Love, Suburban Style

by Wendy Markham

  Maybe she is tearful, because Meg walks toward the sound of her voice with outstretched arms, disappearing from Sam’s view.

  For a moment, there’s silence. Mother is presumably comforting daughter.

  She’s got things under control here, Sam assures himself. You should go home. They’ll be fine.

  He turns toward home.

  Then he hears another scream—this time, from Meg.

  “What?” Cosette shouts. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, I just thought I saw…”

  Either Meg doesn’t finish the sentence, or Sam can’t hear her voice from wherever she is. No matter. The implications are clear.

  Something has scared her.

  How can Sam walk away?

  He can’t.

  With a purposeful stride, he walks up the steps and rings the bell.

  This time, both Meg and Cosette shriek.

  “What was that?” Cosette asks, clinging to her mother as she hasn’t since she was a young child in rough surf at the Jersey Shore.

  “It was just the doorbell,” Meg realizes.

  Not that a ringing doorbell in the middle of the night should be reassuring in the least.

  “Maybe the ghost did it.”

  “No, Cosette, there’s no ghost.”

  “You know there is.”

  Cosette is right.

  She does know there is. She saw it with her own eyes: a glimpse of a shadowy figure watching them from the foot of the stairs just now.

  It was little more than the outline of a human being, really—she couldn’t make out its gender, much less its features.

  And when she screamed, it vanished abruptly.

  But it was definitely there.

  And if she had any doubt that someone—something—was hovering over her daughter upstairs, she no longer does.

  This place is haunted.

  They’ve got to move.

  “Meg?” a voice calls from the porch.

  A human voice.

  “Oh my God, it knows your name!” Cosette says in a high-pitched, terrified whisper, clutching her arm.

  “That’s not the ghost.” Meg hurries toward the door, Cosette right with her. “It’s Sam.”

  “Who?”

  “Sam Rooney. From next door.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Meg has no idea, but when she opens the door, she realizes that she’s never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

  “I heard someone scream over here. Are you okay?”

  She appreciatively takes in the sight of him, barefoot, bare-chested, wearing just a pair of shorts.

  Amazing how, even in a moment of stark fright, one can still manage to shamelessly lust after someone.

  “Are you okay?” Sam repeats, not meeting her eyes.

  “I’m… not sure.”

  “I’m sure. We’re not,” Cosette puts in. “This place is haunted.”

  “Really.” Sam’s gaze flicks from her back to Meg.

  Looking into his blue eyes, she silently asks him not to mention what happened here the other night.

  The disembodied slamming, creaking, footsteps…

  The kissing, either, for that matter.

  Sam lifts his chin a fraction of an inch in a half nod that seems to promise that their secret is safe.

  She gives him a return half nod of appreciation.

  Then, remembering that she’s scantily dressed in summer pajamas, she glances down, hoping that everything that should be covered is covered.

  Yes, but barely.

  She really should throw on something over this.

  Unfortunately, there’s no robe hanging conveniently on a hook beside the door. All she can possibly do in the moment is hope Sam’s eyes don’t wander below her neck.

  So far, so good. In fact, despite his heroic presence here and the look that just passed between them, he seems almost… professionally disengaged.

  “Well, if you two are okay, I’ll go.”

  If he were wearing a hat, Meg thinks, he’d be tipping it politely right about now.

  “We’re fine. Thanks for checking in.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Wow. He couldn’t seem more detached if he were a professional ghostbuster she’d summoned on a hotline.

  “I’m not staying here.” Cosette’s voice quavers then, propelling Meg instantly back into maternal mode.

  She turns to see that her daughter is shaking her head adamantly, eyes wide with fear. In her pastel summer pajamas, with her face scrubbed free of extreme makeup and her hair hanging loose around her face, she looks like a frightened little girl who needs a hug.

  Meg gives her one.

  And for once, her daughter lets her.

  “Listen, Cosette,” she says, “I know that you’re scared, but we can’t just pick up and leave in the middle of the—”

  “Mom, you can stay if you want, but I’m leaving.”

  Meg purses her lips. “Where are you going?”

  “Back home to the city.”

  Conscious of Sam’s silent presence, taking it all in, she says, “Okay, you have to be reasonable here.”

  “I am being reasonable.”

  “You’re not. For one thing, it’s the middle of the night, and you don’t drive.”

  “You do. And we have a car now.”

  “I’m not driving you to Manhattan.”

  “Then I’ll take the train.”

  Ignoring that, Meg goes on, “For another thing, somebody else is living in our apartment now, remember?”

  “Then I’ll go to one of my friends’ apartments. At least they’ll have air-conditioning. And no ghosts.”

  Meg doesn’t have the heart to remind Cosette that the few friends she retained after the school disaster have all but ignored her since they found out she was moving to the suburbs.

  Why bring that up again? They’ve been through that repeatedly, anyway, with Cosette blaming Meg for ruining her life and making her an outcast.

  Tension hangs more densely than humidity in the sultry night air.

  Then Sam pipes up unexpectedly, “You guys can stay at my place, if you want.”

  Surprised, she looks at him.

  Something flickers in his eyes; he seems ambivalent about having made the offer.

  Yet he continues, almost as if he can’t help being a nice guy, “We have air-conditioning—well, in a couple of rooms—and no ghosts.”

  Spend the night with Sam?

  The tension thickens.

  “Great,” Cosette says, as though it’s a done deal. “Thanks. Let’s go.”

  “We can’t do that,” Meg protests. “There’s no reason to do that.”

  “Fine, if you believe that, you can stay here, Mom, and get haunted all night. But I’m out of here.”

  Sam catches Meg’s eye. “It’s okay. Really. You guys can come over, and at least get a good night’s sleep.”

  “But…” Meg fumbles for a plausible protest to an offer that’s all too tempting. “We don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “It’s no inconvenience. Really.”

  Meg wants more than anything to say yes. For selfish reasons that have nothing whatsoever to do with ghosts and everything to do with him.

  Right.

  Like that’s going to happen—like she and Sam are going to have a romantic evening together at his place.

  Knowing that with three kids underfoot it’s guaranteed to be anything but, Meg shrugs and nods. “Okay. We’ll come with you. Thanks, Sam.”

  What can possibly happen?

  “No problem. Do you want to get your stuff?”

  “I’m not going back upstairs,” Cosette says firmly.

  Meg sighs. “I’ll get it.”

  She turns toward the staircase and remembers the reason they’re leaving.

  Terrific. Why did she volunteer to go back up there alone?

  Heart pounding, conscious of Sam and Cosette watching her from behind, she gingerly c
limbs the steps. As soon as she’s out of their view, she darts into the bathroom, grabs their toothbrushes, then snatches some clothes from the duffel bags on the floor in the side bedroom.

  She looks for her robe, but of course she can’t find one. It’s probably still packed. It’s been too hot all week to even miss it until now.

  She’ll have to find something else to—

  “Mom? Are you okay?” Cosette calls anxiously from downstairs.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well, can you please hurry? I really want to get out of here.”

  “I’m trying, Cosette!”

  Meg conducts another quick, fruitless search for even a sweatshirt to pull on. The best she can come up with is a wool cardigan, and there is no way in hell she’s putting that on in this weather.

  “Chita Rivera?” she calls as she hunts for something else to wear over her pajamas. “Where are you, kitty?”

  No reply.

  Chita Rivera likes to get her beauty sleep, but you can usually rouse her with a high-pitched “Here, kittykittykittykitty.”

  No sign of the cat.

  That’s unusual.

  “Mom! Please!”

  Oh, well. Shoving her feet into flip-flops and grabbing a pair for Cosette, Meg tells herself that she’d be wearing less clothing than this at the beach. So it’s not as though she’s indecent.

  As for Chita Rivera, she couldn’t have come to Sam’s anyway. He hates cats.

  It would just be nice if Meg knew where she was before she left the house.

  She flips off all the lights and hurries back down the stairs, where she finds that Cosette is already out on the porch.

  “I forgot pillows and blankets,” Meg remembers belatedly.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got all that stuff. Come on.” Sam holds the door open for her.

  “What about Chita Rivera?” Cosette asks.

  “I can’t find her.”

  “Well, cats are afraid of ghosts,” Cosette announces. “And she’s been acting weird ever since we moved here. Jumping around, skittish, looking at nothing like she’s seeing something…”

  She has been doing that, Meg realizes as she grabs the key from the jagged nail beside the door. She’s been using it as a hook but she really should pound it in so nobody gets caught on it.

  She really should do a lot of things around here.

  Handyman. I need a handyman.

  But not tonight.

  She flicks the last light switch, and they make their exit.

  As they walk away, down the path through the hot, muggy night toward the gate, she looks back over her shoulder at the house.

  That’s funny.

  She could have sworn she turned off all the lights upstairs.

  But there seems to be a faint glow coming from the front bedroom window, almost as though it’s illuminated from a night-light.

  Only… there is no night-light in the room.

  Chapter

  9

  Are you sure this is okay?” Meg whispers uncertainly to Sam.

  “It’s fine,” he assures her in his regular voice as Cosette settles into the top bunk in his daughter’s dim, air-conditioned room.

  The only sign that anyone occupies the bottom bunk is an oblong lump huddled beneath the patchwork quilt. Katie didn’t even stir when they slipped into the room just now.

  “She sleeps through anything,” he informs Meg. “And she’ll be thrilled when she wakes up in the morning and finds out she has an overnight guest here.”

  “Even if it’s a complete stranger?”

  Sam wants to point out to Meg that it’s a little late now to pluck Cosette from the bunk and go home.

  Instead, he just says, “Katie has been wanting to meet her.”

  Which is semitrue.

  She did say something about wanting to meet the new girl next door when she got home from her trip tonight. Then she caught sight of Cosette in the yard at dusk, and her enthusiasm faded.

  “I just saw the girl next door,” Sam heard Katie telling Ben.

  “You mean the ghoul next door.”

  “Yeah! Is she a witch or something?”

  “Dunno,” he replied helpfully. “Maybe.”

  “Well, she looks like one. She freaks me out.”

  Sam fought the urge to pop into the conversation and admonish his kids, knowing that wouldn’t do much good.

  Now, he can’t help but worry about how Katie will react in the morning when she finds that the ghoul next door—rather the girl next door—is her roommate.

  With any luck, she’ll stagger out of bed without noticing. She’s not exactly a morning person.

  “Where are you sleeping?” Cosette asks her mother, peering over the rail.

  Meg looks at Sam, who wants to say, not with me!

  Just in case that’s what her daughter was thinking.

  Her daughter? Who are you kidding?

  You’re worried that that’s what Meg’s thinking.

  No, that isn’t it, either.

  He’s worried that Meg might somehow sense that it’s what he’s thinking.

  Yes, that’s it exactly. He does his best to rid his mind of salacious thoughts as he says, “Your mom will be down the hall in my room.”

  Cosette’s jaw drops.

  Realizing belatedly what he just implied, Sam stutters, “I, uh, I-I—no, not, you know, with me, I mean, I’ll be downstairs on the pullout couch and, uh, your mother—”

  “Right. Gotcha.” Cosette all but winks. “G’night,” she adds, and rolls toward the wall in a clear signal that it’s time for Meg and Sam to leave the room.

  “G’night,” they say in unison.

  Sam leads the way out to the hall. A wall of heat greets them. The T-shirt he donned a few minutes ago seems to instantly stick to his skin.

  “Whoa,” Meg says as he shuts Katie’s bedroom door. “I almost forgot for a minute that it was sweltering tonight. I wonder when this heat wave is supposed to break?”

  “Saturday,” Sam tells her. “We’re supposed to get a lot of rain from a tropical storm and after that things are going to cool off.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I wish my room were air-conditioned,” he says. “Unfortunately, it’s not. I usually don’t mind it, but on a night like this…”

  “It’s okay,” she says quickly. “Honestly, the heat doesn’t bother me all that much. I was sound asleep before Cosette freaked out.”

  “Right… what do you think happened?”

  “I think the house is haunted.”

  Her prompt, straightforward reply surprises him—but it shouldn’t. After all, she’s not the levelheaded, commonsense type.

  What do you expect?

  Trying not to sound as if he’s scoffing, he asks, “Are you serious?”

  He doesn’t sound like he’s scoffing. He sounds concerned.

  More concerned than he should be about someone with whom he’s trying to maintain a platonic distance.

  She nods vehemently. “I saw it myself.”

  “A ghost?”

  “Something. Someone.”

  Sam shakes his head.

  “You think I’m crazy?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re thinking it.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “I read minds,” she says with a shrug and a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  She’s kidding, he assures himself, but a ripple of alarm shoots through him anyway.

  “It’s just that I don’t believe in any of that stuff,” he says, trying to keep his thoughts pure just in case she really can read them.

  “Stuff like…?”

  “Spirits. Hauntings.”

  “Why not?”

  Because if there were any way a person who died really could come back, Sheryl would have done it. She would have let me and the kids know she’s all right, and she would have found a way to say good-bye.

  But now isn’t th
e time to bring up his late wife—or the tsunami of complex emotions that rise along with thoughts of her.

  He answers Meg’s question, “Because there’s no evidence that ghosts exist.”

  “I just told you I saw one.”

  “Maybe if I saw it with my own eyes…”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not that…”

  “Either you think I’m lying, or you think I’m telling the truth.”

  “It’s not that simple, Meg.” The sound of her name on his lips gives him pause.

  Meg.

  It’s run through his mind countless times since they met, and he even said it to Katie the other night… but has he ever said it to Meg?

  Never.

  Now he finds himself wanting to say it again.

  He refrains.

  “I think you believe you saw something. In a strange house, in the middle of the night, on the heels of your daughter’s screaming about a ghost… well, it’s not really surprising that you think you saw one.”

  “I don’t think I saw one. I know I saw one,” she persists stubbornly.

  He shrugs.

  Then he realizes they’re just standing here in the hallway, talking, when he should be showing her where everything is.

  Getting ready for bed.

  Maybe he should take a cold shower first, before he hits the couch.

  “Anyway… that’s my room,” he says, motioning at the door he left ajar down at the end of the hall. “You can—oh.”

  “What?”

  “I should change the sheets. Sorry. Being a gracious host doesn’t come naturally.” He smiles.

  She returns it. “That’s okay.”

  “The only trouble is… the only other king-size sheets I have are flannel. And it’s too hot for flannel, right?”

  She politely avoids answering. He can’t read minds, but he’d bet his life she’s thinking, there’s no way in hell I’m sleeping in flannel sheets tonight.

  “There was another set of king sheets, but I used them for a drop cloth last spring. They were so worn-out they had holes in them,” he feels the inexplicable need to elaborate. “I guess I’m still not used to shopping for stuff like that. I don’t do sheets, or towels, or place mats… I mean, I wash them, but I don’t buy them. That was always my wife’s—”

  He breaks off, realizing he’s gone and introduced the taboo subject.

  “Your wife’s department?” Meg asks helpfully, without missing a beat.