Not Perfect: A Novel
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ADVANCE PRAISE FOR NOT PERFECT
“If you haven’t read Elizabeth LaBan, her latest novel, Not Perfect, is the perfect place to start. It’s a domestic mystery starring Tabitha Brewer, a suburban housewife who wakes up one morning to find her husband gone and her life changed forever. Tabitha is a wonderfully relatable heroine, and you’ll cheer her on, despite the fact she has a few secrets—or maybe because of them! I love this book!”
—Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author
“With humor and elegance, Elizabeth LaBan explores the burden of perfection and the futility of seeking it in Not Perfect. Funny and real, poignant and charming, Tabitha is a delight as she falls from grace, from perfect mother and wife to pilfering food and money to keep her family afloat, until she realizes that perfect is overrated. This novel is a gift for anyone who has struggled to wear a mask or keep up an appearance, which is essentially all of us.”
—Amulya Malladi, bestselling author of A House for Happy Mothers and The Copenhagen Affair
“Not Perfect is near perfect. Warm, but not cloying. Moral, but not preachy. A beautiful meditation on redemption.”
—Kathy Cooperman, bestselling author of Crimes Against a Book Club
“Not Perfect is a captivating story about keeping up appearances, written with a perfect blend of humor and drama. Tabitha is delightfully human and flawed, and her struggle to preserve the balance of her world in the face of her missing husband (where is Stuart, anyway?) is highly relatable. A fun read that manages to also be thought-provoking.”
—Kerry Anne King, author of Closer Home and I Wish You Happy
PRAISE FOR PRETTY LITTLE WORLD
“LaBan and DePino pen an engrossing work, rife with real familial and marital issues . . . This duo is one to watch. An excellent choice for fans of Emily Giffin and Jennifer Weiner.”
—Booklist, Starred Review
“A wonderful commentary on community, family, friendship, and questioning what these values mean in our lives.”
—Library Journal
“Pretty Little World is an intriguing novel about the walls individuals put up around themselves when the physical walls come down. LaBan and DePino navigate through the lives of three families in an engaging and unconventional way, and they are not afraid to hit on hard topics . . . An interesting story that competently tackles the concept of codependency and individuality.”
—RT Book Reviews
“When the literal walls come down among neighbors in adjoining Philadelphia row houses, three young families have the chance to create their own urban Utopia. But can they pull it off? Elizabeth LaBan and Melissa DePino pack Pretty Little World full of gourmet meals, marital scandal, inquisitive neighbors, and friendships whose bonds are sorely tested. The result is a skilled, funny, and highly engaging examination of family, love, and marriage in the City of Brotherly Love. This book is a win.”
—Meg Mitchell Moore, author of The Admissions
“Do good fences really make good neighbors? That’s the question at the heart of LaBan and DePino’s intriguing novel. Brimming with astute observations and chock full of surprises until the very last page, Pretty Little World offers a fresh, unexpected look at friendship and marriage.”
—Camille Pagán, author of Life and Other Near-Death Experiences
“Hilarious, relatable, and surprisingly complex, the families in this engaging novel truly touched my heart. I laughed, I cried—I cringed!—but mostly I recognized their longing to feel true community in a world that often makes us feel so alone.”
—Loretta Nyhan, author of All the Good Parts, Empire Girls, and I’ll Be Seeing You
PRAISE FOR THE RESTAURANT CRITIC’S WIFE
“A tender, charming, and deliciously diverting story about love, marriage, and how your restaurant-review sausage gets made. The Restaurant Critic’s Wife is compulsively readable and richly detailed, a guilt-free treat that will have you devouring every word.”
—Jennifer Weiner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Good in Bed, Best Friends Forever, and Who Do You Love
“Elizabeth LaBan’s novel The Restaurant Critic’s Wife stirs in love and intrigue making for a savory delight that pairs perfectly with your armchair. Prepare to be charmed!”
—Elin Hilderbrand, author of The Rumor
“A heartfelt and relatable look at a woman navigating the difficulties of marriage and motherhood—while struggling to maintain a sense of self. Written with charm, honesty, and an insider’s eye into a usually hidden slice of the restaurant world, it’s a winning recipe.”
—Sarah Pekkanen, internationally bestselling author of Things You Won’t Say
“In her debut novel for adults, Elizabeth LaBan cooks up a delectable buffet about motherhood, friendship, ambition, and romance (albeit one in need of a little more spice). She captures the essence of life with small children (smitten with a side of hysteria) and weaves a relatable, charming love story with the flair of an expert baker turning out a flawless lattice crust. LaBan’s four-star story has the satisfying effect of a delicious meal shared with friends you can’t wait to see again.”
—Elisabeth Egan, author of A Window Opens
“Two things engage me when it comes to fiction—characters I want to spend more time with, and details, the juicier the better, from a world I’m curious about but not likely to ever experience. Elizabeth LaBan’s novel The Restaurant Critic’s Wife has both . . . The best part? Ms. LaBan really is a restaurant critic’s wife. Her husband writes for The Philadelphia Inquirer—which means that the wonderful details in the book both ring true and occasionally are.”
—New York Times, Motherlode
“Author LaBan (The Tragedy Paper), who is married to a restaurant critic, excellently makes the joys and difficulties of young motherhood feel real on the page. Readers who are in the thick of raising a young family will enjoy, as will foodies looking for insight into the restaurant world.”
—Library Journal
“The narrative flows effortlessly, and the dialogue is engaging and evocative. Lila and Sam’s love and devotion, despite expected bumps along the way, provides a sensitive look at rediscovering yourself and your marriage.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Thoroughly entertaining.”
—People
“LaBan’s writing . . . is like a dish of smooth custard—straightforward and a treat to take in. The detailed meal descriptions are likely to spark some hunger pangs, and the spicy and sympathetic Lila makes a perfect meal companion.”
—Washington Independent Review of Books
ALSO BY ELIZABETH LABAN
The Restaurant Critic’s Wife
Pretty Little World (with Melissa DePino)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth LaBan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542049818 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542049814 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781477809228 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1477809228 (hardcover)
Cover design by Ginger Design
First Edition
For my mother
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Tabitha Brewer listened for footsteps before pulling the small notebook out of the junk drawer. She leafed through the pages, seeing that each day had a slightly longer list, before she settled on yesterday’s page. She hadn’t had a chance to finish last night, and she thought doing it now might make her feel better. Something had to. She grabbed a pen that had no cap and wrote at the bottom of the page: basil, two dollars. She thought good basil might actually cost more, but that seemed like a fair compromise. What else, what else? Oh yeah, when her cousin took her out to lunch yesterday she put a whole roll of toilet paper into her bag. How much did a roll of toilet paper cost? Again, she wrote: two dollars. She heard someone coming toward the kitchen, feet padding on the fancy tile in the hall. She hurried to write the places she took the things from in the far-right column, so she could remember whom she owed, then added it up. Between the basil she found around the corner in a flower box, the toilet paper, and that one loaf of bread she took early yesterday morning that was just waiting in a huge brown-paper bag outside D’Angelo’s on Twentieth Street, she wrote seven dollars at the bottom of the page, underlined it twice, and put the notebook back in the drawer.
“An everything bagel please,” Fern said as she came in and took a seat in the kitchen. She was so polite that Tabitha wished she’d found a way to steal one for her.
“No everything bagels today, Fernie Bernie,” she said, noticing that Fern’s jeans were just slightly too short and had a hole starting in the knee where a teething puppy they had said hello to the other day had taken a bite. How much longer could she wear those?
“Then I’ll take an anything bagel,” Fern said.
“None of those either, sweetie,” Tabitha said, coming over to kiss the top of her head. It was slightly greasy, and she knew she wasn’t doing Fern any favors by having her shampoo every three days instead of every other. But what would she do when the shampoo ran out? They were already long out of conditioner. “How about some toast?”
“Okay,” Fern sighed and groaned at the same time.
“Where’s your brother?”
“Sleeping still,” Fern said. “I don’t think he wants to go to school today.”
“Wait here one second,” Tabitha said, sprinting out of the big kitchen, trying not to slip on the tile, and bumping right into Levi heading to the bathroom. She stopped short and took a deep breath, glad Fern was wrong. She didn’t want to be late for her interview.
“Morning, Monkey,” she said casually. “You okay?”
“Yup,” he said. Just before he shut the door her eyes caught the elaborate vanity light over the sink. It was big and bright and cost a fortune. She wondered how many everything bagels she could get with the money they spent on that light fixture. Hundreds and hundreds.
Tabitha went back to the kitchen where Fern waited patiently. She opened the colorful ceramic bread box and pulled out a king-size loaf of Stroehmann white bread that she got for $1.99 at Walgreens yesterday, using change from the bottom of her purse. They ate the D’Angelo’s loaf last night for dinner. She’d grilled it on the stove top, then topped it with chopped tomatoes and the stolen basil, the dregs of the fancy olive oil she and Stuart had bought at Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor over a year ago, and a few drops of the precious balsamic vinegar they got on that same trip. She had to make that last.
She put two slices of the bland white bread in the toaster and waited. Butter, shoot, there isn’t much. But then she remembered the pats of butter she took from the diner when she met her cousin. Did she write those down in the notebook? She couldn’t remember. That didn’t really count as stolen anyway. They were meant for the customers.
When Levi came in she had his toast waiting, so there was no discussion of what he couldn’t have, what she was unable to give him. He ate it without a word. She took the plates from the polished granite island and put them in the sink, wondering where she could get some soap to do the dishes. She had run out last night. That was a hard one, people didn’t just leave dish soap around. But maybe they did. She’d have to think of an excuse to stop by Rachel’s house later. Rachel had extras of everything under that big sink.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she said to the kids as she watched them slowly put on their shoes. Tabitha realized Fern’s socks were mismatched but she didn’t move to get matching ones. She tried to tamp down the anxiety she felt. She had to be across town by nine fifteen. Once she dropped the kids off at school, which was in the opposite direction, she’d have just under an hour to walk thirty-two blocks. That should be no problem, she told herself.
They were all quiet in the elevator, which, of course, was still as pristine and well kept as always—as it was the first day they rode in it, going to the seventh floor to see the apartment that she thought would mean they could finally relax, finally feel like they belonged together and were settled into their life.
The door pinged open and Fern ran for Mort, the morning doorman. He heard her coming and turned just in time to lift her by the waist and twirl her around. She smiled and giggled and leaned in for a hug. He was careful not to hug too closely, Tabitha could see, but Fern didn’t notice. Really, Tabitha wouldn’t mind. She trusted him. And obviously Fern was already starved for an adult male in her life. Levi, on the other hand, barely grumbled, “Good morning.” Did that mean he was doing okay? That he wasn’t craving something he didn’t have?
They stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked across the street to Rittenhouse Square. The air was cool and smelled like fall as it always did in Philadelphia at this time of year, of crushed ginkgo nuts and woodsmoke swirling up one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old chimneys.
“I want to go this way!” Fern said, moving to cross the street and walk through the Square, which was only slightly out of their way.
“No way,” Levi said, turning toward Spruce Street. “I don’t want to be late.”
Again Fern sighed and groaned at the same time, and Tabitha wondered if constantly not getting what she wanted would take a toll on her. She hoped not. They walked down to Spruce and headed west toward school. They saw lots of kids walking to Sutherfield, the neighborhood public school, with uniforms and collared shirts with the school name printed on them. Tabitha tried not to think about it, about the choices she and Stuart made. But that wasn’t even the problem. As far as she could tell, school was paid for. At least Stuart did that. Sending the kids to a public school now wouldn’t mean a refund of that private-school tuition. Nobody would hand her $50,000.
“What’s up for you guys today?” she asked. They were going to the Larchwood School whether she liked it or not, whether she, herself, could afford it or not, so why give it any thought?
“Today is Sarina’s birthday so we’re having cupcakes,” Fern said proudly. Sarina was her best friend. Shoot. That would probably mean a party at some point, and a present. Shoot.
“That sounds nice,” Tabitha said. “What about you, Levi?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled.
The difference between a fourth-grader and a seventh-grader seemed much bigger than three years. Tabitha wished she had someone to talk to about that, someone who cared about her kids as mu
ch as she did. But there was really only one other person in this whole world who fit into that category, and he was unreachable. Based on recent events, though, she wasn’t even sure he fell into that category anymore, and that terrified her. At the gate Fern ran right to Sarina, who was wearing a birthday crown and huge, colorful sunglasses that spelled out HAPPY BIRTHDAY, then turned with a quick wave and was gone in the ocean of kids in the yard. Levi slunk off, no wave, no good-bye. Tabitha didn’t linger. She turned and walked east on Lombard. At least it wasn’t hot out. At least she didn’t have to worry about being sweaty when she got there.
When Tabitha was two blocks from the building where her interview would be, she pulled her phone out of her pocket: 9:17. Yikes. She picked up the pace, not caring anymore about how she’d look, just wanting to not be too late. Who hired someone who was late for the interview? She should have taken a cab halfway. She still had a little credit on her card—though she was trying to save that for emergencies.
She got to the lobby and ran in, out of breath. Then she couldn’t remember whom she was there to see; she’d set up so many random interviews lately. She fumbled with her phone, called up the email. Home Comforts. Right. Someone named Kirk Hutchins. She told the person at the front desk, who waved her through. No time for hair fixing or lipstick refreshing. Did it count as refreshing if she hadn’t put lipstick on in over a week? She pushed “4” and waited. It was a slow, jumpy elevator, but she was glad to have a few seconds to herself. The doors opened slowly, like they were giving her a chance to change her mind. “Flee while you still can,” she imagined them saying to her. But she didn’t listen. She stepped out and looked left, then right, and there she saw a huge sign that read HOME COMFORTS with big rocking chairs settled in what looked like a garden bed. She realized she wasn’t even sure what service this company provided. Maybe it didn’t matter. The ad was for a receptionist, she could do that. She could certainly greet people and answer phones. And whatever they did, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t run into people she knew. That was how she picked her interviews—places people in her life wouldn’t ever go. She would have gone farther—to the suburbs or the Northeast—but that would have required a commute, which would have required money. Also, she wouldn’t want to be too far from the kids in case they needed her, not now that she was the only parent in town.