Dating the Mrs. Smiths by Tanya Michaels

Author:Tanya Michaels
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2005-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Late Wednesday afternoon, Sara and I congregated in the cafeteria of Hughes Elementary with other adults and what seemed like hundreds of students but was probably only the same twenty rushing back and forth, carrying on energetic conversations. The children were having their first rehearsal, and Ms. Cramer had followed through on Principal Reeves’s suggestion to call me. Reporting for volunteer duty, I took a seat with other parents at the one long lunch table that hadn’t been folded and pushed to the back of the room.

I sent an encouraging wave toward Sara, where she stood among a dozen other children by Ms. Cramer’s piano, down in front of the stage.

A stylishly coiffed woman with a short shag of chestnut hair walked into my line of vision, making a beeline for me. Her clothes were so hyper color-coordinated—with her blouse, cardigan, capris and pumps all exactly the same shade—that I was a little surprised her clipboard wasn’t periwinkle, too.

“You must be Charlie Smith!” Her southern twang really stood out among the Boston accents I’d been adjusting to all week, much thicker than my own Georgia drawl, which had lessened during my years in Florida. I guessed her to be a native of Mississippi. “Why, I’m just delighted to meet you! I’m Shannon McCorkle, vice president of this year’s Parent-Teachers’ Association—I hope we’ll be seeing you at meetings!”

It became clear in the next fifteen minutes that Shannon McCorkle was one of those people who spoke with frequent exclamation points. Everything “delighted” her, and she did a lot of heart blessing—most of it sounding genuine instead of the disclaimer for snarky comments I remembered from my own childhood. (“That Delia Clarke hasn’t got the sense God gave a june bug, bless her heart!”) Shannon was so upbeat and organized, corralling the parent volunteers with enthusiasm and praise for our meager talents, that it was easy to picture her as a teacher here, with her own classroom of kindergartners. But someone, maybe Shannon herself, mentioned to me that she was a stay-at-home mother, a long-held dream she was able to follow thanks to her husband’s financial success.

If Tom had come through that angioplasty, cardiovascular health restored, and I hadn’t gone back to work full-time, would I have become Shannon, only less dyed-to-match? Not everyone could carry off the monochrome look.

As a young bride, I’d dreamed of raising healthy, happy children with my husband and creating a beautiful home for all of us. Now the dream was over. I lived in someone else’s home. Far from the mom who was there every day when her kids got off the school bus, the mom who had time to sew. I’d become the mother who worked and worried about office politics and layoffs. I longed not for matching furniture and homemade accents but a stained, saggy sofa that was such a comfort at the end of a long day. Not that it made any financial sense to transport the eyesore when Rose had a fully furnished

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