Mrs. Perfect

I pull the gym bag strap tighter on my shoulder. “The rest of our money.”

He pauses for a split second before answering. “There is none.”

“But our savings?”

“We’ve never had a formal savings account. We’ve had stocks, real estate, investments.”

“So we do have something more.”

“I’ve liquidated what I could. The rest is gone.”

I look at him, trying to process this but failing. Nathan’s rich. He comes from money. He made good money. What is he saying? That we have no money? That we’re . . . broke? “Our house must count for something.”

“No.”

His flat, hard answer leaves me stunned. “Nathan, it’s a five-million-dollar house—”

“Mortgaged to the hilt. We can’t get any more money out of it. Not without selling it.”

I laugh. “Sell the house?”

He just looks at me, deep lines etched at his eyes and mouth.

I abruptly stop laughing. “Is that the real reason we’re moving? Because we’re broke and might have to sell the house?”

He doesn’t answer, and I feel a terrible lump fill my throat. It grows and grows and presses down so that I want to gag. Gag and throw up.

I’ve been through this before. I lived this as a kid. I refuse to live this now.

But Nathan isn’t my dad. I’m not my mom. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening again.

“You’ll get another job here, a great job,” I tell him low and clearly. “But until then, we’ll cut back. We’ll cut back on whatever we can—”

“It’s too late for that,” he says. “It’s . . . unfixable.”

Tori wanders into our room, her thumb popped in her mouth, her eyes wide and a frightened blue. I haven’t seen her suck her thumb in at least a year. It means she’s heard us arguing and she’s nervous. Scared. That makes two of us, baby.

I scoop her into my arms. “Let’s go to school,” I say with false cheer, and step around Nathan without looking at him.

I try my best to focus on the exercises and lengthening and breathing during the Pilates class, but my mind races and I keep turning the same thought over and over in my head. What does unfixable mean?

Nathan said the situation is unfixable, but I don’t understand what unfixable is. I don’t accept unfixable. I believe things can be fixed. I believe. I believe.

It’s not until I’ve showered and dressed and am leaving the club that I check my BlackBerry calendar and remember I’m hosting the auction meeting at my house tonight.

Nathan’s going to have a fit.

Wearily, I call him to give him fair warning. He’s definitely not happy. “Can’t you at least wait until I’m gone?”

“The date’s set, Nathan. Everyone’s made arrangements for child care. I can’t change it now.”

“Why is the auction so much more important than your family?”

Stung, I fall silent. My mouth opens and closes before I manage to find my voice. “How dare you say such a thing? I only volunteered to chair the auction to help the girls—”

“Oh, please, Taylor. You can fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me. The auction is nothing but a huge ego booster and we both know it.”

My eyes feel gritty. A lump fills my throat. “How long have you hated me?”

“I don’t hate you, Taylor, but I know you and I know your games.”

Games? What games? “I have to go,” I say thickly. “I’m supposed to be helping in the computer lab.”

“Of course. Taylor Young, queen of everything.”

I’m shocked at his bitterness. I’ve never heard him speak to me like this. How long has he felt this way?

Shaken, I stop by Starbucks on my way to school and get my usual latte, but instead of passing on the sweets, I buy a pumpkin scone with the maple glaze. I scarf down the scone sitting in my car. I eat as fast as I can, eat until every crumb is gone. And then I pound the steering wheel.

I hate myself.

I hate myself.

I hate what’s happening all around me. But I feel so helpless. I want to fix this. I want to make things better. But moving to Omaha isn’t the answer. It can’t be the answer. This is home. This is where we live. We have to find a solution here.

Nathan takes the girls out to a movie while I host the auction meeting. He doesn’t say good-bye when he leaves. Brooke and Tori give me a kiss. Jemma shouts from the doorway that she loves me. Thank God. I couldn’t bear it if the girls turned on me, too.

The meeting is set for seven p.m., and everyone arrives promptly. I’ve opened bottles of good Chardonnay and Merlot, believing that a fund-raising meeting is so much more civilized with a great glass of wine.

We spend ten minutes socializing before I call the meeting to order. “As you know from my e-mail, we need to come up with a new theme, as Enatai took ours. Patti and I met last week to brainstorm ideas, and I sent you all our top three. Can I have some feedback on the new suggested themes?”

“I’m not crazy about any of them,” Louisa says candidly, “but of the three, my favorite is the Côte d’Azur.”

“Do you really think the Côte d’Azur is a good theme?” asks Carla, leaning back in her chair, her pen pressed to her chin. “Will everyone get the whole South of France thing?”

“Everyone knows about Cannes,” I answer firmly. “The film festival is renowned. We can decorate with palm trees and white tents and red carpets, really working the glamour of the film industry. Big spotlights, select live auction destinations blown up and framed like movie posters.”

“Or we track down vintage travel posters depicting some of our destinations like Greece, Paris, Sun Valley,” Patti adds. “Honestly, I think it would be fun and glitzy, kind of a holiday party in the middle of March.”

A debate ensues and then turns heated, as it often does. So many of us are strong women and opinionated. Give us all leadership roles and there’s bound

to be conflict.

Patti eventually calls for a break. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some more wine,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.

She takes my arm as we all rise and head for the dining room, where wine and appetizers wait. “Are you okay, Taylor?”

I nod briskly. “Of course. Why?”

“You don’t seem like yourself. You’re sure everything’s all right?”

My chest squeezes tight, and I fight the most ridiculous urge to burst into tears. I would love to confide in her, but I can’t. This isn’t something I can talk about, isn’t something that can be shared. “I’m fine. Just concerned about the auction.”

“Don’t be concerned. We’ll do the Côte d’Azur theme, everyone will have a ball, and we’ll raise buckets of money, okay?”

I struggle to smile. “Okay.”

Patti offers to top up my wine, but I cover my goblet. One glass is enough. I have to be careful about drinking. It’s not just the calories. If I drink too much in one week I sometimes feel more blue, and I have enough trouble not being sad as it is.

The others aren’t holding back, though. The two bottles are nearly empty, and I go to the kitchen to retrieve a third. As I return to the dining room, I overhear part of a conversation taking place between Patti and Barb, one of the new first-grade moms.

“There’s definitely a mystique about Sun Valley,” Patti says with a laugh. “Maybe it’s because there are four distinct groups that gather in Sun Valley at Christmastime. The locals, the Seattle people, the L.A. people, and the celebrities.”

“Celebrities?” Barb asks curiously.

Patti glances at me before answering. “Well, you don’t talk to the celebrities—that’s a definite no-no—but they all go during the winter holidays. Bruce Springsteen, John Kerry, Bruce Willis, Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher.” Patti glances at me again. “Who am I forgetting?”

This should be easy—I’ve been going to Sun Valley for the past ten years. But I can’t think of anyone. My brain doesn’t seem to be working. I frown hard, concentrating, trying to picture faces I’ve seen the last few years. “Um, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver last year, and oh, Clint Eastwood and Robin Williams, too.”