Love, Suburban Style

by Wendy Markham

  There’s a whole strip of chain stores on what was once a sleepy stretch of tree-lined highway. There are lights at intersections where there used to be four-way stops, and it’s much harder to make left turns than she remembers—not because of her driving skills but because of all the traffic. Chestnut Street is now one-way—which she discovered after a near-head-on collision that would have been her own fault.

  Even worse, nobody seems to obey the right-of-way or speed limit laws.

  Were people always this impatient? Meg wonders, as yet another supersized SUV tailgates her for a couple of blocks before swerving around her at the first opportunity.

  By the time they’ve reached Glenhaven Memorial Park, a wooded thirty-acre plot on the edge of town, Meg feels as though she’s driven a couple of legs of a road race—and lost.

  Oh, well. Time to stop worrying about her driving skills and turn her attention to her parenting skills… or lack thereof.

  “I swear, Cosette, if you embarrass me in any way, shape, or form, you’re going to regret it,” she informs her daughter as she pulls into a space in the crowded lot adjacent to the athletic fields.

  Slumped in the passenger’s seat in her usual position—spine resting against the seat bottom, knees propped against the dash, arms folded stubbornly—Cosette retorts, “That seems really unfair, considering that everything about this embarrasses me in every way, shape, and form, and you don’t seem to regret that.”

  Meg ignores that.

  She also ignores Cosette’s heavy sigh as she turns off the engine and pulls the key from the ignition. “Let’s go.”

  “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

  I can’t, either. But…

  “It’s for your own good.”

  And I can’t believe I just said that.

  That was Meg’s parents’ favorite phrase when she was growing up—and one of the many she swore she would never, ever, ever use on her own children.

  It’s for your own good.

  Mom and Dad said that whenever they made Meg do something she didn’t want to do, like eat beets or get a shot or take swimming lessons.

  They also said it whenever they wouldn’t let her do something she was longing to do, like trade Glenhaven Park High for a private school specializing in the performing arts. Or audition for a European tour of Annie. Or even study voice in Manhattan.

  Her parents weren’t trying to smother her creativity, though—as she accused them of doing on more than one occasion. They just wanted to protect her, to keep her healthy and happy and close to home—and them—for as long as they could.

  Which is exactly what I want for Cosette.

  She climbs out of the car, starts across the gravel past the row of shiny parked vehicles, and promptly notices that hers seems to be the only Hyundai in the lot. The others all seem to be either massive sport utility vehicles—including Hummers—plus Volvo station wagons, expensive sports cars, and glossy sedans.

  She watches a pair of fashionably dressed, impeccably groomed Fancy Moms emerge with Starbucks cups from an SUV big enough to transport the entire cast of A Chorus Line. Meg momentarily wonders if she knows either of them, then dismisses the thought.

  Probably not.

  Krissy said there aren’t many locals left in town. After running into her, then Sam, Meg figures her resident acquaintances are most likely tapped out.

  Sam.

  She’s about to see him again.

  Her hand immediately goes to her hair. If only she’d had time this morning to fix herself up a little.

  Not that she’s trying to be seductive.

  What happened between her and Sam last night won’t be happening again.

  At least in the city, after a bitter breakup, she didn’t have to cross paths regularly with her ex-boyfriends.

  But if she allows Sam into her life, only to have him turn it upside down and walk away, he can’t walk far.

  It was hard enough nursing one-sided feelings for him back in high school, when he didn’t know she was alive. It would be torture to let this flirtation go any further now, then be forced to spend wistful years watching him live his life right under her nose.

  Then again….

  Maybe that wouldn’t have to happen.

  Maybe for once…

  Suddenly, Meg realizes Cosette isn’t walking with her. She turns and sees that her daughter is still sitting there in the Hyundai with the door closed, sulking.

  With a weary sigh, Meg marches back over to the passenger side, jerks open the door, and orders, “Get out.”

  She’s prepared for a battle, but Cosette scowls and gets out.

  That’s probably because she’s overcome by the heat in the car with the windows rolled up—especially when she’s wearing all that black: long spandex shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt, socks, and high-tops.

  Having learned to choose her battles, Meg didn’t bother to criticize her daughter’s unorthodox practice gear this morning. She’ll leave that up to the coach.

  Sam.

  Sam Rooney.

  So you’re back to this, are you, after all these years? Back to palpitations and a butterfly-filled gut every time you so much as think about him?

  How ironic. She came to Glenhaven Park for a fresh start, but here she is, feeling as though she’s picked up her old life where she left off years ago.

  Still infatuated with Sam Rooney…

  And still feeling as though she doesn’t fit in.

  She watches another pair of Fancy Moms disappear around a clump of trees and knows there are probably more where they came from. Even here, it’s going to be just like it was in the city, with Meg and Cosette on the outskirts of the socially “in” crowd.

  So what?

  Why do you care? This isn’t high school…

  Well, it is for Cosette.

  Remembering the painful bullying experience they left behind, Meg wonders if she’s made a big mistake. Is it going to be even worse here in the suburbs?

  This was supposed to be her small-town safe zone, a place where all the bad stuff can fade away.

  She glances at her daughter, whose face is clearly visible, for a change, because she’s got her black hair pulled back in an elastic. Her jaw is tense, and she’s looking straight ahead toward the crowd at the edge of the soccer field, wearing a grim expression.

  “Are you okay, Cosette?”

  “No. I hate this.”

  For a second there, Meg was certain she was going to say you instead of this.

  That she didn’t gives her a flash of maternal hope.

  “I know you hate it,” she says, and reaches out to touch her daughter’s arm.

  Cosette flinches.

  Meg releases her. “Listen, it’s going to be hard, but in the end, everything will be okay. I promise.”

  “You can’t promise. You don’t know.”

  There was a time when Meg would have contradicted that statement. Like when Cosette turned to her for reassurance after the 9/11 attacks. They had a similar conversation then, tightly holding hands, standing on their building’s rooftop, watching the black smoke from the ravaged twin towers curl into the clear blue September sky.

  Cosette was frightened. Crying.

  So was Meg.

  But she said, I promise you, sweetheart, that everything is going to be okay.

  You can’t promise, Cosette protested. You don’t know.

  Yes, I do, Meg said firmly, and her daughter was young, and idealistic, and naive enough to believe the lie.

  Not anymore.

  Now, Meg merely admits, “You’re right. I don’t know. I just hope.”

  “Hope is stupid.”

  Meg bristles at that.

  Sometimes, hope is all you have.

  That’s what she wants to say, but she keeps it to herself. Under the stressful circumstances, she’ll cut Cosette a bit of slack.

  As they walk toward the athletic fields, she notes that some things around here, at least, hav
e remained the same. The park itself is virtually unchanged, right down to the familiar gravel pathways, deer netting around some of the newer shrubs, and a cluster of stone and timber picnic shelters.

  Meg makes sure to give a wide berth to the trash cans around the shelters. She can see bees and wasps buzzing around them even from here.

  “Careful,” she cautions Cosette, who refuses to walk at her side and passes close to the cans. “You’ll get stung.”

  “No, I won’t. Bees don’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

  “Sometimes you bother them without meaning to.” Meg shudders, remembering the hive incident from her childhood.

  She’s told Cosette that story enough times, though, that her daughter rolls her eyes whenever she brings it up.

  “Get a grip, Mom,” Cosette tells her now, and marches defiantly closer to the trash barrels and the bees… without incident.

  So far, so good, Meg thinks, trying to relax.

  They emerge from the wooded pavilion area into a wide, sunny meadow bordering the soccer field.

  She looks around for Sam and spots him almost immediately.

  There he is, kicking a ball around with a couple of other boys…

  Wait a minute! That’s not Sam.

  But it could have been, if this were twenty years ago.

  The boy on the field looks exactly like the Sam Rooney Meg once adored from afar. So much so that she’s positive he must be Sam’s son. She watches him for a minute, smiling. Even from this distance, she can see that he has not just his father’s looks, but his easygoing, good-natured disposition.

  As for the real, grown-up Sam…

  She takes another quick look around and spies him standing near the bleachers. He’s holding a clipboard and wearing athletic shorts, a white T-shirt, sneakers. He’s tanned and muscular and his wavy-could-stand-to-be-cut hair pokes from beneath a baseball cap that shades his good-looking features.

  Whoa.

  Palpitations. Butterflies.

  I actually kissed him, she thinks incredulously—for the hundredth time since she woke up this morning. And he actually kissed me back.

  That the kiss was just as good as she always imagined it would be probably isn’t a great thing.

  If kissing Sam Rooney hadn’t lived up to her expectations, she’d have gotten him out of her system once and for all.

  But it did live up to them… and then some.

  As a result, he seems to be even more firmly entrenched in Meg’s… uh, system… than he was back in high school, when she was in full-blown obsession mode.

  She sees him glance around, almost as though he’s looking for someone.

  Then he shades his eyes in her direction, and waves.

  He sees me, she realizes, quickening her pace. But he wasn’t looking for me.

  At least, that’s what she needs to remind herself, trying to keep a silly grin off her face as she waves back at him.

  “Mom, jeez, will you stop?”

  “Stop what?” She looks at Cosette and finds her glaring.

  “Stop flailing your arms all over the place like that. Everyone is staring at us now.”

  Meg automatically says, “No, they aren’t.”

  But, oh yes they are.

  She lowers her arm slowly, acutely aware that clusters of Fancy Moms and a couple of dads are watching her and Cosette approach.

  Even the kids turn their heads, although after shooting curious glances at the newcomers, they quickly go back to whatever it was that they were doing. For the girls, that’s gossiping with their friends and hoping the boys will notice them; for the boys, it’s anxiously shuffling their feet and stealing glances at the girls.

  It’s as difficult to picture Cosette slipping seamlessly into this bunch as it is for Meg to imagine herself sitting in the bleachers with a tasteful blond pageboy, a manicure, and a grande nonfat iced caramel espresso.

  Not that she doesn’t enjoy the occasional upscale coffee drink. But for the time being, her budget won’t allow for anything more than Maxwell House, brewed at home.

  Which reminds her, she has yet to find the box that holds the kitchen appliances. What she wouldn’t have given for a cup of coffee this morning.

  Luckily, though, she found the bedding last night. And some of her clothes—although she can already see that her cutoffs, drugstore flip-flops, and Old Navy T-shirt leave something to be desired in this crowd.

  Too many of the other moms are showing off their summer tans in cute resort wear.

  Well, at least I have fresh breath, Meg thinks, grateful that she also located the box that held the toothbrushes and Listerine.

  Just in case Sam feels the urge to kiss me again.

  Ha.

  She covers the last couple of yards between them, widely sidestepping a couple of fat, lazy bumblebees among the dandelions, and a toddler plugged into an iPod.

  She does a double take at that, and realizes the little girl is also wearing a Lilly Pulitzer sundress.

  Perfect for Palm Beach.

  But a suburban soccer field?

  She recognizes a tiny blond woman clad in pink silk who’s on the sidelines with a tinier blond version of herself. It’s the Hummer-driving, yoga-doing, diamond-flashing, supposedly Sharing and Caring Laurelle again, and obviously, she’s with her daughter. The two of them definitely aren’t having a warm, fuzzy moment over there. The girl looks sullen, the mom pissed off.

  So we do have something in common after all, Meg thinks, as blondie throws her hands up in exasperation and stalks away, toward the bleachers.

  “Hey.”

  Recognizing Sam’s voice, Meg turns to see him smiling at her.

  “Hey,” she returns, glad her eyes are concealed behind her sunglasses—Duane Reade, $12.99.

  Cosette, of course, is lagging several steps behind Meg, head down, undoubtedly furious.

  “I’m glad you made it. We were just about to start the drills. How did you sleep last night?”

  “Oh, we were fine,” Meg replies, conscious that everyone in the vicinity is eavesdropping on their nonconversation. “I slept like a rock.”

  She did, surprisingly—even though it felt as though she were sleeping on a rock.

  By the time she and Cosette had returned the truck, driven home in their car, located the bedding, pajamas, and toiletries, she was utterly exhausted. Too exhausted to worry about much of anything, including ghosts. Even kissing Sam didn’t deter her efforts to drift off, and she slept soundly, straight through, until about forty-five minutes ago.

  “Cosette, we’ll do introductions on the field in a bit,” Sam says. “For now, just let me introduce you to my son… Ben! Come here!”

  Sure enough, he’s waving at the Sam clone Meg mistook for her old crush during her mini time warp episode.

  The boy picks up the ball, tucks it under his arm, and obediently trots toward his father.

  Impressed, Meg realizes her daughter hasn’t promptly responded to her own requests since she was…

  Well, has she ever?

  Not really. Even as a toddler, Cosette was a willful free spirit, resenting interruptions and resisting commands.

  Meg is afraid to glance at her now, certain she’s still glowering, or is applying black lipstick and more eyeliner, or has disappeared altogether.

  “Ben, this is Cosette—she just moved in next door to us—and this is her mom, Mrs…. ” Sam trails off questioningly.

  “You can just call me Meg.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The boy has his father’s easy grin and laid-back demeanor—even when he glances at Cosette.

  Thank God he isn’t staring at her in disdain.

  Making sure Cosette isn’t staring at Ben in disdain, Meg turns her head and sees that her daughter has momentarily lost the glower as she mumbles a suitable greeting.

  Not that she’s congenial as a Georgia beauty queen, but at least she isn’t treating Ben and his father with open hostility.

  No, that’s just
reserved for me.

  “Okay, guys, let’s go,” Sam calls. He blows the whistle hanging around his neck and begins herding the kids out onto the field.

  You’re on your own, Meg thinks, watching her daughter fall in with the crowd.

  Turning back toward the bleachers, filling with Fancy Moms, she thinks, And so am I.

  Chapter

  7

  Laurelle! Hi!”

  Seeing the blank expression on the other woman’s face, Meg wishes she hadn’t spoken up as she approached the bleachers, where Laurelle is seated on the bottom row.

  “I’m Meg… Remember, Krissy introduced us a while back…”

  Still blank.

  “Krissy Rosenkr—I mean, Kris Holmes.”

  The light dawns, but just barely. “The Realtor?”

  Meg nods.

  “Oh! You’re the woman who came to clean that time. Thanks, but I’m afraid we’ve gone in another direction.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, I should probably just come right out and say it. I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t.” Laurelle sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t consider myself all that fussy, but when I come home to a supposedly clean house and find a hair—that isn’t mine—on the white tile floor, I don’t give second chances. And anyway, I prefer a live-in.”

  Okay, this is potentially embarrassing all around. Meg tries to think of the best way to let Laurelle off the hook. “Actually, I’m not Kris’s maid,” she says, almost apologetically.

  “You’re not?” Laurelle asks—thinking she must be mistaken about her identity, judging by the look on her face.

  “I’m not,” Meg says firmly. “I’m Kris’s friend.”

  “Her friend?”

  “We met that day when you were on your way to yoga…” She prompts.

  “I take yoga every day, so…”

  “We were parked on Boxwood,” Meg adds helpfully, wondering why she’s bothering.

  “Oh. I remember!”

  No, you don’t, Meg tells her silently, seeing the still-blank look in her brown eyes. You just want me to shut up and leave you alone.

  “Well… it was nice seeing you again!” Laurelle says in that fake-bright tone people use with annoying children who keep asking questions.