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 suffering 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—”
“But what if you were a scientist and researching a cure for cancer?” Jen interjects. “Could that possibly be more important than being a stay-at-home mother?”
“That’s different.” Monica sniffs.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Ellen slams her book shut so hard that it thuds. “You’re saying that unless we do something like discover a cure for cancer, we should be home with kids?”
“What if you need the money?” Lucy demands.
“What if you don’t, but you just enjoy working?” Jen retorts.
Kate clears her throat, and when no one seems to be listening, she clears it again. “Let’s get back to the book. We all have opinions on parenting, but we’re not debating motherhood. We’re discussing the book. Does anyone have a chapter or passage that really resonated?”
There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then Jen opens her book to a saved passage.
“What made an impression on me was the chapter about returning to work. I couldn’t go back to work now and get my old job back. I’ve been home too long. And maybe I could get another job, but let’s face it, if forced to hire me or an eager, competitive, fresh-faced twenty-something Ivy Leaguer with no husband and kids, who would they hire?”
“They’d hire you,” Suze answers confidently. “You have real work experience, and life experience—”
“But they don’t want to pay for that experience, particularly if it’s dated.” Ellen makes a face. “Don’t think I like it, but I know it’s true. Businesses are about making money. They make more money when they save money, and the new college grad will be a hell of a lot cheaper than me, and she probably will work harder, too. Let’s face it, I’ll never work fifty, sixty hours a week again.”
“So we’re safe as long as our husbands never die, divorce us, get sick, or lose their jobs.” It’s the first time Raine has contributed to the discussion tonight, and we all look at her. Raine isn’t the most vocal member of our group, and she seems to spend more time wiggling her foot than paying attention, but right now she has all our attention.
“Matthew’s MS has gotten worse,” she adds carefully. “You probably don’t know, but he hasn’t worked in two years. The doctors say he’ll never go back to work again. He was diagnosed at forty-four. He’s forty-seven now. What do we do? I for one pray we can live off his disability for as long as we can.”
Suze is astonished. “This has been going on for years?”
“Matthew didn’t want people to know, but it’s impossible to hide anymore.” Raine’s shoulders shift. “I grew up with a dad who had had polio, and now this. Funny how life is. I thought once I left home I’d never have to deal with a wheelchair again.”
Everyone’s terribly sympathetic. This sort of news just rocks you. If it could happen to Raine, it could happen to anyone . . . or, maybe because it happened to Raine, it won’t happen to you. . . .
“I’m sorry,” Patti says quietly.
“Me too.” Ellen leans forward to touch Raine’s knee. “And know that we’re here for you. If you need any help, or want anything—”
“I’ll be fine.” Raine cuts her off with a quick “I’m totally fine” smile. “We’re fine.”
I look at Raine, so petite and striking in her russet suede coat, a color that plays perfectly off the copper highlights in her long, sexy shag, and I think, I know that tone. I know those words.
I’m fine. We’re fine. Don’t bother yourself. We don’t need anything.
When what we’re actually screaming is
Help me, help me. Oh God, someone help me
.
Why can’t we accept help? Why can’t we ask for help? Why are we afraid of not having it all together?
“Raine, you have to know you’re not alone,” Monica says kindly. “You’d be surprised at the number of husbands not working.” She pauses, and there’s something in her pause that gives me pause.
Slowly Monica turns to look at me. “Lots of husbands are unemployed. Like Nathan. Taylor, he didn’t work this last year . . . did he?”
I hear a strange noise, like a roar of sound, and I think it’s because everyone’s talking—but after a second I realize no one’s talking. They’re silent. The noise is in my head. It’s me silently screaming.
“I wondered why you were selling your house,” Monica continues. “Because it didn’t make sense. It’s a beautiful home, and you always threw the most gorgeous parties. I couldn’t imagine why you’d sell that house unless you and Nathan were divorcing or were in serious financial difficulty—”
“Shut up, Monica.” Lucy has shot to her feet, and she’s standing there, eyes blazing, features pinched with fury.
Monica pales. “What?”
“You heard me. Shut up. Stop talking. Stop saying horrible things. I used to think you just lacked sensitivity, but it’s not that. You
like
being mean. You enjoy making people squirm. Well, I’ve had enough of it. I’ve had enough of you and your rumor mill. Talk about me if you want, but for God’s sake, leave Taylor alone.”
The room’s gone deathly quiet, and all you can hear is the tick-ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the hall.
Monica is the first to speak. “Lucy, what a goose! No one’s making fun of Taylor. It’s okay if Nathan hasn’t worked. And it’s okay if they have to sell their house—”
“No, it’s not.” I’m on my feet, too, and I’m gathering my book and glass of wine to carry to the kitchen. “It’s not fine that we’re selling our house. It’s not fine that Nathan’s now working in Omaha. It’s not fine that my girls are losing the only home they’ve ever known. But that’s life. Shit happens, right?”
I look one by one at Patti and Kate, Ellen, Jen, Suze, and Raine, before staring pointedly at Monica. “And just so you don’t hear this from anyone else, I’m going back to work. I’ll be working full-time, and I’m not ashamed of it. My only regret is that I wasn’t working earlier. I should have never become totally financially dependent. It wasn’t fair to Nathan, and it wasn’t fair to me.”
I can see by Patti’s stunned expression that she had no idea I was going through any of this. Kate doesn’t look as surprised, but that might just be her boarding school stiff upper lip coming through. The others . . . quite frankly, I don’t care what they think. The last few months have peeled my skin off, turned me inside out, and left me bare. It sucks to take such a hard hit, and to have it made public, but that’s how it is.
Gathering my tattered pride, I turn to Lucy. “I think I’m going to go home now.”
She nods quickly. “I’ll go with you.”
“This is silly,” Monica protests. “What are you doing? It’s book club, and we’re discussing your pick, Lucy, this was your book. You can’t leave like this.”
“Yes, I can,” Lucy answers, lifting her purse.
“No.” Monica rises and gestures to the room. “No, you can’t just have a tantrum and walk out. That’s immature. You’re being very immature.”
“Kate, Patti, girls, I’m sorry.” I look around the room. “I’m sorry to ruin tonight’s party, but this isn’t the right place for me. This isn’t fun for me. And now that I think about it, I won’t be coming back—”
“You’re quitting book club?” Monica’s voice rings out sharp and loud.
“Yes.” I hadn’t really thought about it until now, but book club hasn’t been a good place for me. It’s negative and competitive and just makes me miserable. “I like all of you individually, but I don’t enjoy book club—”
“Maybe because you don’t like reading,” Monica answers savagely.
I shake my head. “No. I like to read. I just don’t like discussing the books the way we do. It’s not your fault that I don’t find it fun. But it’s pointless to continue with something I don’t like.”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” Lucy says, rising. She’s smiling, the first smile I’ve seen from her all day. “I’m quitting, too.”
“What?”
Monica practically shrieks.
Lucy shrugs. “I want reading to be fun again. I want to like the books I read. And while you’re all my friends, book club really isn’t that friendly.” She lifts a hand, waves. “Good night, everybody.”
As we walk out the door into the night, Lucy turns to me, slides her arm through mine, and gives it a little squeeze. “That was fun!” Then her expression changes. “Well, the last bit, anyway.” She pauses, squeezes my arm again. “I’m sorry, Taylor, she’s just plain mean. There’s no excuse for her, there really isn’t.”
We walk to my car, and as I press the unlock on the keypad on my key chain, I turn to face Lucy. “But why? Why is she always poking at me? What did I do to her?”
Lucy shrugs helplessly. “Maybe it’s because you make life look so easy.”
Lucy’s asleep in the guest room, and I sit on my bed eating Honey Nut Cheerios straight out of the box.
I
make life look easy?
I
do?
What a joke. That’s the biggest laugh of all.
I munch on another handful of Cheerios. I don’t even know how much I’ve eaten now. A quarter of a box? A half box? All I know is that I can’t stop. I have no desire to stop. I’m going to eat until I pop.
I’ve never found life easy. It’s always been a fight. Push, push, push. Work, work, work. Smile, smile, smile. And I push because I’m afraid. Afraid of everything that’s happened before, everything that could happen again. I work to make sure I won’t be trapped, won’t be lost, won’t be forgotten.
Of course, I don’t let others see my fears. It’d be dangerous. I’d be vulnerable to everyone and everything. As it is, I’m so vulnerable at home.
I love my family. I need my family. I need us together again.
Realizing the Cheerios box is almost empty, I drag myself off the bed, close the box top, and go down the stairs to return the cereal to the kitchen cabinet.
To make sure I don’t eat anything more, I brush my teeth extra long before rinsing with Listerine Whitening.
But in my bed with the lights out, I feel the crunchy crumbs from the Cheerios and my stuffed stomach and am very glad no one can see me now.
The next morning, I call Z Design after Lucy returns to her house. It was nice having Lucy stay over. I enjoyed having company, and I think it was good for her, too.
Just as I planned, my call to Z Design goes to voice mail and I leave a message on their office phone for Susan, asking her to let Marta know I’m interested in the job and would appreciate the opportunity to interview again.
Marta calls me back two hours later. I can hear a child’s voice and TV noise in the background and realize she must be phoning from her house. “I got your message,” she says, her voice crisp, precise, as though we’re back in the conference room at Starbucks. “But I’d like to hear more from you about why you want
this
job.”
My heart takes a nosedive. I’m beat and feel beat up. I honestly don’t know if I have it in me to razzle-dazzle anyone right now. “I need a job,” I answer slowly, “and this position sounds like a good fit for me.”
Marta is silent at the other end of the line.
I struggle on. “I’m also impressed by Z Design and the quality of your company’s work.” Which is the truth. Earlier today I read every brochure, every document, everything I could about Z Design. I even researched Marta. She came from a prominent Laurelhurst family. I didn’t know that. “It helps, too, that your office is close. I’d be able to work and still be close if the kids needed something. That’s always a worry for me.”
“You don’t mind the clerical aspect? Your position is really a support position for the Z Design team.”
“Not at all. If you think about it, my volunteer work is all about supporting the school and the teachers and the PTA. Most of the work is administrative—photocopies, phone calls, e-mails, and mailings.”
“That’s a good point,” she agrees. “So, were you able to take a look at the benefits package? After three months you’d qualify for medical and dental. We’re working on adding vision to the health plan. We don’t have it yet.”
“I saw that. Right now we’re on COBRA, but that will change.” I pause, aware that my throat is closing. “And I should have insurance of my own. Just in case.”
Marta exhales. “So. Any questions for me? Anything else you want to know?”
I actually don’t have any questions. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’m too overwhelmed. I’m talking about a job, a job with set hours and a detailed job description. A job where I must answer to someone and meet expectations.
I’ve liked my independence.
I’ve liked setting my own hours.
I’ve liked being my own boss.
“No.” I close my eyes briefly, force myself to look forward, not back. “I just . . . appreciate . . . your time, and I know I could be an asset to your company.”
Silence stretches over the phone line. It’s almost as though I can feel Marta digesting and processing what I’ve said. Would Taylor be a good employee? Would Taylor get along with everyone? Would Taylor contribute to the bottom line?
I’m suddenly desperate to fill the silence, to blurt out something stupid, tell her that although we’re not friends, I can suck it up and behave like a professional. I want to reassure her I’m not the diva she thinks I am and, at the very least, confess that if I have issues with her, they’re my issues, not hers. But I don’t say any of that. I’ve already told her I want the job, and I don’t want to be perceived as groveling.
“Taylor, I know we talked about a late November start date, but Susan’s getting pressure to begin her new job sooner. If I hired you, when could you start?”
“Monday.” Then I remember yard duty, lunch duty, reading, office help. “As long as I could sneak away now and then to fulfill my obligations at Points Elementary. I intend to cut back on the hours I volunteer, but I can’t drop everything. I’m the auction chair—”
“I know.” She sounds almost kind. “And I wouldn’t expect you to drop everything. You might need to cut back on some of the volunteer hours to protect your sanity, but otherwise, I support volunteer work. Susan’s pretty involved at Points, too.”
We both fall silent. Then I realize what we’ve just been discussing.
“Are you hiring me?” I ask.
“I think I am.”
“Really?”
She laughs, a deep, throaty sound that matches her crazy camouflage pants and combat boots. “Do you want it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Consider it yours. What if you take the first few days of the week to sort things out at your end, and we’ll look forward to seeing you here Thursday morning at nine?”
“How’s nine-fifteen?” I counter nervously. “Tori’s preschool doesn’t start until nine, and it’ll take me a few minutes to get to your office after. . . .”
“That’s fine. The kids come first.”
My eyes suddenly burn. “Thank you.”
“See you Thursday.”
“Yes, thank you again.”
“Take care of yourself, Taylor.”
I hang up quickly before she knows she’s undone me completely. I’ve been anti–Marta Zinsser so long that I don’t know what to feel now that I can’t be anti-Marta anymore.
Humble? Grateful?
All of the above?
I’m no sooner off the phone than the doorbell rings. I go to the door to find Patti standing there.
“Hey.” She smiles uncertainly and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can I come in?”
In all the years we’ve been friends, she’s never asked permission to come into my house before.
“Of course.” I open the door wider, gesture for her to come inside. “How’s it going?”
“Good.”
I shut the door, turn to face her. She’s wearing a trench coat, but she doesn’t bother to undo any of the buttons. “Want some tea? I could make a fresh pot of coffee?”
“No. I’m good.” She frowns, her dark arched eyebrows wrinkling. “Taylor—” She breaks off, and her frown deepens.
I wait as she struggles to find the right words.
“I’m hurt,” she says in a rush. “I’m hurt that you didn’t come to me, tell me any of this. Don’s hurt, too. Nathan never said a word, and he and Don go back over twenty years. We thought you were our friends, our best friends—”
“Nathan’s filed for a separation.” I don’t mean to cut her short, but at the same time I can’t bear to be lectured to right now. Maybe it’s not a lecture. Maybe it’s a scolding. But I’m so raw at the moment, so raw that I can’t handle another rebuke or criticism. “We’re not just having marital problems, either. We’re broke. Beyond broke. We’ve lost everything. Including the house.” I gulp for air, pray I won’t break down and cry. “I didn’t tell you because I . . . I . . .”
Her expression is so bewildered that I want to hug her, tell her it’s okay.
“Patti, I didn’t know how to tell you. I wanted to tell you. But I didn’t know how to say it.” My eyes are watering, and I chew relentlessly on the inside of my lip. “I was afraid if I said these things out loud, they’d be true.”
“I can’t believe it,” she answers, her hazel eyes searching my face. She looks so young all of a sudden. Sixteen, seventeen. “You and Nathan are the perfect couple. You two are still so in love.”
I thought so.
“Maybe he just needs time,” she adds earnestly. “Maybe he just needs space.”
I nod, shrug. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“So what are you going to do in the meantime? Monica says you have to be out by November twenty-ninth—”
“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.