Love, Suburban Style Read online

  “You actually sound like you mean that.” Meg strides around to the back of the U-Haul and tries to figure out how to unlatch the doors.

  “I do mean it. There’s nothing like a Sunday afternoon drive in the summer.”

  “That was no Sunday drive, it was a nightmare, and it’s no longer afternoon.”

  Geoffrey checks his watch. “You’re right! Who’s ready to go get dinner?”

  “I am!”

  “I thought you weren’t getting out of the van,” Meg says to her daughter, who has materialized at her side.

  “I think Chita Rivera needs to go to the bathroom. Here.” Cosette thrusts the squirming cat into Meg’s arms and tells Geoffrey, “Let’s go find a diner.”

  “Brilliant plan.”

  “Wait!” Meg protests. “Don’t you even want to go inside?”

  “I’ve already been,” Geoffrey reminds her.

  He was with her when they did the walk-through prior to closing on Friday morning. So was Cosette.

  Neither was the least bit charmed by the cherry woodwork—painted over in shades of turquoise and pink; the vintage wallpaper—peeling; or even the oversized rooms—pronounced dark and drafty by Geoffrey.

  “Drafty?” Meg echoed incredulously. “It’s ninety degrees out.”

  “Wait until winter. Do you know how much it’s going to cost to heat this barn?”

  “You just don’t want me to move,” she accused.

  “You’re right, I don’t. What am I going to do without you and Cosette?”

  “We’ll be an hour train ride away.”

  “It won’t be the same.”

  He’s right. It won’t.

  But Meg didn’t want to dwell on that then, and she certainly doesn’t now. Especially in front of Cosette.

  She hasn’t let her daughter witness a moment’s doubt on her part—and there have been plenty of those since she made the offer on the house back in June, the very day she first saw it with Kris.

  She’s doing the right thing. She knows it in her heart. The right thing for herself, and definitely the right thing for Cosette.

  It’s just not easy to pull up your roots and leave behind the only home you’ve known for almost two decades.

  Oh, really? You did exactly that, once before, without the slightest qualm. When you left Glenhaven Park.

  But back then, she had only herself to worry about.

  Now, there’s a fifteen-year-old daughter who dramatically claimed she’d rather throw herself off the subway platform in front of an oncoming uptown express than move to “the middle of nowhere.”

  Meg didn’t dispute that; Glenhaven Park is the middle of nowhere, relatively speaking.

  That’s the beauty of it.

  Just beyond the town’s perimeter are acres of nature preserve, unpaved roads, bridle paths that meander past ancient stone walls in the woods. These days, they also meander past massive estates occupied by bona fide blue bloods, Grammy-winning rappers, Wall Street superstars, and yes, the occasional ankle-bracelet-wearing white-collar criminal.

  But there’s still plenty of old-fashioned charm here in the hinterlands.

  It’s just too soon to make that point to a kid who is still lamenting the loss of her boyfriend—older man Jon broke up with her before the Fourth of July—not to mention the loss of her favorite hairstylist; and falafel readily available at all hours from a cart on the corner.

  Meg pointed out, “You hate falafel.”

  “Not lately,” Cosette shot back. “Lately, I love falafel.”

  Yes, she probably decided to love falafel right around the time she decided to hate Glenhaven Park.

  And soccer.

  Meg has already signed her up for a fall league, though, via the mail, thanks to a Glenhaven Park Recreation Commission booklet Kris sent her. It’s time Cosette got some fresh air, physical activity, and wholesome new friends.

  As for Meg…

  Well, she’ll settle in and eventually make friends here, too.

  It just might be a little lonely at first—especially with Krissy on an Alaskan cruise until after Labor Day. Not that she and Krissy have much in common these days. The unconventional girl who planned to move to a commune out west now makes a living selling million-dollar showplaces and lives in one herself. There are occasional glimmers of the old Krissy, but she’s no longer a kindred spirit.

  Finding even one kindred spirit may not be as easy for Meg as it was in the city. Here, she’ll be isolated, teaching voice right here at home.

  Brad Flickinger’s wife Olympia has already set up a meeting this coming week with the musically gifted Sophie, who has her heart set on a lead in the high school musical when school starts again. Meg called the Flickingers the moment she knew she was moving back to town.

  A couple of Meg’s Broadway contacts who happen to live in Westchester have also inquired about private lessons for their kids. They said she won’t have a problem finding willing students.

  She can’t entirely support herself and Cosette, but it will be a good start, and she has Calvin’s alimony and child support checks to fall back on.

  Hopefully, her piano will be delivered on schedule as promised, in time for the Flickingers’ appointment.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Geoffrey asks, turning back to Meg when he and Cosette are halfway to his car.

  “Geoffrey! Do you know how long it’s going to take to unpack this van?” She shakes her head in exhausted dismay. “I’ve got to have it back in White Plains before midnight, and I can barely remember how to get back to the rental place.”

  “Which is why you should have just rented it in the city, like I told you.”

  “That was too expensive, like I told you.”

  “I offered to spring for it. You wouldn’t let me.”

  “That was very nice of you, and no, I wouldn’t let you. I’ve got to do this myself.”

  Geoffrey sighs. “You’ve always done everything for yourself.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Come on, Astor. If you won’t take cash, at least let me treat you to dinner. We’ll all feel more like unloading the van once we’ve got some food in our stomachs.”

  “It’s not Astor anymore, remember?”

  “Oops! Sorry… I mean Meg. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that. But you know, the funny thing is, you’re already starting to look like a Meg.”

  Holding the squirming cat with one hand, wiping another sweaty clump of hair from her face with the other, and glancing down at her grimy, mismatched clothing, Meg concludes he doesn’t mean that as a compliment.

  She thanks him anyway and tells him to go ahead to get something to eat and take Cosette with him.

  Geoffrey has always been—if not a father figure for Cosette, then at least a big brother figure. He’s certainly old enough to be her dad, but his relationship with Meg’s daughter has always been more fun and conspiratorial than paternal. Hopefully, that will continue even now that they’re moving.

  “Oh,” she calls after them, “I just remembered that there’s a great burger place four blocks from here, across from the train station. They have the best battered french fries!”

  “Sounds good, in a revolting way. Are you sure this place is still there?” Geoffrey asks.

  “I saw it the other day from a distance…”

  Then again, it might have turned into another yoga studio or something.

  She still hasn’t had much of a chance to explore her former—and future—hometown again since that first day.

  The next time she came up a week later, it was to look at the house on Boxwood with Kris. The time after that—for Friday’s closing—Geoffrey drove her straight to the house for the walk-through, then to the lawyer’s office.

  She’s still itching to stroll down Main Street again—and she’ll have plenty of time for that now. Home, sweet home.

  “Do you want us to bring anything back for you?” Geoffrey offers, hand on the car door handle.

&nbs
p; “Furniture would be good.” She brought only the essentials up from the city, telling herself—and Cosette—that the style is too modern for the new place.

  To which Cosette replied sarcastically, “Oh, right, we need a lot of dark, heavy stuff with velvet and mohair upholstery, fringe, tassels… Maybe somebody’s great- great-aunt will be having a garage sale when we get there, and we can load up.”

  Actually, given the sorry state of Meg’s household budget, visiting garage sales wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  “I’ll help you decorate, but not today,” Geoffrey informs her. “So no furniture. What else do you need? You know how I love to shop. Give me a list.”

  “You’re going to be sorry you asked. I need a box cutter, toilet paper, toothbrushes and toothpaste because I didn’t remember packing them, a case of bottled water, paper towels and cleaning stuff, a bucket, a cheeseburger, medium rare, and battered french fries,” she rattles off. “Oh, and a side order of onion rings. With mustard.”

  “Gotta love a woman who eats like a trucker even in this heat. Where am I supposed to get the nonfood items?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. You’re the shopaholic. Find one of those big suburban sprawl superstores people are always complaining about up here.”

  “Will do,” Geoffrey calls with a cheerful wave, and they’re off.

  “Come on, Chita Rivera, before you pee all over me—or worse.” Leaving the van at the curb, Meg carries the cat to the black iron gate.

  On the other side, in the weed-choked yard, she can see fat bumblebees lazing among the dandelions. It’s August. Bees are always plentiful at this time of year. And pesky, she remembers from her suburban barbecue days, when she was prone to shrieking into the house in terror as they dive-bombed her plate.

  She takes a deep breath, trying to work up the nerve to step into the yard.

  She isn’t barefoot, and she isn’t carrying a plate of chicken.

  Come on, you know they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them, she reminds herself. It’s about time you conquered this irrational fear.

  The gate creaks loudly when she opens it.

  Nothing a little WD-40 can’t handle, she tells herself. The building super uses the stuff all the time back home.

  Wait…

  Make that back in New York.

  This is home now.

  She steps through the gate and it closes behind her with another protesting creak. Keeping a wary eye on the bees, who ignore her, she sets the cat on the cracked slab of grass-choked slate walkway.

  “There. Now you can’t run away.”

  The cat mews in protest, as though she had every intention of doing just that.

  “Go ahead, find a nice spot to do your business.”

  Chita Rivera, who never in her life set paw outside before today, doesn’t budge.

  “Look, I know you’re a house cat through and through, very dainty and ladylike and all that good stuff, but I have no clue where your litter box is,” Meg informs her. “So get moving and do your thing so I can stick you in the house and get on with the unpacking. Just stay away from those evil-looking buzzing things over there, okay? They’re the enemy.”

  Chita Rivera blinks.

  “Go on. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  No response.

  “Oh… do you want me to turn my back? You’re modest? Is that it?” She folds her arms and turns away, coming face-to-face with her new home.

  I can’t believe this is mine, she thinks… and not in a pleased way.

  No, more in a what-the-heck-was-I-thinking? way.

  Porch half-hidden behind a broken-down trellis densely twined with overgrown wisteria. Sagging steps. Missing spindles. Dangling shutters. Peeling paint.

  Yes, the place has oodles of potential, as Kris pointed out.

  Though she didn’t say oodles.

  That’s Meg’s word, one she unfortunately used in a conversation in the company of the already-glowering Cosette. She immediately learned that cutesy words like oodles make glowering teenagers glower more fiercely.

  Of course, it’s a word she’s actually never before uttered in her life. Along with several others freshly added to her vocabulary. Like sapstain, radon, and sump.

  There were others, too, which she hasn’t had occasion to use in quite some time: deterioration, fungi, and architectural aberration come most immediately to mind.

  So the house has some problems. All houses do.

  But it also has oodles of potential.

  Far more potential than the cookie-cutter ranches in her price range fifteen miles up the commuter line. A house like this has character, and history, and…

  And, well, just… lots of… er, potential.

  For some reason, Meg is seriously determined to be optimistic about this gloomy old house.

  “Gloomy?” That’s not exactly optimistic.

  No, but it’s accurate. Look at it.

  The place looks even more forbidding now than it did when she was a kid. It’s even got that classic haunted house silhouette, thanks to the tall, mansard roof.

  But it isn’t really haunted… is it?

  Gazing upward, she can swear she sees a sudden flicker of light in the attic window.

  Which, of course, is impossible, because the house has been vacant for months. The new family never even took possession.

  And why not?

  Because they thought it was haunted.

  She and Kris sure did have a good laugh over that.

  Only…

  Somehow, it’s not quite as funny now.

  “Let’s go, Chita Rivera,” she urges impatiently, turning on her heel.

  Her command is dramatically punctuated by a loud rumble.

  Meg gasps…

  Then realizes that it’s just thunder.

  Which at this point is actually even worse than…

  Well, other things that can make you gasp when you’re hanging around a haunted house.

  Meg looks up at the sky, hanging low and ominously gray above the distant hills that surround the town.

  “Think it’s going to rain?” she asks Chita Rivera, who merely looks royally peeved. “Yeah, so do I. Let’s get moving.”

  “Right. That’s one large pie, sausage and pepperoni, to 31 Boxwood. About how long?” Sam asks the pizza delivery guy, wondering why he’s bothering. They always say the same thing.

  “Half hour.”

  Yup, they say that whether it’s going to be fifteen minutes or seventy-five minutes. Oh, well. Whatever. He’s on his own for dinner tonight, so what does it matter when it gets here?

  Hanging up the phone, Sam goes back to the book he was reading. A few paragraphs in, he hears a distant rumble of thunder and wonders whether it’s supposed to rain—he didn’t think so.

  Then he wonders whether he remembered to close the windows on his Trailblazer when he got home a little while ago. The air-conditioning is on the fritz—in the midst of the dog days of August, of all times—and he’s been driving with them down and the moon roof open.

  “What do you think, Rover?” he asks the shaggy beige mutt lying on the rug beneath the raised footrest of his leather easy chair. “Did I close them, or not?”

  Rover snores peacefully, as unfazed by questions as he is by thunder.

  I probably didn’t bother to roll them up, Sam decides, his open book poised in his hand.

  Right, he was most likely thinking he’d just have to go out again later to pick up Katie. She’s swimming in her friend Kelsey’s pool over in Glenhaven Chase, the new development across town, and was supposed to just stay for dinner. But she called a little while ago and asked if she can sleep over. “It’s so hot, and we’re going to go swimming again before bed to cool off.”

  He reluctantly said yes, hating that he did it, in part, because he has an early soccer practice in the morning, and it’s impossible to get Katie moving at that hour. Plus, she’ll grumble the whole time about being bored and having to sit on the si
delines while Sam coaches and Ben plays.

  Yes, he thinks somewhat guiltily, life will be simpler if Katie spends the night at her friend’s.

  But will Kelsey’s mom know enough to get the girls out of the water at the slightest sign of a thunderstorm? Even if it doesn’t actually rain, lightning could still—

  Okay, stop it, Sam warns himself. Just stop.

  He can’t spend the rest of his life worrying that something horrific is going to happen to Katie, who, with her stick-straight brown hair and hazel eyes and boyish build, is the spitting image of Sheryl.

  Or to Ben, who is at the moment down at Chelsea Piers hitting golf balls with his uncle Jack, Sam’s younger brother.

  Sam gave Ben so many preemptive cautions on his way out the door earlier that Jack finally intervened.

  “Stop acting like a mother hen, Sam. He’s fifteen.”

  That’s pretty much what Jack said when he convinced Sam that it would be a good idea to put a box of condoms in the bathroom cabinet and let Ben know they were there… just in case.

  “He doesn’t have a girlfriend, and he’s way too young for just in case,” Sam protested.

  “Really? How old were you when you lost your virginity? And did you tell Mom and Dad about it?” asked Jack, who was well aware of the answer.

  Sam was sixteen that summer, and madly in love with older woman Molly Harper. At seventeen, she was a lifeguard—tawny and toned—and on the rebound from her college-bound boyfriend.

  Sam and Molly lasted all of one weekend. But what a glorious weekend it was. And no, his parents never knew a thing about it.

  “I wasn’t fifteen, Jack,” he pointed out to his brother.

  “Yeah, but this is over two decades later. Prices have to be adjusted to account for inflation. So do ages.”

  “For inflation?” He quirked a dubious brow at his brother.

  “You know what I mean,” said Jack.

  “Well, Ben doesn’t even have a girlfriend, so…”

  “Sam, come on. Molly wasn’t your girlfriend.”

  True, that.

  “I don’t want to condone my son having sex at this age.”

  “You’re not condoning it. You’re just being realistic. I bet you don’t want to rock a grandchild this time next year, either.”