Shop and Let Die (19 page)

“
No.” I shook my head, and
felt a bit dizzy. Was I really sitting in this hospital cafeteria,
having coffee with the woman who could convince her husband to
appoint my husband to a coveted job? It felt surreal. “You’re not
the Sinners. The moms like me, who fit part time jobs in around
family—with job and family taking turns being on the losing end of
the priority list —we’re the Sinners.”

“
Then what am
I?”

“
The Selfish?” I said
quickly, only hearing how it sounded as the words hit my ears. But
then I instantly amended, “No. The Sane. You’re all the Sane
moms.”

“
Oh. I like that.” She
eyed me seriously. “So, you have to decide Molly. Do you want to
help Seth make the world a little better — and your family as well?
Are you going to come over to the Sane side?”

“
Yes.” I said. There
really wasn’t any other answer, no matter how terrifying it sounded
to me.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Change is Hard

Seth seemed unimpressed that I was awake and
showered before him in the morning, but I bit my tongue rather than
blurt out that today was the day I became a new woman. After all,
big dreams begin with small steps. And waking up when the alarm
went off and getting the kids off to school with a little time to
spare was a relatively small step. A baby step, really.

Taking time to exercise,
however, that was more than a baby step. But Seth wasn’t there to
see me drag my Yoga mat out from under the pile of clean laundry.
And I was very glad he wasn’t there to see me in the outfit I’d
bought on sale ten pounds ago.

Today my yoga time was
more than a quick Sun Salutation at the side of the bed. I kicked
away the laundry baskets in front of the TV, decided it would take
too much time run the vacuum over the rug, and rolled out my
mat.

I popped in the yoga DVD.
Soothing music began as soon as I used the remote to select Easy
Workout I. The perky, toned young woman had a soothing voice. This
was my favorite tape. Unfortunately, I knew it so well, my thoughts
wandered at will, in time to the breathing, twisting and gentle
stretching poses.

Whenever I make time for
yoga, I wish I wouldn’t let it slide at the first dent in my daily
schedule. If I got a job at the University, I could do yoga at the
university gym at lunchtime. Point to Seth.

After the sun salutation,
I moved into bridge easily enough, though my muscles let me know
they didn’t appreciate how long it had been since I’d used them
this way. When I was a young wife and mother I thought I’d have
things figured out by now. Talking to Dierdre had loosened some of
the wadded up discontent that I keep trying to ignore.

Sometimes I wonder what
ever made me think that living with Seth would be a partnership. I
told him before we got married that I wanted it to be fifty-fifty.
After all, I’d come of age seeing women doing it all and I knew
that wasn’t for me. It helped — a little — to know that even women
like Dierdre had to contend with husbands who could ignore
household tasks.

Looking at the dust
bunnies growing under the DVD player, I decided to talk to Seth
about the maid service. Dierdre was right. I didn’t want the tight
frown, the constant searching gaze focused on the next two tasks to
be multi-tasked through.

My mother did that, never
putting herself first, always focused on some unattainable standard
set by people she didn’t know or care about. And that was before
Martha Stewart took the concept of simple elegance to a
diabolically complex level.

If Seth really wanted this
job, he needed to be willing to put some of his raise toward a
housekeeper, so we could host the gatherings that would keep him in
Drew’s good graces. I rolled my spine out of bridge vertebrae by
vertebrae and hugged my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth
as instructed. And I needed to think about a real job, so I could
cover the tutoring and lessons that would help our kids be
successful adults.

At this point, the gentle
voice instructed me to do a simple shoulder stand. I spoke back to
the perfectly shaped young woman, who seemed to have elastic joints
and the balance of a gymnast—and a young male assistant who waved
his hand over her figure to demonstrate proper alignment. “As soon
as you send that cute young man to hold me up.”

As always, I improvised
here, rolling on my spine like a ball instead. There is no such
thing as a simple shoulder stand. And maybe there is no such thing
as a simple marriage.

“
Fifty-fifty.” I’d said,
instead of “Yes,” when Seth asked me to marry him. He nodded and
agreed, but in retrospect that was just the beginning of our
failure to communicate. As I rapidly discovered, Seth was fine with
the 50-50 concept as long as his fifty didn’t include cooking,
cleaning, or home maintenance. In short, his fifty was his work and
knowing what came on TV every night. Oh, and finding the best price
on everything. Which even in my crankiest moments, I cannot
discount. The man could find a sale on life preservers in the
middle of a flood.

It was time for me to let
go of what wasn’t working. To embrace the change. I rolled up onto
all fours, none too gracefully compared to the young woman on the
DVD. The cat is one of my favorite poses, I have been known to hiss
as I arch, much to the delight of my children. Today I hiss with
purpose.

I will change.

And I will stick with the
change.

Too soon it is time to
recline in corpse pose. My thoughts should be tranquil and focused
inward, but Seth’s face takes the place of the quiet beach scene
I’m supposed to envision here as I lay with my limbs flopped out,
melting my bones into the floor, feeling my breath. Hearing the
voices of doubt and worry in my head. The voices have a whiny
quality today, which blends into the sound of the dishwasher
whirring away in the kitchen.

If I don’t change, Seth
won’t get the job.

But I’m going to have to
fake a Dierdre level calm when I insist on a housekeeper. He does
bring in most of the money, and he has managed to make himself
believe that housework either gets done by magic or is so
unimportant as to not need doing.

There are no perfect
choices in life. I knew that when I decided to stay home, but I
often forget it when I stare over the fence at the apparently
greener grass of the other side.

After a bad experience
with a babysitter, I went from part time work to no work at all.
Or, at least, not paying work. But I still have a full-time job
taking care of the kids. And now the mystery shopping has me
sitting on top of the fence, one foot dangling on either side,
where the grass can tickle my feet unmercifully.

And still I have to come
home and make dinner, do the wash, dust—not that I do. Which only
makes me feel more guilty. And angry.

The DVD stopped playing
and I listened to the silence for a moment. I’d like to get over
this cycle of complain, be overwhelmed, argue, be angry, start over
again.

Seth hates that about me.
“Trust me,” and “I’m always right,” are his favorite sayings. I
think he says them to convince himself more than me. At least I
hope he does. Because no matter how many times he says it, I’ll
never be convinced. Got to have my say, even if it results in an
argument.

The phone rang.
Reluctantly, I got up and rolled up my mat, picking off the lint,
cat hair, and little bits of cereal I hadn’t vacuumed off the rug.
One day I imagine life will be easier. I’ll have a room to do my
yoga, with candles burning and music playing and a clean floor. And
a housekeeper to make it all so.

Sue called me again.
“Molly, can you do me a quick favor?”

“
Don’t tell me, I’m not
only needed for a massage, but for a three day spa shop?" I kept my
voice light. I didn’t want to offend her, just remind her that I
was first in line for a spa shop.

There was an unpromising
pause before she said with a lilt, “No spa, but close.”

“
What?” I bit my tongue
before I blew my chance at a spa by saying something sarcastic like
“standing in a wind tunnel sopping wet.”

I could hear keys clicking
on the other end of the line. “You’re a professor’s wife,
right?”

I hated being known as
anyone’s ‘wife.’ But I answered without bitterness.
“Yes.”

“
That should
do.”

“
Do what?”

“
Well, the client wants a
shopper with a certain profile, you know.”

“
What kind of
profile.”

“
Classy. Able to afford a
personal shopper.”

I laughed out loud. “My
husband would have a fit if I had a personal shopper.”

She barreled over my
objection. “But you can look like you might have a personal
shopper, right? Even if your husband is a cheap SOB?”

“
Yes.” The mystery shopper
credo is to say yes to whatever is asked, as long as it isn’t
illegal—even immoral and fattening are a personal
choice.

She waxed enthusiastic.
“Good. Then you’re going to see exactly what you’re missing. You’re
going to have a shopper for an hour.”

“
Where?” There weren’t
many places that had shoppers. “Bergman’s?”

“
Good guess.”

“
Not really, they’re the
only place within thirty miles that offer that service. Do people
really use it?”

“
Yes. And this is an
important assignment. I wouldn’t give it to you if you weren’t so
thorough with your reports and prompt with your
scheduling.”

“
Do I have to buy
something.”

“
Just a suit.”

“
A suit? For my
husband?”

“
For you.”

My stomach started to
twist. “How much?”

“
Two hundred
dollars.”

“
And I can take it back?”
Usually when you are required to make a purchase for a shop there
isn’t any restriction on returning things. But I didn’t want to
take a chance when the “item” was two hundred dollars.

“
No.”

My heart started to sink
toward my toes, until she said, “That’s an expense the job
covers.”

“
How much additional money
does the job pay?”

“
Fifty
dollars.”

I was silent for a little
longer than she was comfortable with, I guess, because she hurried
to add, “I know it’s a little low, but since you get to keep the
suit—”

Low? “When do you need the
shop done.” Who am I to ignore the sign from the universe? No
sooner had I decided to change, than I got offered a shop that
would help me make that change.

Unaware that I had already
mentally accepted the shop, Sue said apologetically, “Today.
ASAP.”

“
Okay.” I tried to think
about how I’d shoehorn an hour with a personal shopper into my day,
but I didn’t care. The shop was a sign that I was getting on her
serious good side—maybe closer to the spa weekend than I’d
realized. Or maybe not.

And the suit would help me
fake being the kind of wife that an Assistant Dean would have. The
kind of woman I wanted to change into. A competent, successful
woman, like Deirdre.

I was sweaty, still
stressed, and running late. As usual. But I kept focused on
changing myself. I even extended my shower long enough to shave my
legs. Yoga and shaved legs, this morning, a high-end clothes shop,
and then the make-up counter. Seth wasn’t going to recognize me
tonight.

I didn’t recognize the number on my cell phone when it rang.
I answered it anyway, prepared to politely dismiss the pollster or
telemarketer.

“
Molly Harbison?” The
voice was deep and compelling.

“
Yes?” I laid a bet with
myself that he was a political pollster.

“
Molly Harbison, the
secret shopper?”

That rattled me. I stopped
and stared at the phone. “Who is this?”

“
We met at the job fair.
James Connery. FBI.”

The FBI? No way. My mind
stuck in neutral, fixed on one question. “How did you get my
number?”

“
I’m the FBI.”

“
Why would…” I started to
laugh. “Oh no. You almost got me.”

“
Please, Molly. May I call
you Molly?”

I shook my head. Celeste
did love her practical jokes. “You can call me anything you
want.”

“
Molly, we need your help
to catch the serial killer.”

I let a gasping giggle
escape. “Tell Celeste I almost believed you, but then you took it
just a little too far.”

I hung up, and quickly
texted Celeste:
good one; but serial
killer was just too far to push the joke.

Once I got into the SUV, I
followed the steps that Anna had shown me to sync the phone to the
car’s audio system. Seth sometimes called me randomly during the
day to see what I was up to, and I didn’t want to have to pull over
to talk to him.