Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin Page A

so damn perfect. Her house is tidy, her children well behaved
    and well dressed, her photo albums and scrapbooks current and filled with gorgeous black-and-white photography (her own, of course). She does everything the right way, especially when it comes to her children—from nutrition to finding the best private school (and requesting the best teacher at that school). She’s read and researched
    it all and earnestly shares any and all information with me and anyone who will listen, particularly when there is an underlying note of doom. A water bottle contains excessive levels of lead? A suspicious man driving a white van in the neighborhood? A new study linking vaccines to autism? She will be the first to give you the scoop. Unfortunately for me, her daughter, Olivia, is a year older than Ruby and now attending kindergarten at another school (Longmere Country Day—which is, of course, the best in town); otherwise, she would have reminded me of my snack duties.
    “It’s April,” I tell Nick. “Let’s ask her about the Oreos.”
    He rolls his eyes as I pick up the phone and say hello.
    April immediately launches in with an apology for calling so late—which is how she begins almost every conversation. Usually it’s the “I know this is a really bad time” disclaimer—which is interesting because I’ve never seen or heard any evidence that she endures particularly chaotic bedtimes or bath times or mealtimes, the grueling rituals that unravel lesser mothers. At the very least, she’s trained her children not to whine or interrupt when she’s on the phone. In fact, Olivia is the only child I’ve ever heard use the word pardon.
    “You know we don’t have a calling curfew,” I say (knowing that she has a firm eight o’clock cutoff and that it is now 7:55). Then, before I let her ramble, I say, “Quick question for you. Ruby’s snack day is tomorrow. Only thing we have in the pantry is Oreos. Do you think that’ll work?”
    I put the phone on speaker, but there is only silence on the other end.
    “April?” I say, grinning. “Are you there?”
    To which she replies, “Oreos, Tess? Are you for real ?”
    “No . . . But Nick is,” I say.
    She gasps as if I’ve just confided that Nick delivered a left hook to my eye during an argument and then says worriedly, “Tessa? Am I on speaker?”
    “Yeah,” I say, knowing she’ll kill me for this later.
    “Is . . . Nick right. . . there? she whispers.
    “Yeah. He’s here,” I say, grinning wider.
    “Why, hello there, April,” he says, rolling his eyes again. Nick likes April well enough, but doesn’t understand why we’re so close and accuses her of being neurotic and overly intense—both irrefutable. But I’ve explained to him that when you live on the same suburban street, and have children the same ages (her son, Henry, is six months older than Frank), that’s all it really takes to bond. Although, in truth, I think our friendship runs deeper than circumstance or convenience. For one, she is the sort of friend who would do absolutely anything for you—and she doesn’t just make the empty offer; she actually initiates and always follows through. She brings the soup when you’re sick. She loans you the dress when you have nothing suitable to wear and forgot to go shopping. She babysits your kids when you’re in a pinch. For another, she is a planner who consistently puts together fun things for us to do, either with the kids, the couples, or just the two of us. And finally, she is quick to pour a glass of wine—or two or three—and becomes hilariously frank and irreverent when she drinks. It is a surprising quirk in an otherwise utterly disciplined persona and one that always makes for a good time.
    But now she is all business—the helpful, earnest perfectionist I love, sometimes in spite of herself.
    “It was a good thought,” she says in a patronizing tone I don’t even think she knows she’s adopted. “But I’m sure we can come up