Mrs. Perfect

Seeing that the girls are settled and happily eating, I gesture to Lucy. “Come on, we better get you in the shower. We need to go in less than an hour.”

We drive to Kate’s, as she’s hosting book-club tonight. Her house, a three-story brick-and-white-columned minimansion, looks as if it should sit on a Mississippi riverbank surrounded by moss-draped oak trees instead of the tiny Clyde Hill cul-de-sac shaded by seventy-year-old cedars, but it is a striking home, stately and upright, just like old-money Kate and her Microsoft millionaire husband, Bill.

For all her sportiness, Kate is the quintessential suburban mom. She hangs seasonal wreaths on her front door. Tonight the living room mantel is covered with orange candles and little Pilgrim and Indian figurines, while a fat fabric turkey sits on the kitchen counter near the Italian pottery cookie jar.

Her kids’ art decorates the fridge, and the gold dish towels hanging on the eight-burner Wolf oven door are heavily embroidered with leaves, pumpkins, and cornucopias.

Kate is bustling around, pulling warm appetizers from the oven and making sure everyone has a glass of wine. The kitchen is huge, with a real used-brick floor and an old stone interior wall. Heavy beams run across the nine-foot ceiling, and copper pots hang in the stove’s recessed alcove. I don’t know if it’s the kitchen’s size or the fact that the living room seems so far removed, but at Kate’s house, we always end up hanging out in her kitchen.

“Red or white?” Kate greets us.

“Red,” I answer, sliding the plate of frosted brownies that the girls and Annika made earlier onto the granite counter. I wasn’t asked to bring anything, but I feel guilty showing up empty-handed.

“Lucy?” Kate asks, holding up a bottle of wine in each hand.

“White, but just a little.”

Lucy’s voice sounds tight, and I glance back at her. She’s still wearing her coat—my coat—and she has that “deer caught in the headlights” look again. I reach over, give her arm a little squeeze. She jerks her head up, meets my gaze, forces a smile.

“You’re okay,” I say, but it’s not a question, it’s a statement. She’s going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay. We’re women, goddammit.

Kate glances from me to her and back to me again. “Can I take your coats, girls?”

“I’ve got it,” I say. “You’re busy enough in here.”

I reenter the kitchen in time to overhear Monica discussing the pros and cons of Bellevue’s athletic clubs. “They call themselves the premier club on the Eastside,” she says bitterly, “but their tennis program is nonexistent and their swim team is hardly better—”

“That’s not true,” Suze interrupts. “Their team is highly ranked. They’ve had swimmers qualify for the junior Olympics.”

“But not Olympic athletes,” Monica counters.

Suze’s eyes widen. Her children swim for the club, and she’s one of the team’s biggest boosters. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Monica.”

“I do, too. Phoenix had outstanding swim teams. Those clubs sent kids to the Olympics—”

“But I’m not interested in my kids swimming in the Olympics. I want my kids to develop skills, get exercise, learn sportsmanship. Studies show that children who participate on swim teams excel academically, particularly in math, language, and music.”

Monica shakes her head and takes a sip from her glass, leaving a big coral lipstick mark on the rim. “You’re thinking of tennis.”

“I’m thinking of swimming.”

Kate looks at me as I reach for my wineglass. I just shrug. This is the world as I know it.

Unfortunately, Monica isn’t about to let the swimming versus tennis thing drop, and after speaking exhaustively on the research she’s read, she launches into an even more detailed critique of the area’s tennis pros and then the playing surfaces before diverting to analyzing the massage techniques of the three best local spas.

Listening to Monica, I remember a story Patti told me. Apparently, when Monica and Doug were moving back here from Phoenix, Monica spent weeks and weeks researching all the Eastside schools. Academic excellence wasn’t enough. Monica also wanted social prominence. Her daughter was two at the time.

I concentrate on drinking my wine. Twenty minutes and an empty glass later, which someone kindly refills, Kate shoos us into the living room to begin the book discussion. She’s lit the pumpkin and bronze candles on the mantel, and the room dances with light.

As everyone settles into chairs, I hear Suze whispering to Jen about a party that took place in Clyde Hill last weekend. Suze attended, and apparently it included some serious wife swapping, something Suze wouldn’t have believed if she hadn’t been there.

“No way,” Monica answers, having overheard the last. “That doesn’t happen here. Absolutely not.”

Suze, still prickly from her earlier conversation with Monica, is adamant. “Absolutely so. I don’t know if Jefferson and I were invited because our hosts thought we were swingers, too, or if it was hoped we’d go along with the fun, but it was more than I could handle. Lots of sex, booze, drugs, and costumes.”

I’m amazed. I’ve never been to a party like that, but then again, Nathan and I are pretty conservative.

Yet thinking about the moms who gather around the Points Country Club pool, I can’t imagine any of them going to wild sex parties. They may be butt tucked, tummy lifted, and lip plumped, but they’re moms and nice women.

Oh God. Nice women don’t swing . . . do they?

“Maybe we should talk about the book,” Kate says, settling on the needlepoint seat of a small antique side chair since everyone else has taken more comfortable seats. “So what would Leslie Bennetts say is the feminine mistake?”

I find it difficult to shift gears. I’m still trying to figure out who would go to sex parties. I don’t even attend the parties where women buy erotic gifts and toys.

“The mistake is thinking a man will take care of you forever,” Lucy answers, returning from the kitchen with another glass of Chardonnay and a handful of rosemary-dusted crackers. She sinks into one of the cushions on the love seat next to me.

“I might as well confess right now, I didn’t read it.” Suze shakes her golden hair back over her shoulder and crosses one slim, perfectly toned thigh over the other. “I didn’t even buy it. I don’t agree with it, and I’m not going to support a book like that.”

“We don’t have to agree with everything we read,” Ellen says, looking at Suze. “But we should at least buy and attempt to read the chosen book.”

Suze lifts a hand, lets her gold bracelets jingle. “I don’t have to read it if the subject matter makes me uncomfortable.”

“Taylor doesn’t always read,” Monica adds, “and no one minds when she doesn’t.”

I look at Monica and open my mouth to make a stinging retort when scripture pops to mind. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?

I close my mouth.

Thankfully, Kate steers the conversation on. “What really struck me in reading this book was the idea that we women might unwittingly be putting ourselves at risk—”

“Not all of us are going to end up widowed young or divorced,” Monica interrupts. “And if we do, we all have a great education and work experience to fall back on. I can return to business anytime.”

“I could practice law again,” Jen admits.

“Do you really think it’s as bad as Leslie Bennetts indicates?” Patti asks, just now finding a seat in the living room. She arrived late and rushed in to drop her coat and get a drink before joining us. “Because I have to say, I was shocked to think there are that many abandoned women in this country, and we’re not talking about women who were always poor, but women in the middle and upper class who are now living below the poverty line.”

“It did make me uncomfortable,” I admit.

“I don’t believe the statistics,” Monica responds. “And if it’s true, then women are suf

fering because they made poor choices—”

“Bennetts isn’t blaming anyone,” I answer, glad I read as much of the book as I did. “Her premise is that women aren’t getting the whole picture. They’re not realizing what’s happening to women in our society, and she wants to alert women to the facts so they can make better decisions.”

“Oh, my God, Taylor!” Monica laughs. “Did you actually read the book this time, or did you get that little insight online?”

“What I found useful in the book,” Lucy says quietly, her voice not entirely steady, “was that maybe it’s time for women to think of themselves as marathoners, not sprinters. We need to expect we’ll have fifteen stressful years juggling children and career, but fifteen years is just a drop in the bucket in a fifty-year career.”

“Fifty-year career?” Suze pretends to faint. “Is that what some women do? Poor things!”

“I liked working,” Ellen retorts. “I never intended to stop, but then I had to go on bed rest with J.D. After he was born, I returned to work. It wasn’t easy. I wanted to be J.D.’s mommy, but I also wanted to be savvy, successful Ellen, the one who brokered big deals and earned outrageous bonuses. I liked that Ellen.” She draws a breath. “I like her a lot better than who I am now.”

“Shame on you.” Monica wags a finger disapprovingly. “Being a great mother is the most important thing you’ll ever do—”