If You Were Here: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  I suspect the weird looks I’ve been getting at the coffee shop all week have had to do with how I’ve been dressed. Whereas I’ve been tooling around in the same workout clothes and ratty old Nikes, everyone else appears to be ready for lunch with an ambassador. Seriously, it’s like every woman in the AC is channeling Grace Kelly, with superstarched Peter Pan–collared blouses or twinsets, pencil skirts, or tailored pants, finished off with kitten heels or ballet flats. And the jewelry? Don’t even get me started on the jewelry. Charm bracelets and pearls and, oh, my God, the diamonds! I’m talking studs the size of horseflies and solitaires big enough to skate across.

  A woman last week must have been sporting twenty-five carats between her neck and wrist alone. So I said to the guy in line behind me, “I bet she’s having a bling-uccino.” Then he looked at me all blankly, so I pretended I was talking into my Bluetooth instead.

  My point is, I don’t understand how these gals manage to be so pulled together at ten o’clock in the morning, at Starbucks of all places. I can barely remember to put on pants before I have my coffee.

  Anyway, I notice our new, sporty neighbor doesn’t have any kind of obvious welcome gift with her either, unless the enormous SUV stroller containing two apple-cheeked toddlers is meant for us, in which case . . . thank you?

  I handle the introductions. “Hi, I’m Mia, and this is my husband, John MacNamara. But most people call him Mac.”

  “Do you have dogs?”

  Wow, Abington Cambians don’t waste a lot of time with conversational foreplay, do they?

  “Um . . . yes, we do,” I tell her. “They’re on the back porch right now. Their names are Duckie and Daisy. Did you . . . want to meet them?” I can’t imagine where she’s going with this until I glance down at her sleeping children. Oh. I bet she’s concerned about the pit bull, so I need to put her at ease. “Please don’t worry; they’re totally sweet and docile unless you’re, like, a pork chop or a squirrel.”

  Lululemon’s expression darkens. “Do you, by chance, have a doggy door?”

  “We do.” Pride practically radiates off Mac as he replies. With a little elbow grease—and a lot of swearing, so very much swearing— Mac successfully completed his first DIY project here yesterday.86 The door works like a charm, and the dogs are delighted to have a say in whether or not they go outdoors.

  “I see. Then please take this.” Lululemon roots around in the storage area on the back of her Bugaboo.

  Ding, ding, ding, jackpot! The new neighbor does have a welcome present for us! So maybe this lady isn’t that great at conversation, and perhaps it would have been nice if she’d told us her name, but I don’t care, because we’re getting a present! Hooray!

  Lululemon hands Mac a small blue-and-yellow bottle. Ooh, what is it? Some kind of small-batch Scotch? A wee container of yummy dessert wine? Possibly an exotic bath soak?

  Mac turns the container over and up and down. “WD-40?”

  “Yes. Your door is banging open and closed and it’s clearly in need of a lubricant.87 I’ll thank you to fix it at once, because your dogs are disturbing Calliope and Gregor’s afternoon nap.”

  As we stand there, astounded, Lululemon executes a perfect three-point turn and trots up the drive and onto the street.

  “Calliope and Gregor?” Mac’s expression vacillates between shock and awe.

  I reply, “Don’t look at me, dude.”

  We try to shake off the incident, chalking up Lululemon’s attitude to toddler-based exhaustion and a desperate need for carbohydrates. Then we spend a few minutes discussing furniture placement with the movers before the bell rings again.

  “I’m almost afraid to answer it,” I tell Mac.

  This time there’s an old man—ancient, really—standing in the center of our porch, and he doesn’t look happy.

  Of course he doesn’t.

  Even his wrinkles are frowning. We joked about buying a welcome mat that said, GO AWAY, but now that seems like it might have been a wise investment.

  Before we can say anything, the old guy begins to wave an eagleheaded cane at us. “Tell your kids not to park in my driveway,” he hisses.

  “Is someone parked in your driveway?” I query. I thought everyone here arrived via the moving van, but I double-check. “Hey, guys? Anyone parked anywhere other than this driveway?” I confirm they haven’t and turn back to the visitor. “If someone’s there, it’s not us.”

  He scowls so hard his jowls tremble. “I didn’t say there was someone there now, missy. I said I don’t want your kids parking in my driveway.”

  Mac is utterly confused, so I field this one. “I promise that won’t be an issue, sir, as we don’t even have kids.” Because I’m polite, I don’t add that if we were to reproduce, by the time our children were old enough to get a license, he’d be dead.

  His beady little eyes dart back and forth beneath fleshy lids. “Well, keep it that way.” Then he totters off our porch and proceeds to slowly traverse the cobblestone path. When he gets to the street, he kicks our mailbox.

  “Did you sign us up for a reality show and not tell me?” Mac demands.

  “I tried to get us on Property Virgins, House Hunters, and My First Place, but no luck,” I admit. Apparently the producers at HGTV aren’t doing a lot of episodes where first-time buyers purchase starter mansions.

  When the bell rings for a fourth time, I send Mac out to oil the doggy door. I’m a lot better in confrontational situations, since I’m not so quick to escalate.

  Although, really, odds are good that someone’s going to bring us a damn casserole soon and that we’re finished with all the Negative Nellies. We’ve already been yelled at by neighbors on either side and across the street. Surely there can’t be anyone left in our immediate proximity who has reason to dislike us without even having met us.

  You know what?

  There are a lot of angry people in this neighborhood.

  My shoulders are killing me. Between yanking open the heavy front door and tensing up when strangers yell at me, I’m in desperate need of a massage.

  By the time the bell rings for the fourteenth casserole-free time, I’m spoiling for a fight. I’m tired of being told that my driveway needs to be power-washed, that I’m remiss in planting my purple ornamental cabbage to show support for the high school’s baseball team, that I put my recycling in the wrong kind of bin, and that the moving van needs to be repositioned because it’s causing “an uncomfortable glare while I’m trying to watch Wheel of Fortune.”

  How is everyone around here so mean? These people live in amazing houses on the most beautiful street in the coolest town and yet no one’s happy? How does that work? At this point I don’t blame this home’s caretakers for not keeping it in better shape; there’s no pleasing anyone around here, so why bother?

  Despite the pain radiating up my shoulder, I whip open the door with all my might. “What now?” I bark into the shocked face of Liz, our Realtor.

  “Is this a bad time?” she asks, then tentatively offers me an enormous basket filled with lots of wine and cheese and serving accessories.

  I apologize profusely, call Mac, and crack open one of the bottles of pinot.88 We move to the couch, where we give her a rundown of our afternoon.

  “I don’t get it,” I cry. “Everyone seemed really nice up here when we were looking at houses. What went wrong?”

  “Why don’t we have any casseroles?” Mac adds.

  “I don’t really know what that means, Mac,” she replies. “But I’m afraid what you’re saying makes sense. After the closing I ran into the trust’s attorney at Starbucks. I found out that if the trust wasn’t able to sell this place by April first, there was a plan to turn the property over to the community.”

  “Turn over? I’m sorry. I’m lost,” I tell her.

  Liz sighs and takes a small sip of her wine. “Meaning that this property was going to be torn down and made into open lands. Basically, your house was earmarked for a nature preserve that th
e neighbors would be able to access, and now that you’re here, they won’t get it.”

  Mac leans forward and sets his glass on the coffee table. I’m so relieved about finally having furniture that I don’t even dive for a coaster. “We were in a bidding war! If we didn’t buy this place, someone else was going to. The neighbors wouldn’t have gotten their park regardless.”

  A pained expression flashes across Liz’s face. When we asked Liz to represent us, she balked, insisting she wasn’t that familiar with the Abington Cambs market and that having the inside scoop could be crucial. But we insisted harder, and now . . . here we are.

  “So what you’re saying,” Mac continues, “is that we’re already in the proverbial doghouse with these neighbors. They’re predisposed to dislike us.” Then he slumps back onto the couch, mourning the loss of casseroles in perpetuity.

  “Unfortunately, that’s about the size of it. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I should have turned you over to a local Realtor and—”

  I’m not accepting this brand of defeatism. “Stop right there.You did a great job, because we’re here, aren’t we? Maybe we’ll have to try a little harder to win over the neighbors, but I’m sure we can, because, need I remind you, we were destined to live here. I mean, if the Jablonskis could get over Babcia rewashing everything on their clothesline89 and the Pasquesis forgave her for annexing their yard for her vegetable garden,90 then we can rally. All we did was buy our dream house, and all they need to do is get to know us.”

  Liz smiles at me. “I admire your determination.”

  “Or your delusion,” Mac adds.

  “Everything’s going to be fine. We just need to give it a little time. Trust me.”

  After we finish our visit, I walk Liz to her car, hugging her briefly before she leaves. “Thank you for everything, and we’ll see you soon.”

  When I close the front door, a blinding flash of pain travels up to my neck and the knob comes off in my hand.

  This had better not be a sign.

  Chapter Nine

  FALLING THROUGH THE EARTH (OF SORTS)

  “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

  Tracey and I are standing in my front hallway. The area that had once been dated and dingy is now—hmm, what is the proper designer term for it?—ah, yes, a frigging war zone.

  The Dumpster we requested a week ago hasn’t yet arrived, so Mac thoughtfully placed every piece of broken vanity top, each shattered tile, and four metric tons of drywall in the foyer beside the front door. He argued that the neighbors would have our heads if we placed the refuse outside without a bin, and I’m inclined to agree with him. We’ve already been on the receiving end of three different neighborhood petitions regarding our trees, our dogs, and our ability to accessorize.91

  “You like it?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes,” Tracey dryly asserts. “Very fetching and postmodern. Reminiscent of Bosnia. Or Herzegovina. The broken tile has the insouciance of a land mine, while the plaster hunks scream ‘ethnic cleansing.’ I believe you’d describe this whole look as ‘bank.’ ”

  All I can do is nod.

  “Really, Mia—might I ask what you were possibly thinking?”

  I explain, “Mac has a ton of vacation time. He’s been with his company since graduation, so the amount of time off he gets is ridiculous. He’s taken the whole month of May off, and he has tons more days accrued after that, too. Anyway, he decided that since we’re not going to be traveling—”

  “As you’ve invested all your money in this house,”Tracey offers.

  “That, and because I have a book due, we’re not going on vacation, so Mac was trying to figure out what to do with his time. Point? After spending a weekend watching Genevieve Gorder make over outdated baths, he decided he was ready to start renovating, and he’s been ripping out fixtures ever since.”

  “Clearly this”—Tracey makes a broad sweeping motion over the shoulder-high piles—“came from more than one place. What happened to your plan to take your time and finish one room before moving on to the next?”

  I exhale deeply, and my breath sends little plumes of construction powder into the air. Somehow when Mac explained things, ripping out all the upstairs bathrooms made sense, but now I’m not so sure. “I suspect he may have gotten carried away.” While we’re standing there, the core of Mount Drywall destabilizes, followed by a minor avalanche that spills across Tracey’s Pumas.

  She shakes her foot, creating swirling eddies of dust motes. “You think?”

  Before I can come up with a snappy retort, there’s another knock at the door. I wipe away the grime coating the side window and see a familiar dark head. “Hey, Kara! Welcome! How was your visit with your folks?”

  Kara plows into the house so quickly that she churns up all the dust and she’s suddenly nothing but a blur of bangle bracelets and bouncy hair. “You mean other than the four hundred and twenty-seven conversations we had about my being in my thirties and not yet married? Great! Just great,” Kara responds through gritted teeth.

  “Did you finally come clean?” Tracey inquires. Kara’s folks are so old-school that she’s terrified to admit to them that she’s the Kara behind the wildly successful relationship column. Of course, they don’t call her Kara. They refuse to acknowledge anything but her given name—Karunamayee, which means “full of pity for others.”

  Seriously, how perfect is that?

  It’s like she was predestined to give advice for a living.

  Kara shakes bits of drywall out of her hair and her bracelets jangle with all the movement. “Not even a little bit. Ironically, my column ran today, and it was racier than usual because I answered a question on threesome etiquette.”

  “There’s etiquette involved?” Wow, sometimes I wonder if I really am Amish.

  Kara regards me quizzically. “Of course—there’s etiquette involved in any social situation, and what’s more social than a three-way?” Kara then notices I’m blushing all the way to the tips of my ears, so she doesn’t really elaborate. “The long and short of it is, share and share alike. Anyway, while we’re sitting there having tea after breakfast, both my parents went on and on about the shame that other Kara must heap on her family, and I wanted to fall through the floor and die.”

  “Sounds like you need a drink,” I declare.

  Kara blithely steps over the piles of rubble, and both girls follow me to the kitchen. “Have you got anything that isn’t pink or sugary?”

  I ponder the contents of our fridge for a second. “Of course. Wine okay?”

  Tracey chimes in, “Is it sugary pink wine?”

  “No.”92

  “Something stronger?” Kara pleads. “I may have trouble washing away the thirty-four years of shame and disappointment I’ve heaped on the Patel name with sauvignon blanc.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” I give her a reassuring hug before I root through the liquor cabinet. “Most everything’s downstairs in the bar, but Mac may have some sipping whiskey up here.” I locate a bottle of Elmer T. Lee bourbon and set it on the grit-covered countertop,93 and before I can even reach for a glass, Kara downs a shot straight from the bottle.

  “You poor kid,”Tracey sympathizes. “That is so not bank.”

  You know what? I’m willing to admit “bank” doesn’t work as an expression.94

  Drinks prepared, we make our way to my library/office, parting the thick sheets of dust-repelling plastic as we enter. This is the one clean, organized room in the whole house. Because of the majestic paneling, we didn’t need to cover up any horrible eighties peach paint or vertigo-inducing wallpaper.

  A word about the wallpaper, if I may?

  I realize I’ve previously ranted about how home buyers on HGTV always seem daunted by the littlest bits of wallpaper. In the scheme of things, wallpaper simply isn’t that big a deal. I mean, it’s paper. Anything made out of paper can’t be inherently so challenging, right? And yet now I’m forced to admit that wallpaper can be so aggressively aw
ful as to cause actual distress.

  Take my living room, for example. My walls are covered with yards and yards of paper you wouldn’t believe if you saw. Picture a whole bunch of monkeys sitting around on large swirls of paisley perpetrating hate crimes against a group of Asian men who are just hanging out, minding their own business by playing their lutes and dancing their jigs. In alternating scenes, lions climb bamboo trees, tigers run away from monkey-tossed spears, and jaguars poise, ready to launch an attack on the pesky monkeys who started everything. The whole scene is about five seconds away from imminent bloodshed.

  The kitchen walls are plastered with paper featuring dogs dancing with clowns in what appears to be a Venetian circus. The dining room boasts large multicolored pheasants on a mustard yellow background sunning themselves in what must be a nuclear-waste-rife raspberry patch, as each of the berries is three times the size of the birds’ heads.

  One of the powder rooms has walls covered in pink and fuchsia checks bordered with repeating scenes of Chinese men who are either working in a rice paddy or washing their socks.95

  Or how about the loft on the third floor? The room spans the length of the house, although the ceiling follows the roofline, so it begins to angle at shoulder height. What would make this room less oppressive? I know! Eight thousand square yards of pastel blue and white Boats of Many Sizes alternating up and down the walls in the maritime version of my nightmares. Or what about the bedroom made up primarily of Chinese men whipping yaks and feeding chickens?

  Funnily enough, the horrible wallpaper was the only stuff Ann Marie did like about this house. She says this style is called “chinoiserie” and that it’s very happening with the senior set in Florida. Yeah, well, so is Super Poligrip, but I’m not about to smear denture cream on my walls, either.