentle noogie.

  E
mmett and I were the only ones who seemed to be paying attention to Philippa and her brother. Was this how all families—with the exception of ours, of course—acted? Did Astrid chase her younger brother or sister around the house at Thanksgiving, giving her noogies until she yelped Uncle?

  “Okay, I’ll break the tie,” said an attractive fiftyish woman as she hopped off a stool by the buffet. “You’re both the best!”

  “Mom!” Philippa exclaimed. “How long have you been here? I wasn’t sure you’d be able to make it at all! I thought you were volunteering at the soup kitchen today.”

  Mrs. Wills smiled. “I left a few minutes early to catch my two babies at their photo shoot. I’ll go back tomorrow and make up the time. There’s nothing like philanthropy to warm the soul, especially on a chilly winter day,” she added.

  “Chilly?” Emmett said. “It’s seventy-five degrees and sunny. Look—” He pointed at the backdrop of the fake summer day.

  The Willses glanced at him curiously.

  “Am I too late?” asked a man entering the studio. He had to be Philippa’s father. He looked like an older version of Weston, right down to the suit and expertly cut blond hair.

  “Daddy!” Philippa gushed, running toward him. “You came! But what about the shareholders’ meeting?”

  Mr. Wills kissed her on the cheek. “Sweetie, family comes first.”

  “Oh, Daddy!” Philippa said.

  “Group hug!” her mother trilled.

  The Wills Four group-hugged. The parents, very attractive, blond, tanned and expensively dressed, with tasteful pieces of gold jewelry, looked as if they’d just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. The Willses were the healthiest-looking people I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Our baby girl is a model!” her dad exclaimed. “I always told you you should be in pictures, Philippa.”

  Philippa fake batted him on the arm and beamed. “Oh, Daddy! I’m not a model. Just a bride.”

  “Just a bride!” He chuckled. “Just a bride who’s saving her daddy a hundred grand. I’ll just have to spend the money you’re saving me on something else. Like maybe a down payment on a Tribeca loft for my baby girl.”

  “Really, Daddy? Omigod! I’m moving to Tribeca! Whoo-hoo!”

  “You deserve all the happiness in the world, Philippa,” her mother said. “I’m so proud of you!”

  “My baby sister’s done good,” Weston Wills said, slinging an arm around her. He glanced at his watch. “Ooh, I’d better hop in a cab. I’ve got an important meeting in a half hour.”

  As the Wills Four hugged and kissed goodbye, I watched them—the affection, the love, the pride, the goofiness—and I felt honest-to-goodness one hundred percent jealousy.

  I was grateful that Emmett was here. I didn’t have parents, but I did have a brother. And for the first time in a year, he was five feet away from me.

  “Emmett, honey,” Devlin said, “you’re going to have to—”

  Emmett all but put up his dukes. “Yo, buddy, I’m not going to do anything if you call me honey again.”

  “Testy,” Devlin mock chided.

  Devlin wasn’t gay. He clearly had thought Emmett was, though, and was trying to talk to him in his own language to get the shot he wanted.

  “Fine. Emmett nothing,” Devlin amended. “You’re going to have to uncross your arms and lose the scowl. You’re supposed to be happy and proud in these shots. Your sister is getting married.”

  Emmett dropped his arms.

  “Emmett,” Devlin snapped, “you’re not playing dead. You’re playing happy. Proud. Whoo-hoo, my big sis is getting hitched. Can’t wait to cavort with the bridesmaids in their sexy dresses!”

  News flash: Devlin, you’ve seen the bridesmaid dresses. Sexy ain’t the word.

  Emmett gave me a Who-is-this-loser? look.

  “Devlin,” Astrid intervened with a toss of her wrap over her shoulder. “The Modern Bride’s brother can have a semblance of a scowl. After all, a wedding is in itself a traditional event, and a James Dean ‘get me out of here’ expression would work beautifully for the piece.”

  I glanced at Emmett, standing by the fake terrier against the brilliant blue backdrop. He wore a black T-shirt and black jeans, a slim leather-strap necklace and the big black boots. I had no doubt that Get Me Out of Here was first and foremost on his mind.

  “I’m not petting the dog,” Emmett told Devlin.

  “Did I ask you to?” Devlin said, spinning a finger by his ear.

  “Should I kill him now or wait a few minutes?” Emmett growled.

  “Devlin, we mustn’t upset the talent,” Astrid intervened.

  Devlin snorted. “He’s not ‘the talent’—he’s just Eloise’s brother.”

  “Time is ticking,” Astrid said, tapping her watch. “Let’s continue with the shoot, please.”

  Devlin and Emmett narrowed eyes at each other for a few seconds, then Devlin instructed me to show Emmett a photograph of “Noel.”

  “Noah,” Emmett corrected for me.

  “Whatever,” Devlin said.

  “No, not whatever,” Emmett retorted. “His name is Noah.”

  Devlin rolled his eyes. “Are we going to argue or are we going to shoot this segment?”

  I ran over to my tote bag and pulled out my wallet, which had my favorite picture of Noah tucked inside. He was making a peanut butter and Fluffernutter sandwich in our kitchen.

  I showed the photo to Emmett. He glanced at it. “Noah likes Fluff?” he asked. “Now I know he’s okay.”

  “Fabu, Emmett,” Devlin said. “More of that expression.”

  Devlin shouldn’t have said anything. Emmett glanced up at him and scowled, and that was that.

  Devlin sighed. “Emmett, put your arm around Eloise’s shoulder, and, Eloise, throw your head back and hoot with laughter as though he just told you something really funny. Made fun of your dad’s ugly eyeglasses or something.”

  Emmett stiffened, just slightly. Our father hadn’t worn eyeglasses.

  “Emmett, adopt a teasing expression,” Devlin said. “A get-me-out-of-here-but-I-love-you-sis look.”

  “This is so lame,” Emmett muttered.

  “Eloise, for God’s sake, tell your brother a joke. I can’t shoot this if he’s going to stand there like a piece of driftwood.”

  Emmett adopted his I-am-going-to-kill-this-moron look.

  “Why did the drummer eat chicken before his concert?” I said to no one in particular. “Because he needed a new pair of drumsticks. Ba-dum-pa!”

  Emmett loved that stupid joke—or at least he had when he was a kid. For weeks when he was seven or eight, he insisted I tell it every night before he went to bed.

  I had no idea if it would work or backfire. It worked. Emmett smiled.

  “A ham sandwich walks into a bar,” he countered. “He asks the bartender for a beer. The bartender says, ‘Sorry, we don’t serve food.’ Ba-dum-pa!”

  “That’s what you two find funny?” Devlin asked, clicking away.

  “Where’d you find this bozo?” Emmett whispered. “What a loser.”

  “I’d agree but I’d get fired,” I whispered back.

  Emmett and I spent the next five minutes topping each other with jokes. Devlin shot four rolls before Emmett even knew it.

  On Saturday, my grandmother hosted a get-to-know-each-other brunch for the two families. Noah’s parents and sister came bearing a pound of chopped liver and a box of butter cookies with multicolored sprinkles. Emmett arrived with the pigtailed girlfriend I’d met briefly in my doorway last year.

  Interesting. Emmett had never brought a woman “home” to meet the family. In fact, I’d never met one of Emmett’s girlfriends, and now I was seeing this one for the second time—at a family brunch, no less—a year later. Were they serious? Just friends? Had Emmett given up the wealthy older women he used to brag about “dating” for a woman his own age? It was amazing how little I knew of Emmett’s personal life.

  “Charlotte?” my grandmother re
peated when Emmett introduced her.

  “Charla,” she enunciated. “Like Charlotte but with the a. Charla Gould.”

  “Charla,” we all repeated, suspicious of her shoulder-length braided pigtails. She wore a sparkly lavender knit cap, a puffy white down jacket to her knees and white leather knee-high boots with low platform heels. When she took off her coat, we were all surprised by how slight she was. She had on the tiniest miniskirt, red and black and white plaid, and three layers of tiny ribbed long-sleeved shirts. She was very pretty, but she hid it.

  “Hmm, is that ruggelah?” she asked, eyeing the dining-room table.

  That was all it took for my grandmother to fall for her. Charla and Emmett were the same. Able to charm anyone with just the right question.

  Charla ogled the spread on the table. “I love ruggelah! It’s good for the soul.”

  We sat, we filled our plates, we said yes or no to coffee or tea.

  “Isn’t this nice,” my grandmother commented after a couple of rounds about the weather and the traffic on the George Washington Bridge, which, according to Mrs. Benjamin, had been horrendous.

  “So, Emmett,” Mrs. Benjamin said, heaping chopped liver on a lettuce leaf. “What is it that you do?”

  “I think,” was Emmett’s reply.

  Mrs. Benjamin paused. “You think? I don’t understand.”

  “He means a think tank, like they have in Washington,” Noah’s father said. “Is it true you guys make a fortune for just sitting around talking?”

  Emmett raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know. I just think for myself, not the entire country.”

  “How is it that you support yourself, dear?” Mrs. Benjamin asked.

  “I rob banks,” he said.

  “That’s a bit risky, isn’t it?” Noah’s mother asked.

  We all stared at her. Was she kidding?

  “Mother, he just said he’s a bank robber!” Beth snapped. “A more appropriate answer would have been to pick up the phone and call the police.”

  “I was kidding,” Emmett said, eyeing both mother and daughter Benjamin as though they were insane. “I’m in between jobs at the moment. But I’m working on a novel.”