Mrs. Perfect

by Jane Porter

  The next few days are busy as always. All three girls have soccer practice on Wednesday afternoon and then dance on Thursday. Because of their different ages, they’re all in different levels and classes, which means nonstop carpooling from three-thirty until seven. I split the driving with Annika, and while one of us drives, the other oversees homework.

  On Thursday, while Annika takes Brooke to ballet, I’m home with Jemma and Tori. Tori has a friend over from her preschool, and they’re playing dress-up in her room. Jemma’s at the dining room table, grumbling through homework. I’m sitting with her at the table, sending e-mails from my laptop computer to the auction committee, when I’m suddenly reminded of my conversation with Tori yesterday morning.

  I sit back from my computer. “Jemma, why did you tell your sisters that Daddy was having an affair?”

  Jemma starts guiltily. “I didn’t.”

  I stare at her steadily. “You did.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Tori didn’t just dream this up. She’s four. She doesn’t even know what the word affair means.”

  Jemma slouches in her seat, her mouth pursed petulantly. I’m not fazed. We can sit here all day. And we do sit, for several very long, uncomfortable minutes, until Jemma squirms. “I didn’t say Dad was having an affair. I said I hoped Dad wasn’t having an affair.”

  “Why would you even think that?”

  She looks at me defiantly. “Because that’s why the Wellsleys are getting divorced. Mrs. Wellsley had an affair, and now the kids are going to have to live with their dad instead of their mom.”

  I sit, trying to piece this all together. Part of it makes sense. Part of it doesn’t. “But if Mrs. Wellsley had the affair—and we don’t really know if she did, do we?—why would you say you hoped Dad wasn’t having one?”

  She squirms again, more miserable than defiant now. “Because if Dad had the affair, then we would have to live with you.”

  I think I’m beginning to see where she’s going with this, and I don’t like it. “If Dad and I divorced—which we’ll never do—you’re saying you’d rather live with him?”

  She looks away from me. “Yes.”

  I shouldn’t persist with this line of questioning, it’s only going to end badly. But I can’t seem to help myself. “Why wouldn’t you want to live with me?”

  She shrugs. “He just loves us more.”

  My expression doesn’t change outwardly, but I’m reeling on the inside. I couldn’t love my girls more. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because he just does. It’s obvious.”

  “Jemma, your dad’s a wonderful father, and he does love you, very, very much, but I do, too.”

  She makes a face, a sassy face that cuts even more than her words do. “I’m thirsty,” she says, jumping up. “I’m going to get some water.”

  I don’t stop her. There’d be no point. It’s not as if I can force my love down her throat.

  Friday night, Nathan returns home in the middle of the night. He’s so quiet that I don’t even know he’s back until the sheets lift and he’s sliding into bed beside me. I mumble a sleepy hello, and he wraps his arm around me. Usually I don’t like being held closely, but tonight I cover his hand with my own.

  I fall back asleep cocooned in his arms, and when the phone rings five hours later, I’m still nestled close.

  The phone rings again, and Nathan, usually the lighter sleeper, is dead to the world. I get up to grab the phone before it wakes him up. He didn’t get in until nearly four in the morning. He needs his sleep.

  “Hello?” I whisper, leaving the bedroom with the phone and closing the door behind me.

  “Uh, Mrs. Young?”

  Still groggy, I rub the back of my head. “Yes?”

  “This is Charlotte Frankel. I wanted to call and introduce myself. I’m not just a Realtor. I’m a relocation specialist—”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but who did you say you were?”

  “Charlotte Frankel. I’ve been assigned to work with you on your move.”

  “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number. Young is a fairly common name—”

  “Nathan and Taylor Young.”

  I lean against the wall. “Yes, that’s us.”

  “Well, I’m Charlotte, and I’m most anxious to help make your move as easy as possible. I understand you have three little girls—”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Young?”

  “Where are we supposed to be moving to?”

  “Omaha,” she says gaily.

  My stomach rises. “Nebraska?”

  Charlotte laughs, a surprisingly tinkly laugh for a woman with such a deep voice. “The one and only.”

  “When?” My voice is all but inaudible.

  “To help expedite things, I’ve pulled a number of listings for you. I’ve tried to find neighborhoods comparable to your current neighborhood, and your husband has been most helpful. He said good schools would be your number one priority.”

  “Charlotte, I haven’t had my coffee yet, and Nathan has only just gotten home. Could I call you back, please?”

  “Of course.” She rattles off a phone number I don’t even try to write down or remember. “Give me a call once you’ve gotten your caffeine.”

  “Right. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  For a long moment I just stand there in the hall, the phone pressed to my chest. Move. Move? Move to Omaha?

  Is Nathan out of his mind?

  My first reaction is to go drag him out of bed by his hair. My second is to go downstairs, make some coffee, and calm myself down. Before I go drag him out of bed by his hair.

  I shake as I fill the coffeepot with water. I’m shivering by the time I start measuring the tablespoons of freshly ground coffee.

  This isn’t happening. This isn’t. Nathan wouldn’t move us to Omaha, especially not without talking to me about it. Nathan would never take a job without discussing it with me. We’re partners. Lovers. Best friends.

  Brooke wanders into the kitchen, her long flax-colored hair in tangles down her back. “Hi, Mom.” She wraps her arms around me in a great bear hug.

  Still shivering, I hug her back. I’m cold on the inside, cold and numb and scared.

  “Can I watch TV, Mom?”

  I give her one more squeeze before letting go. “Yes.”

  She turns to look at me as she heads for the family room. “You okay, Mom?”

  Brooke’s my bookworm. My confident, athletic, independent daughter. Also my most perceptive daughter. I manage a faint smile. “I’m fine.”

  Her brows knit. She has more olive in her skin than the others; it’s Nathan’s coloring, and coupled with her fair hair, she’s stunning. “You sure?”

  I force a bigger smile. “Yes. I just need my coffee. You know me in the mornings, all grumpy and mean.”

  Reassured, she laughs and heads for the other room. I hear the TV come on and the ridiculous cartoon voices. I’m still shaking as I stand in front of the coffeepot, waiting for the brew cycle to complete.

  How could he?

  How could he?

  I give up on the coffee. I can’t wait. I have to know what this is about right now.

  My heart races with every stair I climb. In our bedroom I shut the door, wishing yet again we’d installed a lock on the door.

  “Nathan,” I say, standing next to the bed. My voice comes out curt. I swallow, cross my arms, and try again. “Nathan, wake up.”

  “Hmmm?” He lifts his head sleepily.

  His hair is sticking up all over his head, and he has enormous bags beneath his eyes. I almost feel sorry for him. “We have to talk.”

  “The girls . . . ?”

  “No. No.” I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to say this. Nathan and I are nonconfrontational. Nathan and I are happy. We have a good marriage. I thought we had a good marriage.

  He rolls up onto an elbow. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  I have loved this
man so long that he’s part of me. But how could someone so close to me keep a new job in a new city secret? “We had a call this morning from a Realtor who is supposed to help with our move.” I take a quick sharp breath. “To Omaha.”

  He’s sitting all the way up, the sheet low on his hips. He doesn’t look surprised or confused, just wary.

  He knows what I’m talking about.

  Oh, my God. This Omaha job is real.

  “What’s going on, Nathan?” God, I’m freezing. So cold.

  “I’ve been offered a really good job, and I’ve accepted.”

  He doesn’t even blink as he delivers the news. No softening of his voice, no apologetic tone. If anything, he sounds resolute. Proud.

  “But school began three weeks ago. The girls are settled. They’ve gotten adjusted to their new teachers and classes and routine. They’re doing homework and playing soccer.”

  “They’ll adjust to life there—”

  “But why should they have to adjust to life there when we live here? Their friends are here. My friends are here. Our life is here. Why would we even contemplate moving?”

  He rolls out of bed and walks to the window, where he lifts one blind. The sunlight illuminates his broad shoulders and lean, naked torso. I usually love the sight of him naked, but this morning it leaves me cold. “Because I’m the breadwinner,” he says, turning to look over his shoulder at me. “If I don’t go to Omaha, we have no way to pay our bills.”

  “What about your job with McKee? Vice president. Big salary. Amazing benefits.”

  He says nothing.

  “Nathan!”

  His jaw hardens, and he looks at me with pain and fury. “I don’t work for them anymore, Taylor.”

  “Can’t you get your job back?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no? Have you even tried?”

  I don’t know if it’s the hysterical edge in my voice or my questions, but, swearing softly, he goes to the closet and yanks a T-shirt out of a drawer and then a pair of baggy sweatpants. Dressed, he turns to face me. “I quit, Taylor.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed. “What?”

  “Seven months ago.”

  My mouth opens in protest, but I don’t make a sound. I’m too shocked, and there aren’t any words anyway. He’s been unemployed for over six months?

  No. No. This is all impossible. This can’t happen. This can’t be.

  Nathan’s been getting up and getting dressed and going to work every day. He’s been tied up in meetings and busy on conference calls. “Nathan,” I plead.

  He shrugs once, a weary shrug, and walks out of the room.

  No. No. You can’t just drop a bomb like this and walk out of the room. Absolutely not. I wrench on my robe and fly after him.

  Downstairs, I find him in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee. He sees me and reaches for another cup, fills that one, and pushes it toward me. I ignore the coffee, bundle my arms over my robe. “What exactly happened?”

  He adds a splash of milk to his coffee. “Is this an accusation?”

  “I just want to understand.”

  “I did my best, Taylor.”

  “But you were making good money. You had a good job—”

  “I was redundant, and instead of waiting to be let go, I quit. I thought it’d look better when I was job interviewing to say I’d moved on to better things instead of being fired.”

  “But if they fired you, there would have been a severance package, wouldn’t there?”

  Nathan looks through me. “I had my pride.”

  “But pride doesn’t pay the bills.”

  He clears his throat, pain and frustration written in the lines of his face. “Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty, isn’t it?”

  “And you haven’t had a job since when? Last January?”

  “February fifteenth.”

  My legs nearly go out beneath me. Since February? It’s late September now.

  Thinking back to February, I remember our winter vacation, the trip to Maui with Patti and her family. We stayed at the Four Seasons, next door to the Grand Wailea, and the kids were so disappointed because they didn’t care for the beautiful groomed Four Seasons resort and pool. The girls wanted the enormous pool and water slide complex at the Grand Wailea and the fancy morning buffet. Both hotels were pricey, over $450 a night before room tax and room charges like cocktails, spa appointments, meals. “You never once said anything on our trip to Maui.”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t want to ruin our vacation, and I was confident that I’d get something soon.”

  I hear what he’s saying, but my uneasiness only increases. Something doesn’t fit. Something doesn’t make sense. “Didn’t you ever want to talk to me about not having a job? Didn’t you ever feel like . . . sharing?”

  “Every day.”

  “But . . . ?”

  He laughs, shrugs. “I didn’t know how to talk to you.”

  I jerk, stung. “You didn’t know how?”

  “I was afraid.”

  I just look at him, my jaw dropping.

  “You have such high standards,” he adds bitterly. “You’re on this quest for perfection, and I’m not perfect. No one’s perfect.”

  My throat feels scratchy. “I’m not perfect.”

  “No, you’re not, and that’s why you hate yourself. You hate whatever’s not perfect.” He draws a deep breath. “And I didn’t want you to hate me.”

  “Hate you? How could I hate you? God, Nathan, you’re my husband.”

  “You hate your mom, and she’s your mother.”

  I don’t know how to answer. In fact, I can’t possibly answer. I can’t even look at him, my eyes closing at the pain. Only those who know you well can hurt you badly. And Nathan has hurt me. Maybe even badly.

  Suddenly everything is too raw, too painful, and I turn away so he can’t see my face.

  “See?” he continues. “How can I talk to you, Taylor? You just shut me out when you don’t like what you hear.”

  “I’m not shutting you out,” I say hoarsely even as my heart feels as though it’s falling, falling, falling. I shoot him an intense look. “You’re the one who hasn’t worked in seven months. You’re the one who hid the truth, shut me out—”

  “I didn’t want you worried. When you worry you starve yourself or binge and purge—”

  “Nathan.”

  “It’s true. The moment there’s any stress you’re in the bathroom sticking your finger down your throat—”

  I turn away and walk out, walking quickly to keep from hearing what he’s saying. But I hear it anyway. This is my fault. I’m messed up, and I’ll always be this way.

  Chapter Eight

  How amazing that just one phone call can change everything.

  I’d so looked forward to Nathan being home. I was so ready to have just a relaxing weekend with the five of us, but the day is horrendous. What’s happening between us is horrendous.

  Nathan and I haven’t spoken in hours. Earlier, he took the girls to the club to play some tennis, but now he’s back, closeted in his office, and when he does emerge he doesn’t speak to me.

  By four I can’t take it anymore. I’m in knots, my nerves absolutely shot.

  I enter his study, bringing him a peace offering in the form of a beer. “Feel like something cold?”

  He just looks at me.

  “Besides your wife?” I try to joke.

  He doesn’t even smile.

  “Nathan, we have to talk about this.”

  “Yes, we do,” he agrees.

  Leaning forward, I set the unopened beer on his desk. “There has to be another option, honey. There has to be—”

  “I’ve been interviewing for months, Taylor. I’ve been putting on the dog-and-pony show for anyone who would give me the chance, and now I’ve been given a chance. A chance to work again. A chance to pay our bills again.”

  “But Omaha?”

  “You say that because you know nothing about the c
ity. Omaha has some beautiful neighborhoods. It’s an interesting city with a strong arts community, and most important, it’s a great opportunity for me.”

  I rub my upper arm, glance around his dark-paneled office. The wood paneling cost a fortune, $35,000 for this one room alone. But I wanted the best for Nathan. I wanted him to have a proper study that could also be his library. He loves books so much. He’s always buying books. You should see his side of the bed.

  “But this is home, Nathan,” I say in a small voice. “This is where we live.”

  His expression doesn’t alter, yet I feel him pulling away emotionally. “Taylor, I’ve already accepted the job. I’ve been introduced around the office and spent Friday in meetings with my department. I’ve promised to be back in their headquarters—permanently—by Thursday.”

  “This coming Thursday?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about us?”

  “Charlotte’s a relocation expert. She’s done this dozens of times and will orchestrate the move. She swears she can have you moved out of here and into a new place in less than two weeks.”

  “Just like that?”

  He stares out his window. His study overlooks the back lawn and has a spectacular view of the lake. I wanted him to have the best view. “It doesn’t have to be complicated, Taylor.”

  “But it is complicated. We agreed to move here, live here, because the quality of life was superior to other places. We checked out the different school districts, looked at the different schools—”

  “I’ve looked into schools in Omaha. They have great schools and soccer programs, too. We’ll get the girls enrolled this week, and by Thanksgiving it’ll feel like home.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious.” He pauses. “The cost of living is considerably lower, too. It’s the best thing for us. It really is.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s not. It isn’t, Nathan.”

  He’s silent a moment, and then he looks up at me, his handsome features utterly expressionless. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but the decision’s made. I’ve taken the job. Charlotte will have a moving company come on Monday to schedule the move. The company is paying for the move. The company is handling all the relocation expenses, including three months temporary housing in Omaha—”