What Happens in Suburbia… (Red Dress Ink Novels)

by Wendy Markham

  Anyway, the timing was never right for me and Buckley, and these days, I know he’s as over me as I am over him.

  Still, one can’t help but be a little wistful when one’s former secret crush and current best straight-guy friend becomes an overnight literary success, with his name at the top of the New York Times Trade Fiction list and his picture in Entertainment Weekly magazine.

  Yes, Buckley’s first novel, which was published a few months ago, was a breakout bestseller, much to everyone’s surprise—most of all, his own. I think he thought he was destined to spend the rest of his life toiling away writing freelance book-jacket copy in a dinky studio apartment.

  He’s just moved to a one-bedroom with a view and landed a lucrative contract for a second and third novel.

  All of this has left Buckley a little dazed, but as down-to-earth as ever, which is what I love best about him. In a platonic way, of course.

  “Yeah, what’s your news?” prods Derek, Latisha’s husband, his arm draped along the back of her chair with the ease of a longtime husband. Everyone else is looking impatient as well, and I can’t wait to share our joy and excitement with them.

  Well, everyone but Mitch, who already knows our news and sits sulking on the other side of Jack, and Billy, who couldn’t be less interested.

  Oh, wait, yes he could. I watch him pull his BlackBerry from his pocket and hold it on his lap, scrolling with his thumb.

  Kate sees him do it. She gives him a scowl, then a hard elbow. Billy winces, but goes on scrolling.

  Who cares if Billy doesn’t care and Mitch is disturbed by our news? Everyone else will be happy for us.

  “Okay, so the news is…” I glance at Jack, who is sitting next to me with a mug of green beer.

  He’s shaking his head at me. Not a sympathetic Don’t worry, honey, I still love you even if that hideous top does give you a frontal pooch nod. Rather, it’s a warning nod, the kind that says, Don’t share our news until we really have some news to share.

  Too late, though. You can’t announce that you have news and then not say what it is, or worse yet, go on letting people think you’re pregnant just because you made an unfortunate wardrobe choice.

  “The news is, Jack and I put in an offer on a house!”

  “A carriage house in the Village?” Raphael claps his hands together. “That’s fabulous, Tracey!”

  “A carriage house in the Village?” I echo, bewildered. “Huh? Where did that come from?”

  “Didn’t you tell me you wanted one, Tracey?” he asks, looking equally bewildered beneath his shiny green hat.

  “That was you,” Donatello informs him. “Telling me. And everyone else who will listen.”

  “Oh! Right. That was me. I’m dying for a carriage house in the Village.”

  “Which we couldn’t afford before we became fathers, and definitely will never be able to afford now.”

  “Donatello, we need to maintain a certain stylish, sophisticated quality of life or it’s not worth living.”

  Donatello rolls his eyes. “Who are we, Posh and Becks?”

  Raphael flashes his husband a beatific smile. “Oh, I’m nothing if not Posh, darling.”

  “You’re also full of…blarney,” Donatello mutters, shaking his head.

  “Getting back to that carriage house, I think that if we can just—”

  “Here, have some beer nuts, Raphael,” Latisha cuts in strategically, and slides the bowl his way.

  Raphael makes a face. “Beer nuts are disgusting, Latisha.”

  “Really? I think they’re magically delicious.” Latisha helps herself to another handful.

  Kate asks quickly—before Raphael can turn the subject back to his nonexistent carriage house or, God forbid, his ongoing David Beckham fantasy—“Okay, so what’s the deal with your house, Tracey and Jack?”

  “It isn’t even our house yet,” Jack cautions.

  “But I’m sure it will be, because the owners are considering our offer.” That’s me, determined not to let anyone rain on this parade.

  “Where is it?” Derek asks.

  “Westchester.”

  “Wait…Westchester?” Latisha echoes. “That’s way the hell up in the suburbs.”

  “It’s just north of the Bronx,” I point out. Which, P.S., is where she lives.

  “The Bronx is part of the city.”

  “That’s a technicality,” Buckley tells Latisha. “Anyway, maybe their house is just over the border between the Bronx and Westchester.”

  Yeah. It isn’t.

  You know…I have to wonder, where’s the joy? Where’s the excitement? This isn’t what I expected. I probably should have waited till everyone was drunk as skunks.

  I gulp some beer, thinking it might help somehow if I, personally, am drunk as a skunk. Latisha asks, “What town is this house in?”

  “Glenhaven Park,” Jack tells her.

  “Whoa. That’s way the hell up in Westchester.”

  “Why don’t y’all just look in the city?” Kate drawls. “There are plenty of places for sale.”

  “Because we don’t want to live in the city,” I explain patiently. “We want to live in the suburbs.”

  “But why?” Donatello asks. “Everything you need is right here. And everyone,” he adds pointedly.

  “You guys, it’s not like we’re moving cross-country. It’s just a short train ride away, and we’ll have plenty of room for visitors, so you guys can come up whenever you want.”

  Leave it to Mitch to respond to that. “It won’t be the same. Still…how long is the train ride, anyway?”

  “Did I say short? Okay, it’s not that short,” I say quickly.

  “It’s an hour,” Jack informs his sidekick, and I can see the wheels turning already.

  “But isn’t it going to cost you guys a fortune to commute from there?” Derek asks.

  “No, we’d get monthly passes from Metro-North,” Jack says. “They’re discounted that way.”

  Mitch perks up at that. I can read his mind. He’s planning to get a monthly pass, too, God help us.

  “Well, they’re not that discounted,” I say quickly.

  Jack levels a look at me.

  “What?” I ask innocently.

  Jack just shakes his head.

  Realizing our little Raphael O’Shenanigan has been awfully quiet, I sneak a peek at him.

  Aw.

  He looks like a forlorn leprechaun who’s just learned that the pot at the end of the rainbow is filled with beer nuts. “Raphael?” I ask tentatively. “What do you think?”

  “I think you should wait until an apartment opens up in our building, Tracey. That way we can be like Lucy and Ricky and Fred and Ethel, just like I always pictured.”

  Touched, I say, “You don’t look a thing like Ethel, sweetheart.”

  “Tracey! I’m Ricky.”

  Well, he does look a little like Ricky Ricardo. Ricky Martin, too.

  “So you’re saying Tracey and I are the Mertzes?” Jack asks dubiously.

  “Well, you can’t be now that you’re moving away, can you?” he asks irritably.

  “Raphael, stop that,” Donatello scolds as Jack and I exchange a glance.

  “You know,” I say gently, “Lucy and Ricky eventually moved to the suburbs. Maybe you and Donatello could—”

  “No, thank you,” Raphael cuts in darkly. “That was the kiss of death for the show, and Lucy and Ricky got divorced. The whole thing went to hell in a handcart when they moved to the suburbs.”

  “Actually, Lucy and Desi got divorced,” Buckley points out. “Lucy and Ricky aren’t real.”

  “They are to me, Buckley,” Raphael replies, and adds reproachfully, “Tracey, I thought we were going to grow old together right here in the city.”

  “Um, I thought you were going to grow old in the city with me,” Donatello pipes up.

  “And I thought Tracey was planning to grow old with me in the suburbs, but if you really want her, I’m sure we can work something
out, Raphael,” Jack puts in good-naturedly.

  “Tracey and I have been together for years,” Raphael says sadly. “We’re a team, like Lucy and Ethel.”

  “I thought you were Ricky and Ethel,” Mitch says under his breath, and I kick him under the table.

  “It’s the end of an era,” Raphael declares.

  “God, I hate when eras end.” Latisha shakes her head. “First Yvonne retires to Florida, then Brenda becomes a stay-at-home mom, and now you, Tracey.”

  “But I’ll still see you at work every day.”

  “Mmm, hmm.”

  I really hate it when she goes all soul-sistah attitude on me.

  “Mmm, hmm? What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, all you talk about lately is how you wish you could quit your job. How long do you think you’re going to last if you have to ride a train for an hour to get to it?”

  “Tracey has to last forever at Blaire Barnett if we’re going to buy this house,” Jack tells her, “because we can’t afford it without her salary.”

  “Right,” I say, feigning great enthusiasm for working and commuting…forever.

  “So when do you find out whether you get the house?” Kate wants to know.

  “Any day now,” Jack answers. Our Realtor put in our offer yesterday, and we’re waiting to hear back.”

  “You guys really would love this house,” I say optimistically. “I keep picturing us all there some fall weekend, playing touch football on the lawn, cooking and drinking wine and listening to music…”

  “Is the music ‘Heard It through the Grapevine’ and ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’?” Latisha wants to know. “Because I don’t think that’s us. I think it’s the cast of The Big Chill.”

  Everyone laughs. Even me. Even though this hasn’t quite gone the way I had hoped.

  “Come on, guys—let’s toast Tracey and Jack.” Buckley lifts his green mug. “We’re all really happy for you two.”

  I wish I believed that, and looking around the table as they clink glasses, I can’t help but wonder if we’re about to gain a house, but lose our friends.

  When I get home from work the next night—exhausted, cranky, starving and still way hungover from too much green beer—Jack is already there.

  “There’s a message from Verna,” he announces the second I set my aching feet over the threshold.

  “Ooh! What did she say?” I brace myself for the news.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t call her back yet. I wanted to wait for you.”

  “How did she sound?” I ask, hurriedly tossing my coat and bag onto the chair and kicking off my painful pumps. Ouch. My big toes have both poked through the stocking seams and that drives me crazy.

  “What do you mean, how did she sound?” Jack asks.

  Here’s another thing that drives me crazy: sometimes my husband just doesn’t get what I’m talking about.

  “I mean, did she sound happy? Frustrated? Upset?”

  “Why would she sound frustrated or upset?” Jack asks cluelessly.

  Grr.

  “She might be,” I say, trying hard not to sound pissy, “if Hank and Marge turned down our offer. Never mind, let’s just call back. Where’s the phone?”

  He hands it over, along with Verna’s business card.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask him as I dial the number.

  “I didn’t think I would be, but yeah,” he confesses, “I am, a little.”

  I didn’t think he would be, either. Somehow, the fact that he is (which should probably make me feel worse) makes me feel better.

  “What if we didn’t get the house?” I ask him, crossing my fingers.

  “Then we keep looking.”

  “But this was it. This was our house.” The phone is trembling in my hand as it rings on the other end and I reach my other hand out to Jack, who squeezes it.

  “Verna Treeby.”

  “Verna? It’s Tracey and Jack Candell. You called us?”

  “Yes, I did. I gave your offer to the owners’ agent, and she said they got two other offers on the same day…”

  My heart is starting to sink.

  “One was the same as yours and the other was higher…”

  My heart lands in the vicinity of my torn stocking toes.

  “…but when she checked with Hank and Marge, they said that since yours came in first—by only about twenty minutes—the house is yours if you’re willing to meet them halfway on the difference between your offer and the asking price.”

  I gasp. “We will! Tell them yes!”

  Belatedly remembering Jack, I look at him and whisper, “Okay?”

  He nods, grinning. “Definitely.”

  “Terrific. Congratulations. I’ll get back to the owners’ agent right away, and call you back with the details.”

  “Thanks, Verna.”

  I hang up and look at Jack.

  “We did it.”

  “Hey,” he says, hugging me close, “you’re crying.”

  “Yeah.” I sniffle. “I’m so happy. I feel like this is a dream come true for us. I just have this gut feeling that from here on in, everything’s going to be—”

  I break off, stricken, remembering something.

  It happened back when we were engaged, planning our wedding. Up until a certain point, I thought the planning had been a nightmare because I had my heart set on an October wedding at Shorewood Country Club and the fates seemed to be conspiring against me.

  When my dream unexpectedly came true and we landed Shorewood, I decided it would be smooth sailing from there on in.

  A few weeks later, as the plans for everything other than the reception location were crashing down around me, I said, and I quote, The next time I have a gut feeling about anything, do me a favor and slap me.

  If Jack wasn’t standing right here, I’d definitely slap myself now.

  “Everything’s going to be what?” he’s asking.

  “Never mind.”

  “No, what?”

  “Never mind!” I snap at him. “Sorry. I’m tired and hungry and cranky. Just forget I said anything.”

  He shrugs. “Done. Want to order Chinese to celebrate?”

  “Shouldn’t we go out to dinner to celebrate?”

  “If we’re going to have a mortgage from now on, we’re going to be eating in a lot.”

  “Oh. Good thinking.”

  I can’t help but think it’s a little depressing, though. I mean, are we going to be on an austerity budget from here on in?

  I try telling myself it’ll be worth it if we just get to live in that house, but…

  Well, what if I was looking at the house through rose-colored glasses? What if it’s really a gutted wreck with pee-yellow siding?

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?” he asks, fishing a Rainbow Wok menu from the drawer by the phone.

  “It really is a great house, isn’t it?”

  He looks at me for a long moment. Then he smiles a little, shaking his head. “It was a great house, Trace.”

  Relieved, I say, “I thought so.”

  “You’re the one who talked me into it…don’t tell me you’re talking yourself out of it now?”

  “No!” I say firmly. “Not at all.”

  But that is kind of what happened when we got married. I was gung ho for it until we were halfway to the altar, at which point I started to second-guess whether Jack was the right person for me after all. It’s a long, involved story that has to do with Buckley, my hair and a Pre-Cana course, so I won’t get into it again.

  The important thing is that we did get married, and Jack is the right person for me, and all my misgivings were completely unfounded.

  I’m sure it’ll turn out to be the same way with Operation Fresh Start.

  Mental Note: you love change. You thrive on it. Remember?

  “So what do you want?” Jack asks, perusing the menu.

  Suddenly overcome with sheer exhaustion, I say, “I don’t care. Surprise me.”

  “Sur
prise you?” he echoes incredulously. “You?”

  “Why not?” I shrug and head into the bedroom, painful pumps in hand.

  Actually, I know why not.

  Because as I said, I am the ultimate control freak. I like to be the one who decides what I’m going to eat. And wear, for that matter, I think as I sit on the edge of the bed to strip off these holey nylons.

  For example, if I had my way, I’d never put on another pair of panty hose as long as I live.

  But in Manhattan’s corporate world, you just can’t avoid it.

  Which is why—as much as I have been longing to own this house in Glenhaven Park—something other than The next time I have a gut feeling about anything, do me a favor and slap me is ringing in my ears tonight.

  I also hear Jack’s voice.

  Tracey has to last forever at Blaire Barnett if we’re going to buy this house, because we can’t afford it without her salary.

  Forever is an awfully long time…even when a person is living happily ever after in her dream house.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Hello?” My mother answers the phone on the first ring, as usual.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Stefania!”

  At least, I thought that was my mother answering the phone.

  “Ma?”

  “Mary Beth?”

  Okay, it’s definitely my mother. Mary Beth is my older sister and she and my mother speak at least three or four times a day, even though they live a few blocks apart.

  But who the hell is Stefania?

  “No, Ma, it’s me! Tracey.”

  “Tracey! I knew you’d call! See, Frank?” she says to my father, who is obviously somewhere in the vicinity, which is strange at this hour on a weekday. “What did I tell you? Tracey is calling to wish us a Happy Saint Joseph’s Day!”

  Uh-oh again.

  Is it March 19?

  I glance at the date on Kate’s e-mail. Yup. March 19, all right.

  Saint Joseph’s Day. No wonder my father is home on a weekday at this hour—it’s almost noon—which means I’d better make this snappy. I’ve got a lunch meeting in the eighth-floor conference room.