The Perfect Wife

In the early years Greg had been the one to bring up the subject of children. But Carly had put him off, telling him she wasn’t ready. The truth was she’d actually been afraid to get pregnant, afraid of the weight gain, the stretch marks. However, even more terrifying had been the fear of losing Greg to someone else if she became fat and frumpy. Losing him to someone who was more his class and style.

Yet Greg had left her, anyway.

Carly placed a hand on top of Molly’s. “It’s okay. Really. I wanted a baby, but for all the wrong reasons. I’d hoped a child would make things better between us.”

But by that time, Greg was no longer interested in having a child. Or at least, he didn’t want to have a baby with Carly.

She wouldn’t rain on Molly’s parade, though. So she gave her friend’s hand a warm squeeze before releasing it. “I’m happy for you.”

And she was. Really. But it was a struggle to smile warmly when Molly’s joyful announcement reminded her how vast and sterile her house was, how empty her life.

But Carly let the subject die a dignified death.

For a woman who kept her fears and worries close to the vest, she’d opened up more with her friends during the past few months than she ever had, especially to Megan Schumacher.

Megan had listened endlessly as Carly poured out her heart about her husband, her failing marriage. And at the time, Megan, who yearned for a family, had seemed sympathetic.

Trustworthy.

But Megan was dating Greg now.

And since Carly had been burned by the woman she’d thought was a friend, she was leery about sharing too much with anyone else.

“I think it’s great,” Rebecca told the expectant mother. “You didn’t flounder around waiting for the right man to propose marriage. Instead, you decided to have a child on your own.”

“Well,” Molly admitted, “to be honest, I didn’t plan this pregnancy. But I have decided to make the best of being a single mom.”

Okay. So Molly hadn’t found the father at the sperm bank.

“Sometimes the best things in life aren’t planned,” Rebecca said. “Isn’t that right, Carly?”

Carly nodded.

But sometimes the worst things were unplanned, too.

“Just think.” Rebecca smiled wistfully. “In five more months you’ll have a baby boy or girl to hold and love.”

That, Carly supposed, would be nice for Molly.

Too bad she and Greg hadn’t conceived a baby years ago—when he’d still wanted one. Having a son or daughter to fill the McMansion with love and laughter, instead of silence and emptiness, certainly would have made Carly feel better about being divorced and single.

Her thoughts drifted to Bo, to the bookshelf she’d hired him to build. The bookshelf she didn’t really need and probably wouldn’t use.

But at least the handsome carpenter would fill her days for a while and make her smile again.

Hopefully that would suffice until Carly could accept the fact that Greg was gone for good.

True to her word—and what was becoming habit— Carly woke early on Monday morning. But instead of rolling over, socking her pillow and grumbling about the hour and the insomnia that had been plaguing her nights, she jumped right up and headed for the shower.

The pounding spray of water felt good and refreshing, so she took her time lathering up with a new aloe-and-pear body soap she’d purchased on her last trip to the mall. Then she shampooed her hair and shaved her legs.

After drying off with a white, fluffy bath towel, she took her time in choosing an outfit.

Initially she pulled out several of her favorite slacks and tops, each one expensive, stylish and protected by a plastic dry-cleaning bag. But when she remembered Bo’s comment about her looking real and more attractive when she was dressed casually, she went back to the walk-in wardrobe. Digging through scads of hangers, she finally found a pair of jeans she hadn’t worn in ages, then pulled out about a dozen blouses until she spotted a simple white cotton T-shirt with a scooped neckline that ought to work.

Next she blew dry her hair in a free and easy style, letting it curl at the shoulders, rather than sweeping it up in a neat twist or chignon like she usually wore.

She was reaching for her makeup when her hand froze.

Apparently Bo liked a simple, no-fuss woman.

Well, that’s what he’d see today.

Carly put on a light coat of mascara and applied a quick but neat layer of pink lipstick—minus a contrasting liner.

When she entered the kitchen, a designer masterpiece that Emeril would love, she went to work mixing up a batch of zucchini muffins. As they baked, she squeezed oranges for juice, then ground fresh coffee beans and brewed a full pot.

It was, she decided, a simple continental style breakfast that Bo wouldn’t be able to resist, even if he’d already eaten at home.

But she’d no more than pulled the muffins out of the oven when she began having second thoughts.

Guilty thoughts.

What in the world was she trying to do?

First she’d ordered a bookcase she didn’t need. Now she was trying her best to impress a man she had no intention of attracting.

Before she could ponder her motives, the doorbell gonged throughout the house.

Uh-oh.

Bo wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when Carly answered, but certainly not a gorgeous girl-next-door wearing denim and a heart-stopping smile.

“You’re up,” was all he could manage to utter.

“You said bright and early.”

That he had. But last fall, when he’d brought a crew to work on various projects at the McMansion, Greg had asked them to start as late in the day as possible. And when they’d arrived, they’d all tried to tiptoe around the place until Carly managed to wake up and exit the master bedroom, all dolled up, with every hair in place and looking like a model ready to walk down a Paris runway.

“Do you have time for coffee?” she asked.

He’d planned to get a cup along the way, between this estimate and the start of another project down on Whistler Lane.

He glanced at his wristwatch. He’d allotted an extra half hour at Carly’s, since he hadn’t expected her to be ready for him. And he didn’t need to ask if the coffee was ready. Heck, the fresh aroma wafting through the house was enough to tempt a tea-and-crumpets man to ask for an extra-large cup. “Sure. I’ve got a few minutes to spare.”

Carly led him through the vast interior of the house and into the spacious kitchen, where the warm scents of sugar and spice accosted him, making him wish he’d grabbed a bite to eat on the way out of the house.

“How about a muffin with that coffee?” she asked.