Mrs. Perfect

As I sit there, I want to quit. I really do. I want to lie down right here in the middle of Tully’s and just give up.

But then I glance at the group of older ladies. I remember their scathing assessment of Thelma & Louise. You don’t drive off a cliff just because you screw up.

No, you don’t, I think, getting to my feet. And I’m not, either.

But once I’m back in my car, my anger dissolves into pain. I sit locked in my car outside Tully’s for nearly ten minutes without moving, staring blindly at the big bare trees lining Points Drive.

How could they kick me off the committee? How could they yank it all away like that?

How could people I view as friends lose confidence in me?

Maybe I’ve always felt like a faker, but I’m a hardworking faker. I have poured myself into Points Elementary, have done anything and everything to show I’m dependable. Maybe even indispensable.

Yet with one yank of the rug, I’m off my feet and on my butt.

Kicked out. Dismissed.

It hurts so much, I can hardly breathe. It hurts so much, I can’t even cry. Kate, Kate, booted me.

Hands shaking, I reach into my purse for my cell phone. I call Nathan. Even if he hates me, he’d still understand how devastating this is.

The fact that he doesn’t answer nearly sends me over the edge. I start crying as I get directed to voice mail, and I can’t stop. I’m not even coherent as I tell him that I’ve been kicked off the auction committee. That no one trusts me anymore. That people are concerned I’d maybe embezzle their money. That I, Taylor Young, would steal from anyone.

Just saying the words out loud makes me cry harder. I don’t even finish the message. There’s no point. I hang up. There’s nothing to say, nothing that can make any of this better.

It takes me another five minutes to calm myself enough to try to drive home. I hurt as I start the car. I feel as though I’ve been physically beaten, pounded. My bones ache. Even my insides feel bruised.

My phone rings as I drive. I see it’s Marta, and I answer. “Hi, Marta.” My voice sounds thick and rough. I can only hope she doesn’t notice.

“Taylor, sorry to bother you, but I was trying to find the Clendon Winery folder in the filing cabinet but can’t locate it. I hoped you might know where it is.”

“It’s actually on my desk, underneath the invoice folder.”

“Ah . . . yep, found it. Thanks.” She hesitates. “You all right?”

The question alone makes my chest squeeze, my stomach feel on fire all over again. I’ve tried so hard. Tried my best. “Yes.”

“But something’s happened. I’ve never heard you cry before.”

“I’m not crying.” Tears well up all over again.

“Is it Nathan?”

“No, it’s not Nathan. It’s everything.” I gulp air, fight for control. Try desperately hard to get my voice back to normal. “And I thought I was doing okay, handling everything that’s come up in the past couple of months, but apparently not.” I take a quick breath. “I was just booted off the auction committee. Removed in a vote of no confidence.”

“Can they do that?”

“They did.” I hold my breath. God knows I don’t want to be overly dramatic, but it is humiliating and painful. I’ve never been fired before. From anything.

“But who did it? And why?”

“Kate.”

“Your Kate? Kate Finch?”

My throat feels raw as I swallow. “I don’t think she’s my Kate anymore. She said as long as I remain auction chair, she and her husband won’t underwrite the auction as corporate sponsors.”

“Is that a big deal?”

“They’ve been our Gold Sponsors for years. They donate the most money. Twenty thousand or more to help cover operating expenses.”

“Do you want to come by for a coffee or glass of wine?” Marta asks. “Luke’s out of town this weekend, and Eva’s at Jill’s for a sleepover.”

I’m flooded by gratitude. Unconventional Marta has been more of a friend to me than almost anyone. “I wish I could,” I answer honestly, “but my sitter has to go. She’s a bit fierce.”

Marta laughs. “You’re intimidated by your own sitter?”

“Meet her. You’ll see what I mean.” I pause. “But maybe you’d like to come to dinner at our house tonight? I can’t promise you that it’d be fancy, but it’d be food and you wouldn’t have to make it.”

“What time are you thinking?”

“Anytime. Five-thirty. Six. Six-thirty. It’s up to you.”

“How about sometime between six and six-thirty? That way I can finish up the project in front of me.”

“That sounds great. You know where the new house is?”

“I do. See you soon.”

Entering the rental house, I stop and sniff. The house has a heavy, sour smell. Like onions and boiled cabbage. Mrs. Slutsky must be cooking.

“Hello,” I call out, setting my purse on the couch and then taking off my coat and dropping it there, too.

Mrs. Slutsky emerges from the kitchen with laundry beneath her arm. She looks at me and then my coat. “I cannot make the children responsible for their things if you do not set a good example,” she says disapprovingly.

I glance at the couch, see my coat. “I’ll put it away—”

She shakes her head and with a tsk-tsking sound walks out.

I make a face at her back. My girls aren’t the only ones missing bubbly, blond, and fun.

Chapter Twenty-Three

It takes me fifteen minutes to get rid of Mrs. S, a half hour to get rid of the smell of cabbage and potato soup, another twenty minutes to get a dinner of shrimp risotto going, and then fifteen for me to shower and wash my face, re-applying makeup to repair the damage done when I cried.

I’m working on opening a bottle of wine when Marta arrives.

“Perfect timing,” I say, answering the door with the bottle of wine in my hand. “Come in.”

As she enters the house, she slides off her black leather jacket. It’s a biker jacket, something a Hell’s Angel—or Ray—would like. “Thank God it’s Friday.”

With the wine under my arm, I hang up her jacket and lead her into my itty-bitty kitchen. Marta looks around and examines the changes I’ve made.

“This house is amazing. It smells amazing, too.” She takes the glass of wine I’ve poured her. “What is that? Saffron?”

“I’m making shrimp risotto, and if you’d been here an hour ago you would have smelled something very different.”

Marta grins. “Well, you should be proud of yourself. You’ve turned an ugly house into something charming. I’m pretty good with basic design, but I couldn’t have done this. This required some serious imagination, never mind a lot of elbow grease.”

I shrug off the compliment and head for the dining room table, where I’ve put out small dishes of olives, hummus, goat cheese spread, and crackers. “I like making things pretty. It’s easy for me.”

“It’s not easy for everyone.” Marta sits at the dining room table and takes a cracker. “You can do things most people can’t do.”

“They could if they tried.”

“You can’t be nice to yourself if you tried.”

I groan, rub at the bridge of my nose. “You’re already my boss. It’ll give me nightmares if you’re also my shrink.”

She laughs and runs a hand through her long dark hair. “I hate shrinks. But that’s probably because I need one more than anybody.” Then without skipping a beat, she changes the topic. “So what did you do to deserve being excommunicated from the Points auction committee?”

The lump returns to my throat. I shake my head.

“They had to have a reason,” she persists.

I struggle to get out the words. “I haven’t been financially responsible.”

“With the auction money?”

“With Nathan’s and our money.”

“But that’s your money. That’s personal. You

haven’t been irresponsible with anyone else’s money. You’re not irresponsible with people’s time.”

“But it doesn’t work that way, and the horrible thing is, I knew it, too. I learned when I was growing up if you goof in your personal life, you’ll suffer in your public life. One mistake and you’re labeled.”

“Only if you let yourself be labeled.”

If only that were the way life worked.

“Taylor, if you have a fault, it’s that you give people too much power. People aren’t that powerful. They can’t hurt you—”

“Yes, they can. They can and they do.”

“Because you let them!” Her voice rises with frustration. “You’ve told yourself that others are more important and more valuable than you—”

“I haven’t.”

“Then why does their opinion matter more to you than your own?”

I don’t have an answer.

“It seems to me that you’ve decided if people have money, they have more power, and clout—”