“I don’t know how you do it with three,” I said, looking down at the chubby infant sucking hard on a pacifier in a car seat at her feet. “I can barely keep it together with two. How old is he?”
“Four months, little Connor. Our unplanned bundle of joy. Couldn’t you just eat him up though?” she said, tickling the bottom of his feet.
“I didn’t know that babies could suffer from the unfortunate condition of diaper-muffin top. Guess the acorn doesn’t fall very far from the tree,” Alyson quipped.
“Fat and happy, that’s how we roll,” Tami responded without missing a beat, and then added, “And fuck you, I only have another five or so pounds to go.” She was wearing a loose, caftan-style cover-up but didn’t look at all overweight to me.
“So anyway,” Tami continued, sitting back in her lounge chair, “we went to see this woman, this consultant, who was very nice, by the way, if you ever need any help, and she told us in order to get rid of the tantrums we had to start a weekly sticker chart. Things we can do better to help make our family run more smoothly. And I mean all of us had to make one, even me and Chris! I’ve always been anti–all that crap but at this point I’m willing to try almost anything. So she said to start with some relatively easy ones for the kids, like Wash your hands after you go to the bathroom and Say please—things they should be able to get a sticker for without too many reminders—and then each week add a harder one they’d have to work on, like No crying in the morning before we leave the house. And if one of them throws a fit about the shoes or whatever, they lose a sticker. At the end of the week, if they get most of their stickers they get a little prize. So last night we sat down and made the charts and I put No yelling and No cursing on mine.
“What about Chris?” Alyson asked skeptically.
“I wanted him to put No more rhetorical comments about the house being messy, but he went with some bullshit one like Spend time with Aidan playing Wii baseball.”
“I think you just lost a sticker, Tam,” Alyson said.
Chris came down the grand stone staircase, water wings in hand. “Thanks, babe,” Tami said, bouncing up to take the wings and giving him a peck on the cheek in return. “Chris, this is Jessica, she just moved in next door to Aly and Jeff. You know, the new house over there. The Victorian.”
I liked how she said it, Victorian. It sounded so luxurious, like an English manor. “Nice to meet you,” I said, and stood up to shake Chris’s hand. He was big, over six feet tall, with a shaved head and broad shoulder muscles visible through his Mets T-shirt. “Wow, a Mets fan, like my husband Aaron. All I keep seeing around here is Yankees.”
“Yeah, well, you’re deep in pinstripe territory, better get used to it. I grew up Mets/Jets out in Commack. Not an easy life rooting for those teams up here.”
“Aaron grew up in Queens and has been a Mets fan forever.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chris said jokingly, and offered a “Hey” across the pool to Aaron. Aaron waded over to say hello.
“Chris is a Mets fan,” I told him. Of course he is, I chided myself—why else would he be wearing that shirt?
“Yet another woeful season, ten games under .500,” Aaron said.
“Until they pony up some money for relief pitching, it’s gonna be tough to win. Like a déjà vu nightmare from last year,” Chris said.
“So sad, but so true.”
“If you ever want to go to a game sometime, I’ve got a share of some sweet season tickets, seven rows behind the dugout.”
“Sounds great,” Aaron said.
So far we were hitting the jackpot: one friend with a pool, another with Mets season tickets.
Aidan and Brianna got situated with their sunscreen and goggles and water wings, and a few minutes later the three husbands were in the pool with all the kids. It couldn’t have been a more perfect setup—the men taking care of the children for once and the women lounging with their feet up in the shade of a big canvas umbrella like at a fancy resort. What a relief to not be battling it out with the crowds in the city for a tiny piece of grass on the Great Lawn. A level acre of bright green sod and rows of leafy young trees surrounded their yard’s perimeter, with bunches of flowering shrubs, azaleas, and hydrangeas artfully completing the verdant tableau. I sighed, picturing our fledgling yard with its mounds of dirt and tufts of early grass trying to grow. I knew it had potential, but Aaron and I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with seeds and a bag of dirt even if the bag said Miracle-Gro on it. I wished we already had a finished masterpiece like Alyson and Jeff had. If our backyard was going to look anything remotely like theirs, we’d have to hire a small army of landscapers.
“Who’s coming over today?” Tami asked. “Carolann, Ivy, who else?”
“Ivy can’t come until later,” Alyson said. “And Carolann’s away on vacation this week. At her mother-in-law’s on Long Beach Island. Beach Haven, I think.”
“A week with her mother-in-law? That’s not a vacation. That’s an obligcation.”
“An obligcation, I love that!” I said. I had to remember to tell that one to Liza.
Tami was definitely funny. A little rough around the edges, but easy to talk to. Especially easy, as she was doing most of the talking. I shouldn’t have spent so much time worrying about meeting new friends, moving to a town where we didn’t know a soul—the new kid, now in my midthirties. Hi, what’s your name? Want to come over after school and play? Though that’s the way it usually happened, chatting while watching the kids at a playdate after school. But I knew that just because your kids played well together didn’t mean necessarily clicking with the mom. Meeting new mommy friends was like a blind date: either you felt it or you didn’t in the first five minutes, and so far, I was thankful to be feeling it—and I was also feeling buzzed already after half a drink.
“Another margarita?” Alyson asked, filling my glass before I could say no. “And I almost forgot. I have something for you.” She put down the pitcher and disappeared into the house through the basement screen door.
“How about you, any summer vacations planned?” Tami asked me.
This is our vacation, I thought. “Nothing on the books right now,” I said, not wanting to admit out loud how house-poor we were at the moment, how most of this year’s summer-vacation savings had been spent on the outdoor furniture that had arrived a few days ago, our first big decorating purchase, and how the rest was going toward our dining room and hopefully a grill. Alyson’s grill had me dumbstruck when we’d walked in earlier, a gleaming barbeque beacon shining proudly in the middle of their vast redwood deck. It wasn’t merely a grill; it was practically a whole outdoor kitchen with a built-in sink and fridge and cocktail area and a rotisserie with something delectable cooking, a sweet and smoky aroma wafting through the still afternoon air.
Alyson returned with a light-blue paisley file folder, the fanciest file folder I’d ever seen. “Here you go.”
I opened the folder and found a professional-looking Excel spreadsheet with columns printed across the top: Name. Kids Names. Kids Ages. Home Phone. Cell. Nanny Cell. E-mail. Notes. Address. Husband. Every box was filled in and the margins lined up perfectly.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s the list I told you about so you can get in touch, set up playdates. A Who’s Who of Suffern. Well, everyone who you need to know, at least. A lot of these people will be stopping by at some point today so you’ll be able to match the names with faces. And I’ll e-mail it to you so you can have it on your computer, with a link to join the Laurel Meadow Google group.”
The names appeared in alphabetical order, and there I was already: Almasi, Jessica, right near the top.
“Do me a favor and send me your cell and your nanny’s cell when you get a chance? And on the second page are the doctors and other contacts we talked about.”
I turned to page two, amazed by the level of detail—this was a mom who had way too much time on her hands. Putting a list like this together,
not to mention keeping it updated, required a crazy amount of work. “Wow. I can’t thank you enough. This is incredible. Someone should pay you to do this.”
“Someone should pay me to do a lot of things,” she said dryly.
“Let me see that list,” Tami said, grabbing the sheet. “C’mon, Aly, really? Claire Petrillo?”
“Without Claire you know we’d be doing twice as many Wednesday pickups.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Tami conceded, twisting her lips into a pout. “But ugh, Michelle Upton. What a total poseur. With a capital P.”
Alyson explained, “Michelle’s husband Randy is the chair of the zoning board, so if you ever want to get an addition approved or move your driveway—”
“I don’t care who she’s married to, she’s fucking annoying,” Tami cut in. “She pretends like she’s this laid-back crunchy-granola-yogi chick who couldn’t care less about what she looks like when it’s obvious she spends god knows how long putting together her drop-off outfits, every day with a different pair of designer ballet flats and a matching bag.”
Phoebe’s old preschool had been full of faux–low maintenance moms like that. “I know the type,” I said.
“I heard she’s starting her own business. A wellness center in Pomona,” Alyson said.
“Of course she is, women like her are always opening wellness centers,” Tami said. “Look, if she wants to get her hair blown out three times a week, more power to her. I just wish she’d own it, y’know? I mean she’s got a look, she’s tall and thin and blond, although when you get in close it’s like, yikes!—this chick’s got seriously bad headgear. I mean, her face is actually kind of ugly. She has the pieces, but she’s a definite near-miss.”
Alyson shrieked and held a towel up in front of Tami’s face. “Pay no attention to the bitch behind the curtain,” she said with an embarrassed laugh.
Tami giggled and pulled down the towel. “Kidding! I’m kidding,” she countered, but even though I had only known her just shy of an hour, I could tell she wasn’t. She took a sip of her drink and scanned the list for her next victim. “Well, I’m glad to see Ivy’s back in town. She’s a doll. Seriously, you will love her,” she said to me, and then turned to Alyson. “See? I can be nice.”
“Well, I would hope so—Ivy is one of your actual friends.”
“Is she the one you mentioned coming by later?” I asked.
“Yep. She and the kids and Drew are back from a two-year stint in London, fully funded on Drew’s company’s dime.” Then Alyson shouted across the pool: “Jeff—people are going to be here soon. Can you get out and check on the pork shoulder? And maybe put on the first round of burgers?”
“Five minutes,” Jeff called back.
“Where did you get your grill?” I asked Alyson. “It’s really beautiful. We’ve been starting to look for one but there are so many, it’s a little overwhelming.”
“To be honest, I have no idea,” she replied. “The grill was all Jeff, practically the only thing he cared about when we moved into the house. “Jeff,” she yelled, “tell Jessica about the grill. And then put the burgers on.”
Jeff waded over to the shallow end. “It’s the Lynx Professional series. Was top of the line when we got it but I’ve had my eye on the new fifty-four-inch that just came out.”
“Give me a break, Jeff, you just bought this one two summers ago,” Alyson said.
Jeff ignored her and kept talking, standing forth like Marc Antony addressing Rome. “The most important thing to look for is performance, and the Lynx gives you the most BTUs per square inch of grilling surface. And I really like their three-speed rotisserie. But you should also take a look at the Alfresco. They have a sweet new model with a dedicated smoke burner right below its smoke box.”
Wow, Jeff seemed to know a lot about grills. I hadn’t seen the brands Lynx or Alfresco at our last trip to Home Depot and had no idea what a smoke box was. Aaron came over to join the conversation with Madison in tow and Phoebe kicking behind him.
“What do you think of the Weber Summit?” I asked. Those grills had been my favorite for looks but Aaron had about fallen over when he saw the price tag topping two grand for the lower-end models.
“Webers are a piece of junk. You want something that’ll last. I’m telling you, check out that new Alfresco, you will fall in love. I can go with you to the dealer if you want—Silver City in Spring Valley is the closest but I really like the service at Aitoro out in Norwalk; we could take a drive out there.”
“Do they have that new outdoor fridge, the one that turns into a beer keg with the lever out the top?” Chris asked.
“The Kegerator? I just saw they have the DCS on sale for twenty-five hundred. That’s an excellent price, Aaron. While you’re at it, I would definitely pick up one of those. And if you buy everything at Aitoro, they can do the installation too. They worked with my stone guy to seal up the cabinets so the deer and bears don’t get in.”
The bears?
As Jeff went on about all of our requisite accessories, I could see the look on Aaron’s face as he realized the little charcoal hibachi he’d envisioned wasn’t going to cut it. Not by a long shot. If the Kegerator alone was $2,500, I could only imagine what the final number would look like by the time Jeff was through designing our deluxe backyard setup. Not that we needed beer on tap or the tippy-top of the grill line, but it was probably a good idea to at least consider Jeff’s advice to go with quality products built to last.
Alyson interrupted: “Jeff, the burgers? Girls, c’mon, let’s go in the hot tub while we have the chance.”
Tami stood up and took off her cover-up, revealing a bright white bikini. Her skin was tanned and I couldn’t help but stare right at her cleavage as she adjusted the straps of her top. Her body wasn’t perfect—she had the telltale mommy stomach paunch—but she was so confident showing it all, not seeming in the least to care. I hadn’t put on a real bikini in years; a tankini that covered most of my stomach was the closest I had come, and even with that I was still self-conscious, especially the first time in a bathing suit in front of new friends. I couldn’t seem to get my stomach to deflate to its pre-baby state, which had been far from perfect to begin with. But Tami’s lack of inhibition made me feel more at ease and I followed her lead and took off my cover-up too.
The hot tub was raised five feet or so above the pool, high enough for a cascade of water to flow over the side—a nice design touch. The sun beat down on my shoulders and the bubbles made me feel almost too hot; I took a sip of my melting margarita and sank into the tub, feeling the water from the jets beat against my lower back in the perfect spot.
“Alyson tells me you work in PR for Broadway? Sounds like a dream job.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” It had always bugged me how people thought PR was the same as advertising, but I never corrected them. “Have you seen any shows lately?”
“We don’t get into the city that much and Chris prefers the movies. I saw Lion King a couple years ago. And my mother dragged me and my brothers to Phantom once.”
Tourist shows, I thought. “Our agency handles Phantom. It’s not one of the shows I work on, but this year for the first time I’m handling the Radio City Christmas Spectacular,” I said, figuring she might know it.
“I always wanted to be a Rockette,” Tami said, stretching out her long leg so I could see her polished toes above the bubbly water. “Do you work full-time?”
“Yes, but starting yesterday I’m working from home on Fridays. To give me more flexibility, and not have to commute all five days.”
Phoebe jumped in the pool, into Aaron’s arms, and got water up her nose. As she started crying, my instinct was to get up and help, but Aaron quickly calmed her down. Nice job.
As I was about to ask Tami if she worked, she said, “My family owns a clothing company,” and I was grateful to not have to ask. “We manufacture the crap people buy in places like Kmart and Sears. School uniforms. Stretchy pants. I go in when
I can, but with the twins and now the baby, it’s been a little sporadic, to say the least.”
“Well, at least it’s your family, you don’t have to worry about job security.”
“You would think so, although with my prick of an uncle now at the helm, sometimes I wonder.”
Alyson reached for a towel and wiped the back of her neck. “Have you signed Phoebe up for any classes in the fall?”
“Beyond preschool, you mean? I hadn’t really thought about it.” I suddenly worried I’d missed the boat on something important I was supposed to do.
“You should put her in Susie’s dance class on Saturday mornings,” Tami said. “Brianna and Emmy are taking it again this fall. It’s full but I know the director; I’m sure I can get you in.”
“That would be great,” I said.
“Perfect, then we could carpool,” Alyson said. Along with list-keeper, she must also be the official carpool organizer.
An old song by Madonna started playing out of a speaker masquerading as a rock. “Oh my god, remember blasting this song driving down to Wildwood, Aly, senior year?” Tami exclaimed. “The weekend you finally hooked up with Glenn Stridel after four years of pining?”
“I remember. Most of it, anyway. Ancient history.”
“I ran into him a few weeks ago at Sutter’s Mill. He was back in town visiting his brother. Divorced, no kids, living in Hoboken.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Swear to god.”
Jeff put a huge raft in the pool that looked like a race car, with big black tires and a wheel that actually spun around. “Daddy, I want a turn,” Phoebe insisted. It felt good to be getting a break from responding to her every want.
Tami took off her sunglasses and placed them on the rim of the hot tub, squinting. “I heard a fucking horrible story yesterday,” she said. “A friend of mine from Nyack told me a five-year-old boy was swimming in his pool after camp with a friend last week, and his nanny was watching them. He was a really good swimmer, and the kids were playing a game where they threw weighted plastic fish down to the bottom of the pool, and then dove down to get them. Like that submarine game you have, Aly.
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