“Do you think they’re getting divorced?” one pretty brunette in a tank and skirt asked a pretty blonde in nearly the exact same outfit. “I mean, why else would she be here alone?”
“I don’t know, maybe he’s on house arrest? Like with an ankle monitor, or whatever?”
“It’s just crazy to me that she’s out and about—partying, practically—in light of…the situation.”
Someone must have kicked them each under the table, because both women whipped around at the exact same time. The brunette’s face registered shock; the blonde smiled at Peyton and smoothly said, “I hope you don’t mind us saying so, but we’re all really big fans of yours.”
Peyton stared her right in the eye. “You’re too kind.”
The entire table clearly sensed the awkwardness, because they all began nodding heads enthusiastically. “Seriously, we just love watching you in the morning,” a third woman called across the table.
Peyton felt a squeeze on her shoulder and knew without looking that it was Skye. A warning.
“That is so nice to hear,” Peyton said with a fake smile. “And I do appreciate your concern regarding my…situation. It’s comforting being around people who understand.” She paused for a moment to allow it to sink in and then cheerily waved goodbye to the group.
“And you were worried I was going to talk about almond milk?” Skye murmured.
“Elena!” Peyton called out, beaming and waving as they approached her table.
Even though everyone else wore their tennis clothes to dinner, Elena had showered and donned a floral chemise dress with barely-there straps and no bra. In her platform espadrilles, she easily exceeded six feet, yet she glided around the table to double-kiss Peyton with the grace of a figure skater. “I’m so glad you both could join us. Come, let me introduce you to everyone.”
Elena indicated for Peyton to sit to her right and for Skye to sit to Peyton’s right. The moment they sat, a college-aged waiter with floppy blond hair filled their glasses with prosecco.
“Peyton, Skye, this is Eric, my lawyer,” Elena said, wrapping both her arms around the neck of the man sitting on her left. He feigned being upset, and she kissed him on the lips, lingering so long that Peyton could almost feel his stubble on her own face. “Okay, okay, so we are special friends, too!”
Peyton could see Skye giving her a look, but she ignored it.
“Next to Eric is Mathilde”—Mathilde, who looked barely out of her twenties, offered a wan smile—“and over there we have Paulina and her husband, Barry. Paulina and Barry are newlyweds!”
“Aw, congratulations,” Peyton and Skye said at the exact same time, in the exact same manner, which made everyone laugh. There was a brief moment of silence, but Peyton immediately stepped in. She knew she was skilled enough to carry a conversation with a potted plant if the situation arose, and she never shied away.
“So, how do you all know one another? Please, give us the full, unedited version. Where are you from, how did you meet, who do you hate?”
Elena smiled. “Well, of course you know already about me. The press has made certain of that!”
The entire table laughed.
“But enough about that, tonight is about you!” Elena said, wrapping both her hands around Peyton’s right bicep. “The package you donated is amazing.”
“It’s truly my pleasure,” Peyton said, although since Nisha had arranged everything, Peyton wasn’t entirely clear on the details.
She was interrupted by the auctioneer, a woman in a pantsuit with a severe bun and reading glasses, who stepped up to a podium and spoke into the microphone. “Forgive me for interrupting your dinner,” she said, her deep, full-bodied voice a surprise. “But we simply can’t wait to get started.”
A team of waitstaff fanned out across the balcony and distributed hand paddles to each person while the auctioneer explained the rules and highlighted some of the available prizes, and then, before they’d even had their appetizers, the auction began. People bid frantically on clothes from local boutiques, massages and facials from local spas, gym memberships and gift baskets. At Peyton’s table alone, the guests snapped up “free” sessions for weight training, interior decorating, acupuncture, and nutrition counseling. The table to their right won dog training, life coaching, and closet purging, and the table to their left snagged couples therapy, self-defense, home organizing, and chef-delivered meals. All around them, white-clad tennis players vied ferociously for box seats for the Giants, the US Open, the Yankees.
The preppy waiter produced a tray of mini plates. He set down blistered shishito peppers, an assortment of Mediterranean dips and pita squares, and a mushroom flatbread. “Our starters tonight,” he announced.
Elena plucked a pepper and delicately bit the flesh. “Delicious,” she declared, while the men stared, but there was no time for chat because the auction, having exhausted the supply of smaller prizes, had progressed to the vacation opportunities. In fewer than ten minutes the auctioneer extracted top dollar for free weeks in a Mount Snow ski house, a Deer Valley condo, a Hilton Head beachfront manse, and four nights on a yacht that was currently docked in the BVI. Peyton almost bid on a fishing charter in the Florida Keys for Isaac, but stopped herself at the last moment: she couldn’t afford to throw money around like that with her job so uncertain.
The auctioneer announced a brief break for dinner, after which they would get to the evening’s final prize, something she called “the News Junkie Experience.” Elena winked at Peyton.
The booze did its job, the conversation meandered comfortably through noncontroversial topics, and soon little crystal bowls of white chocolate mousse appeared. The waiter took coffee orders, but before her mint tea had even arrived, Skye abruptly stood up and said, “Please excuse me. I’m so sorry, but I must leave now.”
Peyton jumped up after her sister. “Are you okay? I can’t leave yet; they haven’t auctioned off my package.”
“I’m fine,” Skye said quietly, in a tone Peyton knew meant exactly the opposite. “You stay. I’ll get an Uber and I’ll talk to you later.”
Peyton watched as Skye strolled across the balcony and down the stairs. She turned to the table and offered up her most accessible smile. “Please excuse me for a moment.”
She ran after her sister, whom she found, shivering, in the club’s gravel parking lot.
“What was that all about?”
Skye looked at her. “I can’t take another second of it. The whole thing was just so…vile.”
“Oh my god, you are always so dramatic!”
“I need a shower after that.”
“It’s an auction for charity, Skye. I think you’re overreacting.”
“Not a single person there tonight cares in the least about underprivileged children. Or charitable giving. Or doing the right thing. This whole night is a disgusting sham.”
Reflexively, Peyton started to protest, but she stopped. “It’s the tiniest bit gross.”
Skye glanced up. “The tiniest bit?”
“Okay, it’s full-blown hideous. There, I said it. However, I am unclear how this is all that different from what you’ve been doing, trying to raise money for your residence? I mean, just to put it all out there, Henry—back when he agreed to finance the project—didn’t give a rat’s ass about underprivileged girls from the inner city. He was forking over the cash because some consultant told him that’s what companies need to do in 2021 for the sake of appearances. I’m not saying that’s right, or admirable, but does the end justify the means? In both cases, I think the answer is yes.”
Skye sighed. “I hate you sometimes.”
“You hate me most when I’m right.”
“Can we get out of here now, please?”
“I have to congratulate the winning bidder of my package. Pick a date when they’re going to come by the studio for
a tour, sit at the anchor desk, have lunch afterward. They’re expecting it to be a big-ticket item!”
“I hope your winning bidder has some availability in the fall, because it doesn’t seem like you’re doing much studio touring or anchor-desk-sitting this summer. Just saying.” Skye gave a sly half smile.
Peyton blinked. Who else would ever speak to her like this? The same person who wouldn’t hesitate to tell her when she looked fat, or old, or tired, or bloated. Who regularly told her that an idea, outfit, or life plan was one thousand percent, unequivocally bat-shit crazy. Only a sister could be thoroughly unimpressed with your public accomplishments and accolades but would screech in joy and support when you finally learned how to parallel park or make it through a cavity filling without fainting.
Peyton barked out a laugh. “Maybe we should offer a leave-of-absence discount.”
“Maybe pair it with a soon-to-be-permanently-unemployed insurance certificate?” Skye paused, looked at Peyton. “Too much?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
“I left my tennis bag in there,” Peyton said pleadingly, motioning toward the clubhouse.
“Get in the fucking car,” Skye said, grabbing Peyton’s miniature YSL crossbody bag and digging out her keys and handing them over. “We’re leaving.”
Peyton took the keys and climbed behind the wheel. She pecked out a quick text to Elena: So sorry! My sis isn’t feeling well. Send me the contact info for the winning bidder and I’ll get in touch tomorrow. She hit send and then said, “Nisha is going to kill me when she hears we left early.” She eased out of the parking spot, taking extra care not to hit all the Porsches, and began heading back to Skye’s house.
Skye fixed her eyes on Peyton. “You need a friend right now, not a crisis advisor.”
“She’s both,” Peyton said.
“Hardly. Sending you into that snake pit. What, exactly, did that do to rehabilitate your reputation? I’m sorry, P. Your reputation is not the primary problem here. It’s your daughter. Your marriage. And me.”
Peyton pulled into Skye’s driveway, put the car in park. “I don’t know what else to do. Tell me, because I’m willing to do it! I screwed up, and now I need to do everything in my power to try to make it right again.”
“You mean Isaac screwed up so much.”
Peyton was certain her sister could hear her heart pounding through her chest. It was never going to be the right time to tell Skye that her anger at Isaac was misplaced, but if she didn’t, her sister might always hate her husband. Still, she couldn’t force out the words.
“We can’t let this ruin all our lives!” Peyton said. “Mistakes were made. I’m not denying it. But we have to do the hard work now to move forward.”
“Move forward?” Skye asked, her eyes flashing. “Eight girls hoping for a different chance, a year at one of our schools—Peyton, it was the dream I worked on for two years. Not to mention the fact that I’m tens of thousands of dollars in debt, and Gabe has no idea!”
Peyton turned to Skye, who was wrapping and rewrapping a lock of hair around her forefinger. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, well, now you do. When Henry agreed to the funding, I started buying things. All the things. Mixing bowls, throw pillows, towels, school supplies—you name it, I bought it. Is it all necessary? Yes. But does that matter, now that there’s no residence? Nope. I have a basement full of enough supplies to furnish an entire house, a massive outstanding credit card bill, and eight families whose lives have been turned upside down, all thanks to me.”
“I can write you a check! Seriously, for as much as I can.”
“I don’t want a handout from you.”
“It is not a handout! And I wish it could be more but I don’t have it. It’s insane how much money I make each year and we’ve managed to save almost nothing. Between the apartment, Max’s school, vacations, and general asshole-level spending on whatever I felt like…there’s almost nothing left. In the greatest of ironies, the only real nest egg we’ve built and protected has been Max’s college fund. We started the day she was born and squirreled it away. Now she may not even go to college!”
Skye sighed. “She’s going to college, P. It’s not going to be Princeton, or possibly anywhere like it, but she’ll go somewhere that’s perfect for her.”
The mudroom door to Skye’s house opened, and Gabe stepped out. “You guys want to come in? Or are you just going to hang in the driveway?” he called.
“I’ll be right there,” Skye called back, flashing him a smile. Then she turned to Peyton. “Have you ever stopped to think of the most ridiculous thing in all of this?”
Peyton’s head was starting to throb. “What, that Mom is the happiest one of all three of us?”
“No. Look how differently our lives turned out compared to what was prescribed for us in high school. I was the straight-A student who went to the great college, and I’ve become a glorified housewife. You were the teenage fuckup who ended up at some branch campus, and you became one of the most famous news anchors in the country.”
“Okaaaay…”
“But neither of us are where we want to be! I mean, no one hates the word ‘balance’ more than I do, but we sure haven’t found it, have we? I frittered away an incredible education combined with genuine passion and, forgive me for saying it, but I think real talent, to helicopter parent my six-year-old. You got the dream job, but along the way you sacrificed unquantifiable amounts of time with your family and missed out on large swaths of your daughter’s childhood.”
Peyton turned to look at her sister. “Thank you for that. I’m about ready to go find a very high bridge.”
“Yeah, well, take a number and get in line. My point is this: We both seem to be at a crossroads here. For shit reasons, no doubt. But maybe it’s time we both take honest stock of our situations and try to make some positive changes?”
“Why do I feel like I’m listening to a Brené Brown TED talk right now?”
Skye laughed. “I have been liking her lately. Anyway, I have to run. But think about it.”
“Think about how I selfishly chose my own career over being a better mother to my daughter and missing, as you so eloquently put it, ‘large swaths’ of her childhood? I will add it to the list of things I berate myself about nightly.”
Skye climbed out of the car. “You’re a great mom, and we both know it. Besides, I’m hardly preaching from a place of moral high ground here: you don’t think I realize that I’ve poured my heart and soul and ungodly amounts of money into a charity that, yes, I believe in and know will help others, but that I’m also depending on to save my sanity and correct my shitty career choices so far? Because I do.”
“Well, on that note, I’m headed home to drink a bottle of vodka and listen to Leonard Cohen before shopping for guns online. Thanks for the pick-me-up.”
“Welcome!” Skye said cheerily before slamming the door. “If you do off yourself, please remember that I’ve always wanted that white leather jacket of yours….”
Peyton gave her the middle finger, but she was grinning as she shifted into reverse.
23
Heavy Pour
“Mmm,” Max said, climbing out of the passenger seat of her mother’s car. She took a deep breath and decided that yes, the air was qualitatively cleaner and fresher in Vermont.
“That’s the one,” Peyton said, pointing down the hill. “On the end.” They each lugged their duffel bags down the steep staircase that connected the parking lot to a row of townhouses. “I can’t imagine doing this in two feet of snow,” Peyton said.
“I can’t imagine doing anything in two feet of snow,” Max replied.
Her mother laughed. “I’m not sure I realized how much I’ve turned you into a city kid. Surely I’ve told you about the kind of winters we had in Pennsylvania? How we had to walk thre
e-quarters of a mile just to get the bus, and it was always—”
“Yep, you definitely have.”
“Here we go.” Her mom unlocked the door and swung it open with a flourish. “Country life!”
Max was oddly relieved to see that her mom had returned, at least partially, to her old level of enthusiasm. The moping and obsessive watching of ANN had been starting to become concerning.
They stepped into the ski condo, which although it looked like all the others from the outside—ugly aluminum siding, attached wooden ski closets, swing-out windows from the eighties—was, on the inside, a modern, minimalist dream of all glass and steel.
“Not what I was expecting,” Max said, checking out the floating staircase and the nearly two-story-high stainless fireplace. “But I love it!”
“Me neither and me too,” her mom breathed. “When Sean said we were welcome to stay here, I was picturing lumpy couches and Crock-Pots. I should have known better.”
They were supposed to be at Canyon Ranch for their annual mother-daughter spa weekend, something she and her mom had been doing—with varying degrees of success—since middle school, but Max had seen some emails her mom had left up on her iPad. The first was to Nisha, asking for her thoughts on a letter she’d written to the president of Princeton, pleading Max’s case and reassuring him that Max had no involvement in or knowledge of the scandal whatsoever. The second email had been to Max’s dad, explaining that Peyton was going to cancel the spa trip this year, considering how expensive a weekend it was. Her father had replied understanding the decision but encouraging her to find a cheaper option, something to keep the tradition going, especially then. The final email her mom had written was to Sean asking if his offer still stood to use his place up in Vermont for a weekend. And here they were.
Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty Page 26
