Mrs. Perfect

“Thank you for coming,” I say stiltedly as I rise.

“Thank you for having me,” she answers just as stiltedly.

I stand at the door as she drives away and then slowly head into the kitchen, where Nathan’s tackling the dishes.

“She seemed like she had fun,” he says, scraping the appetizer plate and putting it in the dishwasher.

He has no clue. And I can’t bear to clue him in.

I met Lucy seven years ago at First Pres’s preschool Christmas pageant. We’d both been pregnant, and we both had a four-year-old wise man—in my case, my daughter Jemma—bearing gifts for the infant king.

“The kids did have a good time, didn’t they?” I answer, dumping what’s left of my wine into the sink. “So tomorrow what are our plans?” I ask, changing the subject. “Are we still going boating with the Prices, and if not, can we sneak away to Vashon?”

Nathan picks up his glass and takes a drink. “I’d like to play a round of golf. Don made us a ten a.m. tee time.”

“We’re not going to do anything as a family?”

“We do things as a family all the time.”

I press my lips disapprovingly.

“Take the girls to the pool,” he says. “Or down to the beach. You know how much Tori loves it.”

“I also know there’s something in the lake water that gives Jemma hives, so no.” I give him a dark look. “We should have gone to Vashon for the weekend. Anything but stay here. I need to get away.”

“Honey, you’re never home. You’re either at the Bellevue Club or the Seattle Tennis Club—”

“You like me working out! You want me in great shape. You’ve said so yourself.”

He sighs, exhaling slowly. “Can I just play golf, Taylor? Can I please do this without fighting? I don’t ask a lot. I really don’t.”

“Go. This isn’t jail. You’re not my prisoner.” Then, realizing things are just too tense, I go to him, wrap my arms around him, and kiss him on the lips. “You’re not my prisoner. Yet.” And smiling, I kiss him again.

Tension broken, Nathan kisses my forehead. “You and the girls go have fun tomorrow. Have a girls’ day. Hit your Asian nail place and have manicures, pedicures, and lunch. The girls love that.”

Nathan sees the light in my eyes. “But no shopping,” he adds. “The girls have enough. Deal?”

“One outfit?”

“Taylor.”

“A cheapie outfit?”

“Baby, you wouldn’t know cheapie if it hit you between the eyes.”

I grin. “You like my good taste.”

“I like being able to pay the bills, too.”

I reach for him, wrap my arms around his lean waist. “Fine. Cheapie nails and cheapie outfit.” My hands slide down to his still amazing butt. “How about we leave the dishes until morning?”

An eyebrow quirks. “You’re not too tired?”

“Not if you turn off the water right now.”

“What about the kids?”

“That’s never stopped us before.”

Making love with Nathan is as good now as it was sixteen years ago when we slept together for the first time. Nathan was always good in bed. He was a USC quarterback after all, and he’d dated a lot of women before he ever met me. Although I wasn’t crazy about all the women chasing him, I secretly liked that he was experienced. He knew how to please me. He’s always pleased me. Sometimes I worry that I enjoy sex more than I should. I know a lot of my friends don’t have sex with their husbands anymore. Lucy being a case in point.

“Are you awake?” Nathan asks, running his hand down my back.

“Mmmm,” I answer sleepily, shifting in his arms, putting a little more space between our warm, sticky bodies. I love making love. I’m just not as good at cuddling afterward. It’s hard for me to sleep when Nathan holds me too close.

He’s still stroking my back. “We need to talk.”

I open my eyes, stare at the bedroom wall and the window with the taupe shades drawn against the night. “About what?” I ask, immediately wondering again if it was Nathan Lucy was sleeping with.

“Our finances.”

A wave of relief rushes over me, and I almost laugh. “What about our finances?”

“We’re spending too much money.” He’s found the small hollows in my lower back, and he traces them lightly over and over. “We’re living way above our means.”

My relief is replaced by a sharp twinge of guilt. He’s seen my credit card statements, then. I was hoping to hide them for another week or so. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“We’re killing ourselves, Taylor.”

My guilt deepens, the twinge turning to a flood of shame. I’ve had trouble with spending for years. I’m compulsive about it. I buy too much and then hide the bags in my closet, vowing to return everything, and sometimes I do and other times I just go buy some more. I don’t even like half the stuff I buy. “I’ll stop. I promise.”

He doesn’t say anything, and my insides churn. Nathan knows me better than anyone. Nathan knows the truth. I might look great on the outside, but on the inside I’m a disaster. Obsessive-compulsive, control freak. I shop too much. Eat too much. Wor

k too much. Work out too much. “Nathan,” I whisper.

I can feel his shrug.

“Nathan, what’s wrong?”

He takes a long time to answer. Finally: “I’m worried.”

“About what?” I ask in a small voice.

His hand stills on my back. “Everything.”

“You’re just tired, Nathan. You’re working too hard. This is why I wanted to get away. You need a break. You deserve a vacation.” But even as I talk, I can feel him pulling away, physically, emotionally. After a bit I run out of words, and I lie next to him in the dark, wondering why I can’t comfort him. Wondering what’s happening to us.

“I have full confidence in you,” I say after a moment, trying again. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

He says nothing.

I nestle closer, curve my body around his, and hold him as tightly as I can. “It is, Nathan.”

Several minutes pass, and he doesn’t relax. Finally, he rolls away from me to climb from bed. I watch as he walks to the window, where he lifts one blind. The pale moonlight illuminates his broad shoulders and lean, naked torso. I usually love the sight of him naked, but tonight it fills me with fear. What if I lose him?

“What are you doing?” I ask as he steps into a pair of boxers.

“I’m going downstairs.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“What will you do?”

“Read. Work.”

I sit higher up in bed. “It’s almost one-thirty.”

“I know, but I won’t be able to sleep.” Then he leaves.

Chapter Three

After Nathan goes downstairs, I lie in bed and practice breathing, the way I learned in yoga. But it’s hard to calm myself. My chest squeezes tight. I’m worried, too. Nathan’s different. He’s changing. We’re changing.

Breathe, I tell myself. Just concentrate on your breathing.

But even as I breathe in and out, I feel the panic build inside of me. I’m too damn busy lately. I’m juggling too many balls. I shouldn’t have agreed to co-chair the school auction this year. I barely got through last year in one piece, and last year I was only the silent auction procurer chair.