Praise for Virtually Perfect
“In Virtually Perfect, newcomer Paige Roberts serves up a fresh take on reinvention and acceptance. Light and satisfying, Virtually Perfect is the perfect weekend read!”
—Amy Sue Nathan, author of Left to Chance
“Roberts’s spot-on debut novel delves into the virtually perfect façade of an internally imperfect family. The author also eloquently splashes in a dash of humor.... Readers who enjoy novels with cooking themes will laugh and commiserate with Lizzie as she sweats her way through a summer of gourmet requests, grandiose demands, and secrets she learns about almost too late.”
—Library Journal
“Entertaining and incisive . . . Lizzie’s intelligence and moral compass grounds the story. . . . Her self-awareness makes her an inspiring heroine. Readers are treated to ample helpings of snappy dialogue and vivid characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
Also by Paige Roberts
Virtually Perfect
The LAST HOUSE ON SYCAMORE STREET
PAIGE ROBERTS
Kensington Books
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for Virtually Perfect
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
THE LAST HOUSE ON SYCAMORE STREET
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Paige Roberts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1011-6
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1012-3
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1012-6
For Alex and Charlie
Chapter 1
The moment Amy stepped out of the realtor’s car, she knew she’d been had. Not that she was surprised. She and Rob had been looking at houses for, what was it now? Three months? By now, she’d gotten used to disappointment. But this one had looked so promising online. Granite counters! Stainless-steel appliances! A cute backyard with azalea bushes and a vegetable garden! In her heart, she’d hoped this would be “the one.” Finally they could stop making weekend trips to Philadelphia from Washington, DC, and move on with their lives.
But this wasn’t “the one.” She could already tell. She’d never been the kind of person who believed in that kind of kismet. Whenever people asked how she and Rob met, the follow-up question, at least from a certain type of person, was always, “And did you just know the second you met him?” The truth was, it took her months to realize Rob might be the kind of person—if not the person—she wanted to marry. She was never sure if that was because love at first sight didn’t exist in general, or just not for her, but she didn’t tend to make snap judgments one way or the other.
And yet somehow she knew they wouldn’t buy this house. Even from the outside, it looked nothing like the listing she’d seen online. What had, in photographs, looked like a cute, stone Cape Cod, now looked more like a tired house in need of a facelift. How had she not noticed the paint flaking off the shutters in the photos? And the roof . . . was that moss?
“A beauty!” crowed Cynthia, their realtor.
Amy and Rob locked eyes. They were on the same page.
Cynthia must have caught their look because she fiddled with the rhinestone broach on her bright yellow blazer and added, “Of course, it needs a loving touch, but then doesn’t every house?”
She rushed ahead to open the front door.
“I guess everything looks better when you’re also the listing agent,” Rob whispered in Amy’s ear.
She laced her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I really wanted to love this one.”
“You still might.”
She glanced up at him. “Wishful thinking.”
“Come on. Let’s take a look.”
They held hands as they walked up the driveway, and Amy surveyed the neighborhood. She liked it. A lot, actually. The houses were close together, but in a friendly, “meet your neighbors” kind of way. She could already see at least five houses with swing sets and immediately pictured kids running from one yard to the next, their squeals filling the air on a warm summer day. Oh, what she would give for Noah to be one of those kids. Even if they moved here, he would probably still want to sit inside and play math games and wouldn’t want to—
No. Amy put the brakes on her runaway train of thought. He’s never had a yard, she reminded herself. If he did, he’d probably want to play in it. That’s why they were moving here, wasn’t it? Well, that and to be closer to Rob’s family. But they both knew they’d never be able to afford a decent-size house with any property in DC, and they’d decided that was a lifestyle Noah would need if he was going to come out of his shell. They just needed to find a nice house in a friendly neighborhood that wasn’t too expensive and didn’t require many renovations.
“So basically a unicorn,” her friend Jess had said.
Amy laughed off the comment at the time, but she was beginning to think Jess was right. Why was finding a house so hard? She’d always thought she had good taste, but after seeing so many houses she considered hideous, she was starting to wonder if maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was a known fact among her friends and family that she dressed horribly, bought terrible furniture, and was otherwise aesthetically blind. She peered down at her brown leather boots. Were they maybe a little too rugged? And the skinny jeans—they were still “in,” weren’t they? She’d thought so when she’d bought them, but now she wasn’t sure. Nothing was making sense, least of all Cynthia’s comments about the house.
“I think you’ll see it has an understated elegance,” she said as she led them through the front door.
The first thing Amy noticed was the smell. Cigarettes. Having grown up with a smoker, Amy knew the thick, musty smell of tobacco would linger long after the current owner left. Her mom had quit years ago, and yet every time Amy visited her back in Rhode Island, the house still bore the same stale, almost sweet smell her Parliaments had left behind. The smoke had latched on to everything it could—the curtains, the carpet, the walls. Amy knew this house would be no different. At the v
ery least, they’d have to prime and repaint everything, rip out the carpets, and buy new window treatments. If that was all, Amy wouldn’t mind, but she had seen enough houses by this point to suspect that wouldn’t be the end of the problems.
“The dining room.” Cynthia gestured to the left and let Amy and Rob go in first. “Perfect for entertaining.”
Amy walked around the dining room table, and as she did, she felt as if she were walking downhill. “Is it me, or . . . is the floor slanted?” she asked.
“Slanted?” Cynthia sounded baffled by Amy’s question, but in a way that made her seem disingenuous rather than truly confused. Any idiot could tell that the floor wasn’t level.
“Yeah, see?” Rob reached into his pocket and pulled out a bouncy ball he had confiscated from Noah earlier that morning. He placed the ball on the floor and it began rolling toward the wall.
“Ah. Well. It is an older home, and homes settle. But it isn’t a problem. Your son might even enjoy it!”
Amy didn’t consider this a selling point. She had visions of Thanksgiving dinner sliding off the table, the centerpiece tumbling into the gravy and cranberry sauce.
“Let’s move on to the kitchen,” Cynthia said, wisely bursting Amy’s thought bubble.
As they entered the kitchen, Cynthia began talking very loud and very fast, but Amy barely caught any of what Cynthia was saying because she was distracted by an inescapable funk. This one was different than the cigarette smoke. It smelled of damp, as if a pipe had been leaking under the sink, or mold had been growing beneath the dishwasher. Instinctively, Amy made her way to the sink and opened the cupboard beneath it. She bent over to identify the source of the smell, when she heard a rustling in the trash can. Before she knew what was happening, a small mouse leapt out of the can, scurried down the side, and disappeared through a small hole near the drainpipe.
“Aaaahhh!”
“What is it?” Cynthia asked.
“A mouse—under the sink.”
“Are you sure? Maybe it was a—”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, obviously if it was a mouse, that’s something the owner would take care of before settlement.”
Amy had to admire Cynthia’s ability to dismiss or pretty up any potential problem. Part of her wondered how Cynthia would address the decaying roof, but she realized it didn’t matter because she and Rob officially would not be buying this house.
“Shall we move on to the family room?” Cynthia continued.
Amy looked at Rob. He tugged at his earlobe, their agreed-upon signal that the house was a no go. “I don’t think so,” Amy said.
“Would you prefer to see the powder room first?”
“No, I mean we don’t need to see any more of the house. We aren’t interested.”
“Oh. But in your e-mail you said—”
“I know. I really did think this could be the one. I love the neighborhood. Just not this house.”
Cynthia stroked her chin. She had strong features and weathered skin but maintained a sophisticated look with cropped silver hair and bright red lipstick. “But you do love the neighborhood,” she said.
“Definitely. The swing sets, the vibe—I could see us living here. Just not . . . here.”
“Well, if you like the neighborhood . . .” She narrowed her eyes and scrunched up her lips, apparently in deep thought. “I probably shouldn’t even mention this, but there is a property a block or so away. It isn’t officially on the market yet, but it will be in a few days.”
Amy’s and Rob’s eyes met. “What’s it like?” Rob asked.
“Four bedrooms, two and half baths. Brick colonial. The kitchen was redone a few years ago. It’s a beautiful house. A young couple like you. A young child, too, I believe. I’m not exactly sure what the story is, but they contacted another person at our firm and seemed anxious to move quickly. I think the photographer was there earlier this morning.”
“But it’s not on the market,” Amy clarified.
“Not yet. But if I . . . Hang on.” Cynthia pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her contacts. She put the phone to her ear and waited while it rang. “Connie? Hi, it’s Cynthia. I’m calling about that house in Glenside Park, the last one on Sycamore. I know they haven’t listed it yet, but I have some buyers who might be interested. Do you think they’d mind if we . . . you’re sure? Because we’re at the place on Juniper now, so we could be there in a minute or so. Could you? That would be great. I can hold.”
Cynthia raised her eyebrows excitedly with the phone pressed to her ear. Amy couldn’t help but be excited, too, even if she knew better than to get her hopes up about any house, particularly one for which she’d never seen so much as a photograph. But she was so tired of combing through listings and living in limbo that she found it comforting to think that their dream house could be right around the corner.
“Yes?” Cynthia directed her attention back to her phone call. “Oh, wonderful. Wonderful! We will be there in just a minute. Thanks for your help—the next coffee is on me!”
Cynthia hung up and clapped her hands together. “Today, my friends, is your lucky day.”
* * *
Cynthia slowed the car as they approached a brick house with black shutters and a glossy black door.
“Is this it?” Amy asked, looking out the window.
“Yes, 120 Sycamore. What do you think?”
Amy sized up the property. From the outside, it was just the sort of house she’d imagined them buying when they initially decided to decamp to the Philadelphia suburbs: an old but well-maintained brick colonial that was brimming with character and warmth. There was a brick walkway extending from the front door to the street, surrounded by shrubs and flowers, and the front of the house was flanked by bright azalea bushes, in shocking shades of pink and purple. She didn’t want to get too excited before seeing the inside, but she couldn’t stop smiling.
“I like it,” she said, trying not to come on too strong for Cynthia. She looked at Rob, who nodded in approval.
They got out of the car and made their way to the front door. It suddenly occurred to Amy that they were about to barge in on a woman with a young child, having given her about two minutes’ notice. If someone did that to Amy, she would panic, and the house would most likely look like a war zone.
“Are you sure it’s okay for us to stop by like this? I feel bad not giving the owner much notice. If it were me—”
“It’s fine,” Cynthia said. “Like I said, the photographer was here this morning, so everything is clean and organized.”
Amy glanced at Rob. “How long do you think it would take for Noah to tear the house apart? Three minutes? Five?”
“Somewhere in that ballpark.”
“Well, then, you’ll understand if it isn’t pristine,” Cynthia said. “I’m sure it isn’t a problem. If they’re anxious to sell, they aren’t going to turn away a qualified buyer.”
She hurried ahead of them, rang the doorbell, and thumped the shiny brass knocker. Amy and Rob came up behind her just as a slim woman with long dark hair opened the door.
“You must be Cynthia,” the woman said. She extended her arm. “Grace Durant.”
Cynthia shook her hand. “Thank you so much for letting us in on such short notice. This is Amy and Rob Kravitz. I think your house might be just what they’re looking for.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” She smiled at Amy. “Come in. Have a look around. I was just putting in a load of laundry, but I promise I’ll stay out of your hair.”
“Please—we’re the ones in your hair,” Amy said as she walked through the front door. And what nice hair it is, she thought, as she compared Grace’s glossy chocolate locks to her own limp auburn ones. “We really appreciate you letting us in like this. We have a four-year-old. We know what it’s like.”
“Thankfully mine is at preschool,” she said.
“Well, we’re grateful anyway.”
“Don’t mention it.”
<
br /> Grace closed the door behind them. Amy pretended to size up the foyer, but really she found herself eying Grace. Already, she could tell Grace had probably always been popular in school, the kind of person everyone wanted to be friends with but also envied. Amy had never been that person, nor had she managed to befriend anyone who was, at least not until college. Aside from the fact that Grace was gorgeous—exotic, even, with upturned narrow eyes, olive skin, and glittery hazel eyes—she had a relaxed, Bohemian vibe and exuded confidence and style. She wore the sorts of clothes whose origins Amy couldn’t immediately ascertain. Amy was hardly a clotheshorse, but she could generally tell if someone had bought her shirt at a place like J. Crew or Gap or another mainstream store. But Grace’s clothes—her linen pants, her dip-dyed tank, her brown leather sandals—looked expensive and rare, and Amy was certain she’d never encountered anyone wearing their likeness.
“I love your sandals,” Amy said before she could stop herself.
“Thanks.” Grace looked down and studied her foot. “My parents took us to Greece last summer, and I bought them super cheap.”
Sandals from Greece. She was even more worldly than Amy had assumed.
“Anyway, let’s have a look around, shall we?” Cynthia suggested.
Grace disappeared down the hallway, and Amy and Rob began looking around the first floor. Grace’s distinctive style extended to the décor. All of the furnishings were tasteful yet unique—a living room chair that hung from the ceiling like a swing, fabric patterns and materials that were at once lush and relaxed, a coffee table made of an antique wooden trolley. Amy knew she was buying the house and not the things in it, but Grace made the house look so effortlessly chic. And with a four-year-old! Amy’s vision of her family in this house suddenly became more fashionable as well, as if the house itself would confer her with impeccable taste. Maybe then she’d know for sure whether her skinny jeans were a fashion faux pas.
The Last House on Sycamore Street Page 1