Mrs. Perfect

The negative is that tomorrow I will still be Marta Zinsser’s secretary.

But I’m focusing on the positives as I drive away at five-fifteen: that I don’t have to go back until tomorrow, and I’ve also got the opportunity to go see the rental house on Susan’s street.

After lunch, Susan tracked down the man who owns the house, and after he and I talked for a few minutes, he invited me to come see the house on my way home from work.

The squat brick rental house is just as forlorn on the inside as it is on the outside, but there are three bedrooms and two working bathrooms and a nice fireplace in the living room, which makes me think we could have Christmas here. I don’t know why I always look at a house and try to imagine it at Christmas. Where would the tree go, and how could we hang the girls’ velvet stockings?

“I understand you want to rent for a year,” I say, returning to the kitchen, where he’s leaning against a counter waiting for me. The kitchen must once have been pale yellow, but it is now more putty gray.

“Six months to a year,” he agrees.

I cross my arms, thinking. School will be out in six months. The girls and I could move to join Nathan as soon as school ends. If Nathan lets us.

“Could we do a six-month lease, with maybe the option to renew for another six months?”

The owner, a man in his fifties, looks at me. “That would probably work. Are you building a house, too?”

We have a house. A big beautiful dream house, just like the Barbie dream house I had when I was a little girl. Three stories and lots of rooms.

I shake my head. “My husband is working for a new company. There’s talk that we might need to move this summer.”

“Six months would be fine, then. Just let me know a month in advance if you won’t renew the lease.”

I nod.

“The house is available now. I just need first and last month’s rent, with a five-hundred-dollar cleaning deposit, and you could start moving in anytime. I wouldn’t charge any extra if you moved in before the first of the month.”

Which is helpful, but doing the math in my head, I realize I’d need $4,100 to move in. I don’t have that. “Is the cleaning fee really necessary? I understand you’ll be tearing the house down . . . ?”

“Yes, but if I have to rent it out after you, it’ll have to be clean, and you’d be surprised at how most people leave a rental house.”

I want to tell him I’m not like that, that I’d never trash a place and leave it, but he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know that for the past twelve years I’ve been the ideal wife and mom, cleaning, organizing, making things beautiful and comfortable for my family.

I glance over my shoulder toward the small dining room, which opens onto the living room. Our dining room table will never fit in the dining room here. Our living room couch would take up the entire living room. None of our furniture will fit here. The scale is all off. Our furniture is oversize and grand. Big pieces that make a statement: This is who we are. This is what we have. . . .

Our furniture will have to go, too.

I ball my hands, try not to think of what we’re losing. It doesn’t help to focus on the loss. It’s the future I’m concerned with. “If I give you a deposit, would it be possible for you to hold the house for me? I’ll need a little time to get the money together—”

“Is money a problem?” he interrupts nervously. “Not to be rude, but I don’t want to get into a situation where people can’t make their payments. I don’t like evicting people. It’s no fun being the bad guy.”

“I understand.” I ball my hands tighter against my rib cage. “Money’s not a problem. It’s just that my husband’s on the road right now, and I’ll need him to send you a check.” I hate lying, but I’m not about to admit that I can’t come up with $5,000, and I want this house. We need this house. It’s close to school, close to downtown Bellevue, and close to where I work.

“It’s such a great house for the little girls,” I add before he can refuse me. “They’ll be able to walk to school, and they already have friends on the street. It’ll be such a happy place for them.”

He takes a deep breath and exhales noisily. He doesn’t like being put in this position, but I don’t like it, either. I don’t like begging. I don’t like pleading. I don’t like needing handouts and favors from anyone.

“Fine,” he says, burying his hands deep in his trouser pockets. “You could have a couple days. But if I don’t have the check by Monday for first, last, and cleaning deposit, I won’t hold it any longer.”

“Thank you.” I beam at him, giving him my full megawatt smile. “That’s great. Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. You’ll have that check soon. I promise.”

Driving home, I vow I’ll get the money we need for that house. I’ve got four days to come up with $4,000. I know what’s sitting in my checking account, but I don’t dare use any of it since I have to pay Annika’s salary tomorrow, as well as groceries and the normal household bills like water and electricity, garbage and phone.

We could have another yard sale. This time we could put more out front, drag furniture outside, along with much of my closet. But I cringe at the idea of selling our furniture out from beneath us.

It seems nasty and desperate.

But I am desperate. And my once enormous pride is quickly becoming a thing of the past. Everything right now revolves around cash. Getting it, making it, conserving it.

I let the gardener go last week. He won’t be back, but I still owe him a check. I tried to let the cleaning lady go, too, but she was furious and said I must give her two weeks’ notice, so she’s coming another two weeks and then not again.

So I need $4,000 to get us into a new house. Four thousand is the difference between being on the streets and settled somewhere close for the next six months.

Pulling into the garage, I realize the kind of sale I’m talking about isn’t a yard sale but an estate sale, one of those where you hire a company to come in and empty your house.

At least 10 percent of everything would go to the liquidation company—something I hate to see happen—but wouldn’t that be better than trying to move it, or store it, or sell pieces off one by one ourselves?

Or maybe we do sell it ourselves, but not piece by piece.

Maybe—and I start smiling—maybe there’s someone who loves my good taste so much, she’s willing to buy not just my house, but my furniture and lifestyle.

I turn off the ignition and sit in the garage, headlights illuminating the drywall.

Why not? The furniture was designed for this house. Every Kreiss table, every Lee Jofa upholstered couch, every Brunschwig & Fils covered chair, was bought for a special place for a certain room for just this house.

Shouldn’t the furniture and glory stay with the house?

I reach for my cell phone, call Patti. She answers immediately, even though I can tell she’s in the middle of feeding her brood. “I was just thinking about you,” Patti says, raising her voice to be heard over the din in the background. “How are you? How’s your week?

”

“Fine, you know, as fine as can be.” I hesitate, anticipate my request, and hate that I’m actually grinning. “Patti, I have a favor to ask. I don’t know if it’s some-thing you could do or not, or if it’d make you uncomfortable.”

“Of course. Anything.” Patti must be walking into a different room because it’s suddenly quiet on the other end of the line. “Tell me.”

“I’ve decided to sell almost everything in the house—”

“Taylor, no!”

“No,” I stop her, “this is a good thing. It’d actually be less painful for me to sell everything in one fell swoop than try to figure out how to save this or that. When we move we’re better off starting fresh. We’ll take the girls’ things, of course, and maybe the furniture from my room and a few pieces from the family room for the new house, but otherwise, I’m going to sell it all.”

“So what can I do?”

“Let Monica know.”

Patti’s silent a moment. “But won’t she just gloat?”

“Not if she thinks she can’t have it.” I pause. “That’s why I need your help. If you can just drop it into a conversation somehow, that some big New York interior designer is desperate to buy up everything for a house he’s furnishing for a client in Portland—”

“Taylor!” Patti’s choking on laughter. “Monica will hate it. She’ll die. She’ll want to buy everything herself.”

My lopsided smile grows. “Exactly.” I open my car door, slide out one leg. “It’s a shame everything’s going so quickly, too. The designer will be here next Wednesday. He’s paying cash. Twenty grand.”

“My God, Taylor, you’re wicked.” She’s still spluttering with laughter. “And brilliant, and dammit, I’m proud of you. You know she’ll buy it all.”

I slide out of the car and close the door behind me. “Cash,” I say delicately. “Twenty-two thousand.”

“Twenty-five, for the pain and humiliation of being stabbed in the back, and you can thank me when you put the check in the bank.”

Friday morning before I leave for work, the idea that I have a job still achingly new, I shoot Nathan an e-mail, tell him I’ve found a house for us for the next six months to a year. I tell him I have a job, too, and everything’s great and not to worry. The girls are doing great. We’re all doing great. And I know his new job will eventually be great, too.