Page 10 of Sister of the Bride

My chest constricts, and I have to take a practiced deep breath to keep from following that feeling down the twisty slide into full-on tears. I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping the tears at bay, letting them out only every once in while when my heart feels too full of them and I need to press the release valve on my sorrow.

But now is not one of those times. Polly is back, and this is acelebratorydinner.

I quickly descend into fix-it mode, making it my job to keep Polly from dissolving into sobs. Or at least to try and turn them into happy tears. It’s one thing I’ve gotten very good at over the years. One of the many, I guess.

“If he were here, he’d be shouting out the windows about how his Ivy League little girl is back in town,” I say, taking the frame and gently setting it back on the bookshelf. “He always loved that you were such a giant nerd.”

Polly looks at me sidelong, a single tear dripping down her cheek, but she smiles and swipes at it with the back of her hand.

“You think he wouldn’t be thrilled to see you boss babe-ing it at the restaurant?”

I roll my eyes. “Mom’s the boss.”

“Marino’s couldn’t run without you.” Polly flops onto the couch, her golden highlights spilling over her shoulders. “Mom told me how close we came to closing back then. If it weren’t for you, Marino’s would be some insufferable tapas bar and Mom and Nonna would be living in the ’burbs.”

And where would I be living?But I don’t say it out loud. I can’t, not even to myself, because I know it’s the wondering that can get you. My job is here. My home ishere. And Polly’s right—Marino’swasclose to closing, and I did make enough changes and work enough extra shifts to save it. But I still can’t afford to take my eyes off the ball. The restaurant is the only thing we have left of Dad. Losing it is not an option, even though keeping it running hasn’t been easy.

Because while the family business keeps us going, it isn’t making any of us rich. Which is sort of what you have to be in Boston, unless you want to live with three roommates eight T stops from here. At least my current roommates are known quantities. They love early bedtimes, hate parties, and Nonna keeps the wine rack well stocked with delicious spicy reds. Sure, Mom loves to blast yacht rock, and I can’t exactly bring a guy home to my attic twin bed, but at least I can count on Nonna for impromptuGrey’s Anatomybinges.

Still, I can’t help but wonder sometimes what comes next. It’s not like running Marino’s was my childhood dream. But what else can I do? Mom needs me, and while Polly has wanted to burrow into ancient paintings since the first time she stepped into the Museum of Fine Arts on an elementary school field trip, I’ve never really had anything like that. If someone had asked my parents when I was little what I’d grow up to be, they probably would have said bossy. So I guess running Marino’s is in my blood one way or another. I just kept waiting for my dream to jump up and wave itself in front of my face, like,Hey, Pippin, I’m the thing you’re supposed to be doing with the rest of your life!But honestly, at this point, even if it did, I’d probably be too busy planning the weekly specials or sourcing semolina to notice.

“È ora di mangiare!” Nonna calls from the dining room, cutting off Polly’s tears and my quarter-life crisis. “Mangia, mangia!”

“Coming!” I reply. I take Polly by the hand and pull her through the living room. We all take our seats as Mom sets the casserole dish down on a trivet in the middle of the table and Nonna fills the wine glasses. Once our chairs are scooted in, Nonna silently crosses herself, and then we all dive into the steaming food.

“I’ll have you know that I talked your mother out of puttingcottage cheesein this,” Nonna says. The corners of her mouth turn down in a sharp frown, but I notice the bite on her fork is pretty hearty for someone who often pretends to spit in the dirt when Mom serves tuna noodle casserole.

“I bet it would give it a nice richness,” Polly says, and it reminds me that we’ve been missing the diplomatic member of our family these last six months. I’ve had to broker peace during several dinner table spats, and while I’m good at a lot of things, diplomacy is not my forte. “It would be like the ricotta in a lasagna.”

“My father better be deaf in his grave, I swear,” Nonna mutters. Mom rolls her eyes and shoves the casserole dish down the table toward her, and Nonna takes seconds without making eye contact. At this point, it’s Nonna and Mom who are like an old married couple, taking care of each other with a side of loving teasing.

I let everyone get a few more forkfuls down before pulling out my phone. “Okay, sonowcan we talk summer plans? Because Evie told me about this beach rental on the Cape that her roommate’s parents own, and I think we can get it for super cheap. I mean, cheap for the Cape,” I say. I click over to my calendar. “But we need to get on it quick, because they can’t hold it for long.”

“Um, well…” Polly says, chewing in a way that can only be described as circumspect. She swallows hard but doesn’t say anything else, her eyes still on her plate. Something isup, and I’m done wondering.

I put my fork down with a hard clink and lean forward on my elbows. “Okay, what’s the deal? Suddenly you’re iffy about a week on the Cape? What do you have against sun, surf, and lobster rolls?”

Polly sighs, and for a brief moment I wonder if she got a quickie lobotomy on a weekend trip to Prague or something. I know she’s not the biggest Sox fan in the world, but Mr. Tanner’s seats are in a corporate box where there’s an unlimited supply of ball park food. Polly has never in her life turned down a chicken finger buffet with a full array of sauces.

“Actually, before we make plans for the summer, there’s something I need to tell you all,” Polly says.

“Oh god, please tell me you’re not going back to Europe.” That’s been my greatest fear since Polly left. Because come on, it’sEurope.Of course my sister, who is basically 50 percent school nerd, 50 percent wanderlust, would want to go back. But losing her for six months was hard enough. The idea of her permanently relocating three thousand miles away makes me feel like a piece of my heart has broken off and is floating around in my body, searching for an escape route.

Polly shakes her head, dropping her eyes to her lap. She seems to be twisting something in her hand as she grapples with what looks to be a major announcement.

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m definitely here to stay,” she says, a little flush starting to creep up her neck. Then she sits up a little taller and spends entirely too long straightening her fork on her plate.

“Well, what is it?” Nonna finally squawks, making Polly jump a little.

“I met someone,” Polly says finally, only it comes out really fast and all one word, likeimetsomeone. Everyone leans in slightly, trying to untangle the meaning. “Her name is Mackenzie—”

“The investment banker?” I ask, because I remember something about a girl Polly met in London from one of our family text threads. Frankly they can be hard to follow, because Nonna has discovered gif reactions and has been using Cristina Yang to reply to basicallyeverything.

“She’s not an investment banker, she was freelancing with an investment bank,” Polly says.

“I don’t understand how those are different things,” I reply.

“Is Mackenzie the one from the thing with the laundromat?” Nonna cuts in.

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