Love, Suburban Style

by Wendy Markham

That’s the only way to protect his kids from getting hurt.

  “Hey, Katie,” he says thoughtfully, “I’ve been reconsidering Erin’s family’s invitation to take you to the Catskills…”

  “You have?” She sucks in a quick breath.

  He nods. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said no right away.”

  Katie squeals. “Daddy! Are you serious? I can go?”

  He nods, trying to hide his reluctance.

  “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod! I’ve got to go call Erin!” She bounds out of the room.

  Crisis averted.

  For now, he thinks grimly.

  And on television, the batter for the opposing team leads off the inning with a home run.

  In the upstairs bathroom, Meg turns on the faucet and waits for the water to heat up for her shower. That takes much longer in this old house, she’s noticed, than it did back home in Manhattan.

  Old pipes, probably, she thinks, picking at a rubbery thread of caulk that’s come loose from the tiles alongside the tub.

  This whole wall should probably be recaulked.

  That, or retiled, she amends, noticing that a number of the tiles are cracked. Anyway, avocado green isn’t exactly her favorite color scheme. It would be nice to go with something neutral, like white or even—

  Frowning, Meg notices that the water running into the tub is already steaming hot.

  That’s strange.

  Yesterday she had to run it for a full minute before it even got warm.

  Then again…

  The steam—which looks more like a mist, really—doesn’t seem to be coming from the water streaming from the tap, exactly.

  It’s more like…

  Hovering above the tub, and over a bit.

  Meg reaches gingerly toward the water to test the temperature, poking one finger cautiously into the spray lest she get burned.

  Burned?

  It’s still cold.

  In fact, not only is the water cold, but the temperature in the room seems to have dropped a good ten or fifteen degrees in the last few seconds.

  What the…?

  Heart pounding, Meg uneasily turns again to look at the steam. Which is more of a mist.

  Which is slowly taking shape into an almost…

  Human form.

  “Oh my God,” Meg whispers, throwing her hands over her eyes and pressing down, hard.

  This isn’t happening.

  You are not seeing some kind of creepy… ectoplasm, or whatever it’s called.

  It’s plain old steam. That’s what it’s called.

  Right, steam. From water that’s downright chilly.

  That makes total sense.

  Well, does a ghost make any sense, either?

  Hell, no.

  Hands still covering most of her face, she cautiously spreads her fingers a bit and opens her eyes to peer through the slits.

  The mist—or steam—or ectoplasm, or whatever it was—is gone.

  Of course it’s gone.

  Because it was never there.

  Maybe she won’t take a long, hot, soothing shower after all.

  Maybe she’ll jump right into bed and pull the covers over her head.

  Come on, don’t be such a baby, she tells herself. You know it was just steam. See? It’s everywhere now.

  That’s true. The bathroom is filling with wisps of mist that hover above the running tap and disperse through the room, fogging over the mirror above the sink.

  That’s what happens when you run hot water in a small room with no fan ventilation.

  She knows that. She’s always known that.

  Then why was there steam when the water was cold?

  The air was cold, too.

  Not anymore. Now it’s warm and humid.

  Maybe the chill was her imagination.

  Maybe it wasn’t, and the house is haunted.

  What are you going to do about it if that’s the case?

  You can’t move. You have nowhere to go.

  Haunted or not, Meg reminds herself grimly as she strips off her clothes for her shower, this place is home sweet home from here on in, so you’ll just have to make the best of it.

  Chapter

  8

  Looking out the window, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow, Sam decides he can put it off no longer.

  He has to mow the grass.

  His lawn is embarrassingly overgrown compared to the others on the street—well, with the drastic exception of the one next door.

  Which, ironically, happens to be the very reason he hasn’t mowed his lawn these last few days.

  He doesn’t want to run into Meg.

  Nor does he want Katie to run into Meg.

  Which can’t happen in the immediate future, since she is safely in the Catskills with her friend Erin’s family, and won’t be back until tonight.

  Safely in the Catskills?

  Hah.

  Sam hasn’t stopped worrying about her since she left.

  It didn’t help matters that her parting words just before Erin’s dad pulled into the driveway to pick her up yesterday morning were, “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine. I’m glad you let me go. And Meg didn’t even have to help me convince you!”

  “Meg?”

  Katie nodded. “She said the Catskills are safe, unless you’re climbing them, and since I’m not, she thought you should let me go.”

  “She did, did she?” Sam muttered.

  “Well… more or less.”

  That conversation keeps ringing in his head.

  Meg has no right to interfere in his relationship with his daughter, that’s for damned sure.

  Then again…

  More or less.

  Katie does have a tendency to overexaggerate things. For all he knows, she was complaining to Meg about his not giving her permission for the trip, and Meg said something vague like “Uh-huh,” and Katie interpreted it as a preorder for a Team Katie T-shirt.

  Whatever.

  None of it changes the fact that the house next door is off-limits.

  But you can’t hide inside forever.

  No, he really has to mow the lawn. Quickly. Before the midday heat can set in…

  And before he runs into Meg and a different kind of heat can set in.

  Anger, he reminds himself. You’re thinking about the heat of anger. Not the heat of…

  Passion.

  Meg nearly jumps out of her skin at a loud sound before she realizes that this time, it’s nothing remotely supernatural.

  No, what she just heard was a pair of car doors slamming just beyond the screened windows of her new living room

  That’s a relief.

  There have been more than a few unexplained creaks and slams these past few days, and it’s left her more than a little jittery.

  Setting down the box she was about to carry into the kitchen, she hurries over to look out, asking, “You don’t think it’s them already, do you, Chita Rivera?”

  Chita Rivera, who is curled on the floor against one of the boxes, sends her a calm look that says she does indeed think it’s them.

  Sure enough, Olympia Flickinger and her daughter Sophie have just climbed out of a gleaming black Range Rover. Olympia is wearing a cream-colored sleeveless top and matching slacks that set off her golden skin. Sophie is in a sundress. Both have their hair in ponytails that look crisp and chic.

  Meg’s hand goes to her own ponytail, which is anything but. She pulled it back hastily with a rubber band first thing this morning because her hair was hot and sweaty against her neck. For all she knows, she has dust and cobwebs in it by now.

  She looks at her watch… which she’s wearing only because she already lost it once in the past few days. The house is still so upside down she doesn’t have any place specific to leave it when she takes it off.

  It’s only eight-thirty-five. The Flickingers are twenty-five minutes early.

  “It figures,” she tells Chita Rivera, who wisely leaves the room as if she can’t bear to w
itness what’s going to happen next.

  Meg was hoping to at least have cleared the living room of boxes. The piano arrived yesterday, but she was too busy out shopping for furniture to organize the room.

  At least she managed to order couches, tables, chairs, bureaus, and beds… all of it purchased from the enormous Crate & Barrel store down at the mall. The good news is that it was all pretty affordable. The bad is that none of it will be delivered for at least a couple of weeks… longer for the upholstered stuff.

  Thus, the only seats she can offer the Flickingers are the piano bench or a couple of cardboard cartons that have sufficed for Meg and Cosette so far.

  As Olympia and Sophie descend through the gate, Meg stands on her tiptoes to see into the tremendous built-in mirror above the fireplace and immediately wishes she hadn’t.

  Her hair is unkempt, her face is flushed and shiny.

  Is it any wonder she looks this bad? She’s been trying to unpack and organize since she rolled out of bed—or rather, hoisted herself from the floor—a few hours ago.

  It’s got to be almost ninety-five degrees this overcast morning already: the kind of still, muggy late-summer heat that threatens to build, then erupt into thunderstorms as the day trudges on.

  Meg hurriedly removes the rubber band from her hair, attempts to fluff the matted curls with her fingertips, and cleans the streak of dirt from her chin with the spit-dampened hem of her T-shirt.

  There.

  Yeah, right.

  If it were anyone but the Flickingers, she wouldn’t care about feeling quite so… grimy.

  Well, the Flickingers, or Sam Rooney.

  But she hasn’t even caught a glimpse of him since soccer practice a few days ago, which is strange, considering that he lives right next door and his car has been in the driveway.

  His son has been shooting hoops, and his daughter has been reading on the porch and riding her bike up and down the driveway, but no sign of Sam.

  Not that she should be looking for him.

  Well, old habits die hard.

  The doorbell rings.

  So much for being presentable.

  Meg turns away from the mirror, kicks a couple of the lighter boxes into the corner, and starts for the door.

  The bell rings again before she reaches it.

  “Coming,” she calls, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.

  She opens the door and pastes a smile on her face. “Hi, Olympia. And you must be Sophie.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” the girl says politely, reaching out to shake her hand.

  “You, too.” Meg is impressed with her manners and resists the urge to wipe off her own sweaty, dirty hand on her shorts before shaking Sophie’s dry, clean one.

  Sophie, however, does no such thing. The moment she releases Meg’s grasp, she wrinkles her nose distastefully and runs her palm along the side of her dress.

  “I’m sorry… I should have called to confirm the appointment,” Olympia says. “You have so much going on with the move, it’s completely understandable that you’d forget.”

  “Oh, I didn’t forget. I’m just… running a little late.”

  No, you aren’t. They’re running almost a half hour early. Why are you letting them off the hook? Being that early is just as rude as being late.

  “Do you want us to wait on the porch while you… get ready?” Olympia offers dubiously.

  “No, that’s okay. I’m ready. Come on in.”

  “Thank you.” As the Flickingers primly cross the threshold, Meg hears a mower start up next door.

  Glancing over at Sam’s house beyond the hedge, she spots him in the yard, shirtless.

  Whoa.

  It’s all she can do to pry her eyes from the sight of his glorious, sun-bronzed chest, muscular arms, and washboard abs just above the waist of his white cotton shorts.

  That his honed physique is visible even from this vantage point is blatant testimony that the man is still in amazing physical condition, just as Meg suspected.

  Suspected?

  You dreamed it.

  Last night, and the night before.

  Yup, she’s been dreaming vividly about Sam, shirtless, looking just like that. Only he was much closer, in her dreams. Closer, and he wasn’t wearing the shorts. Or the sneakers. Or anything else.

  Unfortunately for Meg, she’s been so exhausted she’s been sleeping more soundly than ever before in her life. Deep R.E.M. sleep, the kind that’s most conducive to dreaming.

  Which would be welcome under any other circumstances. But regularly seeing Sam in her comatose hours only fuels a perpetual longing to see him when she’s wide-awake.

  Not just see him…

  Because she’s not just seeing him in her dreams.

  She’s… well, actively engaged.

  And it has to stop.

  Simultaneously pushing Dream Sam from her thoughts and turning away from Real Live Sam, Meg closes the door.

  With any luck, she’ll have trouble sleeping tonight.

  Sam has just settled onto his king-size mattress with the newest issue of Sports Illustrated and a rotating floor fan aimed at the bed, when somebody screams.

  The sound is faint but shrill, coming not from under his own roof, thank God, but from somewhere outside.

  He bolts toward the screened window across the room, the one that looks out over the street.

  Nothing unusual there.

  It’s after midnight. Deserted.

  He waits, poised, listening. All he can hear above the hum of the floor fan is the steady chirping of crickets and the distant rumble of a Metro-North train.

  But he’s pretty sure that scream wasn’t his imagination.

  So sure that, heart pounding, he hurriedly pulls a pair of jersey shorts over his boxers and hurries down the hall. Though he’s confident the scream came from outside, he stops to open bedroom doors and look in on Ben and Katie.

  They’re both safely, soundly asleep in their beds. Of course; they wouldn’t have heard a thing, thanks to their closed windows, where air-conditioning units hum loudly, obliterating night sounds.

  He closes their doors, leaving them to slumber in pleasantly cool rooms.

  Then he hurries downstairs, turning on lights as he goes, wondering if he should dial 911, wondering about Meg.

  It’s not as though she was far from his thoughts in the first place, when he heard the scream.

  He’s been thinking about her pretty much nonstop these last few days, in fact. It’s as if the more he tells himself not to even acknowledge her presence next door, the more he dwells on the fact that she’s there.

  But he hasn’t seen her.

  Not unless you count the surreptitious glance he stole at her as she admitted the Flickingers to her house this morning.

  That surprised him.

  Not just that the regal Olympia Flickinger would befriend someone like Meg, who obviously doesn’t conform to Glenhaven Park’s nouveau social network…

  But also because he wouldn’t expect the seemingly down-to-earth Meg to befriend someone like Olympia Flickinger.

  He can’t help but feel vaguely disappointed about that—and annoyed that he allows it to bother him.

  Who cares if Meg doesn’t exhibit a more discriminating taste in her selection of new friends?

  He has no business worrying about that.

  He does, however, have business worrying that she might be screaming in the middle of the night. It sounded as though it came from the direction of the Duckworth place.

  Which is why, rather than stopping to dial 911, Sam decides to head directly next door.

  He can see that several lights are on upstairs, meaning somebody must be awake.

  But what if the scream really didn’t come from here?

  Sam stops on the walk just inside the gate, unsure what to do.

  Does he dare knock on someone’s door in the middle of the night?

  Does he dare not to?

  He takes a coupl
e more tentative steps through the inky shadows toward the house…

  Then suddenly, finds that he’s no longer in the dark.

  A light has gone on inside the house, this time downstairs. Its glow spills through the windows, partially illuminating the walkway.

  Inside, someone passes by the nearest window to Sam—Meg, he realizes.

  There are no curtains or shades to obstruct his view; he can see her clearly. The first thing he notices is that she’s wearing skimpy pink cotton pajamas: a top with spaghetti straps, and short shorts.

  The next thing he notices is his body’s predictable reaction to the sight of her in said skimpy pajamas.

  He’s so focused on trying to tame it that it takes him a moment to remember why he’s here—and realize that Meg is obviously agitated.

  She rakes a hand through her long hair and shakes her head.

  “I know, but I’m sure you were just dreaming,” Sam hears her say—apparently to Cosette, whom he can’t see.

  He can hear her, though. Loud and clear.

  “I was not dreaming! You don’t dream when you’re wide-awake.”

  “Maybe you just thought you were awake. That happens.” Meg’s voice, fainter and more reasonable than her daughter’s, floats to Sam through the screen.

  “It does happen, but not when it’s a hundred freaking degrees and as humid as a swamp. Who can sleep in this weather?”

  “I can.”

  “Good for you. I can’t. And I’m telling you, someone walked into the room and was standing over me, watching me.”

  Sam immediately comprehends the source of the scream—Cosette—and the reason behind it.

  Apparently, she got wind of the haunted rumors and now she, too, is falling under the spell of suggestion.

  “Think about it, Cosette—this is irrational,” Meg says, obviously trying to sound reasonable.

  But even from out here, Sam can hear the telltale waver in her voice.

  “Irrational? Thanks a lot, Mom. Next time a harmless little yellow bumblebee scares you shitless, I’ll remind you that you’re irrational.”

  “Don’t use that language.”

  “Irrational?”

  Sam perceives parental exasperation taking over as Meg says, “I think we should just go back to bed and try to get some sleep. You have soccer practice tomorrow, and—”

  “I’m not going back up there,” Cosette interrupts—sounding almost tearful.