Single in Suburbia

by Wendy Wax

  She studied her husband, looking for clues as to what to do. He seemed perfectly satisfied with the past she’d created for herself. Even if she wanted to, how could she suddenly admit it was a complete fabrication?

  No, she couldn’t risk it. Better to simply be the woman he thought she was. Even if it left her on the other side of the wall, unable to get in.

  chapter 14

  I n her rattiest jeans and one of Wyatt’s old baseball jerseys, Amanda scrubbed her bathtubs, folded the kids’ laundry and put every piece of it away. Then she cleaned out the refrigerator and both of her freezers, tossing out the science projects and rock-hard ziplock baggies that had been in the freezer since the last ice age.

  When even she couldn’t find anything else in the house that required her attention, she picked up the stack of bills that had been teetering on her desk and carried them to the kitchen table. Retrieving a legal pad, a pen, and a calculator from the desk drawer, she placed those next to the pile of envelopes then sat down at the table, scooted her chair closer. And eyed them.

  She’d told herself that going through them would help her put things in perspective, but just looking at them—and acknowledging their existence—sent a shiver of dread coursing through her. They were visible, tangible symbols of how completely her life had changed.

  Once her role had been clear-cut—she ran their home, saw to her family’s well being and served as chief cheerleader, counselor, and organizer. She still had all those jobs, but now she was supposed to be the breadwinner too. Everything she did now produced all kinds of conflicted feelings and reactions.

  Cleaning houses was hard physical labor; doing it while pretending to be someone else was both exhilarating and draining. And then there were Meghan’s mood swings, which ranged from ecstasy over the coming prom to fury over her father’s desertion. Too often Amanda felt as if she was tiptoeing through a minefield and that one wrong step would set Meghan off and cause them all to explode.

  With a sigh, she opened the first bill, wrote the amount and the due date on the legal pad then moved on to the next. Thirty minutes later she knew exactly where she stood and wished that she didn’t.

  At the moment Solange earned a whopping total of $405 a week; not nearly enough to pay these ongoing bills and keep current on the mortgage, when the five thousand Rob had deposited to cover the month of April was gone.

  Feeling old and not at all French, Amanda put the bills back in a pile, tied them and the dismal yellow sheet with a rubber band, and stashed them out of sight. She needed to call Candace to see if she had any more potential clients, but first she needed to pick up cold cuts for the kids’ lunches and something she could cook for dinner. She’d best stock her pantry while she could. If she didn’t start earning more money soon, she was going to be cooking Casseroles d’Alpo instead of Beef Bourguignon and Coq au Vin.

  At the grocery store the crowd in front of the deli counter stood three deep. Jockeying for position, Amanda wrestled a number out of the dispenser then angled her grocery cart over to the side. She had number 102. Eighty-nine was currently being served.

  With a sigh she checked her watch then hunkered down for the duration. Wyatt had a ride home from an after school meeting and a house key. As long as she got to dance in time to retrieve Meghan, she’d be OK.

  Behind the counter, two people who spoke more heavily accented English than Solange were slicing breasts of meat and holding the slices up—one at a time—for inspection. Their movements were slow and deliberate. Very slow and deliberate. They made oozing molasses seem fast.

  Trying to control her impatience, Amanda scanned the crowd for familiar faces. She spotted Susie Simmons, impeccably dressed and in full war paint, edging closer to one of the few men in the crowd. He was tall and broad shouldered, the top of his sandy blond hair stood out well above the others. He’d just taken his bags from the deli person and was dropping them in his basket.

  Susie inserted herself to his left, directly beside a nicely sculpted shoulder. In a completely calculated move, she opened her fingers and released her number, letting it flutter to the ground at his feet. She fluffed her hair, moistened her lips, and smoothed the arch of an eyebrow while he bent to pick it up.

  The crowd shifted and Amanda got an eyeful of nicely rounded buttocks. She watched the man straighten and hand the number back to Susie, then recognized the angled jaw and ready smile of Hunter James.

  Susie Simmons batted her eyelashes at him, touched her hair, leaned in closer. Like a fisherman casting her lure, Susie sent out every “come and get me” signal known to womankind.

  “Number ninety-five!” a deli person shouted.

  One of the customers yelled “Bingo” and stepped toward the counter. The remaining crowd shifted again and the press of bodies thinned.

  Susie was decked out for “fishing.” Amanda was still wearing worn jeans and Wyatt’s old baseball shirts. Her hair had dried au naturel, which meant it was probably board straight with a funky frizz by now and she hadn’t taken the time to put on the first drop of makeup. The best thing that could be said for her was that she wasn’t presently clutching a gross of condoms.

  She considered slipping away, but she needed the sandwich meat and something inside her absolutely refused to retreat. She inched close enough to hear while keeping a screen of people between them.

  In a sea of minnows, Hunter James was one fine-looking fish.

  “You look so familiar,” Susie said to Hunter, her southern drawl thickening to alarming proportions. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

  He extended his hand, polite, and Susie latched onto it. “Hunter James. We’re pretty new here, but I have daughters at Dickerson and Walton. Maybe we’ve passed in the carpool line?”

  Amanda flushed at the predatory look in Susie’s eyes. Hunter’s expression was harder to read. For all she knew, he liked being scoped out at the seafood counter, or dished up at the deli.

  “Oh, no,” Susie demurred. “I’d remember that. No, I’ve seen you someplace else. And your name sounds so familiar. I believe your daughter and mine are on the prom committee together.” Susie hadn’t let go of his hand yet; she appeared to be pressing her breast up against his arm.

  “I know,” Susie said. “Why don’t I have my daughter invite yours to our picture party?” She looked him up and down, her gaze settling on the hand she wasn’t currently clutching, presumably in search of a wedding band. “You and your wife are welcome too.”

  Amanda blushed on Susie’s behalf. Or maybe on her own. God, she hoped she hadn’t looked so…hungry…when she’d invited him to theirs.

  “That’s very kind of you.” He withdrew his hand and took a small step backward. Turning away as he disengaged, his gaze collided with Amanda’s. “But it’s just me and my daughters and we’ve already accepted an invitation.” He was looking directly at Amanda now. “From the Sheridans.” That infernal look of amusement stole into his eyes. “Hello, Amanda,” he said smoothly, leaving her no choice but to step forward and join them.

  “Um, hi.” Feeling like a kid who’d gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and uncomfortably aware of her lack of makeup and the hole in her jersey, Amanda bobbed her head to Susie. “Hello.”

  Susie nodded back. Within a nanosecond she’d assessed Amanda, dismissed her, and refocused her attention on Hunter. “I’m sure you’ll all have a wonderful time.” Her tone said she doubted it. “I happen to be divorced myself, and I know what it’s like to run a household on your own. But if there’s anything I can do for you, Hunter, you be sure and let me know, you hear?”

  Hunter didn’t respond to the invitation in her voice. He didn’t reject Susie, Amanda noticed, but he didn’t encourage her either. As the crowd jostled around the trio, he addressed them both. “Actually,” he said, “we’ve just lost our housekeeper, and I’m looking for someone. Do either of you ladies have anyone you can recommend?”

  Susie perked up at the request. “I know just the person
,” she said.

  Amanda had a bad feeling about what was coming next.

  “Her name’s Solange.”

  Shit. She might have fantasized about being in Hunter James’s bed, she had NOT been fantasizing about making it.

  “Your maid is French?” Hunter sounded understandably surprised.

  “Yes, isn’t that funny?” Susie batted her eyelashes at him again. “Have you tried her yet, Amanda?” Susie asked, not waiting for the answer. “She’s quite sophisticated, though I do think her accent’s a bit thick. My daughter’s going to teach me French so I can communicate my needs more clearly.” Susie looked Hunter right in the eye when she said the word “needs,” and once again Amanda was tempted to blush on her behalf.

  “And she is a little on the aggressive side.”

  Susie paused. Amanda bristled.

  “She actually tried to tell me what to do, if you can imagine.” Susie’s tinkle of laughter grated. “But I’m sure you’d have no trouble keeping her in line.”

  Before she could stop herself, Amanda was leaping to Solange’s defense. “Well, she is from another culture, Susie.”

  OK, so now she was defending a nonexistent person. “And I wouldn’t call her…aggressive. I think she’s just marvelously…self-confident.”

  Susie’s gaze was still glued to Hunter James. She shrugged, clearly only interested in the subject as long as it interested him. “She does a good enough job. And she seems honest,” Susie conceded, “though you really never know.”

  Her work was good enough? She only seemed honest? Amanda’s back straightened. “I’ve been very satisfied with Solange,” Amanda said. “But she’s really in demand. I don’t even know whether she has any openings left in her schedule.”

  Did she want to clean Hunter James’s home? Like everything else in her life at the moment, the question elicited mixed emotions.

  Susie stepped closer to Hunter. And she called Solange aggressive!

  “I’m sure I can get her for you,” Susie said to Hunter. “Why don’t you give me your phone number? I’ll pass it on to Candace Sugarman, who books her, and ask her to give you a call.”

  “Number one hundred two!” The voice of the deli person rang out.

  “That’s me.” Amanda held her number aloft torn between staying to see if he gave Susie his phone number and wanting to escape before he turned out to be one of those guys who liked to be pursued by women like Susie.

  He reached out as she stepped toward the counter. “Amanda.” His touch was light on her arm. “When I leave here, I’m going to pick up Samantha at dance. Do you want me to pick up Meghan too?”

  Amanda glanced down at her watch. She had other shopping left to do and it would be nice not to have to race through the remaining aisles. But the thing that really decided her was the ugly look that Susie Simmons aimed her way.

  Amanda had been taught to turn the other cheek; Solange de Papillon had never even heard of the concept.

  Amanda gave Hunter a slow smile, mostly for Susie’s benefit, determined not to read anything into the warmth of the look he gave her. “Thanks,” she said. “That would be great.”

  And then she turned her back on them and stepped up to get her honey maple ham and provolone cheese. While Susie Simmons glared daggers into her back.

  By the Friday of the prom, that last weekend in April, Meghan and her girlfriends were in a fever pitch of excitement. Meghan, Angie, and Sandy, who’d been friends since elementary school, along with Samantha, who’d been happily added to the fold, had planned every detail of the evening with the ferocity of generals mapping out a campaign. Amanda was thrilled to see Meghan so happily occupied.

  The girls’ dates, on whom the intricacies of color coordination and restaurant evaluation were lost, had finally learned to nod their heads in agreement, if not understanding, and do as they were told.

  Right now the girls, freshly manicured, pedicured, and coiffured, were upstairs in Meghan’s room making up each other’s face and helping each other dress. At six the boys and other parents would arrive for the picture party. At seven the limo would whisk the young couples out to dinner and on to the dance.

  With the girls’ happy squeals ringing in her ears, Amanda scurried about preparing the house for tonight’s gathering.

  In her bedroom she showered and dried her hair then spent a ridiculous amount of time on her own makeup and clothing.

  She told herself this was because the night was so special for Meghan and would be commemorated in pictures forever. And because it was the first time she’d entertained on her own, not as part of a couple. Not because of Hunter James, who’d be arriving tonight on his own.

  By five thirty she was downstairs heating hors d’oeuvres and putting out fruit and cheese. The white wine was chilling, the red open and breathing. A cooler of soft drinks awaited the kids.

  She’d already done the alcohol lecture and the one about Meghan’s body being her temple. But she was glad that the kids would be in a mostly supervised group and that none of the boys would be driving.

  Promptly at seven the doorbell rang. Wyatt, who was on door duty, answered it and moments later Sandy’s and Angie’s parents were in the kitchen accepting glasses of wine, exclaiming over the food. The boys and their parents came next, the boys looking self-consciously stylish in their black tuxes and evening ties, each selected by his date to coordinate with her dress.

  They carried plastic-boxed corsages in their sweaty hands, and they huddled around the appetizers jabbing at each others’ shoulders and whispering among themselves.

  Nervous, Amanda busied herself serving drinks and passing appetizers while they waited for the girls to make their entrance. The doorbell rang again, and because she was closest, Amanda answered it.

  Hunter James stood on the threshold looking very yummy in jeans, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a navy blazer. He had a bottle of wine in his hands and a younger version of Samantha at his side.

  “Hi.” Amanda stepped back to let them enter then reached out to shake the young girl’s hand. “I’m Amanda.”

  “This is Julie.” Hunter made the introductions, and waited while his daughter shook hands with Amanda. Footsteps sounded behind her and Amanda turned to see Wyatt approaching. “Hey, Wy,” she said, “this is Julie James.”

  The girl’s smile broadened.

  “And this is…” Amanda moved to draw her son toward the Jameses, but he needed no encouragement. His gaze was already locked on Hunter’s face.

  “Mom,” he said, “that’s Hunter James. Hunter James is here!”

  “Yes, I know, sweetheart. He’s…”

  “The Hunter James.” Wyatt stepped forward and grasped Hunter’s hand, shaking it up and down with all his might.

  “First-round draft pick for the Baltimore Orioles in nineteen eighty-five. Went to Montreal in nineteen eighty-nine. Was with the Red Sox until he blew out his shoulder in two thousand three.”

  Amanda considered the man she’d been trying to think of as a ballet mom.

  “He’s a two-time Cy Young winner, Mom, and had one of the highest batting averages of any pitcher when he was in the National League.” He was still shaking Hunter’s hand, the words bubbling out unchecked. “I can’t believe Hunter James is standing right here. In my house!”

  Gently, Hunter grasped Wyatt’s hand with his other and brought the handshake to an end. They stood, their hands still clasped, while the man looked down at the boy.

  She saw the trace of amusement she was growing used to flicker in his eyes, but everything about his manner told her he would not embarrass her son. Which was a good thing, because hero worship shone from Wyatt’s eyes like twin beacons of light.

  “It’s always great to meet a baseball aficionado,” Hunter said. “Sam tells me you pitch too.”

  “Well, yeah.” Wyatt flushed with both pride and embarrassment. He hadn’t exactly been the strikeout king of late. “I’ve been having some problems with my changeup. It’s
hanging way too long over the plate.”

  “Giving up some runs, huh?” Hunter’s tone was sympathetic. “I had a season like that in ninety-two; they were hitting me like crazy.”

  Wyatt nodded. “How’d you fix it?”

  “Had to change my whole release. It was brutal.”

  Wyatt looked up at him.

  “Maybe you can show me your stuff sometime. I’d be glad to try and help.”

  “Wow! Did you hear that, Mom? Wow!”

  “I did, sweetheart. That’s very generous.” She was speaking automatically, saying all the usual mother things. But she couldn’t quite absorb the fact that the man who’d had her fussing over her appearance for the first time since Rob had given her the heave-ho was a celebrity and one of Wyatt’s heroes to boot. “Why don’t you take Julie in and get her something to drink?”

  “Sure, Mom.” Wyatt led the girl away with a happy bounce in his step. Amanda turned to face her guest.

  “Well, I feel kind of silly now. I suppose I should have known who you were.”

  He smiled, a dimple creasing his cheek, his tone self-deprecating. “Actually it’s kind of a relief that you didn’t. And were is the operative word. I’m too old to play baseball now, and way too old to be learning how to be a parent.”

  An upstairs door opened and there was the clatter of high heels at the top of the stairs. She and Hunter moved farther into the foyer and the rest of the group joined them. They stared in silence at the vision above them.

  “Oh my God.” He whispered it under his breath, but Hunter wasn’t the only parent rocked by the sight of the four gowned beauties hovering above them.

  The boys whistled in admiration, while every mother there blinked back tears. If Hunter was any indication, the fathers were worried about other things. Most likely their memories of what they themselves had been up to at that age.

  Amanda had a brief stab of regret that Rob was missing this, but she shoved it aside. He’d made his choice and they weren’t it. She was the lucky one. She was here to watch Meghan float down the stairs in the incredible dress, surrounded by her friends, alight with excitement. Another memory made in the home she’d refused to give up.