Chapter 3
Chapter Three
KELSEY
Idrag my suitcase up to reception, hoping to escape to my room and do a quick change-aroo from harried, rumpled, sweaty Kelsey—fresh off a packed Long Island Railroad car, hair doing something I probably don’t want to know about—to breezy, polished, wedding-perfect Kelsey.
I hand over my ID with a gracious and carefree smile, because that is the attitude I plan to have this weekend.
I’m confident. Optimistic. A fun relative who people want to be around.
Yes, I was wrongly accused and shunned, but I don’t arrive bitter and defensive about it, because that’s not me, and also, I have nothing to hide, and I never did.
I picture myself walking up to my mother with that energy—inhabiting it so completely that she remembers that she knows me, that she knows my heart, realizes I never was the kind of person to make off with a family heirloom.
As she SHOULD! Because seriously, what the hell?
And I have a beautiful hotel room waiting. According to the hotel website, there are French doors and ocean views in every room. My view back home in the city is the brick building behind ours and some really rusty drainpipes, so I’m hugely looking forward to this.
There seems to be some confusion at the desk. Some consultation. Finally a staffer takes my bag and beckons me to follow him.
“Wow. Do you always personally lead guests to their hotel rooms?” I ask.
“No, not usually...” he says sheepishly.
My heart begins to pound. Was there some kind of notation next to my name? Known thief?
“So I’m getting the celeb treatment?” I joke hopefully.
“Well, so nobody said anything to you?”
“About what?”
“There was an overbooking problem, and it’s not a usual guest room.” He gives me a wince and then starts down some stairs.
Wait. Are we going into a basement?
“So I’m getting bumped from the room I booked?” Make that the very expensive room I booked. I pretty much drained my savings to make this whole thing happen.
“Your sister said you were aware of the situation...”
“She must’ve forgotten to tell me,” I say. “It’s fine.”
How bad can it be? This hotel caters to the wealthy elite, so I’m sure even their worst room is awesome.
Maybe it’s a garden-level room. Maybe it has its own wee terrace.
My heart sinks as we go through a staff-only door, and down a service corridor that smells like cleaning products.
We pass a young man sitting on an upturned bucket, scratching his chest while he looks at his phone.
Finally, my guide unlocks a door, and I step into a room that is furnished with mismatched hotel furniture, probably yesteryear castoffs from upstairs, a window that looks out onto a giant dumpster, and a suspicious stain on the wall that I will myself to believe is water damage.
“We put staff here in a pinch, but it’s just been cleaned and you have the whole hall to yourself. No noise from wedding revelers.”
I turn to him. “But on the upside, it’s free, right?” I say hopefully.
“We’ll be extending a twenty percent discount,” he announces.
“I’m sorry, what? A twenty percent discount puts this in line with some of the best hotels in Manhattan.”
“I’m so sorry, it’s out of my hands. Of course, you’ll still have access to all of the amenities.” He begins to list off the amenities.
“No, no, I get it. I know you didn’t make this decision. It just seems a little bit… unfortunate. For me.”
“I can give you contact information for management...”
“That would be good,” I say despondently. I’ll try to get more of a discount, but they have me over a barrel. No way will I make some big kerfuffle at my sister’s wedding. That’s the last thing I’d want to do.
He leaves me and I sink onto my very soft and lumpy bed, trying not to think of the reel I saw on Instagram of the photographer’s assistant’s room with its French doors opening to a balcony with postcard views of the ocean.
She’s the photographer’s assistant. And I’m Danielle’s sister. Literal sister of the bride.
Maybe their contract specifies getting nice rooms. I’ll be going with that thought.
And it’s not like I’ll be spending all my time in here.
I’ll be out and about, enjoying seeing my family.
And enjoying the wedding! I love weddings.
I’m always excited when I see brides and grooms doing wedding shoots in Central Park or the subway or Times Square or up on the High Line.
And this is my sister. And I’m back with my family!
Back-ish. My family who are choosing to believe me.
Which is certainly a step in the right direction, though “knowing I’d never do such a thing” would be vastly preferable.
I crack the window, then immediately close it. Dumpster smellsville.
I pull out my garment bag and wince.
My outfit for today had seemed so chic at the thrift store, what with its vintage, understated elegance à la Grace Kelly, a fashion icon of Danielle’s. But now that I’m here in this Hamptons world of breezy whites and pastels, it seems a little shabby. Also, it’s practically a winter dress.
A shabby winter dress. And not really very Grace Kelly-ish at all.
I used to know how to dress for this kind of thing. Even as the artsy weirdo of the family, I knew how to fit in. But that was a long time ago. My wardrobe in the city is big earrings and fun boots and bright colors. Awesome amazing clothes that my family would never approve of.
Did I just completely lose the muscle of fitting in with them?
And I landed on a brown wool dress in June.
And are those moth holes? How did I not notice moth holes?
I dig through my suitcase for tomorrow’s dress, hoping to swap. It’s an off-the-shoulder mod-print maxi I’d been so proud of. But looking at it now, in this hotel, in this light—I can practically hear my mother’s voice. What was she thinking?
I pull everything else out. Lay it all on the bed.
It’s bad. So bad.
I dig to the bottom for my post-wedding breakfast dress—navy, simple, seen better days. The hem is slightly uneven, and the fabric has that shine that comes from too many washes. This, too, was supposed to be understated elegance à la Grace Kelly.
It’s certainly understated. That’s the most I can say for it.
It will have to do.
The welcome cocktail party is in full swing by the time I make it up to the terrace. I spot Mom immediately near the fountain with Aunt Mae and think about beelining over there, but I force myself to look away.
Not yet.
Let it happen naturally.
My grandmother Ernestine, a.k.a. Granny Ernie, rushes over and clasps my hands inside hers. “My sweet girl. I’m so happy you came.”
I hug her without holding back. Deep down, I always felt like she was the only one who questioned the family groupthink on my supposedly thieving ways, though in the end, she did go along with the group cold shoulder. Still. Right now she feels like an ally. I’ll take it.
Over her shoulder, I catch sight of Dad, working his way through the crowd, enduring air kisses.
My face warms with feeling when I see him. “Dad got tortoiseshell glasses,” I say stupidly. Like that’s the most surprising, noteworthy thing that’s happening here. Oh my goodness.
“Come on, then.” Granny Ernie hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward him. “Look who I found!”
Dad turns around. “Kelsey!” There’s a tiny hesitation in his smile, but that’s just paranoia, because no way would Danielle have invited me without Dad’s blessing.
“Happy wedding,” I chirp. I go in for a hug because I’m thinking positive. I quickly let him go. “This is wonderful. Loving the new glasses!”
Dad launches into a monologue of how the glasses look a little too professorial for his tastes, like everything is just totally normal and the past three years didn’t happen.
I grin. “Can you even believe Danielle is getting married? Ol’ Tyler finally came through!”
“Took him a while, but he finally saw his way clear,” Granny Ernie says.
Dad agrees enthusiastically.
Granny Ernie purses her lips. “I just heard about the room situation. I could try to put you somewhere off-site—”
“No, no, it’s fine! You know me, I roll with the punches.”
Dad frowns. Did that sound like I accused the family of metaphorically punching me?
“We dancers are resourceful and flexible,” I add, “and all I care about is for Danielle and Tyler to have an amazing weekend.”
He studies me for a moment too long. Is he wondering what’s up with the dress?
I force myself to smile. Progress, not perfection; isn’t that what they say?
“Kelsey!” My cousin Meredith wraps me in a long, relaxed hug.
Dad and his professorial glasses take this moment to ramble elsewhere.
“God, I’ve missed you!” Meredith says. “No one makes fun of Aunt Mae’s hats like you do.”
“Meredith!” Granny Ernie scolds. But Granny Ernie is just as big of an offender as anyone.
“Oh that’s all I’m good for?” I joke. “It’s all about the hats?”
Meredith does this fun little thing we used to do where you poke the other person with alternating pointer fingers. I laugh and do it back, and suddenly I’m transported back to a world of inside jokes, and us collapsing in giggles during family events. I’ve missed all this so much, my chest aches.
A waiter glides over and the three of us take champagnes.
“Bottoms up!” Meredith says.
“That’s for a whiskey and shots,” Granny Ernie scolds.
Our Burlington cousins, Sara and Ben, wander up.
“Have you been doing shots, Granny Ernie?”
Granny Ernie holds a pointer finger to her lips.
“I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been too long!” Sara says.
Does she really mean it? Is she actually glad? I need to stop second-guessing this situation ASAP. And as long as you hang in there with people, anything is possible.
“Act as if,” my friend Mia says.
We all catch up. After Granny Ernie drifts away, Cousin Ben lowers his voice. “Jesus Christ, did they finally get their heads out of their asses?”
I paste on a bright smile. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Back in black!” Meredith clicks her glass to mine.