Chapter 5
The Eighth Annual Monroe Circle End of Summer BBQ hosted by Renee Belmont was in full swing as Carli, Mia, and Tess made their way down the street toward the cul-de-sac. Red, white, and blue balloons and sparkly streamers decorated every mailbox. An inflatable bounce castle filled an entire front yard, and next to that was a tent full of eight-foot tables covered with cheerful red-and-white-checked tablecloths along with every kind of summer picnic potluck dish ever posted on Pinterest, including a watermelon carved to look like a pirate ship surrounded by little pirates made from marshmallows and Rice Krispie Treats dipped in candy coating. Renee never did anything halfway, and while Carli applauded her achievements, she also wondered if perhaps Renee might have a bit too much time on her hands.
She had just one child, a college boy about to start his second year of premed at the University of Michigan, and a firefighting husband who was at work far more often than he was at home. Renee rarely complained about his absences, and Carli sometimes suspected that was the secret to their happy marriage. Maybe if Steve had been home less, they’d have had a chance to miss each other and not take everything for granted.
“Wow,” Tess murmured, staring at the elaborate buffet. “Mrs. Belmont strikes again. This is seriously extra.”
“Did you put bacon in that?” Mia asked as Carli tried to wedge her humble bowl of broccoli salad in between a decorative platter of tomato-mozzarella-basil kabobs and an assortment of mini mason jars full of Tex-Mex dip adorned with one perfectly positioned triangle of corn chip.
“Nope, no bacon,” Carli answered, wondering if she should have put more effort into her dish. On more than one occasion, she’d tried to pass off store-bought items as homemade, and Renee busted her every damn time. Today’s contribution was sincerely homemade, but it looked sparse and bland next to the mini sandwiches cut into letter shapes that spelled MONROE CIRCLE and the cookies frosted to look like soccer balls and footballs.
“I miss bacon,” Mia said wistfully.
“Maybe you could try that soy bacon. You know, that stuff Dad always calls fakon?” Tess added. “Definitely no animals were involved in the production of that stuff.”
“Nothing organic was involved in the production of that stuff. It’s like chemically treated cardboard,” Mia answered dismissively, and Tess rolled her eyes.
It was the last Saturday of the summer, and Mia and Tess were here under duress, having both gotten invited to something better. Carli knew they’d rather be just about anyplace else, since they were too young to hang out with the adults and too old to play with the little kids. But she wanted them here. It was the annual summer barbecue. It was tradition, but her daughters were displaying all the enthusiasm of two teens about to get a flu shot.
Was she selfish for wanting them here when they could be with their friends? It was a constant tightrope walk in her heart these days, wanting to give them the freedom to be teens and all that entailed while also wanting them to be with her. Now that they spent part of their time at Steve’s, she was particularly greedy about their attention. She knew that inevitably a cluster of teens from the neighborhood would end up taking over the play structure in Renee’s backyard and socialize by texting each other about how lame this party was, but she was okay with that. She just wanted them near.
“It looks like there’s lots of good stuff to eat,” Carli said, hoping to stir some interest. Maybe she could at least appeal to their stomachs.
Tess leaned over and adjusted a couple of the Tex-Mex mason jars to make more room for the basic broccoli salad. Her blonde hair was in pigtails, making her look twelve instead of sixteen, and a spear of nostalgia pierced Carli right in the chest.
“Lots of good stuff,” Tess agreed. “And your salad is really pretty, Mom.”
Carli looked at her, wondering if her emotions were so obvious, but her daughter’s attention was already drawn elsewhere—toward the nearest boy—and soon she and Mia were ensconced within a squad of like-minded kids all eager to talk about how much they dreaded school starting on Monday. And off they went.
“So have you met him yet?” Her neighbor DeeDee appeared at Carli’s elbow just as Mia and Tess disappeared into the nearest backyard.
“Who?” She knew who. She was just playing coy. She’d gotten a dozen text messages from various factions in the neighborhood wanting to know if the new guy next door was as good-looking as everyone said, and if he was as rude as Lynette thought. Short answer: yes to both.
“The new neighbor,” DeeDee said. “I saw a couple pictures of him on Facebook and this momma likey.” She smoothed her hands over her torso and hips. DeeDee was twice divorced, constantly on the lookout for her next ex-husband, and spent so much time at the gym that most people thought she worked there. Her hair was cut pixie short and was a deep red hue found nowhere in nature.
Carli shook her head at DeeDee. “Well, he’s all yours, because this momma no likey. He’s kind of a jerk.”
DeeDee sighed. “Ahh, wouldn’t you know it? Jerks are my kryptonite. Let’s get you a drink and you can tell me all about him.”
Two glasses of pinot grigio later, DeeDee, Erin, and Lynette had heard every detail about the dog and the steak and the broken grill. They were now sitting in folding lawn chairs as far from the bouncy house as possible while Renee stopped by every few minutes to refill their glasses before flitting away to attend to something else.
“Oh my gosh,” Erin said, laughing after Carli recounted the dog story one more time. “You had a meat cute. Get it? Like M-E-A-T? A meat cute.”
“Hilarious,” Carli said, not laughing. “And then he just walked back into his house. And he called me ma’am.” The wine was hitting her hard, and every time she retold her story, she got more annoyed, because no woman in the world wants to be called ma’am, especially by someone their own age. Maybe it was understandable coming from a bagger at the grocery store or a kid selling candy bars door to door, but a grown man calling a woman ma’am was practically like saying I find you sexless and overly mature.
“See?” Lynette said. “I told you. Rude. I don’t care if he is a Chase.” Her concurrent scoff was well practiced and accompanied by a flick of a wrist.
“A Chase? Meaning what?” Carli glanced at her glass and noticed it was time for a refill. Where the heck was Renee?
Lynette gazed at her as if she were clueless. “You know. He’s a Chase meaning he’s, like, you know, a Chase. Like Chase Industries. The Chase Foundation. The Wallace-Chase Arena. Didn’t I mention that the other day?”
Lynette hadn’t. Carli would’ve remembered that. “He is? He’s that kind of Chase? What the heck is a guy with that kind of money doing living in our humble little neighborhood?” Their neighborhood was actually a few steps above humble, but it was hardly Chaseworthy. That family was Midas rich and well-known, with their names on buildings all around Glenville. There was the Lila Chase Pediatric Cancer Ward, the Saundra Chase Equestrian Center, and the Chase Art Gallery, which Carli had gone to once and discovered was full of really peculiar sculptures by an artist who simply called himself Alex.
“Word is he paid cash for the house, but I’ve also heard his divorce is going to be . . . very . . . expensive,” Lynette added, leaning forward. She said the words very and expensive with equal gusto.
“I’d imagine it will be, if he comes from that kind of money,” DeeDee said, tapping her french-manicured fingers against her wineglass. “Still, I’m sure there’ll be enough left over for him to support me in the lifestyle to which I’d like to become accustomed.”
Erin chuckled. “Well, rude or not, I’m sure once word gets around about a Chase being on the market again, women will be lining up for miles.”
Carli shook her head, feeling a little sloppy from her wine. “Well, I sure as hell won’t be in that line. He may be rich, but I think that guy’s an asshole.”
Something loud and carnival-like was happening at the end of Ben’s street. He had a vague memory
of his busybody neighbor lady handing him a flyer along with the apple thing, but he’d tossed the paper into a stack of mail without paying much attention. Maybe he should read it and find out why family after family seemed to be walking past his house with coolers and wagons full of kids. He sifted through the pile, tossing out the obvious junk pieces until he came to the sunny yellow sheet of paper with the words Eighth Annual Monroe Circle End of Summer BBQ splashed across the top in some very elaborate font. From the looks of it, he was supposed to bring a dish to pass, his own beverages, and a lawn chair.
Or he could just skip it, which seemed like the best option. The kids were at Sophia’s, and Ben had work to do while they were gone. He’d torn down the wall between the kitchen and living room, and drywall dust was everywhere. His refrigerator was practically in the middle of the kitchen. Plus, all the stuff he’d ordered last week had finally arrived and needed to be unpacked. There were boxes over by the fireplace containing plates and bowls and glasses, pots and pans, sheets and towels. Best of all, he now had a coffee maker that was currently sitting on the counter in his master bathroom to protect it during his kitchen reconstruction. All things considered, he should probably keep at it . . . but he could hear the music from down the street and people shouting and laughing.
Ben appreciated his solitude, but he hadn’t talked to anyone outside of his family, his lawyer, and a handful of clients in days, and since he had no idea how long he’d be living in this house, maybe it would be worthwhile to go meet some of his neighbors. Undoubtedly, they’d ask questions. Uncomfortable questions, like basically anything pertaining to the catastrophic status of his marriage, his business, and his treacherous business partner, or his new yet mostly empty house . . . but he could handle it. What the hell? How bad could it be?
He opened his fridge and pulled out a bag of grapes. Not exactly a dish to pass, but this should count. He looked around for a moment before realizing he had no cooler. He’d add that to the growing list of stuff he still needed to buy, but for right now, he just grabbed a beer and figured he’d walk back when that one was empty, which would also give him a handy exit strategy if the situation called for it.
It felt a little odd walking down his new street with an open beer in one hand and a plastic baggie of freshly washed grapes in the other, but as he got closer to the melee of people, he was greeted with smiles and waves. A dozen different neighbors introduced themselves, and he tried to commit as many names as possible to his memory but was pretty sure he was going to forget them all. He was typically good with names, but this was too many at once.
“Hello, there. I’m Renee. You must be Carli’s new neighbor,” said a woman with intricately braided hair piled high on her head and a smile so bright it made him automatically smile in return.
“Carli?” he asked before making the connection. “Oh, is that the woman with the dog?”
Renee’s laugh was as infectious as her smile. “Yep, that would be Carli. And Gus. He’s not so much a dog as he is a furry disaster, but she’s working on that.”
Ben shook his head. “She wasn’t having much luck the last time I saw her.”
“Well, he’s a work in progress, and speaking of progress, how goes your unpacking? Are you getting settled into your new place?”
“That is also a work in progress. I should be unpacking right now, but I heard there was food down here.”
“That there is. You can put your . . .” She glanced at the bag in his hand. “Um, grapes right over there on that table and help yourself to whatever you want to eat. The guys are just firing up the grill to cook some hot dogs and hamburgers, so let me know if you need anything.” She pointed in the direction of a white tent full of tables, and Ben blinked in surprise. There was a ton of food here, and suddenly his grapes felt very insignificant. Was that a pirate ship?
He made his way toward the tent, passing behind a cluster of women sitting in lawn chairs, and his footsteps faltered as he heard one distinctly say, “Well, rude or not, I’m sure once word gets around about a Chase being on the market again, women will be lining up for miles.” Then the woman next to her said, “Well, I sure as hell won’t be in that line. He may be rich, but I think that guy’s an asshole.”
Great. That’s just great. He took a step backward, nearly bumping into someone behind him, and as the women in the chairs turned, Ben saw the only familiar face at this entire party. His next-door neighbor with the messy bun and the very bad dog.
She had the decency to blush when she spotted him and quickly turned back around. Her companions did more of a long stare, and he felt very much as if he were being appraised, but for what, he couldn’t guess. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been called an asshole, but it was the first time he’d been called that by a virtual stranger. Usually one had to earn that kind of comment, but all he’d done to this woman was leave her alone to deal with her own damn dog.
He watched Messy Bun’s head drop for a second before she stood up from the chair. She walked around it and up to him, extending a hand and offering up the most lackluster smile he’d ever seen.
“Hi, I’m Carli from next door. We sort of met the other night. Um . . . Welcome to the neighborhood?”
He lifted his hands to establish that he had a beer in one and grapes in the other, and he was pretty sure his expression said he wasn’t all that interested in shaking her hand. That’s the look he was going for, anyway.
“Here, let me get those for you,” said one of the other women, popping up from her chair and joining them, pulling the bag of grapes from his grasp. “I’m DeeDee. That house right there is mine, and if you need anything, and I mean anything, you just let me know.” She pointed to the beige two-story house mostly obscured by an enormous bounce castle that must’ve had thirty kids in, on, and around it. “Welcome to the Monroe Circle Barbecue.”
He let himself be guided away from the scene of the crime, only because he didn’t want to walk in and kick up a fuss in front of a bunch of people who didn’t know him. The short-haired woman leaned against him as they walked, and if he didn’t know better, he might think she’d just grazed her boob across his arm on purpose. “Don’t pay attention to Carli,” she said. “She was just joking, and that dog is a real sore spot for her. Everyone wants her to get rid of him, but she’s determined to train him.”
His judgmental neighbor having a steak-snatching, grill-busting mutt hardly entitled her to call him an asshole, especially to a group of women who didn’t know anything about him. He’d seen enough episodes of Real Housewives, thanks to Sophia, to know how this would play out. They’d all form opinions about him and he’d endure the next however many years trying to make up for one moment of unfriendly behavior. But trying to defend himself would only dig the hole deeper. All he could do now was be the friendliest SOB at this party and show everyone he was not an asshole. He definitely should have brought more than one beer.
Fortunately, people seemed to be in a sharing mood, and he spent the rest of the afternoon feeling as if everyone else seemed to like him just fine. All the guys offered him beer and asked which sports teams he liked, and all the women offered him food and asked how the unpacking was going. He was chatty and inquisitive and replied with friendly yet vague answers. He made a show of smiling at everyone’s little kids and sharing how Addie loved to babysit. This barbecue, with the standard, superficial chitchat, wasn’t all that different from galas and fundraisers that he’d been to while working for his father. It wasn’t different from the parties he and Sophia had gone to. No one asked anything too invasive, although the redhead who’d taken away his grapes kept staring at him in a way that felt overly familiar.
Meanwhile, Carli With the Bad Dog kept her distance. They caught each other’s eyes once or twice, and she gave him a feeble half smile each time, and he’d responded with an equally tepid and anemic half smile in return, like they were politicians forced to share an elevator with a crowd of reporters. Eventually, thanks to the copiou
s amounts of beer he’d been given, he decided to be the bigger person and worked his way to her side. Her cheeks were flushed, and her messy bun seemed even messier than before. It was late in the evening now, and the drinking had been going on all day. She might be a little drunk. He knew he was. Not sloppy or anything, but talking to all those people had made him thirsty.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said back.
They stared cautiously at each other for a moment, like cats who wanted you to know they were there just so they could ignore you, until she finally said, “Are you having a good time?”
“Uh-huh. You?”
“Yep.” She took a sip from a plastic wineglass. Another pause filled the empty space until she added, “I’m sorry I called—”
“I’m sorry I didn’t—” he said at the same time, then they both chuckled, popping the tension like a soap bubble.
“Okay, you go first,” he said.
She sighed, big and deep, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the view of her breasts rising and falling under her pink T-shirt. She wasn’t particularly busty but had enough curves in all the right places, and he appreciated that. She had the whole girl-next-door vibe going on that the other women in this neighborhood did not. Nothing against the other women, of course, but the redhead was a little too obvious for his taste. He’d passed by her at one point earlier in the evening and could’ve sworn he heard her smacking her lips.
“I’m sorry you heard me call you an asshole,” Carli finally said.
He let that work its way through his beer-laden brain fog. “Are you sorry you said it, or just sorry I heard you say it?”
Her smile was the subtlest of quirks. “I’m definitely sorry you heard and . . . yeah, I’m sorry I said it, too.” In the scheme of apologies, that was about a two on a scale of one to ten. But he’d take it.
The New Normal Page 5
