by Jane Porter
Chapter Sixteen
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. Inc
luding 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.
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.”