For All She Knows (Potomac Point #3) - Jamie Beck Page 0,2
that, though, because of my profound satisfaction in sharing the gift of music with children. Carter was not quite three, and we’d been discussing getting pregnant again when Sam received a junior-partnership offer from a regional firm based near this community. He loved being a father, so he jumped on the opportunity to achieve a better work-life balance.
We’d visited several nearby towns before falling for Potomac Point’s town center, with its herringbone brick sidewalks and lampposts with hanging flower baskets. In addition to its sandy public beach, where kids would occasionally dig for fossilized sharks’ teeth, it also boasted an array of restaurants and plenty of tourist shops chock-full of crab-themed snow globes, key chains, and holiday ornaments. The boardwalk—which stretched north from the East Beach Café, its railing flower boxes overflowing with bright begonias—provided a terrific place to ride bikes in the sunshine and inhale the salty sea air, or to sit on its benches and enjoy ice cream as if on a perpetual vacation.
The quaint town seemed safer and more family oriented than our Baltimore neighborhood, and its high school was ranked sixth out of two hundred twenty-six in the state at the time, cinching our decision. We’d bought a lovely yellow colonial on a flat half-acre lot and slid into this community as if we’d grown up here. But we weren’t lifers, which made rocking the boat now feel a bit treacherous.
Like a concert performance, taking the mic tonight would require a colossal act of courage. Ironically, Mimi’s can-do spirit had inspired me to stand up for my beliefs now. Throughout the years, she’d quit a job and started her own salon (without a college degree or any business training), and within days of her ex, Dirk, filing for divorce, she’d begun to pick up the pieces. The other motivation? Potomac High’s statewide ranking had slipped from sixth to twenty-sixth since we’d moved to town. That affected the competitiveness of Carter’s college applications compared with kids from Bethesda and Rockville, hurting his chances of acceptance in MIT’s prestigious chemical engineering program. And if the downward trend continued—which seemed likely if millions got directed to sports facilities—where would that leave Kim?
After loading the groceries into my trunk, I opened the town moms’ Facebook group—which normally featured complaints about school policies or requests for recommendations for glass installers, calculus tutors, and the like—to find the post Mimi had just mentioned.
ATTENTION Tigers’ fans and families. Y’all better show up at town hall tonight to “roar” in support of the proposed budget so the small but whiny group of disgruntled parents doesn’t win. It’s past time that our teams get a new practice field, scoreboard, and better equipment, so let’s show the board that we Tigers’ families approve of their plans!
Amid the supportive comments, I spied my friend and fellow protester Carrie Castle’s response about ensuring a fair process. Some rabid budget supporters had already pummeled her with snide or bullying remarks. Those folks’ kids must be the ones Carter had mentioned who’d been making trouble for him and others at school ever since an ugly argument about this budget broke out during the last PTC meeting.
Sighing, I tucked my phone into my purse and drove home. With only ten minutes remaining until my first piano lesson of the day began, I rushed to season the roasting chicken, put it in the oven, and clean myself up.
My phone rang. Mom again. Having already put her off once, I answered. “Hi, Mom. Everything okay?”
I peeked through the blinds to see if Keri Bertram was pulling up to the curb to drop off her daughter, Jasmine, a high school freshman who’d never been late for any lesson in three years. A dream student, although she preferred pop music to classical. We were currently working on Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind.”
“Yes, honey. I’m fine, but I’m worried about you.”
“Me?” I let the slats fall.
“Yes, you. Isn’t tonight the big town meeting?”
“It is.”
“And you’re really going to speak?” The surprise in her tone irked me.
“That’s the plan.” I waited: one, two, three . . .
“Grace, nothing good comes from stirring the pot.”
Her standard line. She’d preached some version of this throughout my life: “Don’t be like Margot, Gracie. There’s nothing to gain from making waves. Discretion is the better part of valor.”
“I’m hardly starting a war.”
In my mind, her bony shoulders rose briefly before falling while she blew dangling gray hairs from her eyes. “Maybe not, but life is easier when you accept