Mrs. Perfect

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.”