Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Well, girls,” she said, raising an arm for silence. “It sounds like we have a lot of great ideas here. How about we put it to a vote?”

  Skye’s head snapped up. She tried to catch Denise’s eye to convey that this was a terrible idea, but she could feel the woman’s steadfast refusal to glance in her direction.

  “All in favor of buying toys for needy children?” Denise asked, and two of the ten girls raised their hands.

  “And how about the library? Who would like to see more books there?” Another two hands timidly went up.

  “And who votes to use our hard-earned money to go to Serendipity in New York City?” she asked, her voice raised in excitement. She clapped her hands together and leaned forward. “For the world’s best frozen hot chocolate?”

  All ten girls immediately shot their hands into the air. Seeing that it was unanimous, the girls jumped up and danced and shimmied around, hugging one another and cheering like they’d just won the lottery. Even Aurora, who moments before had so sensitively suggested that they hire clowns for sick children, was pumping her fists and screaming, “Limo!”

  It took nearly ten minutes to calm everyone down enough to get started on the meeting’s craft project, and as soon as they finished, their moms appeared for pickup. By the time Skye and Denise had offered a detailed report on each child, it was late. Aurora and Lia were waiting for their mothers by the cafeteria entrance, but it was obvious their patience was waning.

  “Denise? I, uh, wanted to talk to you about the decision today. On how to best use the money?” Skye hated the timidity in her voice, but there was something so damn daunting about dealing with that woman.

  “Oh, the Serendipity thing? The girls decided that for themselves.”

  “Well, no, not really. I mean, when you put something to a vote for a group of young children, it’s not exactly fair to—”

  Denise pulled a mirror from her heavily logo’d Gucci bag and touched up her lipstick. “I don’t mean any disrespect by this, Skye, I really don’t, but I have a BA in government from Duke and a JD/MBA from Harvard. I think I can handle the allocation of seventeen hundred dollars in cookie money.” She plucked her phone from the bag’s outside pocket and tucked it between her ear and her shoulder. “I’m on my way, sweetie. Just sit tight.” She nodded gravely. “I hear you. Be strong. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Is everything okay?” Skye asked.

  “Fine,” she said, cinching her shearling coat. “My god, with the level of drama, you’d think she was stuck in an abandoned elevator shaft somewhere and not at her best friend’s house.” Denise headed toward the cafeteria’s exit but got distracted by the garment rack that acted as the school’s lost and found. She eyed a purple Moncler puffer in a ridiculously adorable small size and plucked it off a hanger. “Do you believe how irresponsible these kids are?” she asked Skye. And then: “Lia! Your coat is here! Did you even know it was missing?”

  Skye watched Denise jam the $650 children’s coat into her bag as her phone rang again. “Dammit, Beatrix, I told you, I’m on my way!” Just when Skye thought she’d left, Denise popped her head back into the cafeteria. “Skye? Don’t worry, honey. I get where you’re coming from. And it’s very sweet. You have my word that if there’s any money left over after our group outing, we’ll buy some toys for tots. Okay?”

  Skye reflexively smiled. “Sounds good,” she said automatically, even though nothing was good.

  A moment later Aurora appeared in the doorway. Her white tights were a bit torn and dirtied at the knee, and her brown eyes were big and wide, the way they got when she was trying hard to hold them open. “Mommy?” she asked. “Can we go home now?”

  Although her daughter had recently grown too tall and heavy for Skye to comfortably carry, Skye scooped her into her arms and pulled her tight. Aurora wrapped her legs around her mother’s waist and rested her face on Skye’s shoulder. “Come, chickpea,” Skye murmured into her daughter’s warm neck, which smelled faintly of orange-vanilla body wash. “Let’s go home together.”

  * * *

  —

  “I still can’t believe we live in a place with homes like this,” Skye said as Gabe pulled their Subaru around the circular driveway.

  “Agree,” Gabe said, handing a uniformed valet the key. “This looks like the house from Wedding Crashers.”

  They walked slowly toward the house, not ready to commit to entering. “I can’t stop thinking about that Girl Scout meeting earlier today,” Skye said. “I know it’s ridiculous—it’s Girl Scouts—but how did I come to co-lead a group whose sole purpose is community service and we end up discussing limos the whole time?”

  The front doors swung open to reveal an imposing foyer with the type of ostentatious double sweeping staircases that rich people the world over loved. Why be limited to one staircase when you could have two? Skye almost made a comment to Gabe—double staircases being one of their ongoing jokes, something that he, as an architect, especially loathed—but the view in front of them immediately silenced her.

  “Wow, look at that,” Gabe breathed, and Skye followed his gaze straight through to the backyard, if you could call it that, where an expansive green lawn accented the unobstructed views of the water. The evening was so clear it was possible to see across the Sound to Long Island, where the water reflected the day’s last light. A sailboat bobbed in the distance, its grand mast waving, and a couple of small speedboats zipped by.

  “It is so spectacular,” Skye said. When a waiter came over to offer them berry mojitos made with freshly picked blueberries, blackberries, and mint, Skye and Gabe each took one and clinked their glasses.

  “How do they source an all-blond staff?” Gabe asked, glancing around. “I mean, you can’t exactly advertise for that.”

  Skye laughed. “Like, not only must you be white, but also you must not be brunette.”

  “Oh my god, Skye, is that you?” a woman shrieked from behind her. Skye saw Gabe’s eyebrows rise as she slowly, anxiously turned around.

  The woman, a mom with a daughter in Aurora’s class, launched herself at Skye, throwing her arms around her neck and kissing her cheek with such force that Skye had to suppress the urge to push her away.

  “Ohmigod, I am so happy you’re here,” the woman said, sounding like a teenager. “Love your outfit. Very casual.”

  Was that an insult? Or a compliment? Skye glanced down at her wide-legged cotton and linen jumpsuit.

  “Hey, Patricia,” Skye said. They had both been class moms for the girls’ kindergarten class the year before, and Skye was still scarred from the experience. “Have you ever met my husband, Gabe? Gabe, this is—”

  “Oh my god, of course! That’s the connection! You’re partners with Alan, am I right?”

  Gabe smiled politely, trying not to appear unnerved that this stranger knew all about him.

  Patricia placed a hand on each of their arms and pulled them into a huddle. They were close enough that Skye could admire the complete perfection—no, the artistry—of her veneers. “It’s all her family money, am I right?” she whispered loudly enough for anyone standing within six feet to hear. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know architects do very well”—with this, she fluttered her lashes at Gabe—“but not waterfront-estate-with-servants well.”

  Skye gritted her teeth.

  Patricia leaned in again and loudly whispered, “I also heard that they hired a surrogate for the twins, and not for any actual medical reason. Remember when they took the older kids to Brazil for ‘sabbatical’ a couple years ago? Apparently, they also took the surrogate, an obstetrician, and a baby nurse with them, and while the twins were delivered and dealt with by the team, Kelly had a full Mommy Job at a super elite private clinic in São Paulo. The same place they did Jennifer Aniston’s boobs, so obviously very discreet.”

  Skye could see Gabe’s e
yebrows shoot sky high, and she had to exert maximum effort not to laugh. It wasn’t all that often he got a solidly strong dose of Crazy Paradise Lady.

  “Anyway!” Patricia grabbed her nonexistent midsection. “I could use a nice trip to Brazil, too. Oh! There’s Richard. Honey! Come over and say hello!”

  Richard looked crestfallen that he was summoned. He was short and bald but powerfully built, his shoulders and biceps barely contained by his expensive button-down shirt.

  “Hey, man,” he said flatly, offering his hand to Gabe. “Great to meet you.”

  “Richard, be a dear and take Gabe to meet everyone. They’re out by the bonfire.” And before he could protest, Patricia clamped both hands around Skye’s upper arm and dragged her toward the pool.

  “Don’t worry, Gabe will be fine,” Patricia said, perhaps noticing Skye’s trepidation. “Richard knows everyone. We have this group of friends that we, like, do everything with—holidays, vacation, all the kid stuff—and they’re very outgoing and loooooove to party. Gabe will be well taken care of, if you know what I mean….”

  Skye searched Patricia’s unlined, mostly frozen face. She didn’t know what she meant. Offered a cocktail? Cocaine? Friendly chat? Hookers?

  A crowd of women closed in around her.

  “Ohmigod, I love that straw satchel! So chic!”

  “You have a daughter at Abington, right? How was it last year with Mrs. Kalman? Kind of a cold bitch, don’t you think?”

  “Are you the Skye who’s sisters with Peyton Marcus? Christ, I can’t even imagine what she’s going through right now! It’s horrible.”

  Another one chimed in: “Oh, please. The whole thing is so ridiculous! I can name five people off the top of my head who have made sizable donations to get their kids into schools. I don’t understand what everyone’s freaking out about.”

  There was a moment of silence before the group all started to nod their heads. “It’s just bad luck,” one woman said.

  Skye did her best to remain neutral. It was true: these women, more than anyone, could understand and sympathize with her sister. Most of them would likely do—or had done—whatever was conceivably within their means to help their kids get into the best schools. Still, Skye was relieved when the conversation turned to someone else—or rather something else: whether it was better to buy the Williams-Sonoma brand Vitamix or the original—and it was only then Skye realized she’d broken into a full sweat. All the party guests had moved to the backyard, but it was like an invisible bouncer had stood at the French doors and directed all women to the pool and men to the bonfire. Incredibly, there wasn’t a single exception: the entire party, probably close to sixty people, had been divided by gender.

  The same hot blond waiter from earlier, or perhaps a different one, offered Skye another mojito from his tray. “Where’s the restroom?” she asked.

  “I’d recommend using the one in the game room—no one’s in there right now. Straight through the living room and to your left.”

  She thanked him and walked briskly, like she would if she were alone on a dark street and needed to project confidence, praying her body language said, “Don’t speak to me.” Skye exhaled a sigh of relief as she closed the bathroom door.

  She pulled out her phone to text Gabe, thinking he could meet her in the deserted game room and they could plan their escape, but on her screen was a text from Esther.

  What are you up to?

  Why, have you heard anything from Henry?

  Esther had received an email from Henry’s associate the day before. It had been vague, but it hinted at some sort of delay with the financing. When she’d called to tell Skye about it, Esther had sounded unconcerned, but it had sent Skye into a panic.

  Nothing. Stop worrying! It’s going to be fine. A slight delay is hardly a reason for concern.

  Skye snorted. Easy for Esther to say: she wasn’t the one who’d already started spending the money. She considered her reply but then, frustrated with typing, tapped her friend’s number.

  Esther picked up on the first ring. “Tell me I’m way, way too old for Tinder,” she said as a greeting.

  “You’re waaaaayyyy too old.”

  “Seriously? I downloaded the app, and it’s actually pretty fun to swipe.”

  “Are there even single men around here?” Skye peeked out and, seeing that the coast was clear, stepped out of the bathroom. Directly in front of her was a massive black leather couch, an expensive and finely crafted version of something you might find in a fraternity basement.

  “You’d be surprised. I have no idea why you’d live in a suburb if you were single—like, without kids—but people do.”

  “Isn’t there an old-people version of Tinder? What’s it called? I can’t remember.”

  “I’m offended.”

  “Esther! Tinder is for twenty-two-year-olds looking for random sex.”

  “I may not be twenty-two, but what makes you think my intentions are pure? And that app that you’re thinking of? It’s called My Time, or something like that, and the ads show people in their seventies.”

  Skye laughed. “Dating is overrated. So is marriage sometimes. Gabe told me we were having a surprise night out. I was hoping for pasta. Guess where we are?”

  “Not an Italian restaurant?”

  “Alan and Kelly’s house. For a party.”

  “Ugh! Probably not a great time to tell you that I’m wearing joggers and no bra. I gave both kids melatonin tonight, and I’m settling in to binge old seasons of The Crown.”

  “I hate you.”

  “How bad is it?”

  Skye glanced toward the entrance of the game room to make sure no one was nearby. Lowering her voice, she said, “Bad. As usual, men on one side and women on the other. It’s like an Orthodox wedding. Or the Titanic cigar room.”

  Esther laughed. “Let me guess. They’re serving freshly muddled, organic watermelon margaritas with Himalayan pink salt.”

  “Very close. Freshly muddled, organic blueberry mojitos with farm-sourced mint leaves.”

  Skye twirled a lock of hair around her finger, feeling grateful not only that Esther was her friend, but also that she’d agreed to use her finance background to help coordinate the various funding. “He thought this would distract me from the whole situation with Henry, but I can’t stop thinking about it. What do you think is happening?”

  Esther sighed. “I don’t know, honey. It could be anything. Maybe someone in his family got sick? Or he had to take an emergency trip overseas and doesn’t want to deal right this moment?”

  “Or he doesn’t want his name associated with a close relative of Isaac Marcus, indicted criminal?”

  There was a beat of silence before Esther conceded, “Or that.”

  “It makes me sick even to think about it.”

  “So don’t! Go try to have fun. At least find out more details on that couple who swapped spouses? Weren’t all of them best friends for like a decade now and then the one wife and other husband started sleeping together and then the other two started, and basically they all decided to switch?”

  Skye smiled. “Someone said the kids don’t even really care because they were such close family friends already that nothing much has changed.”

  “See! There is valuable information there. Find out more and call me later.”

  “You won’t answer,” Skye said, laughing.

  “Nope. I’ll be enjoying every free second of my children’s medicated unconsciousness. But I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you!”

  “I love you, too,” Skye said, hanging up. She had to will herself to leave the room, where she almost smashed directly into Gabe.

  “Oh, thank god it’s you,” she said, kissing him lightly on the lips.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, placing both his hands on her shoulders. “I got s
tuck talking to a group of guys about tequila. A very serious, intense conversation about their favorite private distillers. Something about small batches? It was…ridiculous.”

  A wave of relief washed over Skye. Here he was—her husband. And even though he’d dragged her to this place, he hated it, too.

  Gabe continued, “One of them kept bragging about flying his tequila back from some Mexican town on a private jet? Needing to avoid customs because it was harvested or baked or brewed by an infamous cartel? This, apparently, is an enormous source of street cred for a Paradise banker.”

  “Enormous,” Skye agreed. “I must have spoken to his wife at some point, because she had extremely impassioned opinions on how the various Vitamix models blend the margaritas she makes with the tequila her husband imports from drug lords.”

  “Let’s get out of here?” Gabe stood and extended his hand.

  She grabbed it and squeezed. “Immediately.”

  They drove to their favorite vegan restaurant in town and ordered açai bowls topped with almond butter and chocolate chips for dessert.

  “Mmm,” Skye said, licking her spoon. “Even better than those craft cocktails.”

  “That woman—Patricia? My god, honey. I hear you talk about the moms around here, but I don’t think I realized…”

  “I mean, she was particularly bad. There are some nice, normal people around here…just not enough. I don’t know, I…”

  Gabe peered at her. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said, swallowing another spoonful.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “I miss Harlem sometimes. I know the schools are incredible here, but I just can’t help but feel that…I can’t put my finger on it, exactly. That this crazy wealthy town with all these hyperintense, type-A people, isn’t really our scene. And of course the lack of diversity. What’s that going to look like for Aurora as she gets older?”

  “We’ve talked about this, honey,” Gabe said reasonably. “We agreed that it was a good compromise: the chance for Aurora to go to public school instead of some fancy private or charter school, close enough to the city that we can pop in anytime, and no crazy long commute every day for me.”