Love, Suburban Style Read online

  A strange look comes across his face. It takes him a moment to say, “My wife is… I’m not married.”

  He’s not married.

  But he hates cats.

  But he’s not married.

  But she’s sworn off men like him. Charming, gorgeous men who can cause her to lose her head and her heart—and, ultimately, her mind.

  She can’t risk investing her emotions in another dead-end relationship. She’s gone more than six months without falling in love, and six months without anyone breaking her heart.

  It feels good. It feels healthy. She feels strong and independent at last.

  So she’s going to stick to her resolution.

  Balancing her box on her raised knee propped against the jamb, Meg opens the door wide.

  No sign of Chita Rivera.

  She looks at Sam. “Come on in.”

  “Ladies first.”

  She shakes her head and smiles slightly. “Men bearing enormously heavy boxes first.”

  Watching Sam Rooney cross the threshold into her new home, Meg can’t help but wonder just what she’s gotten herself into.

  Sam is about to unload the last box from the van in the pouring rain when he hears tires splashing down the street behind him.

  Turning around, he sees the familiar domed Park Pizza roof sign on the car pulling toward the curb in front of his house.

  That’s right—he forgot all about the pizza he ordered for his solitary dinner.

  He strides over and recognizes the kid behind the wheel as he opens the car door.

  “Hey, Mr. Rooney, how’s it going?” Jason Capellini is a former student of Sam’s, now working his way through community college.

  “It’s going just fine. How about you? Still in school?”

  “Yeah, but after this semester I’m thinking of enlisting. My mother’s freaking out.”

  “Mothers do that.”

  “Yeah, I know how it is.”

  With a pang for Ben and Katie, who will never know how it is, Sam fishes a twenty and a couple of ones out of his damp pocket and exchanges them for the pizza box.

  “Did somebody move in there again?” Jason eyes the Duckworth place. “That’ll last, what? A few weeks at the most?”

  “Give or take.” But Sam can’t help wishing things could be different this time.

  Why? Because you’re attracted to the latest desperate housewife next door?

  Jason drives away, and fat raindrops are falling on the red-and-white pizza box. Sam is about to carry it into his house before he moves that last carton for Meg, when he suddenly thinks better of it.

  Wouldn’t it be neighborly of him to bring it over there, instead? She’s probably hungry, and her husband and kids might be, too.

  He balances the pizza on top of the moving box and carries them both up onto the porch, noticing that dusk is falling.

  He can see Meg through the screen door in the shadowy front hall, grouping the boxes. He admires the curve of her bare legs as she bends, back to him, and picks up her cat. Then she opens the door for him.

  “I don’t remember packing that.” Her tone is the driest thing in the room as she eyes the soggy pizza box.

  “Well, I’m glad you did. It even has sausage and pepperoni, my favorite. You guys aren’t vegetarians, are you?”

  She looks down at the cat in her arms. “Me and Chita Rivera? She prefers seafood, but I’m a carnivore.”

  He grins. She’s sharp-witted. He likes that in a…

  Married woman?

  Only one way to find out for sure.

  “When I said you guys,” he clarifies, “I actually meant you and your kids and your husband. Nothing against your cat.”

  “Other than that you don’t like her.”

  “Not just her.”

  “So you just hate all cats in general.” She sets Chita Rivera on her feet and watches her trot away.

  He opens his mouth—either to make a feeble protest about his newly acquired cat-hater reputation or to rephrase his inquiry about her family, he isn’t sure which.

  It doesn’t matter; she speaks first, looking down at the tall carton she’s sliding toward a pile by the stairs. “I guess it’s just me. For pizza, I mean.”

  “What about the rest of your family?”

  “My daughter went out to eat with my friend. He’s supposedly bringing me back a burger. But God knows when that will be, so I won’t wait for it.”

  So she didn’t mention a husband, but her friend is a he. What does that mean?

  Sick of dancing around the issue, Sam decides to come right out and ask. “Is your friend—you know…”

  Even in the rapidly dimming light, he can see her eyes flash indignantly as she looks up at him. “Yes, he is. Why? Is that a problem?”

  “That you have a boyfriend? No, not at all. I just wondered what you meant by friend.”

  “Oh!” She laughs. “I thought you were talking about something else. You know, that you might have been asking me whether he’s gay.”

  “No, why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know… Geoffrey’s convinced the suburbs are full of homophobes, so I guess he’s rubbing off on me.”

  “I’m not homophobic… and he’s not your boyfriend, then?”

  “No, he wants a boyfriend.”

  “Gotcha. So he’s—”

  “Right. How about you? You’re not…?”

  “Me? No!”

  “You look horrified. I thought you said you weren’t homophobic.”

  “I’m not. I’m just… not…”

  “Gay? No? That’s funny, I really thought I remembered that you were, back in high school.”

  “Really?”

  “Nope.” She laughs, watching his face. “Kidding again.”

  He breaks into a grin and hears himself say, “So… no boyfriend. No husband, either?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “So do you want to…”

  What are you doing, Sam?

  “… eat some pizza?” he concludes the question abruptly.

  He could swear she looks a little disappointed. Almost as if she were hoping he was about to ask her something else entirely.

  I think I was.

  Maybe I should, before it’s—

  “Sure,” she says, “pizza would be good.”

  —too late.

  In the fading daylight with rain pinging against the porch gutter just beyond the screen door, Meg’s new foyer has taken on a cozy, old-fashioned charm. You can’t make out that the antique gold wallpaper is torn away in spots, or that the baseboards have been painted many times over, most recently in a brassy coral color more suited to a tropical beach house.

  The only place to sit, other than on the floor or wet cardboard boxes, is the stairway. It’s wide—but not wide enough for both Meg and Sam to share a step with each other and the pizza box.

  She sits near the banister on the third step up. He sits near the wall on the second step up. They balance the box between them, the cover folded back and propped below to almost make a little table.

  Sitting here, eating pizza with Sam Rooney in the old-fashioned room with rain falling outside…

  This would have been a dream date for Meg, a good twenty years ago. Now it’s just…

  Well, it could actually still be pretty dreamy if she were in that infatuated frame of mind, and if she were allowed to be infatuated.

  Yes, if she didn’t have this tremendous life-changing move to accomplish, and a daughter to worry about in the process, and a New Year’s resolution to keep.

  Things are complicated enough in her life without reigniting a long-extinguished flame. Speaking of which…

  “I might need to borrow some matches from you,” she tells Sam. “I’m pretty sure I know which box the candles are in, but I have no idea where the flashlight is. And I know I don’t have lightbulbs.” She gestures helplessly at the useless antique fixture high overhead, with its three empty sockets.

  “So you don
’t have light in any rooms? Or just this one?”

  “There’s a ceiling bulb in the bathroom upstairs that works, and there’s one in the front bedroom, too. Cosette and I will camp out in there tonight.” She delicately nibbles the crust end of her second slice to make it last, wondering if it would be piggish to go for a third.

  “What about your friend? Is he staying, too?”

  “Geoffrey? He doesn’t camp out—even indoors. He’s headed back to the city.”

  “Do you have bedding handy?”

  “Handy?” She eyes the towering stacks of brown cartons. “There are pillows and blankets in there somewhere, I think. I hope.”

  “You can—” Sam breaks off, hesitates. “You can spend the night on the pullout couch in our den, if you want to. Or—more privacy—I just remembered Katie’s at a sleepover. You can have the bunks in her room.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” she protests, surprised by the cordial offer. “I wasn’t trying to get you to—”

  ”No, I know, but we’ve got plenty of room.”

  “How old are your kids?”

  “Katie is twelve, Ben is fifteen.”

  “My daughter’s fifteen, too.”

  “Really? That’s a coincidence. What is she into?”

  “Into?”

  “Hobbies, interests…”

  Hobbies. Hah. Meg tries to picture Cosette at a kiln, or learning to skate, or doing needlepoint…

  No go.

  “She hasn’t really had time for hobbies. Her school is very challenging.”

  And they don’t allow students to carry firearms; major bummer.

  “What about boys?” Sam asks good-naturedly, reaching for another slice. “That’s the usual hobby for girls her age, as far as I can tell.”

  “Oh, she likes boys.” And men.

  “Does she date yet?”

  “She did, in the city. How about your son?”

  “He’s newly interested in the opposite sex, I think, but as far as I can tell, he hasn’t done anything about it yet. Want more pizza?”

  “Oh, no, thanks. I’m stuffed.”

  No you aren’t. Why did you say that?

  She still has a ravenous appetite.

  For pizza, she thinks, watching him tilt his head back, holding his slice over his open mouth, nibbling a gooey string of cheese.

  More pizza isn’t all she’s craving, though.

  She watches Sam swipe a napkin across his luscious mouth.

  Then he comments, “So I guess Ben is literally about to meet the girl next door, then.”

  Realizing he’s probably picturing an America’s sweetheart type, as opposed to jaded Cosette, queen of the Goths, Meg hastily says, “Well, I don’t know if I’d put it that way, exactly. Cosette is a little…”

  Sam takes another bite of pizza and waits for her to go on.

  Meg shifts her gaze away from him and ponders her vocabulary for the right word to describe her daughter.

  Dark?

  Edgy?

  Moody?

  Sullen?

  All are accurate, but she isn’t eager to undercut Cosette’s reputation in the first hours of her new life. Anyway, things are going to be different here. More wholesome and down-to-earth.

  Cosette might very well transform herself into a bona fide Girl Next Door.

  Right, and Sam Rooney might tell me that he was lying earlier when he said he didn’t remember me; that he’s actually been pining away for me all these years, waiting for me to come back to him.

  Uh-huh. Sure.

  Meg watches Sam wipe his mouth again in that adorable way.

  Adorable, Meg?

  Yes, adorable, Meg.

  And familiar.

  It’s all coming back to her now. She used to watch him in the cafeteria…

  Among other places.

  And she can’t help but notice that Sam the Man shares certain qualities with Sam the Boy. He’s still got the easy grin, the laid-back demeanor, the casual way of sitting with his legs straight out in front of him, heels against the floor at the foot of the staircase.

  He used to sprawl like this back in their school days, she remembers: arms draped over the seat back, long legs stretched before him, a potential obstacle for anyone who happened to pass by him.

  Meg did, often. And she was always careful not to trip… although sometimes she fantasized about tripping gracefully, if there is such a thing, and landing in Sam’s arms.

  And then, or so her fantasy went, he would hold her close and whisper something charming and romantic.

  Something, she realizes in retrospect, no teenaged boy would ever utter.

  No grown man, either, for that matter.

  Something like, “I’ve been crazy about you from the moment I first saw you.”

  Or, “If you don’t let me kiss you right now, I’ll die.”

  And then he would—

  “Meg?”

  She blinks. “Yes?”

  “You were saying…?”

  She was saying? What was she saying?

  She has no recollection.

  But she knows what she was thinking: that kissing him would be incredible.

  Forbidden, yes.

  Also incredible.

  Hoping he can’t read her mind, she changes the subject altogether, to something much safer.

  “So, Sam… what do you do? I mean, for a living?”

  “I teach physics at GPHS.”

  He teaches physics at GPHS.

  Focus. Absorb.

  Darn it, she can’t seem to rid herself of the image of being in Sam’s arms. All she can muster in response to his statement is, “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s great.”

  What did he say he does, again?

  Oh! He teaches physics at GPHS.

  Think about that.

  Think about anything other than kissing him.

  He teaches physics at GPHS. Meg forces herself to picture him back at Glenhaven Park High, boyishly sprawled at the teacher’s desk instead of behind a student one.

  I bet all the girls in his classes have a crush on him, she decides.

  “What about you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

  What does she do?

  Nothing at the moment, but…

  Oh. That’s right.

  “I’m about to start teaching voice.”

  “Voice? So you’re a singer?”

  She nods.

  “What do you sing?”

  Assuming he’s not looking for a rundown of her musical credits, she shrugs, and says, “Show tunes, mostly.”

  “I don’t know many of those. Any, really.” He sounds apologetic.

  “Well, I don’t know much about Newton’s theory of relativity, so I guess we’re even.”

  He gives her a blank look.

  “You know… physics.” He did say he teaches physics at GPHS… didn’t he?

  “I know,” he tells her. “It’s just that, uh, relativity wasn’t Newton’s theory. It was Einstein’s.”

  “Oops. Well, I told you I didn’t know much about it.”

  He laughs. So does she. Then they fall into an awkward silence.

  He toys with his pizza. She nibbles her crust.

  This is not going well.

  Meg feels like she’s in high school again, trying to think of clever things to say to Sam Rooney. Only back then, she never got the chance.

  Now, he’s a captive audience.

  And all she can think of to say is…

  “Wow, it’s humid, isn’t it?”

  Sheer brilliance. When in doubt, resort to the weather.

  “I’m used to air-conditioning,” she continues. “You know… in the city.”

  “You should get a couple of window units,” Sam replies. “I have them for my kids’ rooms.”

  “Not for yours?” She tries not to picture him in bed.

  “No. I like the heat.”

  Heat. Sam. Bed.

  Stop.
/>   “I hope the rain cools things down,” she says, oh-so-astutely.

  “It should.”

  “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, too.”

  “I hope not.”

  “So do I.”

  Ho-hum.

  “I’ve got my first soccer practice in the morning,” he says then, and she perks up at that.

  “You play soccer?”

  “No, I coach it. For the town rec board.”

  “Really? My daughter is playing.”

  “She’s probably on my team, then. I’ve got the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds who live in zone one.”

  “Zone one?”

  “The town is divided into zones… from here to the Main Street green is one, from the green up to the Stonegate Condos is zone two, and from the train tracks over to Glenhaven Chase is zone three.”

  Stonegate Condos?

  Glenhaven Chase?

  She’s never heard of either of those.

  But on to more important details:

  “So you’ll be Cosette’s soccer coach, then?”

  He nods. “I guess. Ben’s on the team, too. Did your daughter play soccer where you used to live?”

  “Not for a few years, but she used to be pretty good. I’m sure she’ll pick it up again easily.”

  As if he senses that she’s trying to sound more optimistic than she actually feels, Sam offers, “Maybe she can kick the ball around the yard with Ben to get back into the swing of things.”

  “That would be good.”

  Meg has a pleasant flash of her daughter and Sam’s son, kicking a soccer ball around in the autumn sunshine, laughing together.

  Together.

  What if…?

  Nah. If Ben’s son is anything like he was—popular, athletic, wholesome—Cosette will eat him alive.

  Too bad. It would have been great if she found a nice boy her own age to hang out with here, or even date.

  Something bangs loudly somewhere on the second floor.

  Meg jumps. “What was that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Chapter

  5

  As she and Sam gaze up the shadowy staircase, Meg’s heart is pounding.

  Oh, hell. This isn’t just about strange sounds in a strange house. It’s been pounding since she first laid eyes on Sam Rooney again.

  “It must have been the wind blowing a door closed,” Sam decides.

  “No, all the windows up there are closed.”