Love, Suburban Style Page 4

  Feeling oddly territorial, she wants to remind Brad that she’s the one who grew up in Glenhaven Park… and he’s the newcomer.

  “I’ll have Olympia call you,” he promises. “And not just about Sophie’s voice lessons—my wife is very plugged in. She’ll introduce you to everyone.”

  Meg murmurs that that would be nice, but again, she’s struck by the implication that she’s the outsider in her own hometown. And how plugged in can someone be after only six weeks?

  “Do you have any kids?” Brad is asking as he walks her to the front door.

  “One. A daughter. She’s fifteen.”

  “Terrific. Sophie can show her around.”

  Right. Meg can imagine how that will go over with Cosette. A thirteen-year-old would-be starlet introducing her to small-town life.

  Oh, well. As soon as Meg finds a place for them to live, and she and Cosette are settled in, she’s positive they’ll both feel right at home here.

  Outside, she finds Kris chatting through her open car window with the driver of a Hummer Alpha that’s pulled up alongside. Cosette is still tuned out in the backseat, masked by sunglasses and plugged into her iPod.

  “Oh, Meg, there you are. This is my friend Laurelle Gladstone.” To Meg’s surprise, a woman is behind the wheel of the Hummer. “Laurelle, Meg.”

  Laurelle is a petite blonde who might not seem as outrageously dwarfed if she weren’t wearing oversized Chanel sunglasses and driving a vehicle built for military combat. She’s dressed not in fatigues, but in a cute, appliquéd turquoise tank top that reveals a delicate collarbone and arms.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Mmm,” it sounds like Laurelle responds. It’s hard to tell. Maybe she didn’t say anything at all. She didn’t seem to move her mouth.

  “So, Meg is about to start house-hunting here in Glenhaven Park,” Kris informs Laurelle.

  “Mmm.” Meg is convinced that’s the extent of Laurelle’s conversational capability until she adds, mostly to Kris, “My neighbor is about to list her place.”

  Kris’s eyebrows shoot up. “Cari Winston?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who’s getting the listing?” Kris asks hopefully.

  “I think Sotheby’s. Sorry.”

  She doesn’t look it.

  To Meg, Laurelle says, “If you’re looking, you should come see this place before someone jumps on it. Three acres and a stable.”

  “A stable is right up my alley, at this point,” Meg mutters wryly, mostly to herself, though Kris smirks.

  “So you have horses?” Laurelle brightens.

  “Uh, no.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “Forget it. Sorry. It was a joke.” Meg smiles feebly.

  “Oh…” Laurelle rests her left hand against her cheek, clearly bewildered—yet, Meg suspects, with the presence of mind to show off the enormous diamond solitaire and studded band on her fourth finger. “What was the joke?”

  Meg can’t stand people who insist on making you repeat something you both know they aren’t going to find funny anyway. How not surprising that Laurelle is that annoying kind of person.

  “You know… that I need a stable… to live in. Because the real estate market is so out of reach here.”

  “Oh. I get it.” Laurelle isn’t amused, though she pretends to flash a smile for a fraction of a split second. “Well, I’ve got to get to yoga, so…”

  “See you later.” Kris waves.

  “Don’t forget to leave the name of your cleaning woman on my voice mail,” Laurelle calls out before pulling away. “I’m desperate. I swear, it’s impossible to get good help these days.”

  She didn’t just say that, Meg thinks, did she?

  Just to be sure, she asks Kris as she settles into the front seat beside her.

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what she said. Don’t look at me that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Listen, Meg, you might think she’s a snob, but she’s a really nice person. She’s really busy, too—she used to be the CFO of the Drysdale Corporation.”

  Which means nothing to Meg, but Kris seems to think that it should, so she nods and asks, “What does she do now?”

  “She’s a stay-at-home mom. And she’s the head of Sharing and Caring.”

  Whatever that means.

  Meg can’t help but think it’s hard to imagine Laurelle involved in sharing, much less caring, but who is she to judge?

  “And she’s gone through three maids in the last month,” Kris adds, “so she’s really hyperstressed.”

  Again, how not surprising, Meg thinks, as she watches the Hummer roll off down the street.

  Changing the subject—sort of—Meg asks, “She’s actually going to yoga in that?”

  “In that outfit? No, I’m sure she’ll change there.”

  “No, I mean in that tank she’s driving. I thought she might be heading off into combat in rugged terrain somewhere, but no, she’s toddling off to yoga.”

  Kris laughs. “Actually, a lot of people around here drive them.”

  “So let me see if I’ve got this straight—a Hummer is the must-have vehicle for civilian moms to get around suburbia.”

  “I wouldn’t say must-have.”

  “Good. Because I don’t think that’ll be in my budget anytime in the near future. Then again, they’re a pretty good size…” She snickers. “Maybe I can just buy one and live in it.”

  A week later, Meg is sprawled on the floor of her living room, the New York Times Real Estate Section spread out before her; Chita Rivera curled up and purring on the small of her back.

  Scanning the list of homes on the market in Glenhaven Park, she mutters, “Nothing, nothing, nothing… and more nothing.”

  She should probably be saying something, something, something, and reeeeaaallly something.

  Each home listed is more expensive than the last, with the final coming in at a whopping eleven-million-dollar asking price.

  That’s right. Eleven million dollars.

  In Glenhaven Park.

  Which, she’s discovering, has changed drastically since she left.

  Oh, it’s still a charming, beautiful, desirable place to live…

  If you’re a multimillionaire.

  Which she isn’t.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing at all available in my price range?” she asked Kris repeatedly, as they drove around town last Saturday after leaving her—or rather, Brad Flickinger’s—house.

  There isn’t a thing.

  Which is astonishing, considering that Meg’s price range is half a million dollars, thanks to religiously banking most of her alimony checks all these years.

  In Glenhaven Park, that won’t even buy a two-bedroom condo in the new complex sprawled on the hillside above the Congregational church.

  Not that Meg wants a condo, anyway.

  No, she’s longing for a house. A home. A place all her own, hers and Cosette’s. A self-contained dwelling with only a basement beneath the floor and just a roof, maybe an attic above the ceiling—as opposed to stacks of other apartments filled with strangers. She wants four outer walls with nothing on the other side but a view in every direction and plenty of fresh air.

  That’s just not going to happen in Glenhaven Park, where, according to Kris, an influx of “city people” over the past decade has resulted in skyrocketing home prices.

  Meg can’t even afford surrounding towns like Bedford Hills or Mount Kisco, which is where Kris dropped them at the train station to go back to Manhattan.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find something for you,” she called optimistically from the window of her Lexus.

  Something. Meg doesn’t like the sound of that. But if a condo is the only way she can go home again, maybe she’ll have to consider it.

  And she does want to go home again. Desperately.

  When Meg spoke to her parents the other day, she mentioned her trip to Glenhaven Park and the old house. She told them th
at the old coffee shop is now a sushi restaurant, with Broadway Baby and Baby Buddha, a kids’ yoga studio, occupying the floors above. The old five-and-ten is an Internet cafe; the shop where she used to buy her clothes is now a pricey boutique that sells Lucky jeans, but not Levi’s.

  Meg neglected to tell her parents what their house on North Street is worth now. Nor did she reveal that she’s giving up on New York City after all these years.

  It isn’t so much that she fears the inevitable barrage of I Told You So’s—though she’s not looking forward to that.

  No, it’s more that she doesn’t want to get into the whole Cosette thing with her mother and father. They’ve always been worried enough as it is about Meg raising her daughter single-handedly. They want her to find a nice man who’s willing to marry her and be a father to her daughter. The last thing she needs is to tell them she’s given up on men—much less that Cosette got kicked out of school.

  Plus, the fewer people in the loop on the move, the better. She still hasn’t mentioned anything about it to Cosette—though the way her daughter has been moping around the apartment this past week, Meg wonders if she might actually welcome the change.

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  Cosette is going to balk at moving, no matter what.

  Meg has nothing to lose by keeping her plans to herself until they come to fruition. Which should be right around the twelfth of never, the way things are going.

  She flips to the Westchester County Rentals section—equally dismal, according to Kris. It isn’t so much that local rentals are out of Meg’s price range. There just aren’t any. Not in Glenhaven Park, anyway.

  Meg supposes she could look elsewhere, but her heart isn’t in it.

  She’s scanning down the list of locales for prospects in her hometown when the telephone rings.

  Startled, Chita Rivera meows in protest and jumps off Meg’s back.

  “I’ll get it!” Cosette streaks into the room, leaps over the departing cat, and snatches up the receiver, breathlessly asking, “Hello?”

  Meg watches her face fall.

  “Who?” Cosette asks. Then, “Oh… hang on.”

  “It’s for Meg Addams,” she says flatly. “I assume that’s you.”

  Cosette isn’t thrilled with Meg’s name change and insists that she’ll remain Cosette Hudson no matter what her mother’s real name is. Meg respects that choice. She just wishes her daughter would respect hers. Astor Hudson needs to retire.

  “If call waiting beeps in,” Cosette says, handing over the phone, “will you pick up?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m waiting for a call.”

  “From whom?”

  “From Jon. Okay?”

  So that’s it. Trouble in paradise, judging by Cosette’s scowl and the way she skulks out of the room.

  Maybe Joe College couldn’t deal with Cosette being grounded. Which is fine with Meg. He’s too old for her daughter anyway.

  “Hello… Mrs. Addams?”

  Meg doesn’t want to be one of those “It’s Ms.” sticklers, so she simply says, “Yes?”

  “My name is Olympia Flickinger.” The woman’s voice is crisply efficient. “My husband said you want Sophie to attend your voice studio.”

  A few things about that statement aren’t entirely true—sending Sophie to her was Brad Flickinger’s idea, and she hardly has a studio.

  But again, why be a stickler?

  “Yes,” she says, “Your husband told me that your daughter is a budding musical theater talent.”

  “Is that what he said? Brad tends to play things down. I’d say the bud is in full bloom where Sophie’s concerned. We’ve been interviewing voice instructors, and unfortunately, we haven’t found any of them to be acceptable. We’d like to set up a meeting with you at your earliest convenience.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Flickinger—”

  “I prefer Ms.”

  “I’m sorry. Ms. Flickinger, my studio isn’t open just yet.”

  Thud.

  “When do you expect to open?”

  “Not for another couple of months. Why don’t I take down your number and give you a call then?”

  “Well, Sophie is going away to camp until the end of August. I’m sure we’ll have found someone by the time she gets back, but I’ll give you the number anyway.”

  As Meg is jotting it down, call waiting beeps in.

  Rather than attempt to put Olympia Flickinger on hold—she always winds up disconnecting the call and something tells her Ms. Flickinger wouldn’t appreciate that—she hastily ends the call and switches to the other line.

  “Meg?” It isn’t Jon’s voice, but an unrecognizable female. “Good, you’re home. You’ve got to come up here right away.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Kris Holmes!”

  “Oh!” Krissy Rosenkrantz. Meg smiles. “What’s going on?”

  “A terrific house is about to come on the market, and it’s in your price range. Are you interested?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ll take it!”

  Kris laughs. “A motivated buyer. That’s what I like. Don’t you even want to look at it first?”

  “I guess. What’s it like?”

  “Two-story Victorian, original woodwork inside and out, huge yard, five bedrooms, two baths, needs work, but…”

  “I’ll take it,” Meg says again, only half-kidding.

  Or perhaps, she realizes, not kidding at all.

  Does she dare to believe that she can actually leave the city behind and reclaim her hometown? That she can get her daughter away from the bullies and the bad influences and give her the kind of idyllic childhood Meg herself had?

  Well, for what’s left of it, anyway.

  In a few short years, Cosette will be off to college…

  And I’ll be alone in the suburbs… which is probably even lonelier than being alone in the city.

  Unless I meet someone up there…

  Where the heck did that thought come from?

  From Geoffrey, of course, with his constant patter about how she needs a love life. A real love life, not random dates here and there with men who are more self-involved than Calvin was, even.

  “Listen,” Kris is saying, “catch the next train up, and we’ll go look at it.”

  “I’m on my way.” She’s already on her feet, padding to the bedroom to change from her yoga pants into “real” clothes.

  “Good, I’ll meet you at the station.”

  “Where is this house, anyway?”

  “How well do you remember Glenhaven Park?”

  “Are you kidding? Kris, the town is tiny, and I spent the first eighteen years of my life there.”

  “Okay, then… it’s on Boxwood Street. Do you remember Boxwood Street?”

  “Sure do.” How many times did she detour up that shady street, hoping for a glimpse of Sam Rooney, her unrequited high school crush, who lived at Number 31?

  “Which house is it?” she asks, thinking it would be a kick if it were the Rooneys’ old house.

  “Number 33. Remember the old Duckworth place?”

  “The haunted house?” She knows it well; it’s right next door to the Rooneys’.

  “Uh, right.”

  “That’s the house?”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Does what bother me?” Meg asks, pulling a pair of khakis from her drawer and wondering how badly they need ironing.

  “That it’s supposed to be haunted?”

  “Are you kidding? The only thing that bothers me at this point is that I can’t touch real estate in my own hometown.” She opens the linen closet to find the iron.

  “Well, you’d better get up here if you want it, because people will come out in droves at this price.”

  “I want it,” Meg tells her firmly.

  Glenhaven Park, here we come.

  Chapter

  3

  Whose idea was it to move in August?” Meg groans, stepping out of the air-condit
ioned U-Haul truck into the soupy, eerily still early-evening air.

  “Everything about this stupid move was your idea,” Cosette informs her, slumped in the passenger’s seat with an equally sullen Chita Rivera on her lap. “You didn’t even ask me what I wanted.”

  “Sorry,” Meg informs her daughter, “but you lost your vote when you got kicked out of school. This is my decision—and it’s already made. Welcome home.”

  Cosette scowls harder, if that’s possible.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  “No. It’s too hot. You can see the heat radiating off the asphalt. I’m not setting foot out there.”

  “It wouldn’t be so hot if you weren’t draped in all that black,” Meg retorts, shoving wisps of hair off her already-sticky forehead.

  “At least my clothes match, and these were bought in the past few months, instead of the past five years,” Cosette replies, casting a disdainful eye at Meg’s orange tank top and red shorts.

  Meg opens her mouth to reprimand her daughter’s blatant disrespect but thinks better of it. Cosette is right about her outfit—which she wouldn’t be wearing in the first place if she hadn’t, while loading the van in concrete-radiated city heat, sweated right through her original shorts and top—no more current than this getup, but at least not clashing.

  She was forced to change into the first items she’d found in the first suitcase she could locate in the full van.

  They’ve just spent an entire weekend packing all of their worldly belongings—aside from the furniture, and her prized piano, which she hired a professional company to move. No, not just packing, but also scrubbing the apartment for Geoffrey’s friend Andrew, who’s arriving from L.A. to sublet it tomorrow.

  They followed up that rigorous forty-eight hours with three more in this rented rattletrap, which is how long it took to make the mere fifty-mile trip up from the city. Traffic was miserable, thanks to the timing—late Sunday afternoon in summer, which meant a barrage of upstaters returning from the Jersey Shore and the Hamptons.

  So who wouldn’t be cranky at this point?

  Geoffrey wouldn’t be cranky, that’s who.

  He parks his shiny red Prius at the curb behind them, checks his hair in the rearview mirror, then climbs out and stretches lazily, like a cat awakening from an afternoon nap. “Well, that was fun.”