Marrying Mister Perfect (3 page)

“I’m sorry, Miranda, but there’s a flaw in
your do-it-for-Lou pitch. She wouldn’t want me to do anything that
could harm the kids and plastering their faces on national
television as some kind of bonus prize for the woman who gets me?
There is no fucking way I would ever agree to that and neither
would Lou.”

“She might surprise you on that one. She
already said she’d be down if you were. And when I said we were
short a Mister Perfect she couldn’t stop singing your praises. Why
would she do that if she didn’t want you to go?”

She was watching him, her gaze penetrating.
Jack squirmed.

“You must have misunderstood.”

Miranda shrugged. “Maybe. But Lou watches the
show. She knows we’ve had single parents before and I think you’d
be impressed by how well we handle the children. It’s never about
exploiting them. Exploiting the girls, absolutely. Exploiting you,
on occasion, yes, unfortunately that will be part of the
promotional process. But never the kids. They’re very protected and
we’d make sure you were able to see them frequently. Almost as
often as you see them on a busy week here, most likely—only the
work that takes you away from them will be having fun with
beautiful women rather than poking through blood and gore with a
scalpel.”

“So I just quit my job here? All those years
of medical school were fun and all, but why not just walk away from
saving lives and go play on national television?”

“I’ve already spoken to your head of
surgery—nice guy—and he’s agreed to give you a two month leave of
absence so you can film the show. The publicity of having one of
this hospital’s doctors on national television is going to be good
for charity fundraisers for the next decade. Just think of the
endowments.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t
you?”

“I’m the producer, sweetie. That’s my job.
Any other questions?”

“Why me?”

“Beyond your movie-star good looks and status
as not just a gifted heart surgeon but a doting father?” Miranda
paused, for the first time not plowing over him with words.
“Honestly, for Lou. We may not see one another as often as I’d
like, but she is a friend. One of my oldest and best. And that
means something to me. When I saw her today, I couldn’t help think
of high school and where we all thought we’d be by the time we were
thirty. You were going to be hot shot surgeon—well done. I was
going to be ruling Hollywood—and I’m on my way. And Lou was going
to be in Europe or working for the U.N. or something equally
foreign and exotic. I just hate to think that she’s given up on
that because she’s too nice to walk away from a friend in
need.”

“I never asked her to stay—”

“You didn’t have to.” Miranda leaned back in
her chair. “Do you remember in high school, how she worked all year
bagging groceries at Osco to save up for a trip backpacking across
Europe after graduation? And then in May there was that flood and
she gave almost her entire savings to help the families who had
lost their homes instead of going? And then worked with Habitat for
Humanity all summer rebuilding the houses?”

“You’re saying I’m a house she feels like she
needs to rebuild.”

“I’m saying Lou has always put herself last
and I don’t want my friend to give up on her happily ever after
just because she’s too nice to go after it. So I’ll do what I can
to help her get her Prince Charming.”

“Then why not put
her
on the
show?”

“Because she isn’t a marketing gold mine, hot
stuff. We both know she’s worth twelve of you, but in terms of what
I can sell, you’re the star.”

Jack pictured Lou, her face as familiar to
him as the one he saw in the mirror every morning. Big faded blue
eyes, round, dimpled cheeks, and her hair in its perennial
ponytail. She was too sweet, too trusting to ever survive a reality
dating show.

He, on the other hand…

The idea was appalling. Ridiculous. Out of
the question.

But was Miranda onto something? Had he been
essentially keeping his best friend prisoner in his house, using
her own kind heart against her? He knew Lou loved him—in the same
purely non-sexual way he loved her. She loved his kids as if they
were her own—but was that stopping her from having a family of her
own? From finding the man she was supposed to marry? From running
away to Europe like she’d always dreamed? Was he really hurting
her?

He’d thought they were happy. He’d thought
French Fridays where Lou would speak to the children all day in
French were just an attempt to jump-start their language education,
not a desperate attempt for her to reclaim the life she’d given up
for him.

He knew he could be oblivious—his late wife
had certainly accused him of if often enough—but it was a little
embarrassing to have the truth handed to him by a woman who
trafficked in illusions.

Hell, maybe it was time he started dating.
And encouraged Lou to do the same. But was that enough?

If he was going to date—well, a reality TV
show wasn’t how he would have picked to do it, but it would
certainly make a statement to Lou that he was serious, wouldn’t it?
They were both such creatures of habit it was possible that nothing
else would shake them out of their comfortable rut. He’d been too
happy with her to shake the status quo, but she deserved
better.

“I need to think about this.”

Miranda’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t take too long.
The universe doesn’t hand you an opportunity like this every day.
Pre-taping starts in three weeks.”

“If I say yes.”

The producer just smiled.

Chapter
Three

“Aunt Lou! I was a space pirate today!”

A tiny body smashed into her legs. Lou caught
her with one hand and automatically smoothed back Emma’s dark curls
as she smiled down at the beaming face tipped up to hers. “That’s
awesome, monkey. Now get your backpack and coat, okay? We’re late
to get TJ.” Every street between Mel’s Place and Emma’s preschool
was apparently under construction at the same time and the drive
had taken three times as long as she’d expected.

Emma bounded off to the cubby holes and Lou
waved absently to the mom of one of Emma’s classmates, who was
herding her own chattering four-year-old out the door. Lou had
never really bonded with the other moms, but then she wasn’t really
a
mom
, just a placeholder, so she supposed that made
sense.

“Mrs. Doyle?”

Lou turned toward the sweet, high-pitched
voice of one of the teaching assistants in Emma’s class, not
bothering to correct the misnomer. “Miss Amber, how are you?”

“I’m great. I just wanted to talk to you
about Emma’s day?” The girl managed to make even the most
straightforward statement into a question—and to stretch “day” out
to three syllables.

“Oh?” Lou tried not to cringe. The last time
one of the teachers had pulled her aside when she came for pick-up,
Emma had started a hair salon for the other kids using safety
scissors and Elmer’s glue. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course! You know how we like to encourage
creativity and all varieties of play, but I believe you’re aware of
our strict no violence policy?”

Lou’s gaze flew over to where Emma was
hopping on one foot, jamming the other into her sneaker without
untying it first—an attempt which inevitably led to her tumbling to
the floor in a giggling heap. “Emma was violent?”

Miss Amber pursed her lips, radiating concern
as hard as she could. “We caught her using her finger as weapon.”
It must be a grave offense. It wasn’t even a question.

“Like poking the other children?”

“No…” Miss Amber leaned closer, lowering her
voice and using her body to shield the action as she demonstrated
with her own hand. “She made her hand into the shape of a gun and
made
pchew
noises.”

Space pirates.
Of course they would
have laser guns. Lou fought the urge to laugh—Miss Amber didn’t
look like she considered this a laughing matter. Unfortunately, the
intense depth of concern Miss Amber brought to the finger gun
offense only made the situation more farcical to Lou. She fought to
keep a straight face.

“So she didn’t actually attempt to hurt any
of the other children?”

“She
shot
them.”

“With her imaginary finger laser.”

“Mrs. Doyle. We’re very clear with parents
about the pacifism policy?” The questioning lilt was back.

Lou tried not to snort at the image of Miss
Amber introducing an impartial mediator into Emma’s space pirate
battle. “And you want me to…?”

“Have a word with Emma about appropriate
play?”

Lou bit her tongue on the urge to tell Miss
Amber where she could shove her over-regulated, hyper-structured
definition of appropriate play. The preschool had an amazing
reputation, cost a small fortune, and had a two year waiting list.
If Emma loved it and was already showing off her sums at the dinner
table, Lou could swallow her simmering annoyance at the
micro-managed play.

It wasn’t her place to stick her nose in
anyway. She was only the pseudo-mom.

Emma smacked into her legs again—this time
from the side since she was facing Miss Amber. “I’m ready!” she
declared—shoes on wrong feet, windbreaker inside out.

“Great!” Normally she might make an effort to
get the shoes on the right feet, just so Emma didn’t wreck them
quite so quickly, but today she felt particularly defiant of any
attempts to turn the sweet baby into a perfect Stepford child.
“We’ll definitely talk that over, Miss Amber. Thanks. Say goodbye
to Miss Amber, Em.”

Emma obediently caroled her goodbyes and Lou
hustled her out to the parking lot.

“Is Miss Amber mad?” Emma asked as Lou opened
the car door for her to clamber into her booster seat. TJ had
always been magnificently oblivious to adult overtones, but Emma
missed nothing.

“Not mad, but she didn’t like the space
pirate game.” She reached across Emma with the seatbelt.

“I’ll do it!” Emma screeched in her ear,
grabbing the seatbelt to click herself in.

Lou winced, mourning the loss of her hearing.
“
Volume
, Em. And please and thank you wouldn’t hurt.”

“Thank you,” Emma parroted sweetly as she
secured the seatbelt and dug into her bag for her ride home wheat
thins. Lou had long since given up on having a spotless car, but
she drew the line at anything sticky or gooey. “No more space
pirates?”

Lou climbed in the front and put the car into
gear, grimacing when she saw the time on the dashboard clock. They
might just barely make it to TJ’s school in time but she was going
to be at the back of the carpool line. “Space pirates and other
games with lasers and guns are going to be at home only from now
on.”
Because Miss Amber is a play dictator
.

“Can we bake muffins tonight?”

Lou had to appreciate the attention span of a
four-year-old. “Not tonight, kiddo. The oven’s still on the fritz,
remember?” A casualty of the last time the kids had played
Mythbusters
with an aerosol can duct taped to the oven
rack.

Maybe Miss Amber had a point with her More
Rules approach.

“But Aunt Lou! It’s my snack day tomorrow! I
can’t bring
store
muffins!”

Lou tightened her hands around the steering
wheel and decided, right there in the mile-long turning lane into
TJ’s elementary school, that she hated Emma’s preschool with the
fire of a thousand suns.

Each of the kids at the school was assigned a
snack day once a month when their parents had the
privilege
of providing the afternoon snack for the entire class. Sweet,
non-competitive Emma had never cared about the status differential
between store-bought muffins and home-made until she started going
to that supposedly excellent and progressive preschool. Now she was
ready to throw a tantrum because her snack day would be marred by
food that came wrapped in plastic.

“The oven’s out of commission, Em. We’ll call
Daddy and have him pick up something for your snack day, but it’s
gonna come from the store. That’s just the way it is.”

Emma began to sniffle loudly.

Lou and Jack were going to have a talk about
that school.

Though really, what right did she have to
even bring it up? That question had been taunting her ever since
her lunch with Miranda. What was she doing here? Going through the
motions of being the mom with none of the actual rights of one.
Playing pretend. Only it wasn’t space pirates. It was wife and
mother, and she’d bought into her own game. Bought into the lie she
sold on Facebook with each careful omission.

When the Focus slowly crept to the front of
the line, TJ’s teacher waved and called out, “Hi, Mrs. Doyle!”
releasing him to run over and climb in the back beside Emma.

Mrs. Doyle. Again Lou didn’t bother to
correct the misnomer. Why? Because it was easier to just let them
call her Mrs. Doyle than to clarify that she was actually Ms.
Tanner? The kids both called her Aunt Lou, but there were so many
blended families these days she knew the teachers assumed she was a
step-mom. And she let them think that. Why?

Because she liked being called Mrs. Doyle?
Because she liked believing her own lie?

Facebook illusions of that perfect happy
nuclear family and letting people in the neighborhood and at the
kids’ schools call her Mrs. Doyle… How much of her life had become
a game of pretend? Letting people believe she was the mommy.
Letting people believe she was the wife.

Letting herself believe it.

When exactly had she started buying her own
B.S?

As Lou drove home, TJ grunted his usual
monosyllabic response to her questions about how school was, and
dove into his own bag for his ride home snack—both children acting
like they’d been starved the entire time they were away from her.
Emma’s preschool was only half-day, but she knew half of TJ’s lunch
would still be inside his bag and he would devour it as soon as
they got home. A new wife wouldn’t know that about him. She’d have
to learn all the routines, all the rhythms of the Doyle
household.