The Wife Between Us(8)

“We don’t want Jonah to fall behind,” Mr. Porter said as he leaned back in his chair, then scrambled to keep from overturning it.

“What my husband is trying to explain,” Mrs. Porter interjected, “is that we’ll be applying to kindergarten next fall. We’re looking at top-tier schools.”

“I understand.” Nellie pulled her focus back. “Well, it’s certainly your decision, but you may want to wait a year.” She knew Jonah was already signed up for Mandarin classes, karate, and music lessons. Twice this week she’d seen him yawn and rub his sleepy-looking eyes. At least he had plenty of time to build sand castles and stack blocks into towers while he was here.

“I wanted to let you know about something that happened when one of his classmates forgot to bring lunch,” Nellie began. “Jonah offered to share his, which showed such empathy and kindness . . .”

Her voice trailed off when Mr. Porter’s cell phone rang.

“Yep,” he said. He made eye contact with Nellie, holding her gaze.

She’d met him only twice before, at Parents’ Night and during the fall conference. He hadn’t stared at her or acted peculiarly.

Mr. Porter twirled his hand in rapid circles, indicating she should continue. Who was he speaking to?

“Do you do regular assessments of the kids?” Mrs. Porter asked.

“Sorry?”

Mrs. Porter smiled, and Nellie noticed her lipstick matched the exact hue of her dress. “They do at the Smith School. Every quarter. Academic readiness, small-group pre-reading circles based on ability, early multiplication initiatives . . .”

Multiplication? “I do assess the children.” Nellie felt her back straighten.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mr. Porter said into the phone. She felt her gaze being pulled back to him.

“Not on multiplication . . . on, um . . . more basic skills like counting and letter recognition,” Nellie said. “If you’ll look on the back of the report card, you’ll see . . . I have categories.”

There was a moment of silence as Mrs. Porter scanned Nellie’s notes.

“Tell Sandy to get on it. Don’t lose the account.” Mr. Porter hung up and shook his head. “Are we done here?”

“Well,” Mrs. Porter said to Nellie, “I’m sure you’re busy.”

Nellie smiled, keeping her lips pressed together. Yes, she wanted to say. I am busy. Yesterday I scrubbed that rug after a kid spilled chocolate milk on it. I bought a soft blanket for the quiet corner so your overstressed boy can rest. I pulled three late shifts this week at a restaurant where I waitress because what I earn here won’t cover my cost of living—and I still walked through these doors at eight every morning with energy for your children.

She was heading back to Linda’s office to claim the other half of her croissant when she heard Mr. Porter’s booming voice: “I forgot my jacket.” He reentered her classroom and retrieved it from the back of the tiny chair.

“Why did you think I was from Florida?” Nellie blurted.

He shrugged. “My niece went to school there, too, at Grant University. I thought someone mentioned you did as well.”

That information wasn’t in her bio on the preschool website. She owned nothing with her college’s insignia—not a single sweatshirt or key chain or pennant.

Linda must have given her credentials to the Porters—they seemed like the type of parents who would want to know, Nellie told herself.

Still, she looked at him more carefully, trying to imagine his features on a young woman. She couldn’t recall any with the last name Porter. But that didn’t mean the woman hadn’t sat behind her in class or tried to rush her sorority.

“Well, my next conference is about to begin, so . . .”

He looked at the empty hallway, then back at her. “Sure. See you at graduation.” He whistled as he walked back down the hallway. Nellie watched until he disappeared through the door.


Richard rarely talked about his ex, so Nellie knew only a few things about her: She still lived in New York City. She and Richard had split up shortly before he met Nellie. She was pretty, with long dark hair and a narrow face—Nellie had done a Google search and come across a blurry thumbnail photo of her at a benefit.

And she’d been perpetually late, a habit that had irritated Richard.

Nellie sprinted the final block to the Italian restaurant, already regretting the two glasses of Pinot Grigio she’d had with the 3s and 4s teachers as a reward for surviving their conferences. They’d swapped war stories; Marnie, whose classroom was next to Nellie’s, was declared the winner because one set of parents had sent their au pair, whose English wasn’t very good, to represent them at the meeting.

Nellie had lost track of time until she checked her cell phone on the way to the bathroom. As she’d exited a stall, a woman nearly bumped into her. “Sorry!” Nellie had said reflexively. She’d moved to one side but dropped her bag, scattering its contents across the floor. The woman had stepped over the mess without a word and quickly entered a stall. (“Manners!” the preschool teacher in Nellie had longed to chastise as she knelt to retrieve her wallet and cosmetics.)

She made it to the restaurant eleven minutes late and pulled open the heavy glass door as the ma?tre d’ looked up from his leather reservations book. “I’m meeting my fiancé,” she panted.