“If you don’t change your ways, missy, you’re going to need a surgeon, not a makeup genius.”

“Thanks.” She flashed him a camera-ready smile and walked away before he could say anything else.

On-set, she stared into the camera and smiled again. Here, in this fake world, she was perfect. She talked easily, laughed at her guests’ and co-anchors’ jokes, and made everyone who saw her think she could be their friend. She knew that no one in America knew how she really felt right now. No one imagined that Tallulah Hart could possibly want more than she had.

Shopping with the twins and Marah was a headache-inducing event. By the time Kate finished her last stops at Safeway, the library, the drugstore, and the fabric store, she was exhausted, and it wasn’t even three o’clock. All the way home the boys cried and Marah sulked. At ten, her daughter had decided that she was too big to sit in the backseat of the car with the babies, and threw a fit now on every excursion. The plan, clearly, was to wear Kate down.

“Stop arguing with me, Marah,” she said for at least the dozenth time since they’d left the grocery store.

“I’m not arguing. I’m explaining. Emily gets to sit in the front seat and so does Rachel. You’re the only mom who won’t—”

Kate pulled into the garage and hit the brakes just hard enough to send the grocery bags flying forward. It was worth it, since it shut Marah up. “Help me carry stuff in.”

Marah grabbed a single bag and went inside.

Before Kate could reprimand her, Johnny came into the garage and got a load. Kate and the boys followed him into the house.

As usual, the TV was on, too loud for Kate’s taste, and turned to CNN.

“I’ll put the boys down for their nap,” Johnny said when all the bags were on the counter. “Then I have good news for you.”

Kate tossed him a tired smile. “I could use some. Thanks.”

Thirty minutes later, he came back downstairs. Kate was at the dining room table, spreading out the fabric for the last few ballet costumes she had to make. Nine down; three to go.

“I’m an idiot,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Next time they ask for volunteers, I am not going to raise my hand.”

He came up behind her, pulled her to her feet, and turned her to face him. “You say that every time.”

“Like I said: I’m an idiot. So what’s my good news? You’re making dinner?”

“Tully called.”

“That’s my good news? She calls every Saturday.”

“She’s coming to Marah’s recital, and she wants to throw her god-daughter a little surprise party.”

She pulled out of his arms.

“You’re not smiling,” he said, frowning.