Mrs. Perfect (2 page)

She was getting laid by someone who wasn’t her fat husband.

That’s not a nice thought, and I shouldn’t think thoughts like that, but Pete
is
big. He’s gained at least thirty-five or forty pounds in the last year or so. Maybe more. When I saw him at brunch a couple of weeks ago, I almost didn’t recognize him. Nathan, who never notices anything like that, leaned over to me and said Pete was a heart attack waiting to happen.

Did that stop Pete from filling up his plate at the buffet? No. In fact, he went back for seconds and thirds—piles of sausages, cream cheese Danishes, eggs Benedict, blueberry-and-sour-cream crepes, strawberries covered in whipped cream. You could hear his arteries hardening as he lumbered back to his table.

I can’t blame Lucy if she didn’t want to sleep with Pete. I wouldn’t want to eat with him, much less do the down and dirty, but an affair . . . ?

I wonder if the sex was good.

God, I hope it was, especially if she’s going to lose the kids.

Shaking my empty glass, I listen to the ice cubes rattle. I want another drink but can’t make myself move. Not just because I’m tired (which I am), but because if I go get another drink, it’s more calories.

I weigh the pros and cons of another drink, knowing that I’m in good shape, but it’s something I work at. Image is important, and the closer I get to forty (oh God), the more I care about my appearance. It’s not enough to be fit. You’ve got to look young, and that’s some serious time and money.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about getting some work done. Nathan says he loves me as I am, thinks I’m perfect, and doesn’t want any artificial bits of me, but if it’d make me better, wouldn’t the pain be worth it?

I tune back in and realize they’re still discussing Lucy and Peter.

“—says he feels like she humiliated him in front of the whole community.”

“Well, I didn’t know until now,” Kate says.

Me either, and my fingers itch to take my phone and call Nathan and see if he’s heard. He used to be in Rotary with Pete. They were both in the Friday morning group that met for breakfast at the golf course across town.

Patti’s frowning. “She’s like us, a stay-at-home mom. So who could she be sleeping with? A UW student? A pool boy? Who?”

“Someone’s husband.” Monica looks like a cat. She’s so pleased with herself that even her ears and eyes are smiling. “Apparently Pete has told the wife, too, and so that’s two families wrecked.”

Wrecked.

The very word conjures up horrible memories, and I suddenly touch my stomach, checking to see if it’s flat. It is. I can feel my hipbones. Good.

The thing to know about me is that I hate fat almost as much as inefficiency, which is why I’m always hungry. I want to eat, but I don’t. Nathan thinks I’m too thin, but he doesn’t know what it’s like always having women look at you, compare themselves with you.

“So where is Lucy now?” I ask.

“I think she’s still in the house. Pete tried to kick her out—and she left for a couple nights—but she returned. Said she wouldn’t leave, that it was her home, so Pete took the kids and left.” Monica stretches, yawns. “God, it’s a gorgeous day. Can you believe this beautiful weather?”

Kate and Patti exchange glances. “So where
are
Pete and the kids staying?” Kate persists.

“Their place in Sun River.”

But they’ve got to be coming back soon. School starts on Tuesday, and Pete has to work.

Those poor kids. They must be so scared and confused.

I look around the pool for mine. My girls are just yummy. I really shouldn’t brag, but all three are beautiful—you can tell they’re sisters, they all have the same golden skin, long honey blond hair, and big blue eyes. People are always stopping me, telling me the girls should be models. Maybe they will be. I don’t know. We’re just so busy as it is.

“Mom!
Mommy!
” Tori wails tragically at the edge of the grass, her big beach towel bunched at her feet, her paper plate upside down in her hands. “I dropped my French fries!”

I sigh. My friends chuckle. They know what it’s like, they know what I’m going through. “Go get some more,” I call to her. “They’ll remember you at the counter.”

“Come with me,” she pleads.

“You can do it. Besides, Brooke’s still over there. Catch her before she leaves. Tell her Mommy said to—” But before I can finish, Tori’s running past me.

“Daddy!” she screams, rushing toward Nathan, who has just appeared at the pool.

Smiling, I watch Nathan swing Tori into his arms. We’ve been married eleven years, twelve on Valentine’s Day, and I still think I married the sexiest, greatest man. It’s not just because he has money, either. We’re
happy
. We have a great life together. I’m lucky. Blessed. Really and truly.

Nathan’s a wonderful father and an amazing provider. You should see our home—as a little girl, I dreamed of someday living in a house like ours—and our three little girls are gorgeous, and Nathan spoils all of us. Constantly. So much so that I feel a little guilty sometimes.

“There’s my beautiful wife,” Nathan says, walking toward us with Tori still in his arms.

Nathan is a vice president for Walt McKee’s personal holding company, McKee being the founder of satellite communications, and that’s the name of the game here in Seattle: technology. Bill Gates, Paul Allen, Steve Balmer, and Walt McKee are all practically neighbors and if not close friends, acquaintances. I’m not trying to name-drop, it’s just that this is my world, the one I live in. I see the Gateses and McKees and the Balmers everywhere. Our kids play together on the same sports teams, dance at the same ballet studios, swim at the same country club pool, and sometimes attend the same school.

Nathan leans down and kisses me before turning to greet my friends. In the late afternoon light, he looks even more golden than usual, his brown hair sun streaked from swimming, surfing, and playing golf, his warm brown eyes almost bronze. I think he’s more handsome now than when I first met him.

“Hello, honey,” I answer, reaching out to capture his fingers. “How was your day?”

“Good.” He shifts Tori to his other arm, oblivious that Tori’s damp little body has left his shirt wet as well as stained with a splatter of ketchup.

Tipping my head back, I smile up at him. “I didn’t think I’d see you for another hour or two.”

“Escaped early.” He puts Tori down, glances around. “I see Jemma. Where’s Brooke?”

“Eating something somewhere,” I answer.

He nods and pushes a hand through his thick hair—I’m so glad he still has his hair. “I’m going to get a beer. Anybody want anything?” he asks my friends. “Kate? Patti? Monica?”

They all shake their heads, but I can see their eyes feasting on him. I can’t be jealous, either. Let’s face it: Nathan’s feastworthy. Six three, very broad shouldered, and with very nice abs. He works out daily, always has.

“How about you, darling girl?” he asks, turning to me. “Gin and tonic with lots of lime?”

I smile up at him. “I love you.”

“I know you do.”

I watch him walk away, thinking again that I’m so lucky that it sometimes makes me feel guilty, having so much. I certainly didn’t have any of this growing up. Growing up . . .

Growing up was a nightmare.

I shudder, push the thought away, telling myself to focus on the here and now. Everything’s good today. Everything’s great. And it’s not as if I just fell into this amazing life. I worked to get here, worked to make it happen. Now if only I could relax and enjoy it more.

“Oh, my God.” Monica leans forward, grabs Kate’s arm. “Lucy’s here.”

“What?”

Monica nods across the pool. “She’s just walked in, and she’s got the kids.”

Our heads all swivel toward the pool entrance, and Monica’s right. Lucy Wellsley is walking around the deep end of the pool, a beach tote bag over her shoulder, a stack of colorful striped towels in her arms as her three kids, two boys—fraternal twins—and a little girl, all run ahead.

“Should we invite her to join us?” Patti asks, glancing at me.

“I don’t know.” I mean, I feel bad for her, but infidelity? Affairs? This is bad. Really bad.

“She’s brave,” Kate mutters. “I wouldn’t show my face here.”

“Well, I don’t think we have to worry about extending an invitation,” Monica practically purrs. “Because Lucy’s on her way here now.”

Chapter Two

Lucy stands next to us, her arms still bundled around the thick stack of fuchsia and turquoise beach towels. “Hi,” she says brightly. Too brightly.

I feel for her, I do, especially as she has to know that everyone’s talking about her. God, what a nightmare. I’d rather die than be discussed by all the other moms.

Patti stands and gives Lucy and her towels a quick hug. “Hi, stranger,” Patti says. “How are you?”

Lucy’s gotten thin, and not attractively thin. Her eyes look huge in her face, the skin pulled too taut across her cheekbones and jaw, ruining the effect of all her expensive work. “Fine. What are you girls up to?”

“Not much,” I answer, and really, my troubles are nothing compared with her drama.

“When did you get back in town?” Monica asks.

Lucy appears momentarily rattled. “I’ve been here.” There’s a pause. “Was I supposed to be out of town?”

Monica has the grace to blush. “Sorry. I was thinking of Pete.” No one says anything, and Monica adds even more awkwardly, “He was the one out of town. He had the kids, right?”

Lucy’s fingers tighten on the towels, her fingers and knuckles shades of purple and white. She swallows hard. “They’ve just come home.” Her voice has dropped and deepened, reminding me of bruises. “It’s been a month since I’ve had them. Or seen them.”

I can’t help glancing toward her kids, who are in the pool, jumping and diving as though they haven’t a care in the world, and my chest tightens.

They’re pretending. Kids do that so well. Pretend to forget. Pretend you don’t feel. Pretend you don’t remember.

We had to do that in our family, too, when my parents divorced. Act like you’re just a kid and you don’t hurt. Act like you feel nothing and all you care about is your TV show and your bowl of ice cream. Because you are only a kid, right, no real feelings developed yet. . . .

Nathan returns just then with our drinks and welcomes Lucy with a genuinely warm hug and hello. “Hello, Lucy,” he says, handing me my drink before leaning down to kiss her cheek.

She stands stiffly, her body at an angle as though afraid to be caught touching him.

“Hi, Nate,” she says, using her husband’s nickname for Nathan. I’d never call Nathan “Nate” in a thousand years, but for some reason all Nathan’s friends shorten it up.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing to our grouping.

Lucy looks at us, her eyes nearly as lavender blue as her voice. She’s depressed. It’s there, all over her face. I bite down, uncomfortable. “That’s okay,” she answers, sensing correctly that she’s not wanted.

Nathan shakes his head. “No, I insist. Let me get you a chair.”

“Nate, no. I can do it. Honestly. I’m not sick.”

But Nathan’s already gone to locate a chair, and once he’s returned we all settle into a rather stilted conversation about the coming school year and the start of soccer, although Patti’s boys have been playing football for nearly three weeks already.

Our kids appear periodically with requests for food and drink and ice cream, requests we all manage to resist to varying degrees.

“Hey, isn’t our book club meeting soon?” Patti asks with a small self-satisfied stretch. It’s nice just sitting here, feet up. The kids are happy. We’re happy. There’s nothing we have to do.

“One week,” I answer. I’m hosting the September meeting. Haven’t even thought about book club in a while. “I guess I better get reading.”

“You haven’t read
The Glass Castle
yet?” Monica’s lips purse disapprovingly.

I flex my toes. “It just sounds so depressing. Another memoir about a dysfunctional family. I mean, haven’t we read that already?”

“Book club isn’t genre reading, Taylor. We’re not just reading for the plot, but the beautiful prose.”

“I don’t find poverty, abusive parents, and alcoholism beautiful. No matter how one writes about it.” I’m irritated now. I don’t know why everyone gets such a vicarious thrill out of reading about childhood pain. I certainly don’t. “I wish we’d pick some different books this year. More uplifting subjects, maybe even some nonfiction.”

Monica rolls her eyes. “
The Glass Castle is
nonfiction.”

Monica so annoys me. I can’t even believe that we pretend to be friends. I don’t know why she does it. I do it because she’s Patti’s childhood friend, and Patti says she has a good side, although I haven’t seen it.

“The point is,” I answer, folding my hands neatly in my lap, “that we’ve read lots of stuff like this before, and I thought we could maybe read something more uplifting.”

Monica laughs. “Like what?
The Secret
?”

My face suddenly feels hot. She knows I’ve been reading the book and have it on DVD, too.

Thankfully, Nathan saves me from having to answer by placing his palm on my bare thigh. “We should head home.” He lightly rubs down to my knee. “Feed the kids dinner.”

Grateful, I cover his hand with mine and squeeze. I’m ready to go. My little gin-and-tonic buzz has abruptly worn off, and all I want to do is escape. Rising, I start gathering the girls’ things, organizing the sundresses and sandals to expedite getting to the car. It’s while I tuck suntan lotion and little-girl sunglasses into the tote bag that I hear Nathan invite Lucy over.

“We’re just throwing some salmon steaks on the grill,” Nathan is saying to Lucy, “and I can pick up some burgers on the way home for the kids. Why don’t you join us?”

My head jerks up.

Lucy for dinner? Lucy to our house . . .
tonight
? After the day I’ve had? No, Nathan, no. I don’t want company over. I’m not in the mood to entertain, and if I was in the mood, it wouldn’t be Lucy.

“That’s so nice of you, Nate,” Lucy answers, “but I don’t want to put you and Taylor out—”

“If it were an inconvenience, I wouldn’t have offered.” Nathan smiles down at her. “We haven’t seen much of you lately, and it’d be good to catch up.”

“Let me go talk to the kids. We were just going to hang out here until they kicked us out, but it’d be fun to go to your house. We . . . haven’t seen much of our friends this summer.”

She disappears, and I just stare at Nathan. He sees my expression. “What?” he demands quietly, hands outstretched.

My friends turn their heads away while I just keep staring at Nathan. I hear Patti start talking about the back-to-school brunch as Nathan crosses to my side.

“I thought she was one of your friends,” he hisses.

“She is,” I hiss back. But my tone isn’t convincing. I don’t know if Lucy and I are still friends. Angrily, I stuff Brooke’s terrycloth jacket into the tote. “It’s just been a busy day, Nathan—”

“They’re going through a hard time. Just look at her, Taylor. She’s obviously very lonely.”

“I
know
, but I’m tired, Nathan, and you and I need some alone time. We need to destress, and having Lucy over isn’t going to destress me at all.”

“This isn’t about your mom, is it?” he asks, a deep furrow creasing his brow. “Because this is completely different. Your mom ran off—”

“Nathan.”
I cut him short, shoot a swift side glance at the others, but they’ve segued from the annual brunch to discussing Tuesday’s Welcome Coffee at the school. I lift the tote bag, sling it over my shoulder. “Okay, yes, I’m concerned about having Lucy and the kids over. I’m concerned about the fallout for our kids. If there’s going to be sides drawn, I’m not sure we should be taking Lucy’s—”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s
not
ridiculous.” My voice trembles, and I find myself clenching my hands. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be rejected by everyone. I do. I have. And I won’t allow that for my children. “I’m protecting our girls.”

“You’re
over
protective, Taylor.”

“The house isn’t even clean—”

“It’s spotless. It’s always spotless.”

“There are dishes in the sink and toys scattered on the lawn.”

“I guarantee Lucy and the kids won’t notice.” His tone softens. “Taylor, honey, they need us. Look at them.”

Reluctantly, I glance past him to where Lucy is corralling her kids, her arms wrapped around the shoulders of her twins, her head bent as she talks to them. She seems to be having quite the heart-to-heart with them. She’s always been a good mom. It would be tragic if she lost the kids.

“Fine . . .” I sigh. “We’ll all have dinner.”

The Points Country Club is only a mile or so from our home in the tiny town of Yarrow Point. Yarrow Point is just that, too, a point of land that juts into Lake Washington with loads of low waterfront footage. You pay to be on the water, though. I honestly don’t think you can get a house on the water for less than four million right now. I could be wrong, but I think even that price is low.

After taking a left off 92nd Avenue NE, I turn down our small lane that dead-ends in front of our house, a big sprawling shingle house highlighted by glossy white paint, true divided light windows, a steep shingled roof, and long-columned covered porches.

Every time I pull up, I feel a stab of pride and possession. I love my house. I helped create this house. I was part of the design process—indeed, much of the design was my ideas and my pictures and drawings. During the eighteen months it took to build the house, I was on the job site nearly every day, checking on the progress, talking to the contractor, discussing details with the head carpenter. I loved every aspect of building the house, from the muddy lot in the Seattle December rain, to the immense framing stage, to walking through the space with the electrician, placing each of the outlets.

I was there when they poured the concrete and there the morning the drywalling began and again for the finish painting. It’s hard not to fall in love with a house when it’s not just a house but a part of you.

But it’s not just the house I love. Everything is magical here—the garden and rose-covered trellises, the huge lawn that rolls right to the water with the sandy beach, private dock, and darling boathouse.

As I turn off the engine, the girls fling open their car doors and spill out in a flurry of terrycloth towels and bright sundresses, their sandals falling out and slapping the ground.

“Take everything to the laundry room,” I tell the girls as I dash inside. “Don’t leave one towel in the car. Everything goes in the laundry basket.”

While the girls strip off their wet suits in the laundry room—a room that Patti once said was bigger than most people’s living rooms—I get the miscellaneous dishes from the sink into the dishwasher, the white Carrara marble counters wiped off, and some of the pink roses from the garden in a vase of water before Lucy and her children arrive.

“How gorgeous,” Lucy says, spotting my arrangement of lush roses on the counter. Keys still clutched in her palm, she bends to sniff them. She lifts her head, clearly disappointed. “No smell.”

“No, they’re not fragrant, but they look beautiful and they’re far more disease-resistant than the older varieties.”

Lucy gives the roses one more disappointed sniff. “Disease-resistant is important, especially in the Pacific Northwest with all of our black spot and mildew, but a rose just isn’t a rose without its spicy scent.”

Inexplicably annoyed with Lucy, I yank open the refrigerator with more force than necessary, rattling the jars in the door. “Would you like something to drink?”

She stares at me. “Are you drinking?”

From one of the many kitchen windows, I can see Nathan cross the back patio to light the barbecue. “I’ll probably have a glass of wine.”

“Wine sounds perfect.”

“White or red?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Lucy, we have both.” My irritation shows, and her expression crumples. I don’t know who I dislike more right now—her or me. Taking a deep breath, I try again. “We’re hopeless wine snobs, Luce, you know that. I have loads of wine, and I’m happy to open a bottle of red or white. Just tell me what you want—”

“Red.” Her cheeks are a dark, dusty pink.

God, I hate myself. I’m such a bitch, and I don’t want to be. I don’t mean to be. My patience isn’t what it once was. Maybe it’s the long summer with the kids out of school. Maybe it’s the start-up of the auction meetings. Maybe it’s the tension I’ve begun to notice between Nathan and me. Nathan sometimes seems like a stranger. We used to agree on everything. Lately, we agree on almost nothing. Maybe that’s marriage. Maybe that’s life. Maybe he and I just need to get away for a few days and spend some real time together. “Shiraz, Merlot, Cab?”

“Shiraz or Merlot,” Lucy answers quickly. “I love both.”

I open an Australian Shiraz that Nathan favors. I pour three glasses, hand Lucy one, and pick up the other two. Lucy follows me outside.

I carry a glass of wine to Nathan. “You’ll like this,” I say, simultaneously giving him the glass and a kiss. We’re good, I tell myself as he kisses me back. We’re fine. No one agrees all the time. People have different points of view. Life’s bound to have ups and downs.

“I have some groceries in the car,” he says, taking a sip from his glass before putting the goblet on a table near the barbecue. “You girls relax. I’ve got dinner under control.”

He heads for the garage to get the groceries he picked up on the way home. Lucy watches him go. “You’re lucky,” she says wistfully as he disappears into the garage.

“Because Nathan grocery shops?”

“Because he obviously still adores you.”

I don’t know what to say, because I am lucky. I’ve always been the first to admit it. I knew when I met Nathan that big things would happen. I saw right away that he had the potential for something big and knew it was my job to bring it out in him. It’s not that I didn’t believe in me. I just realized my skills would be best put to use supporting him. To drawing out his potential and helping however I could best help, whether it’s opening doors or keeping them open.

Good wives are a tremendous asset.

You shouldn’t ever underestimate the power a good wife brings to not just marriage, but careers and life in general.

When I look at couples who’ve divorced, you see what they’ve lost. Not just materially, but socially. Their bank account has taken a hit, but more important, so has their clout and respect.