The Perfect Wife

But so far, nothing had worked.

The gong sounded again, and nervous panic sent her heart rate thumping to beat the band.

What if it was Greg?

Needless to say, the desperate I-need-to-save-my-marriage part won out.

She stood, and when she glanced at the telltale bag in her hands, her breath caught.

Oh, God. She couldn’t let him find her pigging out. So she quickly shoved the incriminating sack, complete with the remaining chocolate éclair, under the chair cushion, a trick she hadn’t pulled in years.

Then she rushed into the guest bathroom that was right off the den to make sure she didn’t have any glaze or lemony goo smeared across her face. But as she looked into the mirror, she nearly collapsed in a frumpy heap on the hardwood floor.

Tear tracks had done a real number on her mascara, making her look like a raccoon with red-rimmed eyes, a pitiful little creature who was a far cry from the I’ve-got-it-all-together woman she really was.

Greg would probably think she was still pining over him, which had been true earlier this week. And yesterday afternoon. But the culprit this time had been a sad chick flick, a real tearjerker and…

The doorbell rang again, this time sounding as though an impatient Girl Scout with an armload of cookies was repeatedly jabbing an index finger at the button. Not that Carly had ever had a run-in with a Girl Scout who wasn’t sweet and adorable.

Oh, for crying out loud. All right already.

“I’m coming,” she hollered, as she turned on the water in the bathroom sink.

She half hoped whoever it was would get tired of waiting and just go away. But she’d neglected to pull her car into the garage after a grocery run this morning, so most people would suspect she was at home and in a back part of the house.

If she found a salesman—the pesky adult variety—at the door, she’d probably practice some of those fancy kickboxing moves and see if they really worked.

Of course, if it was Greg, she’d die of embarrassment. He’d never seen her looking so wretched and pitiful.

There’d been a time in her life when she’d always looked that way, felt that way. But a lot had changed since she’d grown up, left home and gone to college. She’d gotten her act together and gained some self-control.

Yet if truth be told, she’d allowed herself to fall back into a few old habits lately, something she’d have to put a stop to before the extra weight made her feel as ugly and as worthless as she’d felt as a child.

In spite of her ability to shove the ego-shattering memories to the back of her mind, where they belonged, the words of her father crept back to haunt her. To whittle away at the perfect life she’d created for herself.

Damn it, Carly. Are you eating again? You’re going to be as fat as your mother if you’re not careful.

For cripes sake, girl. Can’t you get a rearview mirror? If you ever need to haul ass, you’ll have to make two trips.

“Stop it,” she snapped to the chubby child within who refused to grow up and move on.

She reached for an embroidered linen hand towel, then rubbed at the smeared mascara.

A fist bam-bam-bammed on the door, something she might not have heard in any other part of the house, and a muffled voice yelled, “Open up, Carly. We know you’re in there.”

Okay. It wasn’t Greg.

She nearly slunk back to the den, ready to ignore her guests. But she’d recognized the voice of Molly Jackson, who had a key to the house.

It wasn’t as though the two of them were best friends. After all, Carly didn’t let people get that close. But when she’d been handed two sets of keys, it had seemed like a good idea to give a spare to a neighbor in case of emergency.

And Molly, who lived right next door, seemed like a logical choice.

“I can let myself in,” Molly reminded her. “Come on, Carly. Open up. We’ve been worried about you.”

The fact that someone in the neighborhood cared was a bit uplifting.

Carly took a deep breath, then strode to the entry and opened the door, finding Molly and another neighbor, Rebecca Peters, on the porch. Stepping aside and allowing the women into the marble-tiled foyer, she caught the whiff of tropical-scented sunblock as they entered.

Rebecca, an attractive woman in her late twenties with brown hair and blue eyes, was, as usual, fashionably dressed—even wearing a swimsuit cover-up. “We came to take you to the community pool.”

“Are you kidding?” Carly, who normally didn’t even head downstairs for breakfast unless she was impeccably groomed, glanced at the front of the man’s blue T-shirt she wore, one of Greg’s that had been in the dryer when she’d demanded he pack his things and get out. “I can’t go anywhere like this.”

“You look fine for what we’ve got in mind,” Rebecca said.

“That’s right,” Molly, who sported a white sundress, added. “You’ve been licking your wounds long enough, and we’re taking you with us.”

Oh, no. Carly wasn’t going out in public. Besides, why should she join them at the community pool? She had a lovely pool of her own, complete with a stone waterfall, an outdoor fireplace, a hot tub, lush green plants and a colorful garden. “If you want to lie in the sun or swim, come on inside. We can spend the afternoon in my backyard.”

“Not today. You’ve been holed up inside the McMansion for too long, and it’s time to get out into the world again.” Molly, whose long brown, curly hair was swept up in a stylish clip, pointed to the circular stairway. “Go get a towel and a swimsuit and come with us.”

“I’m not holed up in here,” Carly lied.

Rebecca, her blue eyes sparkling with determination, crossed her arms. “There’s life after divorce, Carly. And the sooner you accept that the better.”

“I accept it.” But what she really had trouble accepting was the fact that a month ago, Greg had started dating. And to make matters worse, he was seeing Megan Schumacher, a woman from the neighborhood Carly had once considered a friend.

It still stung, still hurt.

And it was so very hard to understand.

Carly had worked her butt off, trying to make Greg proud of her, trying to be the perfect wife in every way.

And Megan, a full-figured woman who could stand to lose twenty pounds, wasn’t all that pretty.

So what did Greg see in her?

The small voice asked, Better yet, what does Megan have that you don’t?

For a moment, Carly faltered, her pride taking a direct hit. But she refused to believe there was something in her that might be lacking. Not when she’d tried so hard to be everything a wife should be.

Maybe her handsome, hardworking, successful ex-husband was going through a midlife crisis, assuming men did that when they turned thirty. Of course, she’d always thought something like that happened a decade or two later in a man’s life, but nothing else explained what had made Greg decide he wanted out of the marriage. Not when Carly had worked so hard to stay in shape, to make him proud of her. To be the perfect wife, the kind of woman he deserved.

Why, even Greg’s snobby mother, Vanessa, who’d been impossible to please, had begun to accept Carly—sort of. She’d come to Carly’s defense after they’d separated, and tried to convince Greg to go home, to make things work.

But he hadn’t wanted to.

“We’re not leaving without you,” Rebecca said as she placed her hands on Carly’s shoulders, then turned her around, pushing her gently but firmly toward the stairs. “Go get your suit and a towel. We’ll wait.”