Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Hi, everyone,” Skye said, a little timidly.

  The women turned and cheered. “Woo-hoo! Welcome!” they called, as if Skye had just walked in with a giant platter of margaritas and diamond jewelry.

  “Look who we have here!” Vanessa called like a charity auctioneer. “The one, the only, Peyton Marcus!”

  Mimosa glasses froze in midair; conversations stopped mid-sentence. Every woman turned and beamed like Oprah had just gifted them a new car.

  “Hi, y’all!” Peyton drawled, despite the fact that she’d never lived one minute of her thirty-nine years south of Pennsylvania. “Thanks for letting me crash your party today. My sister here tells me that you are literally the most organized and influential group of women in town, so I forced her to let me tag along!”

  A round of applause quickly turned into hoots and cheers. “Woo-hoo!” they called.

  “We love you, Peyton!” a woman who was wearing bandages from a recent rhinoplasty called.

  “I can tell, I already love y’all right back!” Peyton plopped herself on a couch right in the middle of two women, whose faces contorted with delight. “I’m here for the summer to enjoy the fresh country air, so I hope we can all get together again—maybe drinks at my place next time?”

  Skye pressed her fingertips to her forehead.

  “Woo-hoo!” one called.

  “Totally in!” cried another.

  “Done!” Peyton said. “Let’s hear about the incredible things my sister is planning for the residence you all kindly made possible, and then we’ll pick a date.”

  Skye accepted a mug of coffee from Vanessa and, after looking around for a place to sit, perched awkwardly on an ottoman. “Thanks so much for coming this morning. I know everyone’s so busy and…well, I just really appreciate it.”

  “We’re happy to help,” said Laura, who’d made managing partner at Deutsche Bank before having a breakdown and quitting for good.

  “I’m…so excited! Here, look at these updated plans,” Skye said, flipping open her laptop and positioning it so everyone could see. Peyton willed her to focus on the fun stuff.

  “This is the family room. It’ll have a fireplace and a piano, so the girls can learn to play. Over here, we’re going to knock down a wall to double the size of the existing kitchen. Upstairs, there will be four bedrooms, each with two beds and two desks, plus a fifth room for the housemothers. And it’s not definite yet, but I’d love to finish the basement and fill it with beanbag chairs and loads of books—a place where they can entertain friends and just hang out.”

  Vanessa whistled. “It’s looking incredible.” She pointed first to a picture of the dilapidated house as it currently stood and then to Gabe’s 3D rendering. “I can’t believe you’re going to go from that to this!”

  “We are. Because of you!” Skye said. “Major construction costs plus staff salaries and insurance will be covered by an investor, and I’m hoping we can raise a bit more on top of that, maybe here today even for, um, the fun stuff like all the duvet covers and furry rugs and throw pillows, that kind of thing.”

  Skye sneaked a glance at Peyton, who was nodding encouragingly.

  Rosemary, a mom of two who was pregnant with twins, asked, “Who’s the investor?”

  “It’s a hedge fund owner who’s based out of Rye,” Skye said. “Apparently, he hired a firm to oversee his ‘corporate responsibility’ ”—Skye air-quoted these two words—“and they advised that the fund make a public donation to a local charity, for goodwill. Presumably so they can’t be accused of not caring while they rake in millions or billions?” She said this last part with a laugh, but no one laughed with her.

  “Perfect.” Laura nodded, sipping her mimosa. “Friend of Gabe’s?”

  Skye shook her head. “Actually, a friend of my brother-in-law’s. They went to college together. Regardless, I’m so thrilled that—”

  “So, a friend of your husband’s?” Nicole asked, leaning toward Peyton.

  The room fell silent; the air felt electric.

  Peyton broke into her very brightest and warmest and most authentic fake TV smile. “Yes, Henry is a dear friend of Isaac’s. They’ve known each other since their Princeton days.” She paused. “You’ve all heard about the ridiculous accusations against my husband, yes?”

  Peyton waited, nodding her head encouragingly, until all the women were nodding with her. She waved her hand like she was brushing away a pesky mosquito. “Obviously all a huge misunderstanding. You know how carried away the media can get, am I right?”

  The women laughed, so delighted with Peyton’s self-deprecation that they seemed entirely willing to overlook certain details, like the involvement of the FBI.

  “Anyway,” Peyton continued. “Henry’s terrific. His company has made boatloads over the years, and I, for one, don’t think he could have possibly chosen a more deserving project to support.”

  “Totally,” Vanessa said, nodding. The others murmured their agreement.

  The moment passed, and Peyton was relieved that no one followed up with more pressing questions about her personal life that she would have to artfully dodge. Instead, Skye scrolled through her Pinterest boards and Houzz folders, showing the women her ideas for everything from bedspreads to backsplashes. They oohed and aahed, all experts at affirming one another’s shopping acquisitions, while Skye showed them everything she’d already bought, and all the things left that she still needed to buy: great big piles of sheets and towels and backpacks and sneakers and desk supplies and kitchen appliances and toiletries and books and even small, individual faux fur rugs for next to each girl’s bed.

  “Skye?” Peyton asked in her cheeriest voice. “What do you think of having a vegetable garden installed in the backyard?”

  “Oooooh, I love that idea!” Nicole said. “I have a guy who could install it. He’s the best.”

  Peyton knew that Skye could picture it perfectly. Organic cucumbers and squash, more snap peas than anyone could eat. A healthy outdoor activity that the whole house could be involved in.

  “I love it,” Skye said, clapping her hands together. “Not only would a garden help with the grocery bill, but it would also be a great source of comfort and distraction to the girls, who will probably be homesick, at least in the beginning.”

  Vanessa added, “I’d be happy to talk to my contractor, see if we can’t put in a little gazebo for shade, maybe a swinging bench? Thoughts?”

  Before Peyton knew what was happening, she saw her sister’s eyes well up. “I only cry for good things, I swear,” Skye said, wiping away tears. “Stick me at a funeral, and I can’t cry to save my life.”

  The women laughed politely and soon someone changed the topic to travel soccer. Peyton excused herself, and from the privacy of Vanessa’s Paradise Powder Room—potted orchid, monogrammed guest towels, Molton Brown hand soap—she looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled. It felt so good to help Skye in this small way.

  Skye was waiting for her outside the bathroom. She threw her arms around her sister. “Thank you,” she said. “You were amazing.”

  Raucous laughter came from the living room.

  Skye started to walk back toward the group, but Peyton grabbed her arm. “I don’t do travel soccer. I don’t do preschool playground politics. I’d be very happy to do who’s sleeping with whom, but that’s not what they’re discussing right now. Get me out of here.”

  Skye laughed. “Copy that. Extraction in ten.”

  “Make it five.”

  “Meet me in the car; I’ll do the goodbyes.”

  The ride home felt like old times: Peyton loved the two of them laughing together, recounting the absurdity of the morning, how perfect these suburban women appeared, at least on the outside.

  “Thanks again,” Skye said, pulling into Peyton’s driveway. “You were brilliant in t
here.”

  Peyton climbed out and bowed. “It’s just knowing your audience. Talk later?”

  Peyton called out Max’s name as she walked in the front door, and again as she climbed the stairs to take a shower.

  “Honey? You home?” She peered into Max’s room, but it was empty. Her bed was a rumpled, unmade mess, and there were papers strewn all over the desk, which was extremely out of character for her typically meticulous daughter.

  “Max?” Peyton walked into the room and picked up the first thing she saw, an opened but empty envelope from Princeton. With a rising sense of dread, she cast around the room until her eyes found a crumpled piece of paper on Max’s desk chair. It only took a few seconds to read the first couple of sentences, which told her everything she needed to know.

  “Max! Mackenzie!” she screamed, flying back down the stairs. When had Max gotten the letter? How could she not have told her? Peyton checked the kitchen again and the sunroom, but both were empty. She thought of Isaac: Did he know? Had Max called him? Had Max gone back to the city without telling her? Pulling her phone out of her pocket, Peyton was just about to text Isaac when she heard a ruckus from outside.

  “Max, honey, are you out here?” she called as she stepped into the backyard. The Ladies were going crazy, flapping and squawking, feathers flying all over, as Cookie the Land Shark chased them in circles. In the furthermost corner of the yard, flopped on the ground with her legs crossed, sat Max.

  Before Peyton could say a word, Max peered at her and called, “Looks like you saw the letter. Pretty sweet, huh?”

  Peyton’s stomach cramped.

  “I mean, it’s not like any of us should be surprised, right? What else did we really think was going to happen?” Max stared hard at her right thumbnail, picking the cuticle.

  “Oh, honey,” Peyton said, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

  Max’s head snapped up. “No! You don’t get to get all weepy here. This isn’t about you. It’s about me. And Dad.” Max gave her nail another hard dig and it began to bleed. She stuck it in her mouth and sucked.

  Peyton lowered herself to the grass and tried to put her arms around her daughter, but Max leaned away. “Don’t,” she whispered, and wiped a tear from her cheek.

  All around them the chickens kept clucking as Cookie continued his streak around the yard.

  “Max, I know this is the very last thing we all wanted,” she began, taking a deep breath. “I know I speak for both of us when I say that your dad and I—”

  “You speak for Dad? Is that so? Let’s see about that.” Max swiped her phone a couple times until there was the familiar sound of FaceTime ringing.

  Isaac picked up on the first ring. “Max? Honey, I’m so glad you called! I, um, wait, hold on one second, let me fix the light here so I can see you better.”

  Peyton glimpsed the screen and saw Isaac in a hoodie and joggers, his hair still bed-tousled as he leaned against the kitchen counter. His face was awash with joy that his own daughter had called him, and it hurt her heart thinking of what would come next.

  “Really, Dad, you don’t need better lighting to hear the news that I have been officially excused from Princeton.”

  There was some rustling and Isaac said, “Sorry, honey. You must have cut out. What was that?”

  “Princeton. Told. Me. To. Fuck. Off.”

  The rustling stopped, and with it Peyton’s breathing.

  “I mean, this should not be a surprise, right?” Max said, her voice rising. “Probably not the craziest revelation that one of the finest institutions in the country—your words—isn’t super enthusiastic to welcome someone who had to lie and cheat her way in.”

  “Max, you didn’t lie or cheat, I hope—”

  “No, but you did! I suffer the consequences.”

  From behind them, Firetruck let out a long, mournful cluck.

  “Oh, honey. I don’t know what to say. I can’t…” Although she could no longer see the screen, Peyton could hear Isaac’s voice breaking.

  “What’s there to say?” Max spat toward her phone, her anger barely concealing the fact that she was trying desperately not to cry.

  “Max?” Peyton said softly.

  Her daughter turned to her with surprise, as though she had forgotten Peyton was sitting there all along.

  “Daddy and I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now, but we both want you to know that—”

  Max stood up abruptly and stared at Peyton with such fury and sadness that Peyton was stunned into silence. “Just save it, Mom. Save it for when I’m living at home forever and even the colleges I could’ve gotten into all by my pathetic self won’t have me. Because I really don’t want to hear your sanctimonious bullshit right now. Or his.” Max turned her attention back to the screen. “Thanks for literally ruining my life and erasing my future. I hope you’re happy.”

  She jabbed End Call with her thumb and, without another word, ran back into the house. Peyton grabbed her own phone, desperate to speak with Isaac privately, to figure out how they were going to fix this. Surely they could appeal to the dean? Write letters explaining that Max had nothing to do with any of this, beg them not to punish her for the sins of her parents? She was already composing the email in her mind as she dialed Isaac: when they put their heads together—certainly as far as Max was concerned—there was nothing they couldn’t fix.

  The phone rang and rang. When his voicemail answered, Peyton hung up and called again. This time when it went to voicemail, she tried FaceTime. Finally, desperate, she activated the Find My iPhone alert on Isaac’s phone, which would make it beep incessantly. They only used it in emergencies, when one couldn’t reach the other, but there was no doubt this qualified as a crisis. She beeped it once, twice, three times before a notification came through that Isaac had removed permission for Peyton to view the location of his phone.

  Peyton stared at her phone. He was gone. Max was gone. And she had nowhere to go.

  13

  Bounty of Goodness

  “They’ll be here any minute,” Peyton mumbled while she stood in Max’s room, arguing with her daughter over a drab green jumpsuit. She knew she shouldn’t say one damn word about Max’s clothes—probably true at all times, certainly true in light of the last twenty-four hours—but she couldn’t help herself. It was normalizing. Even if Max got annoyed with Peyton, at least she was speaking to her. “I don’t know, honey, it would just be nice to see you in something a little more…”

  “Feminine? Isn’t that what you mean to say?”

  “No. I was going to say ‘dinner appropriate.’ ”

  “It’s family!” Max said with irritation. “Why do you care what I wear?”

  Peyton was quiet. Max was right—why was she always nagging at her over her clothes and hair when she knew it was every bit as pointless as when her own mother had done it to her? Pointless, yes, but also patently ridiculous in light of the actual issues in their lives at the moment. She just wished Max would take a little bit more care of herself; it would help so much with mood and confidence. Who didn’t feel better when they looked their best? Max had some lovely features. Why did she always knot her beautiful, wavy hair into a ball on the top of her head? Or never wear makeup? Or cover her curvy, youthful body in ugly, shapeless clothes?

  “It’s your grandmother’s birthday,” Peyton said, picking clothes up off the floor. “I think she’d like to see her granddaughter dress for the occasion.”

  “Oh, spare me. Grandma doesn’t give a shit what I look like, or anyone else for that matter. This is your thing.” Her daughter’s tone was more hostile than ever.

  “I know you’re upset,” Peyton said, trying to make her voice as soothing as possible. “You have every right to be.”

  “You sound exactly like Dad. Did you coordinate your messaging?”

  Pe
yton watched Max swipe open her phone.

  “ ‘Dearest Max,’ ” she started to read. “ ‘I know you’re upset with me right now, and you have every right to be.’ ” Max looked up at Peyton. “He’s written me some variation of that every day since this all went down.”

  Peyton felt her throat tighten. The damage this was doing to Max and Isaac’s relationship was the most tragic part of the entire hellish, horrible nightmare. She wanted to reach through Max’s phone and reassure her husband that their daughter still loved him, that she was lashing out now, but the wounds would eventually heal and everything would soon go back to normal. The way it used to be before she made the worst decision of all their lives.