“Kris did.” And Sam did. And me. That makes three.
“That’s right… you know, it’s funny, but I always forget Kris is a townie.”
A townie? So that’s what they’re calling it now?
“So is that how you know Kris?” Brett asks. “From growing up together?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s just… neat.”
Yes, isn’t it just.
“How do you know Kris?” Meg asks. And why are you here? she wants to add.
“My first husband and I bought our first house from her. I’ve been working with her ever since.”
“Working with her? You’re a Realtor too?”
“Oh! No,” she says, looking taken aback—and amused. “I mean working with her as my Realtor.”
She says it the way most people refer to their physicians or their accountants.
My Realtor.
“So you’ve bought more than one house, then? As, um, rental properties, or…?”
“Rentals! No. We could never be landlords. We live in them.”
“How many houses do you live in?”
“One at a time,” Brett says with a grin. “Kris is right. You are completely charming. Should we order some sake?”
“We definitely should,” mutters Meg, who isn’t sure why completely charming suddenly sounds completely insulting.
As they sip their sake and make small talk—mostly about the menu, though Meg learns that Brett has a daughter in college, a stepson in high school, and two more sons in elementary school—and notices that Brett doesn’t ask more than cursory questions about her own life.
Either Kris filled her in already, or she doesn’t really care.
Meg suspects the latter. Brett gives off an air of self-involvement that seems to be as pervasive among privileged suburban moms as it was among the theatrical divas Meg left behind in the city.
Relaying a boring anecdote about her last trip to Japan, Brett interrupts herself to exclaim, “Laurelle! How nice to see you!”
Her gaze is focused on someone—and Meg can guess whom—over Meg’s shoulder.
Sure enough, she turns around to see Laurelle Gladstone standing there.
“Hi, Brett. Hi—Meg, is it?”
“Right.” As opposed to Maid. “How have you been?”
“Great.”
Meg can’t help but notice that Laurelle doesn’t ask how she’s been.
To her dismay, Laurelle takes the chair beside Brett’s.
Ah. So their little foursome will be complete when Kris shows.
“Isn’t Kris here yet?” Laurelle asks, draping over the back of her chair a purse that undoubtedly cost more than the Blue Book value of Meg’s car.
“No, she’s late, of course,” Brett says. “You know how she is.”
Meg, who no longer knows how Kris is, can’t help but resent these two women who do. Watching them nod knowingly, she wants to blurt, “I knew Kris before you did!”
But that would be incredibly childish. Right? Of course it would.
Do I really care what they think of me, though?
Yes. You do. You don’t want these women to gossip about you behind your back.
Yeah, yeah, whatever.
Why the heck are they here? And why isn’t Kris?
“So what have you been up to, Laurelle? Did you find a live-in yet?” Brett asks sympathetically.
Apparently, Laurelle’s maid problems are legendary in these parts.
“Oh I did! And he’s entirely macrobiotic.”
He? A macrobiotic male maid? Meg thinks. What does that even mean?
It’s hard to tell, even as she listens to Brett and Laurelle conversing back and forth on the topic.
“Sorry I’m late!” a familiar voice announces, none too soon.
They look up to see Kris standing there, cell phone in hand, très chic in a beige pantsuit.
“Meg, I thought it would be good to have you meet some of my friends—and I wasn’t even here to do the introductions.” Kris delivers air-kisses all around, then dives into her chair, cheeks flushed, expression distracted as she sets her phone on vibrate and tucks it into her pocket. “So what did I miss?
“Laurelle was just telling us about her new chef,” Brett tells her.
She was? Meg can’t help but feel as though she missed something—and she’s been here the whole time.
“Good for you! Did you get the maid settled into the new room upstairs, then, so the chef could take over her old one?”
“Yes, but now Ludmilla is miffed because she has to share her bathroom, and she isn’t speaking to me or Ted.”
Who’s Ludmilla? Meg wonders. Must be her teenaged daughter.
“Well, is she speaking to the kids, at least?” Brett asks.
Oops, guess Ludmilla isn’t her daughter.
“Who knows? Beth is always plugged into her iPod and now that Trevor’s got his Jag he’s never home, so they wouldn’t care either way.”
From the ensuing conversation, Meg figures out that Laurelle’s full-time live-in staff includes not just the maid and macrobiotic male chef, but also a gardener and Ludmilla, the nanny, whose charges are stepsiblings: an iPod-plugged-in, soccer-playing fifteen-year-old and a Jaguar-driving eighteen-year-old.
Laurelle, who refers to herself as a stay-at-home mom, seems primarily involved with hiring and firing household staff and overseeing something called Sharing and Caring, which Meg gathers is a local philanthropical endeavor as opposed to a personal philosophy.
“We’re taking donations for our silent auction next month,” Laurelle announces. “Can I count on you guys to come up with something spectacular?”
She can. Brett immediately offers a week at her villa in the Virgin Islands, and Kris donates front-row seats and backstage passes to an upcoming U2 concert, courtesy of her husband, an executive at their record label.
Laurelle turns expectantly to Meg. “It’s a great cause. Can you donate something?”
“Meg used to be on Broadway,” Kris speaks up. “How about prime seats to a sold-out show, or something?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she promises lamely, and is relieved when the subject changes to soccer.
But only for a moment, until the conversation zeros in on the soccer coach.
“Beth said all the girls have a crush on Sam’s son.”
“Really? I have a crush on Sam,” Brett says, with a laugh.
So Meg’s not the only woman in town who isn’t immune to his rugged appeal. That isn’t surprising… but it is disturbing, for some reason.
Why? You have no claim on him whatsoever.
“I thought you had a crush on your riding instructor,” Laurelle tells Brett.
“I thought you were married,” Meg hears herself say.
“Oh, that doesn’t stop Brett.” Kris shakes her head affectionately. “Anyway, Sam isn’t married.”
“I hate to admit it, but that wouldn’t stop me, either,” Brett adds with a laugh. “I keep asking Kris to put in a good word for me since she’s known him forever, but she won’t. You think I’m joking, but I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” Kris shakes her head as she pulls out her vibrating cell phone. “I don’t think Sam would be interested in a married woman.”
Kris checks her phone and lets the call go into voice mail with obvious reluctance.
“Anyway, you don’t want to get mixed up with Sam,” Laurelle puts in. “He’s got way too much baggage, between those kids and still being in love with his dead wife. Plus, he doesn’t know how to dress. And he’s a high school teacher,” she adds—clearly the worst stigma of all.
“So? I’m not interested in his résumé or his bank account, let alone being seen with him in public,” Brett says. “Just a discreet, steamy little fling. Is that too much to ask?”
The waitress arrives to take their orders, and Meg finds that her appetite has all but disappeared. So much for worrying about paying for lunch. She’ll be lu
cky if she manages to choke it down.
Why didn’t Kris speak up and defend Sam?
Why didn’t you?
Because she was afraid they might somehow figure out that she and Sam are—no, were—involved.
Which is none of their business.
He hasn’t even called her, despite what happened between them over the weekend.
Obviously, he’s moved on.
So should you, Meg tells herself.
He’s got too much baggage, between those kids and still being in love with his dead wife.
Laurelle was right about that, at least. Sam is obviously not ready for a relationship—even these women, who barely know him, are aware of that.
I need to get over him, Meg tells herself firmly. The sooner the better.
By Friday afternoon, Sam is ready to welcome the weekend… and it’s only been a three-day week. But it takes a while after school starts up again for things to resume their regular rhythm so that it feels right to be here day in and day out.
Right now, all Sam wants is to get the hell out of Dodge.
He’s on his way, striding toward the door, his thoughts on tomorrow’s soccer game—and seeing Meg there—when, incredibly, she pops up right in front of him.
“Hi!” Caught off guard, he stops short and tries not to grin like a big, sappy fool.
“Hi!” She looks just as surprised to see him. Though she shouldn’t be. He works here. He belongs here.
“What are you—”
“Doing here?” she finishes for him when he breaks off. “I have a meeting in the auditorium in a few minutes.”
The auditorium. Oh. That’s right. “You must be helping Bill Dreyfus with the musical, then?”
She nods. “Thanks for suggesting me. I was going to tell you that when I saw you, but… I haven’t seen you.”
“No, I’ve been insanely busy the last few days.” And avoiding you.
“Me, too.”
Sam finds it impossible to break eye contact with her and wonders if she, too, is remembering what happened between them last weekend.
I should have at least called her, he tells himself. He doesn’t want her to think he’s the kind of man who has casual flings.
But if what happened with Meg wasn’t a casual fling, what was it?
Anyway, she didn’t call him or come knocking, either. Why not?
For all she knows, he was hoping to take things to another level. She would have no idea that she scared the hell out of him, with her song and her sensitivity and her passion.
“So… how’s the school year going so far?” she asks, shifting her weight.
“So far, so good,” he says unoriginally. “How are things going with the house? Oh, no.” He slaps his forehead.
“What?”
“I never did check your wiring for you.”
“That’s okay. I found an electrician.”
“Oh, good. What did he say?”
“He hasn’t been there yet. He’s coming a week from Tuesday, though.”
Sam groans. “That’s not good. I’ll come take a look.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I was supposed to—” Before I rolled into bed with you instead—“And I want to.”
“Really, Sam—”
“No… I’ll be there tonight. What time will you be home?”
“I don’t know… late,” she says somewhat noncommittally.
It suddenly occurs to him that she might have a date or something. That was his first reaction when he spotted her on the soccer field Monday afternoon, looking cozy with a man. It took him a minute to recognize that it was merely the friend who’d helped her move in—but in that minute, he was insanely jealous.
That was a bad sign. It was enough to renew his determination not to let her into his life.
Yet here he is, forcing himself into hers…
Only to check out her wiring, though. Just to make sure her house doesn’t go up in flames.
“Why don’t you just call me when you get home, and I’ll run over?” he presses.
“No, there’s no rush.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
It’s important that he settle this here and now.
Because it’s potentially unsafe for her to go any longer with faulty wiring…
And because he needs to know that he’s going to see her again, and the hell with his resolve.
“We have our first soccer game tomorrow… right, Coach?”
Oops.
“Oh. Right. Well, right after that, then. Okay?”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
What else is there to say?
“Well… see you,” he tells her after a minute.
“Right, see you.”
He can’t help but wonder if she’s as glad as he is that they have a definite plan to reconnect tomorrow.
Only in a platonic, neighborly way, though. Your own self-imposed rules, remember, Coach?
Yeah.
Right.
And he still intends to play by them.
Chapter
15
It’s a perfect Saturday for Cosette’s first soccer game. Blue skies, bright sun, midsixties.
As Meg and a red-uniformed, shin-guarded Cosette approach the field, she looks over to see that Cosette is biting her lower lip, looking pensive.
“Nervous about the game?” she asks.
“No.”
“You look like you’re a little concerned, though, and it’s natural because it’s been a while since you—”
“I’m not worried about the game,” Cosette says sharply.
No. She’s worried about something else, though, Meg realizes with a sinking feeling.
Is she being bullied again?
There’s been no indication of that. If anything, Cosette has seemed more grounded these last few days, since school began.
Meg is inclined to chalk that up to the time she’s spent with Ben. The two of them have been running together every morning before school, and again at night before sundown. Whenever she’s on her way to see him or returns home from being with him, Cosette exudes a muted exhilaration.
Meg recognizes the glow; she’s been there herself.
Most recently with Sam.
But that’s over.
Cosette and Ben seem to be at the beginning of something.
Several times, Meg attempted to initiate a conversation about her daughter’s newfound relationship—whether it’s a romance, or mere friendship—only to be promptly shot down.
Having learned in the past that pushing Cosette for personal information only leads to sneaking around and lying, Meg keeps dropping the subject.
Too bad she doesn’t feel comfortable trying to get Sam’s take on it.
Maybe when he comes over later…
No. That’s not going to become an opportunity for intimate conversation. Or intimate anything else, for that matter.
If she weren’t so genuinely concerned about the wiring, in fact, she’d tell him to forget it. But the lights keep flickering, and not always the same ones, so the problem isn’t in the fixtures themselves. Anyway, the appliances seem to be off-kilter as well—and not just the phone, which still rings for no reason. The other day when she was watching television, it turned itself off.
When it happened, Meg couldn’t help but remember that night at Sam’s house, when the cable was out for no apparent reason. If that hadn’t happened, chances are, they would have turned on Conan O’Brien and focused on the TV rather than on each other.
In any case, she doesn’t intend to take any chances when it comes to something that can cause a fire. And if it turns out there’s nothing wrong with the wiring, she’ll just have to fall back on her other theory: that the house is haunted and the ghost is tampering with her appliances.
“Mom?” Cosette asks, stopping abruptly, staring ahead at the field where the players have gathered from their own team, in red, and the opposing team, in blue.
Meg looks over at Cosette. “What’s wrong?”
Here we go, she thinks. She’s going to say she doesn’t want to play.
And I might tell her she doesn’t have to.
Maybe this isn’t for Cosette’s own good—this fitting into wholesome small-town life, playing soccer. Maybe it’s more about Meg’s expectations when she moved here. She thought she wanted to re-create her youth for Cosette, but maybe she just wanted to re-create it for herself.
Right down to getting hooked on Sam Rooney all over again.
“Do I look… okay?” Cosette reaches up to pat her dark hair, caught back in a ponytail.
Meg is shocked by the uncharacteristic concern, yet somehow manages to act as though she takes it in stride.
“You look beautiful,” she says sincerely. Her daughter’s big eyes are rimmed in a soft, carefully smudged liner that looks more brown than black, and she’s wearing a natural lip gloss as opposed to her usual thickly applied dark lipstick. Her skin glows, and her cheeks are naturally rosy, the result of a week in the sun and fresh air.
“Thanks.” Cosette seems self-conscious, and Meg notices that she’s scanning the field anxiously.
She sees what she’s looking for, and of course, it’s Ben.
Or so Meg thinks at first.
But she sees that Cosette’s gaze has shifted to a cluster of blue-clad girls from the opposing team.
Hmm.
Something is definitely up.
Not with Ben, though. Meg sees him see Cosette, light up, and wave to her.
“See you, Mom.” Cosette makes a beeline for him.
Relieved, Meg turns toward the bleachers, almost crashing into Sam. He’s in full coach mode: shorts and a red uniform shirt, a whistle around his neck and a clipboard in his hand.
“Hi!” He looks happy to see her, though he’s obviously distracted.
“Hi, Sam.” There go those butterflies flitting around in her stomach, darn it.
You’d think she’d be over that after twenty years.
Twenty years?
No, these aren’t the same old butterflies from the old days of her unrequited crush on schoolboy Sam.
These are brand-new butterflies. Glorious, exotic butterflies—released from long-dormant cocoons the first time she kissed grown-up Sam.
“Coach!” a kid yells from across the field, waving him over.
Love, Suburban Style Page 23