Mrs. Perfect

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.

With that thought in mind, I retrieve my phone and dial Nathan’s cell. He answers right away. “Hi, hon,” I say, “girls are settled and I’m just entering the school gym for the Welcome Coffee, and then I’m off to the gym to work out.”

“Girls okay? Teachers seem nice?”

“Everything seems great. I met both teachers. I think it’s going to be a really good year.”

“That’s great. Can’t wait to hear all about it at dinner.”

“All right, sweetheart, have a good day.”

“You too.”

I make a kiss sound into the phone and hang up. I really am very lucky.

The Welcome Coffee is in full swing when I enter the school gym. Laura and Joan, mothers of second-grade daughters, wave as I walk in. I smile back and move through the small throng until I find Patti, who happens to be standing with Kate and Monica.

“That’s a cute shirt, Taylor,” Kate says by way of greeting.

“Thank you,” I answer, leaning forward to give everybody the customary kiss-kiss.

Monica looks me up and down. “Isn’t it the one you got at the Tory Burch trunk show last spring at Nordstrom’s?”

I nod, my hair falling forward to brush my cheek. “I splurged that day, but God, her clothes were gorgeous. I couldn’t help it.”

“Well, you look positively gorgeous in the tunic,” Monica says almost enviously. “You’re so slim, you can wear everything.”

“Look who’s talking,” Patti flashes. “You’re so thin, Monica, you’re about to disappear. If you lost any more weight, you wouldn’t even be here.”

Monica shakes her head even as she tries to hide her pleased smile. Being too skinny is one of the best compliments you can be paid. “Speaking of down-to-earth,” Monica says, changing the subject as she likes to do, “I heard that Martha Stewart is about to become a neighbor. She’s apparently buying a house in Medina.”

“Not just a house,” Patti corrects, “three. They’re going to tear them down and build a big compound, kind of like what Gates did.”

“You can’t build megahouses anymore,” Kate replies firmly. “Medina’s passed a number of ordinances since Gates’s house went up.”

“I think they’re able to get around the building code, as it’s a megaestate, not a megahouse. Martha wanted to leave plenty of open land for her gardens.?

?

My eyebrows lift. I hadn’t heard anything about Martha maybe moving to Medina until now. “Is she moving here with her daughter? Or a boyfriend?”

“Her daughter is grown, and her ‘best’ friend already lives here. Charles Simonyi.”

“Charles who?” I ask.

Monica sighs with exaggerated patience. “Simonyi. He was born in Hungary and became a billionaire after helping design Microsoft Word and Excel.”

Patti touches my arm. “He’s the one who spent two weeks in space with the Russian astronauts.”

I grin at Patti. “Don’t they call them cosmonauts in Russia?”

Kate frowns. As her husband is a mucky-muck at Microsoft, she often knows the inside scoop before most people. “I didn’t know he and Martha were that close.”

“Apparently they’re very close,” Monica adds in her precise know-it-all voice. “They’re building a house together.”

Kate lifts a hand to slow the zinging conversation. “I don’t think they’re building a house together. I think Martha’s just looking for a change of venue. After all her problems on the East Coast, she might be ready to start over, you know?”

We’re nodding sympathetically when Patti suddenly leans forward and whispers, “Hey. Looks like we’ve got a new daddy among us.”

“Where?” Monica demands, head swiveling around rather like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

“By the cafeteria door,” Patti answers. “Six feet, short dark hair, good build. He’s either a French doctor or a cyclist.”

Monica stares at him. She has no shame. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“You think so?” I ask, trying to see the gorgeousness in the new dad. He’s too narrow, too lean, for my taste, but Patti’s right, he does have the hard, sinewy look of a long-distance runner or a cyclist.

Monica practically licks her lips. “Yes. Yummy.”

“I wonder what he does,” I say.

“I’ll go find out.” And Monica’s off, flipping her hair as she stalks toward him.