“He’s trying the best he can,” Peyton said. “He loves you so much. So do I.”
“Uh-huh,” Max said. “Sure feels like it.”
The doorbell rang. There was more to say, but Max made it clear she was finished with the conversation. Peyton headed downstairs and was momentarily stunned by Skye and her family. They were so gorgeous, so natural, so effortlessly fabulous, that it could take her breath away. Gabe with his oddly attractive reddish hair and soulful eyes and sexy beard, all very reminiscent of Prince Harry; Aurora’s flawless skin and shoulder-length braids and hand-knit fisherman sweater; and of course Skye, with her long skirt and wild eyebrows and freaking perfect complexion despite the fact that she didn’t own any makeup and had never—ever!—had a facial.
But now Peyton felt foolish thinking how much time she’d spent (hours? days? weeks? years?) on her family’s appearance. Scouring stores for all the right things: Brunello Cucinelli for Isaac’s cashmere sweaters and Vineyard Vines for his casual wear; Carbon 38 and Bandier for the workout gear Peyton bought in excitement when Max had started her boxing training sessions; and Bergdorf’s for her own extensive and well-curated work, evening, and casual wardrobes. It was Oscar Blandi for hair and Neve, no last name needed, for nutritional advice and Dr. Bittman for skin care and celebrity trainers for fitness. Still, their lives had imploded in the most spectacular sense; how little any of that had actually mattered.
“Hi, guys!” She stepped aside so they could enter. She plastered on a smile.
“Aunt P!” Aurora called out in delight, throwing her arms around Peyton’s midsection. “Where’s Max?”
“Upstairs. Still choosing her outfit,” Peyton said.
“Hello, dear!” Marcia trilled from the porch.
“Hi, Mom,” Peyton said. “Happy birthday!” She kissed her mother’s cheek and felt her damp skin beneath her lips.
“Where’s my other granddaughter?” Marcia asked. “I brought back the most marvelous Buddha from Bhutan and I want to show her.”
“She’ll be down soon. Come, let’s sit.”
They all followed Peyton to the cottage’s cozy screened-in porch, which had white wicker furniture with overstuffed floral cushions. Peyton poured glasses of pinot grigio for her mom and her sister and handed Gabe a bottle of beer. Aurora left to find Max.
“So, Mom, tell us about the Himalayas. I can’t believe you only just got back last night,” Skye said, and Peyton sent her a look of gratitude.
“Please! This is my sixty-seventh country. I certainly know by now that no one is interested in my travels.”
“That’s not true,” Peyton protested with little conviction. “We love the slideshows.”
Marcia barked out a laugh. “I leave next week for Budapest. A quickie. Seven days, seven hundred bucks, all in. I just got an email that they have an opening this morning. Anyone want to join? Maybe Max?”
Max walked into the room, Aurora trailing behind her. “Hi, Grandma,” she said, kissing her grandmother’s cheek. “Where are you off to?”
“Budapest. Fabulous culture and food. Why don’t you join me?”
Max shot Peyton a slightly panicked look.
“Max is working this summer,” Peyton said, trying for enthusiasm.
“Yeah, I’m helping take care of this one,” Max said, playfully twisting one of Aurora’s braids around her finger, “and I also got a job at an ice cream shop in town.” She cracked open a can of Coke and sat down next to Peyton, who heard her daughter murmur under her breath, “Now that I’m never going to college, it might be my forever job, too.”
“So!” Marcia said. “Where’s Isaac?”
Everyone froze.
Marcia looked around. “What, are we pretending this is not happening?”
“Mom!” Skye and Peyton exclaimed simultaneously.
“What?” she crowed. “We’re family.”
Peyton sighed. She noticed that Skye took a monster swig of wine. Gabe studied his phone intently.
“Lighten up, everyone, it’s my birthday! And you know no one loves their sons-in-law more than I. Isaac can do no wrong in my eyes. Everyone knows those FBI men are just a bunch of anti-Semites.”
“What are you saying about Uncle Isaac?” The small voice that came from the doorway was quiet. Aurora glanced from her own mother to Marcia to Peyton, like she was watching a tennis match.
Skye opened her arms and murmured, “Come here, sweetie,” but it was Max who walked over and took the little girl’s hand. “We were just saying how much we all love your Uncle Isaac. That’s all.”
Peyton marveled, gratefully, at how every ounce of the impatience and sarcasm Max directed toward her these days simply evaporated whenever Max was around Aurora.
“Heath in first grade said Uncle Isaac is going to jail!” Aurora said, and then dove into Max’s arms.
“Jail?” Max said with exaggerated incredulity. “Well, that’s just the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. And what kind of name is Heath? It’s like Keith, only they forgot the ‘k’ sound! You can’t believe anything that someone named Heath says.”
Aurora appeared to consider this. “He was the best reader in our class. He’s a Level N. And he has a Fitbit.”
Max kissed the top of her head. “A Fitbit? No way!”
Aurora nodded. “He does.”
Max looked at Peyton and raised her eyes. See? All forgotten. Peyton sent her a grateful look in response. “On second thought, why don’t we leave these grown-ups here to talk about their boring grown-up things, and you and I go check the coop for eggs?”
When the girls left, Marcia looked at Peyton. “She’s a good girl, that Max. Grades in the top of her class. Confident. Nice to her grandmother. Would be even prettier if she wore something besides combat boots, but that’s just a phase. She would’ve made the loveliest bat mitzvah of everyone’s grandchildren in my entire book club if her parents had just encouraged her to respect her faith.”
Peyton pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Can we please not right now?”
Marcia clucked. She turned her attention to Skye, who visibly flinched under her gaze. “Skye, sweetheart, how’s everything going with the residence?”
Skye cleared her throat. “Good, I hope. Fingers crossed, the final funding should come through any minute, and hopefully we’ll be ready for the girls to start in September.”
“I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing!” Marcia said.
Skye smiled. “Thanks, Mom. That means a lot.”
“Finally putting that top-notch education of yours to use! I’d hate to see an Amherst degree go to waste on carpools and soccer games.”
Gabe cleared his throat.
Peyton jumped to her feet. “Did I just hear the doorbell?” She had not heard the doorbell, or any sound whatsoever, but at that exact moment, it rang. “Yep, there it is. Dinner’s here! Let’s relocate to the kitchen.”
Peyton signed for the delivery while Marcia went to fetch the girls.
“Why does she get to me so much?” Skye asked, helping her unpack the food.
“Because she’s your mother,” Peyton said.
“Yes, but she’s yours too, and you seem much better equipped to deal with her!”
“Better equipped? She called me from Bhutan with some local SIM card she’d purchased, and after the nineteenth question about how I thought Isaac would survive in prison, I pretended I couldn’t hear her and hung up.”
Skye shook her head. “I don’t have the strength for this today.”
“Sure you do. I’ll pour you another drink and you’ll get through this family dinner the same way people have from time immemorial: with a seething, low-grade rage and a serious buzz.”
Later, after the cake was devoured, and Gabe drove Marcia and Aurora home, and Max disappeared to her room, Peyton
headed to the porch for another glass of wine with her sister.
“Do you have something stronger?” Skye said.
“Tequila? I have a bottle of the good stuff here somewhere.” Peyton rummaged through a box from the New York apartment.
“Yes. Double, please.”
Peyton filled two rocks glasses with ice, poured in an excessive amount of alcohol, and added a squirt of agave and lime juice.
Skye tasted hers immediately. “Heaven,” she said. “One thousand percent worth tonight’s migraine.”
The cottage’s backyard was small but completely private, enclosed on three sides by evergreens, and the simple pool—little more than a rectangular hole in the ground—was dark.
Peyton tossed Skye a towel and laid one out for herself. When they’d settled into side-by-side chaises, Skye said, “I don’t know why family dinners are so…exhausting.”
Peyton sipped. “I think that’s pretty much the textbook definition of ‘family dinner.’ ”
“What’s wrong with us?” Skye said. “We should be grateful we even have a family, that everyone’s alive and healthy.”
“We should be,” Peyton agreed. “But we’re damaged.”
“Oh, please. We’re fine.”
“Fine? We both built good careers, married nice men, and have healthy daughters. Neither one of us, or our husbands or children—knock wood, spit three times—has any horrible disease, we’re financially comfortable, and we have generally peaceful, productive lives filled with family and friends. Current legal drama notwithstanding.”
“Okaaaay…”
“And yet, we’re miserable!” Peyton slapped the mesh underneath her. “I think I’m only realizing it now because I finally have twenty seconds of free time to string together, but seriously: what the fuck is wrong with us that we, of all people, can’t be happy with the absolute bounty of goodness that we have?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have a gratitude practice.”
Peyton laughed. “This amorphous anxiety we both have is toxic.”
“I’m not anxious,” Skye said, draping her hand over her eyes.
“Okay, but you’re bored out of your mind. How’s that stay-at-home-mom thing working out for you? Are we not allowed to acknowledge here that a large part of that dissatisfaction is driving your single-mindedness with regard to the girls’ residence?”
Skye sighed. “Did I tell you about Aurora’s friend’s mom? She asked me the other day if Aurora wanted to join the ‘private squash group’ she was putting together. Apparently, squash is the new fencing, and all the Ivies are looking for it.”
“I have heard that,” Peyton murmured. “I think it’s a good idea.”
“No! These kids are six years old. We were finger-painting at that age! Literally playing in dirt. And our kids? They’ve already begun college prep.”
Peyton was silent. She knew Skye had deliberately told the story so she could segue into a conversation about Max and Isaac. She waited.
“Soooooo…,” Skye said, trying to look casual while she sipped her tequila. “Now that we finally have a quiet second alone…”
“Please don’t. Not right now.”
Skye sat up straighter. “Can you just explain to me what Isaac was thinking? Because I can’t wrap my head around his thought process. This whole thing is so not Isaac. I will never forget how he advised me to report that principal I suspected of stealing and selling the school supplies. You must remember that? I mean, Isaac was insistent that it was my moral and ethical obligation to report the guy, even if his actions didn’t hurt anyone directly, and even if it threatened my own job. This doesn’t track!”
“It’s not so simple.”
“Really? Then explain it to me.”
“It’s just that…things are complicated.” Peyton clenched her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to see Skye’s expression, but she could feel her sister’s outrage.
“Well, that’s why I’m asking! What’s more complicated? For the first time in as long as I can remember, you’re pushing me away. Did you know what he was doing? Were you involved? And what on earth is Max going to do now that Princeton rescinded her admission?”
Peyton opened her eyes.
“Yes, she told me. Jesus Christ, Peyton. How are you of all people being so freaking chill about all of this?”
“I’m far from chill,” Peyton said. “I’m going to fight that decision with every tool available to me. I’ve already written to the dean of admissions, the president of the university, the entire board of trustees. I’ve explained ad nauseam that Max had nothing to do with this, that she had no knowledge of anything. That all the mistakes made were mi— Isaac’s. I’ll do whatever I have to, to make sure they understand that Max is exactly who she presented herself to be!”
She so desperately wanted to confess to Skye, to tell her everything. But something had stopped her the last few times she’d had the opportunity, and it was happening again. What if Skye didn’t understand? What if she couldn’t find a way to forgive Peyton for screwing up Max’s life? What if it was like the time when Peyton was fifteen and had ended up in Skye’s bedroom at one in the morning, crying, after she’d lost her virginity to a boy she didn’t even like? Peyton had wanted her big sister to hug her close, tell her that all would be fine, but sixteen-year-old Skye hadn’t even tried to hide her horror.
“You did what?” she’d asked, flicking on the overhead light. “With him?”
Peyton could remember how cold she’d felt standing there in her skimpy, off-the-shoulder dress, how desperately she wanted Skye to hold up her covers and invite Peyton to climb in next to her. But her sister had stared at her, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed.
Much the same way she was staring at Peyton now.
“What’s your plan?” Skye pressed. “I’m not Mom, P. This whole little story you’re telling everyone that he’s staying in the city to ‘deal with things’ while you live somewhere else for the summer is ridiculous. Are you separating?”
“No, absolutely not!”
“Because you wouldn’t be unjustified. There are plenty of women who wouldn’t stand idly by while their husband broke the law and ruined their kid’s life.”
I don’t understand why you slept with him. You don’t even like him. Why are you the least bit surprised that he wouldn’t even drive you home?
“Can you tone it down?” Peyton asked, stung by the honesty. “Or better yet, can you cut me a little slack? Maybe just try to act understanding, even if you don’t actually understand?”
“I’m sorry,” Skye said. “You can’t just wave your magic wand and fix this.”
Peyton finished her tequila and noticed, for the first time since they’d been out by the pool, that she was properly drunk. She felt a hand close around hers, and her eyes flew open.
“Let’s just hang here for a few more minutes? I’m not ready to go home yet,” Skye said.
Despite the slightly sick feeling that was starting to set in, and the fact that she still wanted to call Isaac, Peyton nodded. Her sister’s hand on hers felt warm, safe. As long as she sat there, she wouldn’t need to think about anything or anyone else.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’d like that.”
14
Small Cone with a Side of Anorexia
Max climbed the stairs out of the freezing cold water, loving the cottage’s pool, even if it was unheated. She was the only one who would swim in it. One good thing in the shit show of her life. “I’m going to change for work,” Max said, wrapping a towel around her waist.
Her mother and Aunt Skye looked up from their coffee. Aurora was sitting at the porch table with them, gluing plastic gemstones to neon Popsicle sticks.
“You’re starting today?” her mom asked, obviously surprised. “I didn’t even know.”
“It’s an actual real, live job, Mother,” Max said. “I don’t get to choose my own hours. Can I take the car? Or can someone drop me off?”
She was proud of herself for getting a job in addition to babysitting Aurora. Back in March she’d taken the train from the city to Paradise and walked the whole town, hitting every store and restaurant she could find, asking if they would be hiring summer help. Every place in town rejected her, citing her inexperience in retail or restaurant service, but her very last stop, an ice cream shop unimaginatively called the Ice Cream Shoppe, offered her a job.
“I can drive you,” Aunt Skye said. “We’re supposed to meet friends at the playground, so we’re heading out anyway.”
“Great, thanks,” Max said. She bounded up the stairs to the room she’d claimed—the one at the far end of the hallway with the little window seat—and peeled off her suit. After a quick shower, she laid her uniform on the bed: a light pink polo shirt with The Ice Cream Shoppe embroidered on the chest and the kind of knee-length khaki shorts worn only by elderly female golfers in Boca Raton. Max sighed as she buckled the pink grosgrain belt with navy ice cream cones and pulled on her white ankle socks and Keds. Keds! It was brutal. Savage. She looked like a cross between a Friday Night Lights–type cheerleader and a WASPy chick who’d grown up sailing at her family’s Chappaquiddick compound.
Max jutted out her hip and, pointing to her ridiculous belt, snapped a selfie. Brynn was going to die. She sent it to her and felt a sharp pang of longing for her friend. How much better would this summer be if Brynn was taking the train out to visit every weekend, like they’d planned? As Max walked downstairs in her hideous outfit, she made a silent bet on whether her mother or Aunt Skye was going to laugh harder, but it was Aurora who trolled her first.
Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty Page 16
