Mrs. Perfect by Jane Porter Page A

being Taylor Young. I need to be Taylor Young. I never want to be Tammy Jones again. That was my name on my birth certificate. That was who I was growing up.
    I change purses, choosing a white Coach bag with a natural leather trim to match my natural leather pumps.
    We weren’t always the most dysfunctional family on my block. We just turned out that way. Dad was religious, a deacon in the church. We attended church services twice a week as a family, and then in summer Cissy and I attended vacation Bible camp, first as campers and then as teen leaders.
    Growing up, we read a fair amount of the Bible. For all the scripture we read and all the verses we had to memorize, you’d think we were a good family. And to be fair, we were, at least until my mom, the deacon’s wife, started sleeping around. Before long, everyone in South Pasadena knew it but my dad.
    Four months into Mom’s affair, I went to my mom and told her if she didn’t tell Dad what was going on, I would.
    Mom decided she might be better off breaking the news, and she did, which resulted in a divorce. Dad got custody of my sister and me, and for two and a half years we tried to get on with things. But then Mom wanted back in. She missed us, and her fling had flung, so she begged Dad for another chance. Dad, being Christian, forgave her the way Christians should. They remarried when I was fifteen, and for two years we pretended nothing untoward had happened. Unfortunately, Mom couldn’t stay put. Two years later, she ran away with Ray, a truck driver who ended up getting arrested my senior year at Muir, serving serious time for assault with a deadly weapon.
    Interestingly, Mom stuck with him throughout his twenty-two-month prison stint.
    I could almost admire her for that.
    Purse over my shoulder and binder tucked under my arm, I head downstairs to wrestle Tori into shoes and drag a hairbrush through her blond curls until they’re shiny and smooth. “We’re running late,” I tell her. “We have to hurry and brush your teeth so we can go.”
    “I don’t want to go.”
    “It’s not a choice.”
    “I want to watch
Blue’s Clues
. It’s on next.”
    “Teeth, now.”
    “I’m not going to go.”
    I grab the remote, power off the TV, and look at her. “You have one minute to get upstairs and brush your teeth or you lose all TV privileges for the week.”
    Tori stomps her way up the curving staircase and down the hall to her shared bath. “I hate brushing my teeth.”
    I don’t answer. Arguing is pointless, and I need to get her to preschool on time. It’s a great preschool program, but they are rather firm on pickup and drop-off times. Apparently, children suffer more separation anxiety if they see other kids arrive late and/or leave early.
    Once Tori’s buckled in her car seat, I hit number 5 on speed dial. Voice mail is number 1. Nathan is number 2. School is number 3. Baby-sitter is always number 4, and my friends take up 5 through 10, with Patti always my top friend.
    “Patti,” I say, backing my pale gold Lexus out of the garage and into the September sunshine, “could we do an early lunch? I know we agreed on noon, but would eleven-thirty work for you?”
    “I can do that.”
    “Where do we want to eat?”
    “How about 520 Bar and Grill on Main Street?”
    “Great.”
    The 520 Bar & Grill was opened by the Brazens two years ago beneath their real estate office, and the restaurant still draws a good lunch crowd. Fortunately, Patti is close friends with Rondi Brazen and can always get a table at a moment’s notice.
    With two hours free between dropping Tori off and meeting Patti, I head to the mall to get a little shopping done. My sister has a birthday coming up, and I want to get her present bought, wrapped, and mailed soon.
    I bump into Kate on the first floor of Nordstrom’s, right next to the shoes.
    Kate has a daughter in second grade, too, but she and Brooke are in different classes. “How is it going so far?” I ask as we