Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  She’d been like that as long as Skye could remember. Which was why it was nearly impossible to keep from calling her: Peyton always had the right answer. It didn’t matter if she knew nothing about the problem, or the people involved, or any extenuating circumstances—she had a strong opinion about how to fix it, or at least how to proceed. Skye tried to conjure her sister’s confident advice as she drove. What would Peyton advise? March over to Gabe’s office and announce that she had fucked up? Downplay the issue by saying she’d gotten a tad carried away with her Amazon ordering but tell him not to worry? Continue blatantly lying by omission and tell him nothing until the whole thing was resolved? She could imagine her sister saying each of them, and it was torturous not to call her.

  Marcia walked out from her two-bedroom condo on the ground floor the moment Skye pulled into the parking lot. She shaded her eyes with her hand and watched as Skye hauled a giant Bed Bath & Beyond bag out of the trunk.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said as she held the door open for Skye. “I do appreciate the effort, but I’m perfectly happy with my old one.”

  The smell of pumpkin spice hit her the moment she stepped inside. “Mom, it’s June. Isn’t it a little early for pumpkin spice?”

  “It’s never too early. Besides, the extra-large candles were on sale at HomeGoods last week. I bought six. Do you want one?”

  Skye swept her arm across Marcia’s counter to clear some space and hauled the box out of the bag. “I’m all set, thanks.”

  Marcia tugged on her cotton tunic, which, paired with mom jeans and flats, made up her daily warm-weather uniform, and leaned in to examine the box. “Dear, this looks very expensive. Not to mention much more high-tech than I need. I don’t need all those buttons! Certainly not a digital screen. Coffee is not such a complicated thing, and I told you: my old one works just fine.”

  Skye stopped unpacking the new machine and pointed to Marcia’s coffee maker in the corner. “The cord is being held together by duct tape and the carafe is cracked. You drink coffee all day long. Can you please just not argue about this one thing?”

  “Fine,” Marcia sighed. “But you’re going to have to write all the steps down on a piece of paper and leave it on the fridge for me.”

  “I know,” Skye said.

  After making a test pot and then a real one, Skye took her coffee mug and sat opposite Marcia in the small, cluttered living room. Pictures of Marcia’s travels in mismatched frames—some the wrong size—covered the walls, and every surface was filled with tchotchkes.

  “How’s your sister?” Marcia asked. “She won’t answer my calls. Who doesn’t speak to their own mother at a time like this?”

  Skye grimaced. “I haven’t actually spoken to her since yesterday. Isaac was just back home. It’s still all over the news. I had to physically intercept Aurora from watching.”

  Marcia took a sip, her thin lips pursing around the mug.

  “Isaac is not a stupid man,” Marcia said. “He’s smarter than she is. I can’t understand why he’d do something like this.”

  “We all know what kind of man Isaac is. Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Yes, I agree, but the facts seem increasingly harder to deny. Besides, didn’t someone do this already and get caught for it? That silly actress from that nineties sitcom? I mean, why are we doing this again?”

  “None of it makes sense,” Skye said. “Not to mention that Max was perfectly capable of getting into college on her own. She’s the brightest one in the whole damn family.”

  Marcia clucked. “What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on their wall right now.”

  “Mom!”

  “Don’t take everything so seriously,” Marcia said, waving her free hand and splashing a little coffee on her tunic. “Your sister is right, this is all going to blow right over. With everything that’s going on in the country, in the world, no one cares about something like this.”

  Skye stared at her. Marcia was usually right about most things. A retired nurse, she had worked double shifts after the girls’ father left them for his dental hygienist when they were ten and eleven, respectively. He went on to have an entirely new family—two boys this time—a scenario he seemed to prefer since they rarely ever heard from him outside of birthdays and Hanukkah. But Marcia? The woman could hold her own. She knew things, and not just medical ones: who was going to win the upcoming election; when all the good sales started each season; how to make bouillabaisse; drive a stick; and get stains out of anything. She was an expert-level deal hunter, traveling exclusively with elder-hostel-type groups at the very last second when they posted their bargain-basement prices, and she was a badass about where she’d go, which was pretty much anywhere that wasn’t actively engaged in all-out war. She was also certifiably crazy, certain that it was perfectly acceptable to return cooked meat to its marinade for “extra flavor,” that all those “food safety” rules—she always used air quotes with that phrase—were a hoax and a conspiracy. She simply didn’t believe the appliance repairman who told her that her twenty-two-year-old dishwasher was so clogged with cemented-on food that it’d be healthier to let the dog lick the plates clean. The woman had never met a doctor she trusted or a restaurant meal that was right the first time. She was tough, hardworking, and enough of a wackadoo to keep Skye and Peyton constantly on their toes. But on this one, Skye was certain her mother had it wrong.

  “I don’t think so,” Skye said, shaking her head. “Having a household face and name associated with something as juicy and high profile as an FBI investigation? And cheating the system when you already have every advantage? People don’t merely overlook that.”

  “Everyone will forget about it by Monday.”

  “No. This has the potential to upend her entire career.” Skye glanced at her phone again, looking for a message from her sister. “Peyton must be panicked.”

  “Men do far worse things every day than try to help their own children. This is dead in the water. Just give it time.”

  Skye stood up and took Marcia’s mug for a refill. “Do you think she knew? I mean, how could she not, right?”

  Marcia shrugged. “I always say it’s impossible to know what goes on in someone else’s marriage. Even your own daughter’s. I think we have to wait and see how it all develops. So in the meantime, tell me what’s going on with you.”

  Skye handed her mother the steaming mug. “Isn’t it nice to have hot, fresh coffee? Aren’t you so grateful to your older daughter for bringing you this luxury?”

  Marcia’s eyes narrowed. “You look like you’re going to cry.”

  Although she didn’t feel on the edge of tears whatsoever, the mere suggestion of them by her own mother coaxed them forth. In a flash Marcia was beside her on the couch, rubbing her shoulder and murmuring, “There, there.”

  “Don’t let all this stuff with your sister upset you so much,” Marcia said. “She’s a tough cookie, that one. She’ll handle it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “How’s Gabe? And Aurora?”

  “They’re fine. All good.”

  What would her mother, who’d taught both her daughters to use cash and balance their checkbooks and use credit cards only for security reasons, think of the fact that Skye owed a debt the equivalent of a year’s teaching salary? Or that the project she’d been working on for two years—literally, the thing that justified her existence beyond merely being a hyper-involved parent of one lovely and easy six-year-old—was still not finalized? Skye wished that just one time her mother would speak of her in the same glowing terms she talked of Peyton: as someone who was tough and determined, just like her. And although Marcia had never said it—hadn’t even really implied it—Skye knew her mother was disappointed that her older daughter’s fancy education and years of public service had slowly unraveled into…nothing.

  “Why the
tears, sweetheart? Go on, you can tell your mother.”

  Just as Skye was opening her mouth, the doorbell rang and her mother bustled up.

  “Dianne!” she heard her call from the front door. “What a lovely surprise! Come in, come in. I have the most fabulous new coffee machine; you must have a cup.”

  Her mother appeared in the living room with a woman wearing a nearly identical tunic, leggings, and Tevas. “Skye, you remember Dianne, don’t you? Her son-in-law is the chief resident at Columbia Presbyterian, isn’t that right?”

  “Actually, it’s HSS,” Dianne said. “And it’s my daughter-in-law.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” Marcia crooned, not hearing a word. “Skye, love, will you make Dianne a cup of your special coffee?”

  Skye smiled wanly and headed to the kitchen. She could hear the two women discuss their shared dissatisfaction over their book club’s most recent selection. When she returned with a cup for Dianne, her mother said, “Sit, dear. Visit with us.”

  “I have to pick up Aurora,” she lied.

  “Okay, but please remember to write me out the instructions for the coffee!”

  “Mom, it’s automatic. There are no instructions. You put the pod in the holder, close the lid, and press the button with a cup on it.”

  Marcia covered both eyes as though Skye were offering a detailed description of how to dismantle a complicated HVAC system. “You know all I’m hearing is blah-blah-blah. Please. Write it down.”

  “Dianne, it was nice to see you. Mom, I’ll talk to you later.” In the kitchen Skye grabbed a notepad that Marcia had clearly lifted from a local restaurant and wrote:

  OPEN LID

  INSERT POD

  CLOSE LID

  PRESS BUTTON

  Skye stuck the memo on the fridge with an Iceland magnet and walked back to her car. She managed to get her seatbelt buckled and ignition on before the tears returned. But this time she was all alone.

  8

  All Talk, No Ambien

  “Come on in,” Nisha said, sweeping open the door to her spacious Gramercy apartment. “The boys are finishing up breakfast, and then I’ll kick them out.”

  Despite the early hour, Nisha looked chic in skinny jeans, a silk button-down, and a pair of fur slide slippers. Her thick black hair was pulled into a casual chignon, and although she wore no makeup, she still managed to look bright and rested.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt your Saturday morning,” Peyton said as she and Isaac followed Nisha into the mammoth kitchen.

  “We know this is family time,” Isaac said. “We really appreciate you letting us crash in like this.”

  “Stop it!” Nisha shook her head. “You are family. Besides, we couldn’t exactly meet at the office in light of the paparazzi outside your building. This is much better optics. Old friends having brunch. Speaking of which…Boys! Where are your manners?”

  Sitting at the kitchen island, an expanse of gray and white marble so vast it looked like a playing field, was a row of four mop-headed boys. In front of them an enormous lazy Susan featured a bonanza of waffle toppings, all in coordinating black dishes: blueberries, chocolate chips, strawberries, rainbow sprinkles, slivered almonds, Nutella, homemade whipped cream, and a bowl of maple syrup with a coordinating honeycomb-shaped serving stick. Each child was intently concentrating on either procuring, decorating, or chewing a waffle.

  “My god, this is quite the spread,” Peyton murmured.

  “It’s all Lydia. I didn’t even know we had a waffle maker until she pulled it out this morning,” Nisha said. And then she thundered, “BOYS!” Her face softened to a smile the moment they froze and looked up. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but we have guests. What do we do when guests are here?”

  Immediately, as though she’d nudged them with an electric cattle prod, all four boys leapt from their counter stools and arranged themselves in a single-file line.

  “Nice to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Marcus. I’m Finn. I turned six last week.”

  “Hello. My name is Lucas and I’m five years old.”

  “Hi, I’m William. I am three and three-quarters!”

  “I’m Chammy. I’m two.”

  “His real name is Sammy,” Lucas announced. “But he can’t say his S’s yet.”

  Peyton and Isaac exchanged a look. Quietly to Nisha, Peyton said, “I see them, what? Twice a month? I’ve known them all since birth. Do we really require introductions?”

  Nisha shrugged. “Lydia has started making them do it. She says it’s good practice. Who am I to question her?”

  “Peyton, Isaac, good to see you!” Nisha’s husband, Ajit, walked into the kitchen. His hair was still wet from the shower and Peyton could see a tiny spot of shaving cream under his left earlobe.

  He and Isaac embraced, clapping each other’s backs. “Good to see you, man,” Isaac said. “Sorry to crash in like this.” He waved his hand at the children, who had resumed their feasting.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a nice change of pace.” Ajit stuck a mug under a built-in espresso machine and pressed a button. “Latte? Cappuccino? Drip?”

  Soon Lydia, the nanny, was summoned to take the boys to the park, and after much wrangling with shoes and socks and strollers and scooters and balls and snacks, Nisha motioned for everyone to move to the living room. It was typical New York mid-century modern, with low-slung couches, an uncomfortable backless chaise, and two Eames accent chairs. Under the wall of windows that looked out onto Gramercy Park sat five sherpa-covered beanbag chairs, each personalized with a boy’s name and stocked with books in an attached side pocket.

  “Looks good, right? They never sit in them,” Ajit said.

  “They never sit, period,” Nisha added.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Peyton said, shaking her head. “Five!”

  As if on cue, an overweight woman in scrubs appeared. One meaty hand held a swaddled newborn in the space between her shelflike bosom and shoulder, and the other clutched a Boppy pillow and burp cloth.

  “Oh my god. Didn’t he just eat? Like ten minutes ago?” Nisha asked.

  The woman shook her head. “Just feels that way, Mama. It’s been two and a half hours, and Teddy’s rootin’ for sure.”

  Nisha sighed and accepted the swaddled baby.

  “Give a call when you’re done,” the baby nurse said, and vanished.

  Peyton watched Isaac avert his eyes as Nisha unbuttoned her shirt and whipped out her left breast, which she expertly positioned over the baby’s mouth so he immediately latched on.

  “Oh, come on, Isaac,” Nisha laughed, noticing his gaze was fixed on the floor. “Get over it. It’s just a boob.”

  Ajit laughed. “I can now see breasts—like, nice ones, on models or TV or wherever, and all I can think about is, ‘I wonder how her production is?’ ”

  Peyton had once asked Nisha if they were good with two or if they’d roll the dice and try for a girl, and Nisha had laughed. “I didn’t start until I was thirty-five. I figure I have, what? Five, maybe seven years total? If I’m lucky? We’re going to cram as many in as humanly possible, and I couldn’t care less what they are, so long as none of them look like Ajit’s mother.”

  Peyton sipped her coffee and rested her hand on Isaac’s knee, but immediately he moved his leg away. The fourteen hours he’d been home had been horrible. The second Max had fled to her room during dinner the night before, Isaac disappeared into their office. She’d waited up most of the night, but he never came into their bedroom; in the kitchen that morning, he couldn’t look at her.

  “I, um, I just wanted to thank you guys for doing this…whole thing,” Peyton said, waving her arm.

  Everyone nodded. The room was silent except for Teddy’s little sucking sounds.

  “So?” Nisha said, swinging the baby onto her shoulder, where she exp
ertly whacked his back. “Who’s going to start?” She looked between Peyton and Isaac, who each stared at their hands. “Okay, good. I will. This is a real shit show you’ve gotten yourselves into.”

  “I would just like to say—” Peyton held up her pointer finger, but Nisha glared at her.

  “Nope. That invitation to speak just now? That wasn’t sincere. I actually don’t want either of you to say one word.”

  “But let me just—”

  “Zip it!” Nisha said at the same time that Teddy let out a loud burp. “What I’m not sure either of you understand here is that I am not your lawyer, and therefore you are not currently enjoying attorney-client privilege. So I am the only one who’s going to talk. Got it?”

  They both nodded.

  “As this whole dog and pony show that we are putting on for the press hopefully demonstrates, this is a breakfast among friends, nothing more. The fact that I’m a crisis manager obviously complicates things, but we stick to the story, which also happens to be true: we are old friends from college, and this is a social visit. Now…you were happy with Claire?”

  “Absolutely,” Isaac said. “Thank you for the recommendation. She seems great.”

  “She is. Best criminal attorney in the city, if not the entire East Coast. Listen to her,” Nisha said.

  Isaac nodded and Peyton noticed that he was clenching his hands together, twisting each finger around the other. Peyton felt a stab of panic, so sharp it felt like she couldn’t fill her lungs. It was bad enough that the entire country thought Isaac had done this horrible thing. How could she let their oldest friends think the same?