“Thank you,” she squeaked.
I was afraid that if I answered I’d start sobbing, so I mouthed, “You’re welcome,” before leaning back into my seat.
The rest of the flight was a quiet one. After we landed and people began collecting their things, I noticed that the older man sheepishly allowed the mom to collect her belongings without a hint of impatience. Our eyes met again before I exited the plane, and her beaming face said it all.
11 A.M.
There I stood, in the foyer of Emily Walker’s beautiful wine-country home (yes, wine-country home). I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Was this really happening? We were surrounded by row after row of gorgeous vineyards, heavy with the small purple grapes that made my evenings so delicious.
Was I really standing in one of Emily Walker’s mansions? I could barely take it all in. The white and gray tiled floor sparkled in the California sunlight that poured in through the long vertical windows. Ahead of me were two staircases that met halfway from the top to become one—it looked like the kind of staircase a princess walks down to enter a ball. One of Emily’s assistants, Anna, a short brunette with a classic bob and enormous glasses, had already had one of the many men and women I’d seen scurrying about in white sport jackets and black pants take my bags to my room. A room that I’d yet to see.
“Someone will escort you to your room in just a minute! First, you must be hungry from your long journey,” Anna said, before disappearing down a long hallway. Ten minutes later she reappeared holding a clipboard and with a Bluetooth device in her ear, and led me down the same hallway and through three doors. I tried to remember which way we turned and what the rooms we passed through looked like, as if I were some kind of blindfolded hostage being taken away by car. I’d practically need GPS in this house!
Finally, she flung a set of double doors open to reveal a party in progress. I stared, gawking at round tables set with full flatware and centerpieces as if it were a wedding. Glittery lights twinkled in the multiple chandeliers. Women crowded the room—the women! I instantly recognized many of them from the bootcamp video conferences. Only one thing was wrong: they were all dressed to the nines. Every last woman had donned cute skirt and sweater combinations, pastel pumps, A-line dresses and dangly earrings. I stood, self-conscious, at the entrance next to Anna.
I leaned over, “Anna, is there any way I can change—” I gestured down at my black saggy leggings and university sweatshirt.
“Don’t worry, this is just the reception brunch. It was on your itinerary. It’s very casual.”
I remembered the reception brunch, but I was thinking it’d be more scrambled eggs, croissants and mimosas over giggles in sweatpants, not what looked like Easter Sunday at the Vatican.
I took off my backpack and placed it by the door. David had insisted I take his hiking backpack as my carry-on “because of all the pockets.”
Walking slowly toward the buffet, I redid my ponytail.
“Ashley? Ashley Keller, is that you?” A high-pitched voice cut through me right as I was reaching for what looked like a grapefruit champagne cocktail.
I turned around to see a six-foot leggy blonde in a pale pink, knee-length taffeta dress and matching heels running toward me. It was Heather Logan, mom of three-month-old twins from New Jersey. I recognized her from her posts featuring chalkboard paint tutorials, making door wreaths for every season and basically any craft you can think of. She was a star on the Motherhood Better Bootcamp portal.
She gathered me in a tight hug for several seconds before pushing me playfully away. I tried not to lose my balance.
“Hi, Heather! You look fantastic!” She really did. I wish I’d gotten the memo about dresses.
“Thank you, doll! And you look...no way, did you already find the gym? You are such an overachiever!” she practically yelled. She motioned toward several ladies who were gathered in a small circle near us.
“You guys, Ashley already worked out!” she boomed, pointing at me.
A woman in a black pencil skirt, red fitted blazer and red pumps turned toward us. “No way. I’ve been dying to get on the treadmill. Only two days until six million people are staring at us on TV.” She flipped her hair and looked me up and down. “Where is it?”
I laughed nervously. “Where’s what?”
A small crowd was forming now. They were eyeing me carefully, as if I were a threat, while simultaneously circling me like easy prey.
“There’s a gym?” I heard someone mutter.
“Yeah, she already went,” said someone else.
Heather waved her hands as if to clear the air. “Okay, calm down, ladies! You’ll all have a chance to kill yourselves on the elliptical later!” The crowd dissipated.
I exhaled, relieved.
“So,” Heather went on. “Have you met Emily yet?” She said Emily’s name as if she were a third grader teasing her schoolyard friend about her crush.
I grabbed the fruity cocktail and took a big sip. “I just got here, no. Have—” Before I had a chance to finish the sentence, Heather was dragging me across the floor by my hand.
We stopped in front of a woman who was in conversation with one of the waitstaff, but even with her back turned to us, I could tell it was Emily. I felt myself get hot and then cold all over. No, no, no! I couldn’t meet Emily Walker dressed like someone on laundry day!
But it was too late. Heather tapped Emily on the shoulder. As she turned toward me, I’m positive I saw a beam of light encircle her face. Her makeup was flawless, her hair perfectly done up in a stylish ponytail, not a raggedy slept-on one like mine. A short jade dress accentuated her lean, curvy figure.
I was speechless. For once I was grateful to have Heather’s mouth do the talking for me. “Emily, have you met Ashley?”
Emily’s eyes lit up. “Ashley Keller!” She took the sides of my arms gently and gave me a kiss on each cheek. I moved, stiffly, unsure of how this greeting was supposed to happen. I’d only ever seen it on a few travel shows.
“It’s so wonderful to finally meet you! I feel like I’ve known you forever. This is Sage.” She looked down and for the first time I noticed the toddler peeking through her legs. “He’s a little shy.” She bent down gracefully and scooped up the child whose curly brown hair framed his long black eyelashes. He looked like a child model in his white shorts and a white sweater with a little navy anchor on the chest.
“He’s getting tired,” Emily purred into Sage’s ear and he laid his head against her chest.
I gawked, awestruck. If Aubrey were here, she’d be pulling at my earrings, screaming for a scone and generally raising hell, but here was Emily, being an amazing mom, hosting a party and looking fabulous while doing it. She was absolutely perfect.
“Ashley, I can’t wait to talk to you more, but I’m going to give a little speech before everyone gets restless!”
“Okay,” I sputtered, realizing that I hadn’t said one word since meeting her.
I found my way back to the buffet, trying to choose between piles of freshly shaved, cured meats, mouthwatering platters of fresh fruit, pastries, cheese, and the crepe and omelet bar. I never wanted to go home.
I heard the telltale sound of a microphone being tapped and turned to face the front of the room.
Emily was holding a mic and grinning.
“Hello, everyone! I’m so glad that you’ve all arrived safe and sound! Welcome to the Motherhood Better Bootcamp Finale!”
Everyone cheered.
“I want you to take your time eating, drinking and mingling. Your only job here is to have a great time. You’ve earned it.”
Heather “whooped” from inside the crowd.
“My number-one goal since I started the Emily Walker empire has been to inspire and support moms. I hope that the Motherhood Better Bootcamp has done that for you
. No matter who is crowned as the winner in two days, I want you to know that, in my book, you’re all queens.”
Applause broke out. I could feel myself getting misty. If I hadn’t had a plate full of ham and cheese omelets, mandarin-orange crepes topped with fresh cream and about six different kinds of meat, I would have clapped, too. I wished every mom could know what it felt like to be recognized like this.
I found an empty table in the back and proceeded to attack my plate.
Just when I’d stuffed a prosciutto-covered piece of cantaloupe into my face, a voice distracted me. “Ashley? Hi, I’m Kimmie Reardon.”
Kimmie Reardon. How could I forget? I’d seen her name all over the Motherhood Better boards. Mom of four. Lives in Los Angeles. Loves to bake. Completed all of the challenges with ease and always has ten or twelve photos to prove it.
I stood up.
“No, no, don’t get up,” Kimmie said, taking a seat beside me. “You look...busy.”
She looked just like the photos she’d taken: five foot five, long, wavy brown hair, pretty almond-shaped eyes. She was dressed more casually than the others: suede calf-high boots, black leather pants and a white denim cropped jacket over a black tank top. Where do all of these moms shop? And how can so many of them wear white?
I forced the appetizer down my throat. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. She daintily shook my hand, as if human contact wasn’t something she relished.
I took a bite of my crepe, eyeing Kimmie to see if she was going to stay.
“So,” she said, watching me intently. “How do you feel about your chances?”
“My chances for what?” I asked, my mouth full.
“Winning,” she said, staring me dead in the eye, expressionless.
I chewed. “Well. There are a lot of great women here.” I trailed off, hoping that would be a sufficient answer.
Kimmie scanned the room, her eyes narrowing. “They’re okay.” She turned back to face me. “Don’t let your guard down just yet. The competition’s not over.”
She gave a saccharine smile before standing up abruptly and walking away.
An almost-full plate of food sat in front of me, but suddenly I wasn’t as ravenously hungry as I was before. Kimmie the Ice Queen was right. This wasn’t a vacation. It was the final lap.
When I finished my meal, I opened the welcome packet Anna had given me.
Dear Ashley Keller,
It’s our absolute pleasure to welcome you to the Napa home of Emily Walker for the Motherhood Better Bootcamp Finale! We hope this time will be one of rejuvenation and community. Below are your accommodation details and schedule, along with a map of the estate.
Wednesday
11:30AM Welcome brunch
Feel free to spend the rest of today relaxing! The spa, pools and kitchen are at your full disposal. If you need anything, please page Anna or James (the house butler), and our staff will provide it.
6:30PM Dinner in the Outdoor Garden Dining Room with Emily and her family
Thursday
6AM Yoga on the south lawn with Emily & Sven
7AM Breakfast in the Main Dining Room
8AM Basket and Dream Catcher Making in the Craft Room
9AM Organic Smoothie Workshop with Chef Evelyn
10AM Makeovers!
Noon Lunch & Sharing
1-5PM Free Time
6PM Dinner on the North Lawn
Friday
5AM Hair & Makeup
7AM We go live!
11AM Farewell brunch
“So much for a relaxing vacation,” I thought. At least the makeover sounded fun. I scanned the sheet to find my room assignment.
Accommodations
Ashley Walker: The Pink Peony Room (locate on the map)
Roommate: Kimmie Reardon
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.
When I finally made it to the room through the labyrinth of doors, I was taken aback. Pink Peony wasn’t just the name of the room, it was the theme. Pale pink and white flowers with dainty green leaves filled every inch of the slate walls. A bedside table adorned with an antique desk lamp and a glass vase full of delicate peonies separated two double beds. The only other furniture was a white leather loveseat and a tall, wide oak dresser.
The bathroom door on the far right of the room opened.
“Hi, roomie,” Kimmie said slyly, as she walked out and sat on a bed covered in garment bags.
I placed my suitcase, which had been left just inside the door by the staff, on the remaining bed.
“Hi again, Kimmie,” I responded. “Did you know we were roommates earlier?”
Kimmie threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, yeah. I was just waiting for you to figure it out.”
I smiled weakly. “It’s going to be great.”
Kimmie swung her legs over the bed to face me. “I’m so happy we’re together. I can’t imagine being with some of the other women.”
I opened my suitcase and began slowly taking out my belongings, hoping Kimmie wasn’t judging them. I didn’t own anything nice enough to warrant a garment bag.
“Oh, really? Why not?” I asked, making my way over to the dresser. I opened drawer after drawer to find they were already filled with silk panties, tops, jeans and more jeans.
“Sorry. I’m an overpacker. I left you some space in the closet,” she said flippantly.
I opened the modest closet to find it two-thirds full. Six hangers remained. “Thanks.”
Kimberly pulled a black compact out of her purse and began puckering her lips. “Some of the moms here...wow. I mean, you can tell they needed the challenge, but there’s no way they’re going to win. I’m talking totally dumpy. Frump city. It’s sad.”
I silently stacked my clothes on the shelf at the top of the closet, next to four pairs of Kimmie’s boots.
“Motherhood will do that to you,” I responded.
Kimmie dug through her purse and retrieved a small glass vial and wrapped hypodermic needle.
“Oh, not me. Letting yourself go is a choice.” She unwrapped the needle and poked it into the top of the vial. “Do you want some? It’s better than Botox,” she said, peering into the mirror and sliding the needle into her forehead.
I watched, shocked. “Um...no. But thank you.”
“Suit yourself. We’re going to be on TV in just under forty-eight hours. Your fine lines will be even more pronounced in high definition.”
I slid my empty suitcase under my bed and sat on the chair. It was so odd not to have a baby to change, feed or put down for a nap while worrying she will wake up any second. I folded my hands and realized that I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself. Sleep was out of the question with Kimmie sitting three feet away, injecting God knew what into her brow line.
I coughed. Make conversation, Ashley. It’s not that hard, my inner voice urged.
“So, Kimmie...how did you hear about the Motherhood Better Bootcamp?”
Kimmie put the needle in a black plastic box and snapped it shut.
“Actually, I’ve known about it for months. Emily Walker’s husband works with mine. They’re investors,” she said, smiling rather smugly.
“Investors? What do they invest in?” I asked, leaning my head on my hand.
“Everything. Tech, retail... They went to the same Ivy League and were even in the same frat. We were at each other’s weddings.”
“So, you know each other?” I asked, trying not to frown.
Kimmie stumbled over her words, “Well, yes, but no. We’re in many of the same circles. Anyway, I’m going to take a shower before heading down for a swim. Let’s sit together at dinner, okay? See ya,” she said, standing up and tossing me a tight smile.
“Okay,
bye.”
Kimmie grabbed a plush robe from the closet before disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. I heard it lock, so it was clear she’d be in there for a while. I decided to go for a stroll.
This wasn’t a house. It was its own village. Emily Walker’s Napa estate had its own tennis court, two pools, a hot tub, a pool house with an area for manicures and massages, a room just for hot yoga, three kitchens—including one large enough for a full professional staff to prepare meals—four wings, four garages, a movie room and that’s just what I’d seen so far. Did I mention there was an elevator? I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to open a closet door to Narnia.
As I walked down a set of cement stairs from the main garden to the spa, I ran into a familiar face: Janice Paulsen, the do-gooder mom who matched foster kids to families. She wore a thoroughly bedazzled gray sweatsuit.
“Ashley! It is so wonderful to see your beautiful face! I’m Janice” she said in a Minnesota accent.
Ah, Janice. The needlepoint queen of the great Midwest. She’d found way to inject her love of craft needles into every single challenge. For the Marriage Challenge, she’d even knitted a set of yarn lingerie that I’d never be able to unsee.
“It’s nice to meet you in person.” I smiled, feeling like for once I was nailing a social interaction with someone old enough to use the bathroom alone.
Janice took my hand as if she was trying to prevent me from leaving too quickly. “Lauren,” she yelled, calling to a woman at the bottom of the stairs who was tying her shoe. “Lauren, Ashley’s here. Remember? The tush girl?” she said, waving Lauren over furiously.
Tush girl? They couldn’t mean the first video chat fiasco. There’s no way they were talking about me.
Lauren, a woman with chestnut hair in a low ponytail, wearing bedazzled jeans and a T-shirt, hightailed it up the stairs. I recognized her from a particularly long post about how bedazzling saved her life.
“Tush girl!” Lauren exclaimed, loudly enough for everyone in the zip code to hear. She ran over to me and gave me a bear hug. “I tell your story to everyone I meet. You’re practically famous in my book club. I love your little tattoo, by the way!”
Confessions of a Domestic Failure Page 22