Mrs. Perfect

“How does Monica know that?”

Patti’s eyes are huge. “What do you mean?”

My heart’s drumming hard now, a sickening pace that makes my legs feel weak. “How does she know our move date? I haven’t told anyone.”

“You know, right?”

It’s as though there’s a glacier on my heart, a vast white sheet of ice, and it’s swallowing me whole. “Know what?”

Patti’s eyes water, and she just stares at me.

“Don’t tell me,” I say, reaching for the banister behind me. “Don’t tell me she knows the buyer. Don’t tell me—”

“Monica and Doug bought the house.” Patti’s voice is soft. “She told us all after you left. She’s always loved this house, and when Doug heard it was on the market—apparently one of the brokers talked—they made the offer.”

My legs crumple, and I sit on the bottom step of my curving staircase. Not Marta, but Monica. Monica Tallman, who already has my hairstyle and took over my book club, now has my house.

My house.

My house.

My hands flail, and then I grab the step on either side of my hips, and leaning forward, I open my mouth in a silent scream. I can’t believe it, can’t stand it, can’t see any justice in it.

Patti stands frozen. “I’m sorry, Taylor. I thought you knew.”

I shake my head. “No, but I’m glad to know. It’s better that I know.”

“Taylor, I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to say.”

Patti’s still stricken. “How can I move and leave you like this?”

I can’t have Patti feeling bad. Patti has done nothing wrong. I haul myself to my feet. “I’m going to be fine. We’ll be fine.” But then I groan, “But Monica, of all people! I just wish it wasn’t Monica moving into my house.”

“You and me both.” She looks at me. “What can I do? There must be something I can do to help?”

“How about a hug?” It’s my attempt to lighten things, but Patti takes me at my word.

She hugs me fiercely. “Oh, my God, Taylor. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I squeeze her back. “I’m not dying. No one’s dying.”

She takes a step back but leaves her hands on my arms. “But still. This is . . . this is . . . wow.”

“Yep.” I suddenly laugh. “And you want to know a bigger wow?”

Her nose wrinkles. She’s not sure.

I laugh again. I’m so damn tired, all I can do now is laugh. “I’m going to work for Z Design.” I can see from Patti’s expression that she doesn’t get it. My smile is lopsided. “Marta Zinsser is my new boss.”

“Oh God!”

Giggling, I cover my mouth. “Oh, yes.”

“Get out.”

My hand falls away. “Can you believe it? Monica’s bought my house, and I’m now working for Marta.”

“No, I can’t believe it.” Patti shakes her head. “The world’s coming to an end, isn’t it? People just aren’t telling me.”

I’m laughing again, laughing so hard that I’m leaning against the banister. Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe the world is coming to an end. If so, it’s one hell of an Apocalypse.

I spend Monday through Wednesday afternoon apartment hunting without much luck. There aren’t a lot of older apartments in downtown Bellevue, and the new ones are all luxury towers and outrageously priced, with monthly rents starting at $1,800 for a one-bedroom apartment.

Although I like the idea of secure parking, heated indoor pools, slick workout rooms, and door-to-door dry-cleaning service, I can’t justify spending $2,700 a month on a two- or three-bedroom apartment. That used to be our first house’s mortgage payment.

Wednesday night I sleep badly, incredibly anxious about my first day of work the next morning. When my alarm goes off at six, I get up, shower, wash my hair, and go make coffee. But drinking the coffee’s another matter. I am so nervous.

I dread first days, dread not knowing systems, places, people, things. I dread screwing up and getting things wrong. I dread making mistakes.

With a half hour to myself before I need to get the girls up, I pop in one of my yoga DVDs and go through the thirty-minute routine. It’s good. It actually helps. By the time I’m done, I’m calmer, more focused, more optimistic.

The worst thing that could happen, I tell myself as I head back upstairs to wake the girls, is that I get fired.

And honestly, that would be a blessing, so really, there’s no reason to stress.

As the girls dress in their rooms, I stand in my closet trying to figure out what to wear today. Today is important. Today I want to be professional but comfortable.

I frown as I study the rows of clothes. It’s a huge closet. I know right now that our new place won’t have a closet this big. I won’t have anyplace for all these beautiful things. I need to go through my wardrobe, get rid of half of everything in this closet. Sell them somewhere, maybe a consignment shop.

In the end, I settle on Michael Kors boot-leg black slacks and a slim black turtleneck that I pair with a belted Max Mara jacket in cobalt. The belt, also cobalt, has a big modern square buckle that saves my outfit from being too staid while still bordering on conservative. The last thing I want to be is overly flashy and fancy.

I get the big girls off to catch the bus, and after tidying the downstairs and starting a load of laundry, I take Tori to school. I haven’t told the girls yet I’m starting a new job today, and I’m definitely not interested in sharing that I’ll be working for Eva’s mom. Jemma is feeling vulnerable enough right now. The last thing she needs to do is worry about the pecking order at school.

But maybe Eva will say something?

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. I hadn’t thought of that.

But maybe Marta hasn’t told Eva yet. Maybe Marta is waiting to see how it goes, too.

I relax a little, relinquish my death grip on the wheel, and head back to Yarrow Point. Marta lives just down the street from me, and her office is actually in a converted guesthouse behind her home.

It’s strange to think that I’ll be working at Marta’s house. I feel rather like domestic help as I park on the side of her drive and walk around the back to the guesthouse.

Wouldn’t it be weird if she asked me to do little personal things for her? You know, get her coffee, pick up her dry-cleaning, pick up her daughter from school?

I shudder as I walk, my heels clicking on the stepping-stones that lead from the driveway to the office front door.

Heart thudding, I rap on the glass door. A woman who looks like a mom answers the door. “Come on, come in,” she greets me even as she offers me her hand. “I’m Susan, the office manager. I’m the one you’re replacing.

“Marta’s not here,” she adds, closing the door behind me. “She’s on the East Coast and won’t be back until Monday, so it will be a little quieter around here than normal.”

“I see a lot of desks,” I say, taking in the office. The interior is almost completely open and airy from the walls of w

indows, skylights, and the overhead halogen light. Drafting-style desks line the walls, while a long white conference table fills the room’s center.

“We have five full-time employees, but Marta’s thinking about bringing on a sixth. Business is really growing—which is good—but everyone’s spread a tad thin right now.”

“When does everyone else arrive?” I ask, still clutching my purse and lunch.

“Anytime,” Susan answers brightly. “You’ll soon see that no one here punches a time clock. Everyone has clients and ongoing projects, along with wooing new clients, so there’s a lot of coming and going. I’ll show you around, okay?”

There’s a small kitchen, bathroom, and supply room as well as a sleek computer on every desk.

“You’ll be shadowing me today,” she explains as she walks me through her morning routine. “But don’t worry if you forget something. Z Design is owned by Marta, but it operates as a team. Everyone looks out for everyone.”

We’re at her desk, sitting side by side going through the e-mail, when the door opens and the first of the Z Design team arrives.

There’s Robert, the artist, who can draw and paint anything and who I’m pretty sure is gay. And Allie, a twenty-something whiz with blue eyes, blond spiral curls, and a delicate chin. Melanie arrives last. She’s tall and slim, almost lanky. For some reason, I thought she was southern or Texan until she introduces herself and tells me she’s Canadian. Melanie just finished a presentation and is giddy that it’s over. Apparently Melanie, or “Mel,” as she prefers to be called, replaced someone Marta hired last year to replace some know-it-all named Chris.

I’m still trying to keep all the names and faces straight when Susan tells me it’s lunch and asks if I’ve brought anything or if I was going to go home to eat.

“I brought my lunch,” I say. “I didn’t know if we were allowed to go home to eat.”

Robert and Allie overhear me. Robert leans back in his chair. “You can do anything here,” he says, folding his arms behind his head. “Marta can be a stress case, but it’s always about the product. As long as we deliver, she doesn’t care what we do.”

Allie taps a pencil. “What Robert means is that Marta doesn’t micromanage. Just do your job and she’s happy.”