Mrs. Perfect

They look so comfortable. So relaxed. I find myself envying them. That’s how it used to be with our family. Easy. Natural.

The front door opens again, and a woman enters with three little girls all dressed in private school white blouses and plaid skirts. The mom is thinner than a sixteen-year-old even after three daughters.

The girls sit at a table, and the mom carries over a tray of snacks and drinks. As she passes around the small hot ciders, a man arrives with a baby and joins the family. He’s wearing charcoal gray plaid pants, white button-down, tie, gold-rimmed glasses. He hands the baby to his wife. They don’t kiss. They don’t speak. They don’t even make eye contact during the hand-off.

The mom returns to the counter for her own coffee, and she smiles at the barista when requesting a sleeve for her cup. It’s the first smile I’ve seen from her since they arrived.

Now dad is leaving and the girls all chorus good-bye, but mom never once looks up, never says good-bye. He goes without saying a word, either.

Is this really how people live? Is this what happens when marriages go bad?

I think of Nathan. I think of how I still feel when he walks in the room, how everything in me lifts, so glad we’re together, so glad he’s mine.

I can’t even begin to imagine life without him. I can’t imagine me without him.

Things are going to work out. We’ll be back together soon, back to the way things were. We will. We have to.

But what if we aren’t?

The whisper of doubt undoes me, and abruptly I rise, suddenly, stunningly claustrophobic. “I’ll be right back,” I murmur before racing outside on shaking legs, nearly wobbling in my leather boots’ four-inch stiletto heels.

Outside it’s gray and cold and crisp, with massive gold and brown leaves blowing down the street. I walk to the side of the building where no one can see me and lean against the brown wall, my forehead pressed to the wood. I open my mouth and gulp in air.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid I can’t survive this.

It’s not just the loss of things. It’s not even the loss of Nathan. It’s the loss of pride. It’s the loss of confidence. It’s the loss of whatever protective layer I’d grown around me over the years, because that layer’s now gone. I’m being stripped and it hurts and I ache.

Behind me, a truck pulls into the spot at the corner of the building. Car doors open and close. Footsteps sound and then stop.

“Taylor?” a female voice asks uncertainly, hesitating behind me.

I realize how ridiculous I must look in my designer suit and glamorous knee-high boots with my face planted against Tully’s wood siding.

Straightening, I turn around. My heart falls.

It’s Marta. Marta and her boyfriend, Luke Flynn, one of the auction’s big supporters every year. He does a lot for disadvantaged kids, too, always helping underwrite local youth programs.

“You all right?” she asks. She’s wearing faded jeans, her horrible combat books (Why? Why? Why?), and a black cable-knit sweater that hangs to her thighs. It looks like a guy’s sweater, and from the size of it, I suspect it’s Luke’s.

“I’m fine.” The words stick in my throat. I lift my chin, stare at her defiantly. “Thank you,” I add pointedly.

Anyone else would back off. Go away. Marta just stands there, her dark eyebrows furrowed, her expression speculative.

Just go, I command silently. Leave.

She doesn’t, and Luke, who stands a few feet behind Marta, looks away.

The wind tugs at Marta’s long black hair, which hangs over her shoulder, past her breast. She’s so damn sure of herself, I think bitterly, so goddamn untouchable.

I don’t even know why I dislike her so much. I just do. She reminds me of Angelina Jolie. She even looks like Angelina Jolie, and I don’t like Angelina Jolie, either.

Patti appears at the corner. She’s holding my cell phone. “Taylor. It’s Art Whittelsey. He says it’s urgent.”

Without looking at Marta, I walk toward Patti and take the phone. “Thank you,” I say, my voice husky.

She nods and smiles, but her expression is concerned.

“Hi, Art,” I say, phone to my ear as Marta, Luke, and Patti head inside. “How are things?”

“Good.”

Art hesitates. Art’s a good man, a kind man, and one hell of a Realtor, and I suddenly don’t want to hear what he’s going to say next.

I close my eyes, press a fist to my mouth. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“Taylor, we have an offer.”

His voice is so quiet, so unbelievably gentle, that I know it’s a good offer. And I know he’s going to break what’s left of my heart.

But I ask anyway, just to torture myself. “How good?”

“Very good.”

Oh God.

“I’ve got a call in to Nathan,” he continues. “I want to share the details with you both at the same time. Can I get you on a conference call as soon as he calls me back?”

“Of course.”

After disconnecting the call, I go inside, collect my things hastily, stumble through quick good-byes. It’s just two minutes to my house, and I park in the garage, leave my auction binder in the car, and carry my cell phone with me into the house.

“Hi,” I call out, entering the mudroom from the garage. I call again for the girls once I’m in the kitchen, but there’s no answer. The house is quiet. Annika and the girls aren’t here.

I think. It’s Tuesday. Where do they go on Tuesdays? Ah, piano lessons, right.

Deflated, I look around, see the beautiful custom kitchen cabinetry, the big window over the sink, the enormous Viking Range unit with the copper hood crafted for us in Spain. My phone rings shrilly. I fumble to take the call.

It’s Art. He has Nathan already on the line.

“Taylor, I was just telling Nathan that you actual-ly had two offers today, but the second offer wasn’t nearly as good as the first, so it’s the first I’m presenting to you.”

“But we just started the paperwork yesterday. The house isn’t officially even on the market yet. It’s not even been available for a day,” I protest.

“We priced your house well.”

“Maybe too well,” Nathan says quietly.

I’m more concerned about buyers who haven’t even walked through our house yet. “How can these people make an offer on a house they haven’t seen? Don’t they want to see the inside?”

“They’re a local family and familiar with your house.” For the first time, Art sounds uncomfortable. “I believe they’ve been in your house before.”

Oh, my God. It’s someone we know. Someone we’ve entertained is taking our house from us.

Panic rushes through me, wave after wave, as Art presents the offer. As if sensing our misery, he goes through the details at a brisk pace.

“The buyers have agreed to your full asking price. They can close in thirty days. They’ve given their broker a check for eighty thousand in earnest money.” Art pauses, takes a breath. “They do have a house to sell, but their offer isn’t contingent on their house selling.”

“Do you think the sale will fall through?” Nathan asks flatly.

“Honestly? No.” Art then adds, “Don’t forget, we have the backup offer, too. It’s not as strong or as clean as the first, but it’s a serious offer, and with a counteroffer, it could be acceptable.”

I’m barely listening to the part about the backup offer, as I can’t stop thinking about the people who’ve made the first offer, the best offer. “Who are they?” I blurt out. “Who wants the house?”

Arts clears his throat. “Their name has not been disclosed.”

“Why not?”

He clears his throat again. “I’m not privy to their reasons, but you will find out at closing when you go in to sign the papers.”

So anyone could be buying our house. For all I know, Marta Zinsser could be buying our house.

“So that’s tha