Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Susan? Is that you? My god, it’s good to hear your voice. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine,” Susan said in her comforting way that even now, all these years later, could settle Skye’s anxiety in seconds. “I’m sorry to call so late. Truthfully, I was expecting to leave a voicemail. No one answers their phone these days!”

  “I’m in DC for work, so now’s a good time, actually.”

  “You’re teaching again? Good for you! You were always so passionate about your work.”

  “Oh, no, not officially. I mean…never mind that. How are you?”

  There was a brief pause before Susan said, “I was actually checking in with you. How’s Aurora?”

  Skye frowned but kept walking. “Aurora? She’s fine. Great, actually. Very much enjoying her summer.”

  “So, I’m doing some maintenance on our database of adoptive families, some updating, and I was wondering if you and Gabe have reconsidered your position?”

  “Our position?” She stopped walking.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to be so formal. Just that when you adopted Aurora, you told the agency you were only interested in one child. We are going through, um, all of our families that have completed successful adoptions to see if they might consider adopting again. Nothing specific, if a need arose, something like that.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Skye said without hesitation.

  “What was that?” Susan asked. “One of us is breaking up.”

  “Yes, of course we are interested,” Skye said, feeling like she was careening around a racetrack on a car going a hundred miles an hour. “I mean, it would have to be the right circumstances, the right timing, but yes, I do think it’s something we would consider.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful news. Thank you. I’m going to update your profile to active, which is really a formality. Perhaps you’ll also want to update it, include any family updates, moves, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Skye said, because she wasn’t sure what else to say, and she couldn’t quite parse if she’d done something wonderful or irreparably damaging. She’d just finished a dinner which had forced her to face the harsh truth that, at least compared to her ex-colleagues, her career had been completely derailed. Another baby hardly seemed like the right answer; in fact, it seemed like the worst possible move if she wanted to get her professional life back on track. But saying no to Susan—shutting down that possibility for good—was impossible.

  Even once she’d closed the door behind her, located her phone, and pressed Gabe’s smiling photo on her Favorites list, she was shocked by the sound of his voice.

  “Gabe?”

  “Hi, love. How was dinner?”

  “Is that you?” She jumped up and began pacing the drab gray room. How had she not noticed that hideous quilted bedcover?

  “You called me, honey. Is everything okay?”

  Suddenly Skye felt a jolt of regret. She shouldn’t have called him yet. What was she going to say? I randomly got a call from the adoption agency asking if we’d consider another child, and because I’ve been crazy lately, I said yes? Without asking you how you felt. Or discussing it in any way. Not even to mention the rising debt I’ve accumulated, another rather major thing you know nothing about.

  “What? No, no, everything’s fine. Sorry, I was just…distracted. It ended up being a really nice night.”

  “It did?” Gabe said, his joy and relief obvious. “I’m so glad to hear that. You were nervous about it.”

  “Yes,” she said, trying to sound normal. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was embarrassing—I told a woman with a PhD in economics who speaks enough languages to be considered a polyglot that I’m a Girl Scout troop leader in Paradise. But besides that, it was good to see people. To have an adult conversation that wasn’t centered on kids or workouts.”

  “That’s great, honey. You needed that. Any luck with the fundraising?”

  “Not yet,” Skye said. “But tomorrow’s benefactor breakfast is my best chance. Plus, it’s been good to reconnect with a bunch of people—now it won’t be strange if I follow up with them later.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that. Plus, you picked a good night to be away. Kiddo’s got the pukes.”

  “No! Is she okay? Do you think it’s the stomach bug or something she ate?”

  “Stomach bug, for sure. Esther texted me that both of hers have it, too. She’s finally sleeping, but I’m getting my towel pile ready.”

  “I’m so sorry I’m not there. And so ecstatic I’m not there. I think we went through every towel in the house last year.”

  “Excellent.”

  Skye finally smiled. “I’ll take an earlier train home tomorrow to relieve you. Hang tight. Tell Aurora I love her, okay?”

  “I’ll tell her using a bullhorn from another room.”

  “Gabe? I love you, too.”

  “Love you, honey. Enjoy your solo hotel room and try not to feel too badly about me sleeping on our daughter’s floor with only the sound of splashing vomit for company.”

  Skye flopped onto the bed and then bolted up again, unsure what to do with her nervous energy. “Good night,” she said, hoping it sounded like she wasn’t hiding anything potentially life altering. “Call me if you need me.”

  He made a kissing sound through the phone and disconnected the call.

  Ohmigod, ohmigod, Skye chanted in her mind, walking into the bathroom to turn on the shower before immediately turning it off again. How could I not have told him? What if he says no? She dialed Peyton. It rang twice before she received one of those automated text responses saying that her sister wasn’t available.

  Dammit. She stubbed her toe on the folding luggage rack and then whipped around and kicked it on purpose. It smashed into the wall and her rolling duffel bag dumped its contents all over the floor. Her phone rang from back in the bathroom. She couldn’t wait to tell Peyton everything, but when she plucked her phone from the sink, something made her press Decline.

  22

  Porsched In

  “Are you kidding me?” Peyton asked as she pulled into Skye’s driveway. Her sister was sitting in a wicker chair on the porch, a tennis racket propped up near her legs.

  “What?” Skye asked, all innocence.

  “I told you to wear all white. Elena was very insistent.”

  “I’m not comfortable with all-white rules,” her sister said as she grabbed her racket and walked to the passenger side.

  “It’s not a racist thing! It’s more like a country club thing,” Peyton said.

  “Same difference.”

  Peyton suppressed a smile. Skye wore hot-pink running shorts and a black tank that read “The Future Is Female / Science Is Real / Black Lives Matter / No Human Is Illegal / Love Is Love” in rainbow colors down the front. Her hair was yanked into a messy bun and she had on not a stitch of makeup, and naturally, she looked amazing. Peyton had spent nearly two hours getting ready, including but not limited to a professional ponytail from a nearby salon, an eyebrow wax, and a spray tan. With so much flesh exposed in her skimpy white tennis dress, she’d agonized over every inch of it, making sure her legs were hairless and her décolletage dewy and her cheeks rosy and her under-eyes concealed. Skye had definitely forgotten all about their plans that night until exactly ten minutes before, when Peyton had called to tell her she was on her way, and still she looked a thousand times better.

  “That shirt’s a little aggressive, don’t you think?” Peyton asked as she backed onto the street.

  Skye yanked on the bottom, stretching it over her perfect breasts, examining it. She shrugged. “I had to do something to counteract the conservatism tonight. They may not be wearing their MAGA hats tonight, but don’t kid yourself—they want to.”

  “Who, exactly, are ‘they’?”

 
“The same people who belong to super fancy country clubs with all-white dress codes!”

  Peyton laughed. “Aside from your statement shirt, can you keep the politics to a minimum tonight? I don’t know these people at all, and it was really nice of Nisha to arrange it.”

  “Nice of Nisha? I’m not sure that’s how I would describe it.”

  Peyton reached across the seat and poked Skye in her thigh. “It’s going to be a fun night, you’ll see. And remember, it’s for a good cause.”

  “Yeah, your career,” Skye said.

  “Yes, that. Thanks. But also, underprivileged children. Your specialty.”

  Skye gave Peyton a look.

  “What? I went to a City Harvest fundraiser one year. It was ridiculously over the top—at Cipriani, celebrities galore. The grand finale prize—a private dinner cooked by Eric Ripert in your own kitchen, with John Legend singing and Chrissy Teigen serving—was so popular that they sold it twice. For over a million dollars each time.”

  “Your point?”

  “You may not agree with the means, but that whole insane spectacle raised over four million dollars to help feed hungry New Yorkers. I think that’s worth it, don’t you?”

  Skye raised her eyebrows.

  “And yes, I have got to get back in that anchor seat—not only for me, but for my family—and the quickest way to making that happen is to follow Nisha’s explicit instructions. If she says I should attend a night at a country club, well…I’m grateful it’s not equine therapy at this point. Or sensitivity training. Or rehab.”

  “Rehab? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Everyone goes to rehab when they screw up in the court of public opinion. Doesn’t matter for what—drunk driving, sexual harassment, racial insensitivity—rehab is always the answer.”

  “You sound really authentic right now. It’s lovely,” Skye said. “But in all fairness, shouldn’t Isaac be the one considering rehab, not you?”

  Peyton glanced at her sister. She couldn’t remember a single time in the last forty years when she’d withheld important information this long from Skye. It was more than uncomfortable—it was unnatural.

  Her phone rang from its magnetic holder on the air-conditioning vent. “Is it Kenneth? I have three calls in to him, and I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “It’s Mom,” Skye said. “Isn’t she in Iceland?”

  “Somewhere cold. St. Petersburg?” Peyton said, jabbing the answer button while making a left turn. “Hey, Mom!”

  “Hello, dear. Why is the connection so awful? Can you hear me?”

  “I hear you perfectly, Mom.”

  “Listen, I only have a second, but I was talking to Nancy Blumenstein, and she said that her daughter—who’s married to an ER doctor who went to Yale, by the way—told her that she saw on the Facebook a picture of Skye. And she was all dressed up at some super fancy party!”

  “Who? The daughter? Or the ER doctor? Or Nancy Blumenstein?” Peyton asked, grinning at Skye, who had covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Your sister! Do you know what party she was at? Because I certainly don’t. Not that you girls ever tell me anything, but I do like to have some idea of what goes on in your lives. You should have heard the way Nancy said, ‘Oh, you didn’t know?’ ”

  With this, Skye snorted.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Peyton said. “She’s sitting right—”

  Skye punched her hard in the forearm.

  “I’m sure she’s sitting in her own living room right now, hoping that you’ll call.”

  “I will do that, dear. So…any word yet?”

  “Word?” Peyton parroted, although she knew exactly what her mother was asking.

  “On what’s going to happen with Isaac! Linda Shapiro in my book club said that judges aren’t being very lenient with this college admissions scandal. Apparently, they want to set examples.”

  “Well, Linda Shapiro sounds pretty smart.”

  “She should know—her son is a partner at a prestigious law firm, and he tells Linda everything. Plus, he and his wife bring their children to visit every three weeks when she’s in Boca for the winter—how lovely is that?”

  Peyton said, “Mom, can I call you tomorrow? A friend invited me to play in a tennis round-robin, and I’m pulling into the parking lot.”

  “Of course, dear. Have a good time. Send my love to Max and Isaac, if they allow phone calls under house arrest.”

  “He’s not under—” But her mother had disconnected the call. She executed a three-point turn to back the car into a tight spot.

  “We’re Porsched in!” Skye said, looking at the cars on both sides and across the lot. “Why are we here again?”

  “Shhhhhhhh! Just be a decent wingman, okay? And can we keep the crunchy crap to a minimum?”

  “The ‘crunchy crap’?”

  “You know, the lectures on plastic straws and making your own almond milk and coral-safe sunscreen?”

  “Roger that. No politics, no global warming, no environmental responsibility. Anything else I should leave out, Ivanka?”

  Peyton glared at Skye, trying not to laugh, when a man in a monogrammed polo shirt and a belt embroidered with miniature golf balls asked, “May I help you?”

  Peyton offered him an enormous smile. “Yes, thank you, we’re guests of Ms. Elena Popov,” she announced, as though they were being hosted by the queen of England and not the wife of an infamous, Madoff-level con man.

  “Of course, right this way.” He led them through the posh, high-ceilinged lobby and out a back door. “The courts are straight down that way, just follow the path.”

  “Is it a coincidence that tonight is being hosted by the high-profile wife of a white-collar criminal?” Skye whispered. “Are you sure this is the right choice?”

  “Elena does a lot of wonderful things for the community,” Peyton said. “In 2016 she founded a not-for-profit that provides one hundred percent of needed supplemental nutrition over the weekends for local food-insecure schoolchildren, and it’s grown to over sixty counties. She has personally funded college scholarships for first-generation immigrant children, advocated in front of the House of Representatives for autistic children, and has established a corporate matching program for all kinds of charitable donations. Her husband might be a scumbag, but I assure you she is not.”

  “Well, I stand corrected,” Skye said. “I actually didn’t know any of that. In honor of Elena’s good works, I will try to behave myself tonight.”

  “You’re a peach,” Peyton said.

  The sisters hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps before a woman’s voice rang out. “Oh, look, everyone, Peyton Marcus is here!”

  “Ugh, I see at least three sets of parents from Aurora’s school,” Skye said quietly through her own gritted teeth and painted-on smile.

  Peyton linked her arm through Skye’s so she could politely drag her to the first court, where a group had gathered. She could feel people begin to recognize her, and she offered each one her well-honed public winks that said, “Yes, it’s me, the famous person you know from television, but tonight I’m a regular civilian, so please don’t embarrass yourself.”

  The two dozen men and women parted and, like a graceful gazelle who’d just emerged from a herd of anteaters, Elena appeared. Extremely well-groomed and surgically enhanced anteaters, but still: no four-hundred-dollar-per-ounce snail-enriched face cream or glittering Gucci tennis shoes could give these women even a shred of Elena’s poise or presence. And no award-winning plastics guy, regardless of his talent with scalpel or silicone, could give them her body. At nearly six feet tall and barely breaking a hundred ten pounds, Elena looked stunning in the delicate, spaghetti-strapped tennis dress that merely skimmed her nonexistent hips. Platinum hair floated down her back, and her skin shimmered
from designer cheekbone highlighter or vigorous sex with her tennis coach, or both. Even from the sea of white—white skin, white clothes, white strings—Elena radiated lightness.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” Elena said, grasping Peyton’s hands and kissing her on both cheeks, as if a crisis manager hadn’t arranged the evening because it was mutually beneficial to both women.

  “Thank you so much for having me!” Peyton said. She could feel Skye’s gaze burning into her back. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought my sister? Elena Popov, this is Skye Alter.”

  “Skye, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Elena purred, extending a hand with perfect, white-lacquered fingernails. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “And I absolutely love your shirt.”

  Skye looked pleased. “Thanks for letting me tag along. This is a beautiful—”

  They were interrupted by one of the four tennis pros, each of whom was male and disconcertingly gorgeous. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Paradise Racquet Club’s charity round-robin,” said the one who seemed to be in charge. He was six foot four or five, with the lean, powerful look of a purebred greyhound. “My name is Alfonso. With me tonight are Guillermo, Luca, and Christophe. We’ll divide you into groups and everyone will rotate between courts. But first! Reinforcements!” Alfonso waved toward the path where a single-file line of well-scrubbed and polo-clad servers marched toward the courts, holding trays brimming with drinks.

  Everyone cheered. There were gin and tonics, vodka sodas, frozen rosés, and the club special, a very fine tequila on the rocks mixed with agave and lime juice. Naturally, if none of these appealed, they would be delighted to mix up your drink of choice.

  Peyton plucked a frosé from the tray and handed one to Skye. They clinked their monogrammed Corkcicle cups together and Peyton said, “There are worse ways to spend an evening.”

  Peyton wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, the piped-in eighties music, or the four spectacularly hot tennis coaches who flirted indiscriminately with every man and woman in attendance, but over the next ninety minutes, for the first time in weeks, she managed to bury the feeling that her life was falling apart. They played out some points and then switched partners, moving up and down the line of courts according to whether they won or lost. It felt good to move and to hit a few balls, and by the time the group began filtering toward the restaurant’s deck, which overlooked the expansive eighteenth hole, Peyton felt almost relaxed. But as she walked past a table full of chatting tennis players, that changed.