Mrs. Perfect

“Right.”

I eye the small bay shrimp clinging to my fork. I dread even bringing this up. It upsets me so much every time I think about it. “We do have a small glitch.”

Patti’s brows furrow. “How small?”

I take a deep breath. “Enatai is using our theme for their auction, too.”

“What?”

The women at the table next to us glance our way, and Patti drops her voice and leans toward me to whisper furiously, “We had our theme set for over a year. Since before last year’s auction. They didn’t even have a theme till this summer!”

“They claim they didn’t know.”

“Bullshit.” Patti tosses down her napkin. “We should talk to them—”

“I’ve tried. They’ve already printed their save the date cards.”

“So?”

The waitress stops to refill our iced tea, and I reach for a packet of sweetener, tear off the corner, and sprinkle some into my glass, waiting to continue until she leaves. “I’ve taken this all the way to their school principal and got my hand slapped by our principal. We’ve been told to gracefully accept defeat and come up with a new theme. Fast.”

“Unbelievable,” Patti groans.

“I know.”

“So when are we going to tell everyone?”

“Soon. We have to print our own save the date cards in a month’s time.”

“We’ll discuss this at the meeting next week.”

“Where are we going to meet?”

“Let’s do it at your house.” Patti pushes away her plate, her salad virtually untouched. “It’s perfect for entertaining, and it’s always a thrill for the new moms to go there. You earn instant rock star status, and the new moms feel like princesses.”

The bill arrives, and Patti and I both pull out our wallets. I snatch the bill away. “I’ve got it,” I say. “It’s my turn.”

“You always say that,” she answers with a laugh.

“I want to treat you.”

“But you don’t need to treat me. It’s fun just seeing you. You don’t have to pay for everything.”

I slide my card into the black leather folder and hand it to the waitress. “I don’t.”

As the waitress walks away, we talk about the kids’ fall sports schedule. My two older girls both play soccer. Patti has three kids, two boys with a girl in the middle. Her oldest son is an amazing athlete, plays quarterback and wide receiver for the Bellevue Wolverine program, while her younger son is playing football for the first time this year.

I prop my elbows on the table. “Ray’s only six. Isn’t that too young?”

“They don’t do a lot of hitting at this age. Mostly drills, running, teaching them fundamentals.”

“And he likes it?”

“Hell week was rough, but he’s doing better. They’ve had two games already and won both. The coach says Ray’s another natural, just like his big brother.”

“Mrs. Young,” the waitress interrupts, reappearing at our table with the black leather folder, “I’m afraid there’s a problem with your card. It was declined.”

I stiffen, mortified. “That’s impossible.” My voice rises as heat surges to my cheeks. “There’s nothing wrong with this card. I use it all the time.”

She shifts her weight uncomfortably. “We can take another form of payment. Rondi’s here, and she says a check is fine, another credit card—”

“I’ve got it,” Patti says. “Here.” She hands the waitress her card, a black Platinum card.

The waitress hurries away and, utterly humiliated, I look at Patti. “This is ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with this card. This is my signature card. It’s the card I use for everything. It has a fifty-thousand-dollar limit and there’s no problem with it. There’s never been a problem with it.”

“It’s probably just early fraud prevention warning,” she answers soothingly. “It happens to me all the time.”

“It’s embarrassing,” I mumble, my face burning.

Patti puts a hand on my arm, squeezes. “It happens to everyone. Don’t take it to heart.”

I glance up at her, grateful, but duck my head as soon as I see the waitress return. I just want to escape and call the credit card company. I’d call here and prove to everyone my credit is fine, but it’s too personal. The last thing I want is for anyone to know I had a card declined.

Lunch paid for, Patti and I exit together. We say good-bye on the street, and as Patti walks one way, I go the other, heading for the parking lot near the park my children used to call “the castle park” because of the castlelike play structure in one corner. As I walk, I dial my credit card company’s toll-free customer number.

I tersely explain my situation to the credit card’s rep once he’s on the line. “I was just now turned down for a forty-eight-dollar purchase, and I want to know why.”

“I need to first establish whom I’m speaking with. May I have the last four digits of your Social Security number?”

Suppressing my impatience, I rattle off the numbers.

“And your date of birth?”

I don’t want to lose my temper, I really don’t, but I’m growing hotter and angrier by the second. But I give that information, too.

“And your mother’s maiden name?” he continues.

I’m so embarrassed, just so embarrassed. “Meshinsky. M-e-s-h-i-n-s-k-y.”

“Yes, Mrs. Young, how can I help you?”

At last. I feel a margin of relief. “I was just declined for a small purchase, and I want to know why, and then I want this sorted out—”

“Mrs. Young, your account is over its limit.”

A wave of heat hits me. “Over limit?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I grow warmer still. “How?” I choke, knowing Nathan never, ever missed a payment—for anything. He’s timeliness personified, something I’ve faulted him for when it came to social events (I hate being the first to arrive for anything) but value when it comes to our finances.

“You’re nearly eight thousand dollars over your limit and you’re two months behind on payments. Your card has been frozen, ma’am.”

Chapter Six

Standing next to my car in the parking lot adjacent to Bellevue’s downtown park, I hit speed dial 2 for Nathan. I’m immediately dumped into his voice mail, and I leave him a hasty, panicked message. “My Platinum Visa was declined today at 520 Bar and Grill. In front of Patti Wickham. Rondi was there, too. Apparently the waitress said I could write a check, but it was mortifying. Patti paid for lunch, but I was supposed to be treating. Call me.”

I hang up. My heart’s still racing. My blue mood returns, weighing heavy on me.

Why do I always feel like I’m one step from disaster?

Still standing there, I check my messages, and while listening to the second one, I spot Lucy Wellsley driving by on 1st Street. She looks so little inside her big black Suburban, her light blond hair almost white against the glossy black exterior. She’s wearing sunglasses so I can’t see her eyes, but her lips are pressed down, her mouth small and tight.

Impulsively, I go through my contacts and dial Lucy’s cell number.

“Hey, it’s Taylor,” I say when she answers. “I just saw you drive by.”

“Where are you, the park?”

“The park’s parking lot. What are you doing? I wondered if you wanted to grab coffee or an ice tea.”

“Oh, Taylor, that’s so nice of you, but I’m supposed to meet with my attorney this afternoon and I’m already late. I’m lost and can’t seem to find his office.”

“Is he a good lawyer?”

“I hope so.” She draws a shaky breath. “I can’t lose my kids.”