Free Mrs. Perfect by Jane Porter Page B

equal an hour of Pilates. Closing my eyes, I take a pose, focus on breathing, focus on stretching, focus on being present and in the moment.
    Less than two minutes into my routine, Jemma crashes through the door, interrupting my Downward Dog. “I can’t find my butterfly hair elastic,” she cries, her long blond hair caught in one fist.
    “Did you check your room?” I ask, turning my head to peer through my arms at her as I inhale slowly to a count of three.
    “Yes, and it’s not there.”
    I exhale slowly to a count of three. “Then it’s probably in your bathroom.”
    “It’s not there, either. I’ve looked. Everywhere.”
    I’m inhaling again, and it takes me a moment to answer. “Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
    “Mom.”
    I stand, brush off my hands, trying to ignore the low blue feeling that engulfs me. “Jemma, it’s your hair elastic.”
    “And you’re my mom,” she flashes before flouncing off.
    Fifteen minutes later, I’ve got the girls rounded up, backpacks on their backs, lunches in hand, and I walk them to their bus stop. Nathan’s upstairs in the bathroom, shaving at his sink when I return to the house.
    Our bathroom is enormous, a true spa retreat with heated marble parquet floor, his and her counters and sinks, glass shower, whirlpool tub, and heated towel bars.
    “You’re heading to work late today,” I say, leaning against one of the brown-and-white marble counters. This marble is probably my favorite stone in the house. Dark cocoa richly veined in white. It’s glamorous and masculine at the same time.
    He makes a face in the mirror. He’s shaving his neck now and pauses to tap his razor in the sink. “I’m actually heading to the airport. I have an eleven o’clock flight.”
    “You’re going out of town?” I can’t quite suppress the sharp edge in my voice. “Why didn’t you mention it before?”
    “I wasn’t sure I’d need to go until last night and you had book club and then I fell asleep.”
    I frown. His explanation is suspect at best. “I’d think you would have told me first thing this morning, then.”
    “You were asleep and then I was getting the kids ready for school.”
    “Your leaving town is more important than feeding the kids Froot Loops!”
    He looks at me in the mirror. His brown eyes hold mine. “I’m sorry, Taylor.”
    He sounds sincere, but at the same time something doesn’t feel right. “But it’s Back-to-School Night tonight.”
    He uses a washcloth to wipe away shaving cream residue. “You’ve got it down. You don’t need me there, and I need to be in Omaha.”
    I shake my head. “Arkansas two weeks ago. Omaha today. What’s next? Bakersfield?”
    He rinses his razor, takes his time answering, and when he finally speaks his voice is pitched low, his tone almost excessively patient. “I’ll try to get back tonight, but if I can’t wrap everything up today, I’ll be home tomorrow night. Either way, I’ll call you and let you know when I know more.”
    I don’t know if it’s his tone or his expression, but I feel something small and hard and sharp form in my gut as he combs his hair and then heads for our closet.
    He’s my Nathan, but he’s also a stranger.
    “Don’t you want to hear more about the girls’ teachers and their year?” I ask, following him.
    “You’ll tell me,” he answers, reaching for his suit jacket. “You always do.”
    His answer perplexes me, and I stand there, arms at my side, my brain racing to make sense of what he’s saying and what he’s not saying. This isn’t the Nathan I know. This isn’t the devoted dad who never missed anything pertaining to his children. “Are you okay? Are you not feeling well?”
    “I’m feeling fine.” But he’s picking up his briefcase and a small overnight bag, and I can’t help it, I feel as though he’s shutting me out.
    The cold, sharp knot in my gut grows bigger, and I open my mouth to ask what I really want to know.
    Are we okay?
    Is there