Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  Finally, she stepped outside into the still-dark morning and heard Ken’s voice clearly. “…a process. I can’t say that I’m shocked, to be perfectly honest, and I’m not trying to say ‘I told you so,’ but—”

  A driver leapt out of the front seat of an idling Town Car when he saw Peyton and opened the back door, but she mouthed, “No, thank you,” and kept walking despite the fact that she had no plan, no destination, and nothing was open.

  Kenneth was still blathering on. “…get it all ironed out in the next couple days. Until then, keep a low profile and don’t say anything to anyone.”

  “This is insane! Are they not aware I have a contract? That they can’t just cancel me?”

  “Peyton? It’s Joseph on the other line, I’ll call you back….”

  The call disconnected. Peyton rounded the corner to Rockefeller Center, which was deserted except for a few early commuters.

  She sat on the edge of a fountain and texted her TV Moms group.

  Guys! I just got basically thrown out of the studio! Can you even believe that!

  Despite the early hour, the replies popped up immediately, but they were lukewarm at best.

  Bummer

  Sorry to hear that.

  hope all is okay!

  Hope all is okay? Peyton nearly threw her phone. All was clearly not okay, and where were her damn friends when she needed them? These were the women who had one another’s backs when things went down at work, when bosses got lecherous or co-workers snippy or hard-won raises didn’t materialize. But now, her entire world had seemed to spin off its axis the last forty-eight hours and not one of them actually called. Images flashed in her mind: Max looking devastated; her typically placid husband staring at her in anger; even Nisha, her unflappable friend, who could barely bring herself to look Peyton in the eye. Her throat tightened and she willed herself not to cry.

  She hailed a cab and went back to the apartment. Isaac and Max were still asleep. A quick text to Nisha went unanswered, but as Peyton was pouring a cup of coffee, her phone rang.

  “I’m sorry, did my text wake you?” she asked Nisha.

  “Wake me? It’s quarter to six. What kind of life of leisure do you think I lead?”

  “Nisha, they pulled me off the air today! Can you believe that? I wasn’t the one who was arrested!”

  “What did they say, exactly?”

  “There wasn’t a lot of detail. I was already in hair and makeup, and the EP came in and said that corporate didn’t want me to go on today. That I should go home and they’ll be in touch ‘in a few days.’ ”

  Nisha was silent.

  “Are you there?” Peyton asked.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “You’re not surprised? That they yanked me from the air twenty minutes before I was going live? Seriously?”

  “Listen, this has to run its course—this is how all these things work. I stand by what I said on Saturday: Time to lie low. Distance yourself from Isaac. Can you go anywhere for a week or two? Hamptons? The Vineyard? You must know someone with a house on Nantucket?”

  Peyton groaned and shook her head. This was really happening, then. She was off-air. Her mind ran through her friends and the singular lack of offers of help and support since Friday. She glanced toward Max’s closed bedroom door. “Max is leaving this week to spend the summer at my sister’s house in Paradise….”

  “Great! Go with her! That’s perfect, actually. Close enough that you can hop back when needed, but out of the city and out of the spotlight.”

  “She won’t be thrilled if I tag along. And I’m not sure my sister would—”

  A high-pitched scream came through the phone. “Samuel! How many times do I have to tell you not to bite your brother? Peyton? Listen. I don’t know how else to put this, but you don’t seem to understand that this whole thing isn’t just going to disappear. You may not have been the one on the news, but in the court of public opinion—the one that really matters, I’d argue—you and Isaac are interchangeable.”

  Peyton opened her mouth to respond, but Nisha cut her off.

  “P, I’m sorry, I’ve got to run. It’s like Lord of the Flies in my kitchen right now.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry, thanks so much for—”

  Nisha had already hung up. Before she could think too much about it, Peyton called Skye.

  “Shouldn’t you be on air right now?” Skye asked when she answered, instead of saying hello.

  “Yes, that’s exactly where I should be. Listen, quick question: What do you think about me coming to Paradise for a few weeks? Maybe even the summer?” she asked, half hoping that Skye would veto the whole thing, or tell her it was a crazy idea.

  “Well, it’s an easy commute, especially when you’ve got a car service. And of course it would be nice to spend some time together without one of us having to drive forty minutes home afterward. Mom would love it.” Skye paused. “Would Isaac come too?”

  Peyton pretended like she hadn’t heard the question. “Should I try to rent something? I can’t very well crash in on you guys the whole summer. That way Max could stay with me, too, which I’m sure would thrill her to no end.”

  “One of Gabe’s partners has a cottage he rents out.”

  While Peyton considered that, Skye added, “His wife emailed a big group. Their tenants fell through or something; I’m sure they’d be very flexible. Max could stay with us, or you guys, or go back and forth. Think how lovely it would be for the girls.”

  “It would be nice to have everyone together,” Peyton said automatically, although she couldn’t believe she was having a serious conversation about moving to the suburbs for the summer. Peyton poured herself more coffee. “Send me the info?”

  “Will do. It’s nothing fancy, so you know.”

  “ ‘Nothing fancy’ as in ‘You’re probably not going to love the countertops’ or ‘nothing fancy’ as in ‘It’s decorated with mallards and plaid and you might even find a cat or two’?”

  Skye laughed. “Probably the latter.”

  “Terrific. Well, considering it’s already late June, my network has canceled me, and my family is barely speaking to me, it will have to do.”

  “Peyton Marcus does not get canceled!” Skye said.

  “Tell that to ANN. Apparently I went from beloved morning host to persona non grata in zero point two seconds.”

  “Come here this summer. We’ll get you back into fighting shape, okay? Check your email, I’m sending it right now.”

  They hung up. Realizing she was starving, Peyton settled on a whole pineapple that she’d purchased despite not knowing how to cut the damn thing. As she hacked at it, she thought of Isaac, his wanting to separate. She thought about Max, whose entire life had been turned upside down, and about Skye, who still didn’t know the whole truth. She thought about Nisha, who had reminded her as she was leaving that this, too, shall pass. This too shall pass, Peyton murmured to herself, carving the pineapple into pieces, growing angrier and angrier as she repeated it. This too shall pass. What the fuck did that even mean? Of course this too would pass, Peyton thought. But would any of them survive it? This too shall pass. What was this going to do to her family, to the rest of their lives? To Isaac’s real estate career? Max’s reputation, her very future? Huh, Nisha? Where are all your brilliant clichés for that? The knife sliced into Peyton’s thumb, near the knuckle. Peyton knew she should clean it, or at least try to stem the bleeding, but she could only stand still and cry as the blood and tears blurred, a long quivering flow of sadness.

  11

  Chicken Dance

  Max heard the knock on the front door from her room, and she knew it was Peter, the doorman, with a luggage cart. “Mrs. Marcus,” she heard him say. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Max! We’re ready!” her mother yelled, despi
te the fact that Max was neither far away nor deaf. How had this happened? On top of all the other shit, how had her perfect summer gotten hijacked?

  “Coming,” she muttered, tossing a few last-minute things into her oversized canvas tote bag: her travel case of watercolors and brushes; a massive pouch of chargers and backup batteries for her cameras and laptop; the bunny and the kangaroo she’d slept with since she was a child. She could hear her mom and the doorman loading up the cart.

  “Mackenzie Marcus!” Peyton yelled.

  “I’m on my freaking way!” she screamed, much louder and slightly more maniacally than she’d intended. She was briefly embarrassed to sound like a lunatic in front of Peter, but she figured her yelling voice was probably not a secret to her doorman.

  Max walked into the foyer and watched with a small level of satisfaction as her mother took in her outfit. Ripped boyfriend jeans (not a Peyton fave), old Grateful Dead T-shirt of her dad’s (even less of a Peyton fave), and the biggest offenders of all, her trusty old Doc Martens. She was too old for this behavior and she knew it. Max didn’t even like the boots anymore, and no doubt would’ve left them in New York for the summer if they didn’t piss off her mother so effectively.

  “Honey, are you ready?” her mom asked.

  “I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

  Her father appeared in the hallway. He’d been wearing the same sweatpants and shuffling around the apartment in the week since the arrest. Max had barely said a dozen words to him, which she knew he found excruciatingly painful, but she didn’t know where to start.

  “I’m going to miss you, kiddo,” he said, looking at her with sad eyes.

  Max said nothing.

  “I thought you’d be happy escaping here—and me.”

  “She’s annoyed I’m going too,” her mother announced.

  Max wanted to object or at least half-heartedly deny, but she couldn’t. There was a moment of awkward silence before her mom said, “But that’s okay! Because we’re going to have a great time. I can’t believe it’s the summer before college. The last time I can order you around and watch you sleep and be a hovering, annoying mom.”

  “Yep. Last one,” Max murmured. She sneaked a look at her father, who was staring at her with a look in his eyes she couldn’t quite identify.

  “Max?” he said quietly. “I love you, sweetheart. I know you’re angry.”

  She let him kiss her cheek, and it took all her willpower not to throw her arms around his neck. It was so confusing, loving him so much and being so angry with him, too.

  “I’m going to wait in the lobby,” Max announced. She took the elevator downstairs and wondered what the goodbye between her parents looked like. She hadn’t heard any outright screaming the last week, but tense voices had emerged at times from behind their closed bedroom door. Not in a million years had she ever considered her parents would get divorced—they were almost nauseatingly affectionate with each other—but that was before. Now, who knew? They were separating for the summer, no matter what she called it.

  Her mother appeared, eyes unmistakably puffy, and motioned for Max to get in the car. Peter tried to hand Peyton a bundle of mail, but Peyton was oblivious, so Max grabbed the pile and popped it in her backpack. She climbed into the front seat and watched as her mother painstakingly adjusted the seat and the mirror.

  “You have a license, right?” Max asked. She’d wanted to lighten the mood, but her joke came out sounding more obnoxious than she’d intended.

  “Of course I do!” Peyton snapped.

  “I only meant that Dad always drives.”

  “Well, that’s just because he likes to drive, not because I don’t know how.” Her mom steered their Audi onto Park Avenue and narrowly avoided clipping a yellow taxi’s bumper.

  “Jesus, Mom!” Max said, instantly feeling badly.

  But her mother had set her jaw in that determined way, the one that announced to the world that she had zero fucks to give.

  * * *

  —

  “Aw, this kitchen is so sweet,” Aunt Skye said as she ran her hand over the butcher block countertop.

  “It’s very…antique,” Peyton said, rooting around, looking for a bread knife.

  “I love that it’s rustic,” Max said, admiring the painted green cabinets with their elaborate arched carvings. “It feels homey.”

  “That’s one word for it,” her mother said.

  Skye pointed up. “Look at that cross-beamed ceiling. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Her mother began to slice the bagels they’d brought from the city. Peyton brought them, despite the fact that she judged bagels to be as calorically destructive as Big Macs and probably hadn’t eaten one in twenty years. If ever.

  “I love this house,” Max said. “It has charm. I love that it doesn’t look exactly like every other house, the way our apartment does. It’s not fifty shades of gray.”

  “Do you like the cobwebs, too?” her mother asked.

  “Peyton!” Skye admonished. “It’s a summer cottage, it’s meant to feel like the country!”

  “Well, it succeeds.”

  “How long until the fireworks?” Aurora asked from her perch on one of the wicker barstools.

  Skye walked over and stroked her daughter’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Not until it’s dark out tonight, chickpea. You’re excited, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I can’t wait!” Aurora squealed. “It’s my first real ones.”

  “Just a minute,” Max said with exaggerated seriousness, scooting in next to her cousin. She looked at Skye but pointed at Aurora. “She’s coming with us tonight to the fireworks? After dark? Is she even old enough?”

  Skye nodded solemnly. “She is.”

  “I am! I really am! And by the time we get home, it’s going to be two hours after my bedtime!”

  “Maybe even three,” Max whispered, smiling as the little girl’s eyes widened.

  Aurora climbed onto Max’s lap and rested her head against her shoulder, and in a second Max was transported back seven summers, after her failed sleep-away-camp experiment, when Aurora was only a baby and Max would hold her for hours, trying to soothe her colicky cries. A few times she had given up and cried right along with her, which had been oddly cathartic. Often they would fall asleep together, curled on the couch or the shaggy carpet in Aurora’s room, and Max would feel warmer and safer than she could ever remember.

  Max’s first time at sleep-away camp had been an epic fail. Nobody had forced her to go that first summer—in fact, her dad actively tried to talk her out of it—but she was ten, and living in the city, and had two parents with demanding full-time jobs. All of her day-camp friends were going. All of her school friends who didn’t have summer houses on Nantucket or Montauk were going. The videos online sure made it look awesome, what with the zip lines and the horseback riding and the waterskiing and the s’mores. Smiling girls who made friendship bracelets and braided one another’s hair filled the catalogues that arrived like magic at her apartment. They spoke of “forever friends” and “my summer home” and “live ten for two,” and Max would study them and think how wonderful it all looked. And, as she soon found out, it wasn’t false advertising: everything really was wonderful. There were more activities to try than she’d ever imagined, her bunkmates were almost all sweet and funny, and the food was even better than it looked in the pictures. No one sat across the table from you and commented on what you ate, or how much, or whether or not it was healthy. No one cared what you wore or how your hair looked. But none of that prevented or stopped Max’s crushing homesickness. It had hit her on the third or fourth day and increased over the next two weeks. By the middle of the third week—a time when the last holdouts had gotten over missing home—Max was more miserable than when she started. Soon even the camp director agreed it was time to go home, that it mi
ght be best to wait and try again the following summer, and Max was ecstatic until the woman returned to her bunk and told her, grim faced, that her parents had just taken off for their long-planned two-week vacation in Greece.

  She’d cried nearly the entire night, so much so that when Uncle Gabe had shown up in the camp’s office the following morning, Max thought she was hallucinating. He spent the six-hour car ride from Maine to Paradise telling her all about the little girl that he and Skye had adopted, how they’d gotten the call out of the blue a few weeks earlier and could still barely believe it themselves. When Max walked into their house and saw Aunt Skye feeding a fussy six-week-old Aurora a bottle, she started crying all over again. She’d always wanted a little brother or sister. And now, a cousin! For the next two weeks Gabe and Skye took care of Max like she was their own daughter, feeding her home-cooked meals and snuggling with her in front of the TV, and Max learned how to take care of Aurora, helping with bottles and diaper changes and bath time. When her parents returned from Greece, Max refused to leave Paradise, which was just as well because Max’s nanny had gone home to visit her own family for the summer and both Peyton and Isaac needed to get back to work. Max never again went back to camp, but she returned to Paradise every summer after that.

  “Max?” She felt a tug on her hair and looked down at Aurora. “Are fireworks scary?”

  “Scary? No, sweet girl, they’re beautiful! Sometimes they make a loud boom, but that’s part of the fun. I think you’re going to love them.”

  Max plucked a plain bagel for Aurora and a salt bagel for herself. She was spreading the cream cheese when she heard a strangled bark come from outside.

  “Where’s Cookie?” she asked, jumping up in panic, her bagel falling face-down to the floor. The entire property was gated, so they’d let Cookie out to run free, but suddenly Max was filled with visions of rabid raccoons, coyotes, and foxes, all determined to find and eat her snack-sized pup.