Rich and Pretty(82)

Something about being around Lauren makes her want to indulge in vice. She’s dying for a cigarette, which she can’t quite believe. She can’t think of the last time she’s had a cigarette.

“Well, that’s f*cking great,” she says. She hands the wineglass back. “Take it away.” It’s very big in Lauren’s hands, very big near her face, which is small, delicate, lovely. Her eyes look darker than Sarah remembers. She seems good, Lauren. She seems happy.

“This yard is incredible,” Lauren says.

“It was the real reason we bought the house,” Sarah says. “It’s so thoughtful, the way they did it. I guess it makes a difference, when you’re an expert. You just see things in a different way. It would never in a million years have occurred to me to do this.” It’s true. The asymmetry of the yard, the way it’s all chopped up into zones, runs counter to what she’d have thought would make the small garden feel bigger, but it’s brilliant, and the place feels like it just goes on forever. And here, in the middle of it, the big birthday present: a swing set. Custom made, to save them the trek to the playground a few blocks over, good for just running out and getting a quick bit of play in. It’s very simple and slender, as not to take up too much space: a pair of swings, one for a baby, one for a big kid, though the bucket seat for baby can be replaced. The woodworker who built it showed her how easy it will be, when the time comes. The frame of the swing doubles as a ladder, which Henry had been more delighted about than the swing, actually, climbing, reaching up toward the sky, grabbing at nothing, lost in his own, fluid reality.

“It’s wonderful,” Lauren says. “When you go on vacation to the Hamptons, I should come here to stay. Central air, this backyard, I can’t ask for more from a trip.”

“You should come out to see us,” Sarah says. “The house is huge. And without the husbands there it’s going to be so empty. Take the train out. There’s a pool.” She’s looking forward to the ten days on Long Island, the sweet coolness of the evening breeze, the silence of the afternoons. She’s booked some time with a real estate agent while they’re out there, just in case. She always has a good time with Fiona, but loves the idea of Lauren there with them.

“I should,” Lauren says. “It’s not easy, this time of year. It’s summer and a lot of people are out, but there’s still a demanding production schedule in place. September is a huge month for us.”

“Of course,” Sarah says. Maybe it’s for the best. She’s not entirely certain, but she thinks it may be the case that Fiona is not that fond of Lauren. But Fiona is excellent at pretending.

“Say, how are Huck and Lulu? I was sort of looking forward to seeing them at this party.”

“You just missed them. Huck likes to make a big fuss about commuting out here from the city. They’re the same.”

“Of course they are,” Lauren says. “Tell them I said hi, though. I’ll send your mom my new book, when it’s out. She’ll get a kick out of it.”

“How’s your family?”

“The same,” Lauren says. “They’re fine. Ben and Alexis are having a baby.”

“Your parents must be psyched.” Sarah doesn’t say what she thinks, which is that Lauren must be relieved that her brother is taking the pressure off her. She’s never fully understood the complexities of Lauren’s relationship with her parents. She’s met them. She remembers them as perfectly pleasant. She can’t understand, but then, unhappy families, et cetera.

“Oh, they are,” Lauren says. “They’re planning a baby shower that’s only slightly less complicated than a royal wedding.” She takes another sip of the wine.

The door to the kitchen slides open, and Henry emerges from the house, face still flush with sleep, skin marked with lines from his bedding. His hair, thick, so like his father’s, stands on end. He frowns. “Mommy,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Hi, baby,” she says. She opens her arms and Henry, aware that she can’t leap up to embrace him, wiggles over toward her. His body is hot, and soft. He smells wonderful. “How was your nap?”

“Good.” He yawns. An automatic response; good manners. “Mommy, can I swing?”

How she lives for it, this Mommy. Soon, too soon, it will be Mom, then, impatient, angry even. Mom! Doors slamming. Hard to imagine, though maybe it won’t be that way. She wasn’t that way, was she, as a teenager? Sarah can barely remember. It seems unimportant, now, what she was like; the only thing that matters, anymore, is what he will be like, him and his brother. The baby startles, kicks. She has a theory he does that at the sound of his big brother’s voice.

“It’s so hot,” she says. “We should get you a cup of water.” He looks up at her, his eyes dark, bottomless, under those eyelashes. He’s beautiful in the way she never has been. And it’s his birthday. Let him swing.

“Let’s swing,” she says. She heaves herself up, bracing palms against the iron table, a hand-me-down from Lulu, the one that sat poolside in Connecticut throughout her youth. She wonders if Lauren recognizes it. The table scrapes against the concrete. “Lauren, you coming?”

“Right behind you,” she says. She refills the glass, and they follow Henry, racing, awake now, down toward the swing set.