Perfecting Kate Read online

  What Readers Are Saying About Perfecting Kate:

  “If Bridget Jones could get her act together, lose her Diary, and pick up a Bible, she still wouldn’t be half as charming as Kate Meadows in Tamara Leigh’s Perfecting Kate. Leigh has crafted a heroine who is both winsome and wistful, engaging the reader from the first line and inviting us to tag along on her transformational journey. Every woman will hear a bit of herself in Kate’s voice—sometimes I wondered just how much time Leigh spent eavesdropping in my bathroom.”

  Allison Pittman, author of Ten Thousand Charms

  “Journey with quirky, sweet Kate Meadows as she confronts issues all women face: balancing her career, love life, and the pressure to be perfect—inside and out. Tamara Leigh’s Perfecting Kate will have you turning the pages.”

  Rachel Hauck, author of Lost in Nash Vegas

  “Women worldwide can easily empathize with the realistic, heartfelt characters in Tamara Leigh’s Perfecting Kate. Her story is sassy, classy, and fun—in a word, perfect!”

  Betsy-ann.blogspot.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  PERFECTING KATE

  Published by Multnomah Publishers

  A division of Random House Inc.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc.,

  7680 Goddard St., Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920,

  www.alivecommunications.com.

  © 2007 by Tammy Schmanski

  Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from:

  The Holy Bible, New International Version

  © 1973, 1984 by International Bible Society, used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House

  Multnomah is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers, and is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  The colophon is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

  For information:

  MULTNOMAH PUBLISHERS

  12265 ORACLE BOULEVARD, SUITE 200

  COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO 80921

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Leigh, Tamara.

  Perfecting Kate : a novel / Tamara Leigh.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56205-0

  1. Chick lit. I. Title.

  PS3612.E3575P47 2007

  813′.6—dc22

  2006031278

  v3.1_r1

  To my husband, David, who loves me regardless

  (and I you, babe) and whose antics and sense of

  humor are a ready source of material with which to

  frustrate—er … amuse—my heroines (just ask Kate).

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, there are so many who stand behind a book and without whom it would not be possible to capture the dream: my irreplaceable agent, Beth Jusino, who goes above and beyond and is a blessing to work with; the gracious Kevin Marks, who brought me into the Multnomah family; my exceptional editor, Julee Schwarzburg, whose insight and direction made the dreaded editing process fun (really!); Multnomah’s fiction marketing guru, Sharon Znachko, who listens, responds, and is patient, with a halo on top; the wonderful readers who embraced my journey from medieval romances to Christian “chick lit”; my Bible study buddies, who came alongside me when I needed the support—Susan, Susan (that’s not a stutter), and Lucinda; and my Lord and Savior, whose timing never ceases to amaze me.

  never asked to be made over. In fact, I was perfectly content with Katherine Mae Meadows just the way she was—twenty-nine years young (and holding), five foot seven (on tiptoe), 110 pounds (wrung out), and completely “au naturel” (in my line of work, who has time to fuss with hair and makeup?).

  Yep, content. And the more I told myself that, the more I was convinced. Then one so-called friend commented on my shortcomings to one Dr. Clive Alexander. And the louse concurred! But I’ll explain about the good doctor later, as he definitely bears mention.

  Okay, so I wasn’t content. But I’m not alone. After all, whose legs (other than those of digitally enhanced models) can’t stand to lose a tangled web of spider veins and a tub of cottage cheese? Then there are wrinkles—as in wrinkle here, wrinkle there, wrinkle, wrinkle everywhere. Oh! And not-so-strategically-placed moles.

  The point is: There’s something somewhere on every someone’s body that could benefit from some type of beauty enhancement (e.g., sclerotherapy, dermabrasion, lift, tuck, implants, liposuction). At least, that’s the thinking I came around to.

  So I guess I did want to be made over. Sort of. And it’s all Clive Alexander’s fault—

  Oops. Like I said, I’ll explain about him later.

  As for the beginning of the end of Kate as I knew her, it started when a makeup artist and his crew stopped me and my housemate on a San Francisco street and asked if we’d like to be made over for an upcoming issue of Changes magazine.

  Tempting, especially as I’d recently cornered my reflection and decided that something had to be done to stop the downward slide of the woman in the mirror. Which brings me back to Clive Alexander. Again!

  Anyway, call it fate or just plain chance, standing before me was the fashionably bald Michael Palmier. And he wanted to transform me, among other things. Turns out he’s also a pretty good kisser, though not as good as Clive—

  I digress. Or should I say obsess? Of course, I suppose that’s my cue to rewind and begin with the night Clive entered my relatively uncomplicated sphere of existence. The night those unblinking eyes swept through me as if I were invisible. The night I took up residence in front of my bathroom mirror instead of cracking open my Bible. The night I excused myself from Bible study by calling the exercise before the mirror “soul-searching.”

  Soul-searching—ha! Couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  h, my. Is it my imagination, or did a tuxedoed Brad Pitt just walk through the doors of one of San Francisco’s most exclusive children’s clothing stores?

  I blink behind my rectangular specs to bring his profile into sharper focus. But as it’s been ages since I’ve seen a pic of Brad sporting anything other than bed-tousled hair, I can’t be certain if this clean-cut male specimen is him. Definitely calls for a closer look.

  As I step forward, a voice at my back murmurs, “GQ. Very GQ.”

  I look around and up into the boyishly handsome face of Beau, co-owner of Belle and Beau’s Boutique. From his hiked eyebrow, the peak of which disappea
rs into the dark brown hair playing across his brow, it’s obvious he’s also taking in the Brad-ish guy.

  Giving my best don’t-even-think-about-it glower, I cuff his shoulder. “I’ll tell Belle.”

  He grins. “You know I’m kidding.”

  Of course I do, as he’s never given me cause to think he might revert to the days before he wandered into our church. However, just as he never misses an opportunity to rib me, I never miss the opportunity to return the favor—even though we sometimes push it too far.

  He lifts the hand that bears a gold band and wiggles his fingers. “I’m a reformed man. Belle’s the only one for me.”

  Ah … Momentarily forgetting my on-again, off-again “thou shalt embrace singledom and be unbelievably, inconceivably happy” creed, I wish someone felt about Katherine Mae Meadows the way Beau feels about Belle.

  “I know,” I say on a breathy note, which snaps me out of “here comes the bride/happily ever after” mode. Thankfully. Despite marriage’s supporters, it’s not for everyone. Not that I rule it out completely. Rather, singledom is simply the conclusion I reach each time something promising dissolves into something … not so promising. As an added benefit, the dry spells inherent in selective dating are a little easier to bear.

  Selective? As in must have credentials, and topping that list is that “The One” be a Christian. Not that I haven’t fudged a time or two … make that three (“I know I can change him”), but without fail I’ve regretted lifting the ban on what others call a “discriminatory” practice. Of course, some of my Christian dates haven’t gone much better, but at least those losses don’t seem to cut as deep.

  “Earth to Kate.” Beau waves a hand inches from my nose. “Hellooo.”

  I blink and push my specs farther up my nose. “Do you think that’s Brad—?”

  “No, but he does bear a certain resemblance.” Beau smoothes his linen jacket, presses his shoulders back to attain his full five feet ten inches, and winks. “Meet and greet time.”

  He walks toward Brad-ish, who’s standing with arms crossed over his chest and head back to scan the three-story three-dimensional wall that’s my crowning achievement—and for which many of the Bay Area’s mommies and daddies have turned out this evening.

  As I sidle nearer, Beau halts to the left of his target and thrusts a hand forward. When Brad-ish turns to him, I’m treated to a head-on view.

  “Shucks,” I mutter as he accepts Beau’s handshake with a stiff á la carte smile that bares no teeth, grooves no cheeks, and lights no eyes. Definitely not Brad. Smile aside, his eyes are less-than-unearthly blue, jaw relatively narrow, and skin on the weathered side. As for his size, though his shoulders are broad, his height falls short. Not that ex-Brad-ish isn’t attractive. He’s simply not flawless. In his midforties perhaps?

  “Kate Meadows?” A hand grips my arm. “Are you Kate Mae Meadows?”

  I look beside me. “Uh, yes.”

  The young woman, casually elegant in a soft black skirt and cream-colored blouse, sighs. “Love your work! How do you do it?”

  My gaze follows hers as we look from Kapok tree to toucan to waterfall to jaguar, several of which project off the wall. Nice. Although I sometimes forget to step back and marvel at the talent God has given me, once a project comes together, I’m amazed—and humbled—as there’s no denying that it wasn’t a solo undertaking.

  I sigh. “Just the right mix of imagination and inspiration, I guess.”

  She presses something into my hand—my dozenth business card this evening. “The name’s Olivia. My little girl would love a Kate Mae Meadows room.”

  Guessing her daughter to be quite young, as mommy appears to be all of twenty, I nod. “I’m booked for the next three months, but—”

  “August then!”

  I smile. “I’ll call you.”

  With a wave, Olivia glides off among the racks of trendy children’s clothes. Shortly, she loops an arm through that of an older man, who regards her with an I-am-so-bored expression that brightens only when a server appears bearing a tray of desserts. He helps himself to one but shakes his head when Olivia reaches for the tray.

  Mustn’t ruin that pretty figure, I surmise as I watch her sparkle sputter. Why, oh why, do so many sacrifice so much for the sake of outward appearances?

  I yank my thoughts back. Who knows? Maybe Olivia is cavity prone … or diabetic … or allergic …

  Belle, the first half of Belle and Beau’s Boutique, appears before me. “So?”

  I meet her hazel gaze and smile. “Great turnout. I really appreciate your putting on this ‘do.’”

  “Good for business, too.” She smoothes the golden wisps escaping her French roll and glances around. “Who’s the overdressed guy with Beau?”

  I look to Brad-ish, who, despite the upscale attire of the others in attendance, definitely stands out—and not just because of the tux. “I don’t know.”

  “By himself?”

  “So far, no S.O. in tow.”

  Ugh. Did I really say that? I’ve heard S.O. so often that it has crept into my vocabulary. S.O., as in significant other, which is what the uncommitted committed are fashionably called. Why, even some husbands and wives refer to the other as an S.O. It’s so … impersonal. As if a loved one warrants little more than the status of something approaching a scouring pad.

  Belle’s lids narrow. “From the interest he’s showing in your wall, might be another client.”

  Focusing on Brad-ish, I sigh. “I certainly hope so.”

  She chuckles. “Now that’s a rather enthusiastic response. Mind if I read something into it?”

  “Oh, stop! You know I’ve given up on men.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Second time this year, right?”

  Twice. So what’s the big deal? Makes it sound as if—

  “And of course, it is only March. Who knows, but at this rate, you might just top last year’s New Year’s—er, New Month’s—resolutions.”

  She has a point, but this time I mean it. In the unlikelihood that I finally meet “The One,” it will be because God dropped him in my lap. Hmm …

  I glance at Brad-ish. Sure would be nice if he was searching for a soft landing. Maybe I am being a bit hasty with my “thou shalt embrace singledom and be unbelievably, inconceivably happy” creed.

  “Could be the one,” Belle singsongs.

  “Fat chance.”

  “You never know.” She slides a hand across her waist, and as with each time I see her caress her unborn child, I pause. All thoughts of my moratorium on men take a giant step back. Please, God, let this baby make it. Belle’s strong, but another miscarriage—

  “Past the halfway mark,” she says.

  Peering into her angular face, the edges of which pregnancy has begun to soften, I pop a worry-free smile in place. “Four months to go.” Best-case scenario, but if she can just make it two more months …

  I click my tongue. “Well, guess I’ll make the most of this last hour and shmooze up some more business.”

  “You do that, and I’ll trawl around for a date for you.”

  I give Belle the evil eye. “No more blind dates, literally or otherwise.”

  She snickers at the reference to my most recent date—one of her suppliers who she’d only dealt with over the phone. And the reason I’ve given up on men. Again. No, Charles wasn’t ancient or enormously fat. In fact, he was something of a looker. Literally, though, think dark specs, white cane, and guide dog. Not that I have anything against the visually impaired, but when he used his disability as an excuse to grope me—

  Honestly! Right there in the restaurant in front of everyone. I felt like an overripe melon. And I feel melon-y enough with a bosom that defies the most stalwart support bra, threatens to topple me when I lean forward, and makes my back ache to the point of tears. Speaking of which, I probably shouldn’t mess with what God gave me, but one of these days I’m going to do something about my chest. First I have to get up the nerve. And an exces
s amount of cash.

  Belle sobers. “Sorry about Charles. I didn’t think he was your type, but I figured a night on the town would do you good.”

  And I’m twinged at wringing yet another apology from her. “I appreciate your efforts, Belle.”

  Her eyes flash—an indication that she has every intention of continuing those efforts to see me as happily married as she.

  Oh, well. As it’s better to know up front who she’s throwing my way, I hold up a finger. “If you insist, but this time make sure he’s a Christian.”

  Not that she doesn’t feel the same way I do about dating. She’s just become, for lack of a better word, desperate. After all, the Bay Area isn’t exactly teeming with single Christian men. And she has to be thinking that if Beau, with his seemingly insurmountable past, could be converted, I might also be blessed.

  “Ch-ching,” Belle murmurs her rendition of a cash register as a woman floats past with an armful of hundred-dollar girlie-girl dresses. With a slight roll in her pregnant step, she hurries off in flat-soled shoes, the likes of which I’ll never get used to seeing her wear. A lover of heels that elevate her above her slender five and a half feet, Belle is rarely seen in anything under three inches. But now that her pregnancy is well under way—

  Deep laughter sidetracks my musing.

  Brad-ish? The air in my cheeks developing a leak, I blink him into focus and glimpse grooves on either side of his mouth.

  Nice teeth, but it’s the laugh—the kind that turns heads without crossing the line to obnoxiousness—that’s responsible for the humming at my center. Manly. Very manly.

  Though it’s unlikely that Brad-ish meets my selective dating criteria, is he even eligible for fantasizing—as in single? Of course, my housemate, Maia, would probably overlook a little thing like a wedding ring. She’s already done it—or rather is doing it. For the past year, the five-foot-ten-inch, 120-pound stockbroker has been seeing a married man. Or, as she calls him, unhappily married. She really needs to find Jesus, and if I can just—

  Brad-ish’s eyes land on me. It may be a second our gazes hold, it may be a dozen, but when he returns his attention to Beau, I nearly wilt.