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Authors: Jane Porter

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Mrs. Perfect (3 page)

BOOK: Mrs. Perfect
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Which brings me back to Lucy, but Lucy’s turned to face Lake Washington, the Seattle skyline, and the Olympic mountain range. During summer, the sun sets on the far right corner of the mountain range, giving us the most amazing red-and-hot-pink sunsets on the lake.

“It’s beautiful here in summer, isn’t it?” she says on a sigh.

“My favorite time of the year.”

She nods agreement. “I always wanted to be on the water. And you have such a nice dock, too. Perfect for your boat.”

“It does make it convenient,” I agree, lifting a hand to shade my eyes. The boat is Nathan’s toy. He likes to go out on the lake a few times a week during the summer, just cruise around with a great bottle of wine. He doesn’t go out in the boat as much as he used to, though. In fact, lately he’s started to talk about selling the boat, something I don’t understand, as Nathan loves boating almost as much as he loves golfing.

Turning, I catch Lucy watching Nathan through the kitchen window where he’s standing at the sink, rinsing something. Lucy’s expression is wistful. So wistful that for a moment I wonder if it’s Nathan she’s been sleeping with.

Immediately I push the horrifying thought out of my head. Don’t want to think like that. Can’t think like that. Nathan wouldn’t have an affair. He just wouldn’t. I know him too well.

“Let’s see what the kids are doing,” I say, injecting cheer into my voice as I lead Lucy into the house and up the curving staircase in the hall.

The hour before dinner passes, and then we’re all sitting at the table on the terrace, enjoying our meal beneath strings of twinkly lights. After dessert, the kids dash off, disappearing upstairs into the big bonus room again. Nathan lingers for a bit before excusing himself, leaving just Lucy and me at the table.

It’s a quiet night on the lake, and silence envelops the table. I get the sense that Lucy wants to open up, have a real talk, but I won’t let it happen. I’m sure Lucy’s confused and fearful and probably in some pain, but it’s not something I can deal with. My mother’s affair destroyed our family and killed the relationship I had with her.

“You’re angry with me,” Lucy says in a small voice, her words so faint that they’re nearly swallowed by the night.

I open my mouth to disagree but end up saying nothing.

“It wasn’t what Peter’s telling everyone. There wasn’t this big affair. It was one night. One mistake. A terrible mistake.”

It feels as though she’s dragging her fingernails down a chalkboard. My skin crawls. I want to get up, walk away. “What were you thinking?”

For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to answer, and then she whispers, “I thought he loved me.”

I’m silent, my throat thick, my chest aching.

“I just wanted to be loved again,” she adds even more softly.

“Now you’ve lost everything,” I blurt out.

“Hopefully not my friends.”

“Hopefully,” I echo after a moment.

She nods and a minute later plants her hands on the tablecloth and pushes to her feet. “It’s late. I should get the kids home and into bed.”

“Thank you for coming,” I say stiltedly as I rise.

“Thank you for having me,” she answers just as stiltedly.

I stand at the door as she drives away and then slowly head into the kitchen, where Nathan’s tackling the dishes.

“She seemed like she had fun,” he says, scraping the appetizer plate and putting it in the dishwasher.

He has no clue. And I can’t bear to clue him in.

I met Lucy seven years ago at First Pres’s preschool Christmas pageant. We’d both been pregnant, and we both had a four-year-old wise man—in my case, my daughter Jemma—bearing gifts for the infant king.

“The kids did have a good time, didn’t they?” I answer, dumping what’s left of my wine into the sink. “So tomorrow what are our plans?” I ask, changing the subject. “Are we still going boating with the Prices, and if not, can we sneak away to Vashon?”

Nathan picks up his glass and takes a drink. “I’d like to play a round of golf. Don made us a ten a.m. tee time.”

“We’re not going to do anything as a family?”

“We do things as a family all the time.”

I press my lips disapprovingly.

“Take the girls to the pool,” he says. “Or down to the beach. You know how much Tori loves it.”

“I also know there’s something in the lake water that gives Jemma hives, so no.” I give him a dark look. “We should have gone to Vashon for the weekend. Anything but stay here. I need to get away.”

“Honey, you’re never home. You’re either at the Bellevue Club or the Seattle Tennis Club—”

“You like me working out! You want me in great shape. You’ve said so yourself.”

He sighs, exhaling slowly. “Can I just play golf, Taylor? Can I please do this without fighting? I don’t ask a lot. I really don’t.”

“Go. This isn’t jail. You’re not my prisoner.” Then, realizing things are just too tense, I go to him, wrap my arms around him, and kiss him on the lips. “You’re not my prisoner. Yet.” And smiling, I kiss him again.

Tension broken, Nathan kisses my forehead. “You and the girls go have fun tomorrow. Have a girls’ day. Hit your Asian nail place and have manicures, pedicures, and lunch. The girls love that.”

Nathan sees the light in my eyes. “But no shopping,” he adds. “The girls have enough. Deal?”

“One outfit?”

“Taylor.”

“A cheapie outfit?”

“Baby, you wouldn’t know cheapie if it hit you between the eyes.”

I grin. “You like my good taste.”

“I like being able to pay the bills, too.”

I reach for him, wrap my arms around his lean waist. “Fine. Cheapie nails and cheapie outfit.” My hands slide down to his still amazing butt. “How about we leave the dishes until morning?”

An eyebrow quirks. “You’re not too tired?”

“Not if you turn off the water right now.”

“What about the kids?”

“That’s never stopped us before.”

Making love with Nathan is as good now as it was sixteen years ago when we slept together for the first time. Nathan was always good in bed. He was a USC quarterback after all, and he’d dated a lot of women before he ever met me. Although I wasn’t crazy about all the women chasing him, I secretly liked that he was experienced. He knew how to please me. He’s always pleased me. Sometimes I worry that I enjoy sex more than I should. I know a lot of my friends don’t have sex with their husbands anymore. Lucy being a case in point.

“Are you awake?” Nathan asks, running his hand down my back.

“Mmmm,” I answer sleepily, shifting in his arms, putting a little more space between our warm, sticky bodies. I love making love. I’m just not as good at cuddling afterward. It’s hard for me to sleep when Nathan holds me too close.

He’s still stroking my back. “We need to talk.”

I open my eyes, stare at the bedroom wall and the window with the taupe shades drawn against the night. “About what?” I ask, immediately wondering again if it was Nathan Lucy was sleeping with.

“Our finances.”

A wave of relief rushes over me, and I almost laugh. “What about our finances?”

“We’re spending too much money.” He’s found the small hollows in my lower back, and he traces them lightly over and over. “We’re living way above our means.”

My relief is replaced by a sharp twinge of guilt. He’s seen my credit card statements, then. I was hoping to hide them for another week or so. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“We’re killing ourselves, Taylor.”

My guilt deepens, the twinge turning to a flood of shame. I’ve had trouble with spending for years. I’m compulsive about it. I buy too much and then hide the bags in my closet, vowing to return everything, and sometimes I do and other times I just go buy some more. I don’t even like half the stuff I buy. “I’ll stop. I promise.”

He doesn’t say anything, and my insides churn. Nathan knows me better than anyone. Nathan knows the truth. I might look great on the outside, but on the inside I’m a disaster. Obsessive-compulsive, control freak. I shop too much. Eat too much. Work too much. Work out too much. “Nathan,” I whisper.

I can feel his shrug.

“Nathan, what’s wrong?”

He takes a long time to answer. Finally: “I’m worried.”

“About what?” I ask in a small voice.

His hand stills on my back. “Everything.”

“You’re just tired, Nathan. You’re working too hard. This is why I wanted to get away. You need a break. You deserve a vacation.” But even as I talk, I can feel him pulling away, physically, emotionally. After a bit I run out of words, and I lie next to him in the dark, wondering why I can’t comfort him. Wondering what’s happening to us.

“I have full confidence in you,” I say after a moment, trying again. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

He says nothing.

I nestle closer, curve my body around his, and hold him as tightly as I can. “It is, Nathan.”

Several minutes pass, and he doesn’t relax. Finally, he rolls away from me to climb from bed. I watch as he walks to the window, where he lifts one blind. The pale moonlight illuminates his broad shoulders and lean, naked torso. I usually love the sight of him naked, but tonight it fills me with fear. What if I lose him?

“What are you doing?” I ask as he steps into a pair of boxers.

“I’m going downstairs.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“What will you do?”

“Read. Work.”

I sit higher up in bed. “It’s almost one-thirty.”

“I know, but I won’t be able to sleep.” Then he leaves.

Chapter Three

After Nathan goes downstairs, I lie in bed and practice breathing, the way I learned in yoga. But it’s hard to calm myself. My chest squeezes tight. I’m worried, too. Nathan’s different. He’s changing. We’re changing.

Breathe, I tell myself. Just concentrate on your breathing.

But even as I breathe in and out, I feel the panic build inside of me. I’m too damn busy lately. I’m juggling too many balls. I shouldn’t have agreed to co-chair the school auction this year. I barely got through last year in one piece, and last year I was only the silent auction procurer chair.

It’s going to be fine, I repeat. Nathan and I have just hit a little rough patch. That’s normal, it happens to all couples, even couples like us.

Maybe that’s why I’m panicking.

Nathan and I never used to have problems. Nathan has been my godsend.

Life before Nathan was a bitch. I might look like All That now, but it’s something I’ve worked for, something I still work for, and I can’t imagine my life without him.

Truthfully, I never thought my life would turn out like this. Growing up was a nightmare—you don’t want to know all the sordid details—but despite the disaster at home, I excelled in school.

I did the whole cheerleader/homecoming court/student body thing in high school before spending four years as an Alpha Beta Pi at USC.

I first met Nathan (Nathan Charles Young III) while we were both undergrads when we were set up for a fraternity/sorority dance. I was a sophomore and he was a fifth-year senior, as he’d redshirted for the football team. Move ahead sixteen years and you have us today living in our lovely home in the Pacific Northwest with three gorgeous girls—ten-year-old Jemma, seven-year-old Brooke, and four-year-old Tori.

Despite once having an interesting career in PR and communications, I’m now a full-time mom by choice. Nathan and I agreed from the beginning that I’d stay home with the children. He was making great money in his career, and we didn’t want our children raised by anyone else.

I wanted to be the kind of mother my own mother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be. Room mom, PTA president, office volunteer. Of course, there are days when I long for some peace and a less structured life, but for the most part I have no regrets. I like the power. I want the power. And don’t think being a stay-at-home mom isn’t powerful.

I can bring a school board to its knees. I heard via the grapevine that I once made a principal cry. But I’ve never been malicious. I’m in this not for me, but for my children. I want the best for my children. I want to help them get ahead. I want them to have every opportunity.

The only drawback?

Our lives are really jam-packed. Sometimes too stressful. But then I look at the great friends we have, and our lifestyle—Christmas at Sun Valley, February at St. Barts, and Easter usually in Hawaii, while summer vacations we head to Jackson Hole.

I don’t think we ever meant to travel this much, but it’s what our group does, and the kids love being with our friends, and it’s hard staying home when you know what a fantastic time everyone else is having. Which reminds me. We were supposed to be gone this weekend, escaping for the three-day weekend to Vashon.

Sighing, I reluctantly put thoughts of relaxing on Vashon Island out of my mind. We’re here this weekend. We might as well make the most of it.

Nathan’s up and gone by the time I come downstairs in the morning. I heard him shower earlier—he must have already hit the gym—and he left a note in the kitchen saying he’s gone to have breakfast at the country club with the guys before they tee off.

With Nathan gone, I let the girls lounge in their pajamas until ten, when I insist they finally turn off the TV and computer games and get dressed if they want to go have lunch at Bellevue Square and do a little shopping.

Jemma immediately begs to go to the Cheesecake Factory, while Tori pleads for Red Robin. “It’ll probably be the Nordstrom café,” I say.

They groan.

“What’s wrong with the café?”

“Nothing,” Jemma answers unhappily, “but we always eat there, and it’s boring. I want to go somewhere fun.”

“Yeah, fun,” Tori adds, and Brooke nods.

“We’ll see,” I answer evasively, thinking I’m not about to lug our shopping bags throughout the mall. The café is close and convenient, and I can charge our lunch on my Nordstrom’s card.

On the way to the mall, we swing by the school so Jemma can check the class lists one more time before school starts on Tuesday. She heard that she’s got Eva Zinsser in her class again, and she wants to see for herself.

I park my Lexus SUV in front of the school, and the girls scramble from the car. Stepping out of the car, I pray that Paige is wrong. I can’t bear another year with the Zinssers. Jemma feels the same way. Last year was a bear, a real struggle, and I refuse to go through another school year like that.

“Paige was right,” Jemma shouts, standing in front of the window and scanning the names. “We’re in the same class again.” She turns around and groans. “Why, Mom? Why me?”

“It’ll be fine,” I say unconvincingly, hating that there are now two strikes against the new school year.

First, Jemma’s been assigned to Mrs. Osborne’s class—something I’m just dreading, as it’s rumored that Mrs. Osborne piles on the homework, although not as much as Mrs. Shipley last year. Nathan might say it’s good for the girls to have hard teachers, but he isn’t the one who helps with homework every night, and he’s not the one devoting hours to overseeing the reports and projects, either.

I’d been hoping Jemma would get Miss Tanzey for fifth grade. Miss Tanzey arrived midyear last year, replacing Mrs. Jenkins, who was going out on maternity leave, and everyone who had Miss Tanzey just loved her. Miss Tanzey didn’t assign homework during winter or spring break—not like Mrs. Osborne—and she was, by all accounts, a much easier grader, which would be so much better for Jemma, who has begun struggling in school.

It’s not that Jemma’s not bright enough, but she’s just not motivated, and last year her grades really dropped, which sent Nathan through the roof. He took Jemma’s cell phone away from her and grounded her from the computer for nearly a month, but Jemma just sulked and then used Annika’s phone behind her father’s back.

I vowed this year would be different. I vowed that we’d start school on a more positive note, but it’s hard to be as optimistic knowing that we’ve got to deal with the bizarre-o Zinssers again.

“Come on, girls, let’s go shopping.”

The rest of the weekend passes in a blur of picnics, barbecues, and swimming dates at the lake and the country club pool. Kate and Bill have us over for dinner Saturday night. Patti and Donald have a pre–Labor Day party Sunday night. Then some people I don’t know well invited us to a big shindig Monday afternoon, and I wouldn’t have gone except that Gary Locke, the former governor of Washington, was going to be there with his wife and children.

By Monday night, I’m so tired of small talk and smiling that it’s a relief to put the kids to bed.

In our bed, Nathan reaches for me in the dark and I’m about to refuse, citing extreme exhaustion, but then I remember our odd night Friday night and the tension over money. I don’t want tension over sex.

I give in to his kiss. He is such a good kisser, and as his body sinks into mine, I know that at least I’ll climax. I always do. Nathan wouldn’t have it any other way.

The morning arrives along with tears and tantrums. Tori doesn’t want her big sisters going off to school and leaving her alone. “But you’re not alone,” Brooke tells her imperiously. “You’ll be with Annika.” Which of course leads to more tears.

Brooke’s upset because her hair isn’t holding a curl.

Jemma’s upset because her hair won’t stay straight.

I’m upset because I’ve got to get ready, too, and I can’t get dressed or do my hair with everyone screaming in every upstairs bedroom.

But finally by seven forty-five we make it to the car. I’m driving the girls this morning instead of having them take the bus so I can formally introduce myself to Brooke’s and Jemma’s teachers. It’s something I’ve done every year since Jemma started kindergarten, and now it’s a tradition. I always take a little welcoming gift, too. It just helps start the year off on the right foot.

But today I also have the PTA’s Welcome Coffee, and I stack my purse on top of my binder in the backseat of the Lexus. The PTA board puts on the Welcome Coffee for all the parents every year on the first day of school, but usually only a dozen or so women attend. I’ve never understood why more moms don’t attend. It’s an ideal chance to get to know the PTA board and to find out more about this year’s activities and available volunteer positions.

I glance at my watch, wondering where Annika is, even as I recall how several years ago I was responsible for filling all the school’s volunteer positions.
That
was a job. You’d think more moms would want to be involved. You’d think they’d care.

The girls are in the car, howling that we’re going to be late. I’m standing between the garage and kitchen doors, trying not to scream, and suddenly Annika arrives, sweeping into the house in a flurry of apologies. Instead of jumping on the breakfast dishes, she scoops up Tori and sits on the couch with her to watch
Dora
. Tori’s getting a little old for
Dora the Explorer
, and the kitchen needs attention, but I bite my tongue. I just want to get out of the house at this point, and time is of the essence.

By the time we reach Points Elementary, the parking lot is a zoo. Everyone has come today, and I squeeze in next to another car, hoping I’m not so close that I’ll get the Lexus’s paint chipped. I’m proud of my Lexus. I’ve had it two years, and it still looks brand new.

We hustle across the parking lot and enter one of the outside buildings where the second-grade classes are held. Brooke has one of the new teachers, a Miss Johnson, and from what I understand, Miss Johnson is young and inexperienced. I believe this is her first year teaching, although I don’t know why the school district would hire such a green teacher for Points Elementary. Living in Yarrow Point, we pay a fortune in property taxes. The girls deserve a great education, and I’m determined they’ll get that education. That’s one reason I volunteer as much as I do, and of course I’m volunteering as a room parent for Jemma’s and Brooke’s classes again.

I’ve already e-mailed both teachers, letting them know I’m available and interested in helping them out. I do this every year in August as soon as the class rosters are posted, and it works. Teachers have a lot to deal with at the beginning of the year, and they shouldn’t have to worry about managing all the parent volunteers.

In my e-mail (I saved it in my Outlook box a couple of years ago so it’s easy to resend every summer), I tell the teacher a little about myself and explain why I’m so qualified.

First, I’m experienced. I’ve done this every year since Jemma started kindergarten, and I know what needs to be done.

Second, I’m a full-time mom, and I’ve dedicated myself completely to my kids’ future.

Third, I’m committed. When I say I’ll do something, I do it.

Fourth, I’m good. Every class that has me as head room parent has a great year, guaranteed. They have the best parties, the best field trips, the best class projects for the school auction. But I don’t help just with the fun stuff. I’m there in the classroom helping out, too. I read with the children, I photocopy handouts, I sort homework, I help with bulletin boards.

In the past, teachers have always been so grateful for my assistance (well, except for Mr. Smythe, the PE teacher, but he’s not a normal teacher, he’s a retired marine), and I love making a difference in my children’s education.

It’s important that I know what they’re learning, whom they’re playing with, what’s going on at school. Nathan once said I should have become a teacher myself and brought home a paycheck since I spend so much time at school, but that’s just him teasing me. He’s proud of me, proud of all I do.

In Brooke’s first-grade class, I greet Miss Johnson, a cute young blond teacher who looks just like what she is, a corn-fed midwesterner. She lights up on hearing my name.

“Thank you so much for your e-mail,” she says warmly. “That was wonderful, and I definitely welcome all the help I can get.”

She’s going to be my kind of teacher. “You’ve got my e-mail and phone number. Call me if you need anything this week.”

I wave farewell, leave a small welcome gift on her desk, and walk with Jemma to her class. The first bell has already rung, and the second bell will ring any second.

I spot Mrs. Osborne at the front of the class, and it’s not until I’m hurrying forward that I see she’s talking to another mother, one with long loose dark brown hair, wearing jeans and flip-flops and a faded black T-shirt. Marta Zinsser.

I stiffen, my spine straightening as I glance around the room until my gaze settles on a thin girl with thick black hair cut in a chic bob, but the stylish cut does little to hide the mouth that looks too big for her face.

“Her hair’s longer,” I say to Jemma.

“It’s a good cut,” Jemma answers grudgingly.

“Kind of Katie Holmes Cruise–like.”

I give Jemma a quick kiss good-bye. “I’m just going to say hello to Mrs. Osborne and then I’m out of here. Have a good day.”

Marta leaves as I approach. She doesn’t look at me. She’s probably intimidated by me. She shouldn’t be, although I know some of the other women are. I can’t help that Nathan’s so successful.

The second bell rings, and before I can introduce myself to Mrs. Osborne, she’s politely but firmly calling the class to order. I hate interrupting her, so I hurriedly tell her my name, although it doesn’t seem to spark the recognition I’d hoped. I let her know what I said in my e-mail, that I’d be happy to be head room mother and do whatever I could to make her year the most successful it can be.

Mrs. Osborne thanks me, and I feel reassured. For a moment, I’d almost gotten the impression that I’d annoyed her somehow, but as I leave, I drop the gift I bought her—a Starbucks drink card—on her desk and head out. It’s going to be a good year, I tell myself, far better than last year.

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