Love, Suburban Style (13 page)

“Careful,” she cautions Cosette, who refuses to walk at her side and passes close to the cans. “You’ll get stung.”

“No, I won’t. Bees don’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

“Sometimes you bother them without meaning to.” Meg shudders, remembering the hive incident from her childhood.

She’s told Cosette that story enough times, though, that her daughter rolls her eyes whenever she brings it up.

“Get a grip, Mom,” Cosette tells her now, and marches defiantly closer to the trash barrels and the bees… without incident.

So far, so good,
Meg thinks, trying to relax.

They emerge from the wooded pavilion area into a wide, sunny meadow bordering the soccer field.

She looks around for Sam and spots him almost immediately.

There he is, kicking a ball around with a couple of other boys…

Wait a minute! That’s not Sam.

But it could have been, if this were twenty years ago.

The boy on the field looks exactly like the Sam Rooney Meg once adored from afar. So much so that she’s positive he must be Sam’s son. She watches him for a minute, smiling. Even from this distance, she can see that he has not just his father’s looks, but his easygoing, good-natured disposition.

As for the real, grown-up Sam…

She takes another quick look around and spies him standing near the bleachers. He’s holding a clipboard and wearing athletic shorts, a white T-shirt, sneakers. He’s tanned and muscular and his wavy-could-stand-to-be-cut hair pokes from beneath a baseball cap that shades his good-looking features.

Whoa.

Palpitations. Butterflies.

I actually kissed him,
she thinks incredulously—for the hundredth time since she woke up this morning.
And he actually kissed me back.

That the kiss was just as good as she always imagined it would be probably isn’t a great thing.

If kissing Sam Rooney hadn’t lived up to her expectations, she’d have gotten him out of her system once and for all.

But it did live up to them… and then some.

As a result, he seems to be even more firmly entrenched in Meg’s… uh,
system
… than he was back in high school, when she was in full-blown obsession mode.

She sees him glance around, almost as though he’s looking for someone.

Then he shades his eyes in her direction, and waves.

He sees me,
she realizes, quickening her pace.
But he wasn’t looking for me.

At least, that’s what she needs to remind herself, trying to keep a silly grin off her face as she waves back at him.

“Mom, jeez, will you stop?”

“Stop what?” She looks at Cosette and finds her glaring.

“Stop flailing your arms all over the place like that. Everyone is staring at us now.”

Meg automatically says, “No, they aren’t.”

But, oh yes they are.

She lowers her arm slowly, acutely aware that clusters of Fancy Moms and a couple of dads are watching her and Cosette approach.

Even the kids turn their heads, although after shooting curious glances at the newcomers, they quickly go back to whatever it was that they were doing. For the girls, that’s gossiping with their friends and hoping the boys will notice them; for the boys, it’s anxiously shuffling their feet and stealing glances at the girls.

It’s as difficult to picture Cosette slipping seamlessly into this bunch as it is for Meg to imagine herself sitting in the bleachers with a tasteful blond pageboy, a manicure, and a grande nonfat iced caramel espresso.

Not that she doesn’t enjoy the occasional upscale coffee drink. But for the time being, her budget won’t allow for anything more than Maxwell House, brewed at home.

Which reminds her, she has yet to find the box that holds the kitchen appliances. What she wouldn’t have given for a cup of coffee this morning.

Luckily, though, she found the bedding last night. And some of her clothes—although she can already see that her cutoffs, drugstore flip-flops, and Old Navy T-shirt leave something to be desired in this crowd.

Too many of the other moms are showing off their summer tans in cute resort wear.

Well, at least I have fresh breath,
Meg thinks, grateful that she also located the box that held the toothbrushes and Listerine.

Just in case Sam feels the urge to kiss me again.

Ha.

She covers the last couple of yards between them, widely sidestepping a couple of fat, lazy bumblebees among the dandelions, and a toddler plugged into an iPod.

She does a double take at that, and realizes the little girl is also wearing a Lilly Pulitzer sundress.

Perfect for Palm Beach.

But a suburban soccer field?

She recognizes a tiny blond woman clad in pink silk who’s on the sidelines with a tinier blond version of herself. It’s the Hummer-driving, yoga-doing, diamond-flashing, supposedly Sharing and Caring Laurelle again, and obviously, she’s with her daughter. The two of them definitely aren’t having a warm, fuzzy moment over there. The girl looks sullen, the mom pissed off.

So we do have something in common after all,
Meg thinks, as blondie throws her hands up in exasperation and stalks away, toward the bleachers.

“Hey.”

Recognizing Sam’s voice, Meg turns to see him smiling at her.

“Hey,” she returns, glad her eyes are concealed behind her sunglasses—Duane Reade, $12.99.

Cosette, of course, is lagging several steps behind Meg, head down, undoubtedly furious.

“I’m glad you made it. We were just about to start the drills. How did you sleep last night?”

“Oh, we were fine,” Meg replies, conscious that everyone in the vicinity is eavesdropping on their nonconversation. “I slept like a rock.”

She did, surprisingly—even though it felt as though she were sleeping
on
a rock.

By the time she and Cosette had returned the truck, driven home in their car, located the bedding, pajamas, and toiletries, she was utterly exhausted. Too exhausted to worry about much of anything, including ghosts. Even kissing Sam didn’t deter her efforts to drift off, and she slept soundly, straight through, until about forty-five minutes ago.

“Cosette, we’ll do introductions on the field in a bit,” Sam says. “For now, just let me introduce you to my son… Ben! Come here!”

Sure enough, he’s waving at the Sam clone Meg mistook for her old crush during her mini time warp episode.

The boy picks up the ball, tucks it under his arm, and obediently trots toward his father.

Impressed, Meg realizes her daughter hasn’t promptly responded to her own requests since she was…

Well, has she ever?

Not really. Even as a toddler, Cosette was a willful free spirit, resenting interruptions and resisting commands.

Meg is afraid to glance at her now, certain she’s still glowering, or is applying black lipstick and more eyeliner, or has disappeared altogether.

“Ben, this is Cosette—she just moved in next door to us—and this is her mom, Mrs…. ” Sam trails off questioningly.

“You can just call me Meg.”

“Nice to meet you.” The boy has his father’s easy grin and laid-back demeanor—even when he glances at Cosette.

Thank God he isn’t staring at her in disdain.

Making sure Cosette isn’t staring at Ben in disdain, Meg turns her head and sees that her daughter has momentarily lost the glower as she mumbles a suitable greeting.

Not that she’s congenial as a Georgia beauty queen, but at least she isn’t treating Ben and his father with open hostility.

No, that’s just reserved for me.

“Okay, guys, let’s go,” Sam calls. He blows the whistle hanging around his neck and begins herding the kids out onto the field.

You’re on your own,
Meg thinks, watching her daughter fall in with the crowd.

Turning back toward the bleachers, filling with Fancy Moms, she thinks,
And so am I.

Chapter
7

L
aurelle! Hi!”

Seeing the blank expression on the other woman’s face, Meg wishes she hadn’t spoken up as she approached the bleachers, where Laurelle is seated on the bottom row.

“I’m Meg… Remember, Krissy introduced us a while back…”

Still blank.

“Krissy Rosenkr—I mean, Kris Holmes.”

The light dawns, but just barely. “The Realtor?”

Meg nods.

“Oh! You’re the woman who came to clean that time. Thanks, but I’m afraid we’ve gone in another direction.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, I should probably just come right out and say it. I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t.” Laurelle sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t consider myself all that fussy, but when I come home to a supposedly clean house and find a hair—that isn’t mine—on the white tile floor, I don’t give second chances. And anyway, I prefer a live-in.”

Okay, this is potentially embarrassing all around. Meg tries to think of the best way to let Laurelle off the hook. “Actually, I’m not Kris’s maid,” she says, almost apologetically.

“You’re not?” Laurelle asks—thinking she must be mistaken about her identity, judging by the look on her face.

“I’m not,” Meg says firmly. “I’m Kris’s friend.”

“Her friend?”

“We met that day when you were on your way to yoga…” She prompts.

“I take yoga every day, so…”

“We were parked on Boxwood,” Meg adds helpfully, wondering why she’s bothering.

“Oh. I remember!”

No, you don’t,
Meg tells her silently, seeing the still-blank look in her brown eyes.
You just want me to shut up and leave you alone.

“Well… it was nice seeing you again!” Laurelle says in that fake-bright tone people use with annoying children who keep asking questions.

“Nice seeing you, too.”

“Have fun watching the practice,” Laurelle adds, without bothering to ask why she’s here, or whether she has a child on the team, much less making room on the bench beside her.

“You have fun watching the practice, too.” Meg wishes she could flee, but her path is temporarily blocked by a pair of women in designer sunglasses and heels trying to strategize where they’re going to sit. It seems that between the two of them, they’re holding grudges against half the female population in the bleachers.

There’s nothing for Meg to do but linger. She says to Laurelle, because it’s less awkward than saying nothing, “Have a nice day.”

Maybe it isn’t better than saying nothing.

“Oh, I will. And I’m sure I’ll see you… around. So…”

For the love of God, stop!
Meg wants to shout.
I’m going, I’m going.

The two women blocking her path seem to have finally picked a destination, freeing Meg to move past Laurelle at last.

I should have brought something to read or do,
she thinks, watching the horde of other women—most of them Fancy Moms—settle into chatty rows on the tiered wooden benches like pigeons on a telephone line.

No, not pigeons. They’re much too bourgeois.

More like peacocks, or something equally beautiful and exotic.

And mean.

Wait, are peacocks supposed to be mean? Or is that blue jays?

Anyway, you don’t know that these women are mean. You’re just imagining that they are because of your own insecurity. For all you know, they’re going to take you under their wings—as it were—and become your new best friends.

“Hi, Meg.”

It takes her a moment to realize someone is calling to her—in part, because she’s accustomed to answering to Astor.

Even when she recognizes her new—old—name, she doubts the male voice is addressing her, because she doesn’t know anyone here, other than Sam.

“Meg?”

Oh, yes you do.

Turning, she recognizes Brad Flickinger, wearing a linen shirt and madras shorts, holding a camera bag in one hand and a cell phone in the other. With him is a woman—an obvious Fancy Mom—clad in an effortlessly chic Caribbean aqua silk sleeveless shift and matching sandals. She can only be his wife Olympia.

Sure enough, Brad says, “Olympia, this is Meg, Sophie’s new voice teacher.”

“Voice
coach,
” amends Olympia, a slender brunette with classic, elegant Grecian features. “And remember, we’re actually still in the interview stage, Brad. We need to find the best coach to help Sophie land the lead in the all-school musical.”

Meg is well aware that the Flickingers and Sophie have placed themselves in the interviewer role, rather than interviewees. Their attitude is that anyone would be fortunate to have a fledgling star in her tutelage.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Olympia says belatedly, stretching out a bare, tanned, toned arm with a dazzling tennis bracelet at the wrist and an even more dazzling array of diamonds on the ring finger. “Is your daughter playing soccer?”

“Yes, she is.” Meg resists pointing out Cosette on the field—not that Olympia has asked which one she is, or so much as glanced in that direction.

“That’s nice.”

“Is your daughter… oh, wait. She’s only thirteen, right?” Meg remembers that Sam said this was the fourteen- and fifteen-year-old league, and wonders what the Flickingers are doing here.

“Yes, she’s thirteen, but she’s on the team,” Brad says, keeping one eye trained on the players.

His wife comments, keeping one eye trained on the social activity in the bleachers, “Sophie has been playing soccer for years, and she’s beyond the twelve- and thirteen-year-old team. We wanted her to be challenged, so we had her moved up to the next level.”

“It’s nice that they’re willing to do that,” Meg murmurs.

“I wouldn’t say
willing,
” Olympia amends, and her pink-frost-glossed lips curve into a smile.

“When my wife wants something accomplished, no matter how unrealistic it might be, she keeps at it until even her adversaries become accomplices in the end.”

Meg notes that Brad says it proudly, as though getting others to bend to your unreasonable demands is the utmost quality in human character.

She’s beginning to think she doesn’t particularly like the Flickingers. Maybe she shouldn’t consider teaching their daughter. All she needs is for Olympia to decide that Sophie should be in an accelerated voice program of some sort… or, God forbid, onstage in the next Andrew Lloyd Webber musical to hit Broadway.