Love, Suburban Style (17 page)

Last night, and the night before.

Yup, she’s been dreaming vividly about Sam, shirtless, looking just like that. Only he was much closer, in her dreams. Closer, and he wasn’t wearing the shorts. Or the sneakers. Or anything else.

Unfortunately for Meg, she’s been so exhausted she’s been sleeping more soundly than ever before in her life. Deep R.E.M. sleep, the kind that’s most conducive to dreaming.

Which would be welcome under any other circumstances. But regularly seeing Sam in her comatose hours only fuels a perpetual longing to see him when she’s wide-awake.

Not just
see
him…

Because she’s not just seeing him in her dreams.

She’s… well, actively engaged.

And it has to stop.

Simultaneously pushing Dream Sam from her thoughts and turning away from Real Live Sam, Meg closes the door.

With any luck, she’ll have trouble sleeping tonight.

Sam has just settled onto his king-size mattress with the newest issue of
Sports Illustrated
and a rotating floor fan aimed at the bed, when somebody screams.

The sound is faint but shrill, coming not from under his own roof, thank God, but from somewhere outside.

He bolts toward the screened window across the room, the one that looks out over the street.

Nothing unusual there.

It’s after midnight. Deserted.

He waits, poised, listening. All he can hear above the hum of the floor fan is the steady chirping of crickets and the distant rumble of a Metro-North train.

But he’s pretty sure that scream wasn’t his imagination.

So sure that, heart pounding, he hurriedly pulls a pair of jersey shorts over his boxers and hurries down the hall. Though he’s confident the scream came from outside, he stops to open bedroom doors and look in on Ben and Katie.

They’re both safely, soundly asleep in their beds. Of course; they wouldn’t have heard a thing, thanks to their closed windows, where air-conditioning units hum loudly, obliterating night sounds.

He closes their doors, leaving them to slumber in pleasantly cool rooms.

Then he hurries downstairs, turning on lights as he goes, wondering if he should dial 911, wondering about Meg.

It’s not as though she was far from his thoughts in the first place, when he heard the scream.

He’s been thinking about her pretty much nonstop these last few days, in fact. It’s as if the more he tells himself not to even acknowledge her presence next door, the more he dwells on the fact that she’s there.

But he hasn’t seen her.

Not unless you count the surreptitious glance he stole at her as she admitted the Flickingers to her house this morning.

That surprised him.

Not just that the regal Olympia Flickinger would befriend someone like Meg, who obviously doesn’t conform to Glenhaven Park’s nouveau social network…

But also because he wouldn’t expect the seemingly down-to-earth Meg to befriend someone like Olympia Flickinger.

He can’t help but feel vaguely disappointed about that—and annoyed that he allows it to bother him.

Who cares if Meg doesn’t exhibit a more discriminating taste in her selection of new friends?

He has no business worrying about that.

He does, however, have business worrying that she might be screaming in the middle of the night. It sounded as though it came from the direction of the Duckworth place.

Which is why, rather than stopping to dial 911, Sam decides to head directly next door.

He can see that several lights are on upstairs, meaning somebody must be awake.

But what if the scream really didn’t come from here?

Sam stops on the walk just inside the gate, unsure what to do.

Does he dare knock on someone’s door in the middle of the night?

Does he dare not to?

He takes a couple more tentative steps through the inky shadows toward the house…

Then suddenly, finds that he’s no longer in the dark.

A light has gone on inside the house, this time downstairs. Its glow spills through the windows, partially illuminating the walkway.

Inside, someone passes by the nearest window to Sam—Meg, he realizes.

There are no curtains or shades to obstruct his view; he can see her clearly. The first thing he notices is that she’s wearing skimpy pink cotton pajamas: a top with spaghetti straps, and short shorts.

The next thing he notices is his body’s predictable reaction to the sight of her in said skimpy pajamas.

He’s so focused on trying to tame it that it takes him a moment to remember why he’s here—and realize that Meg is obviously agitated.

She rakes a hand through her long hair and shakes her head.

“I know, but I’m sure you were just dreaming,” Sam hears her say—apparently to Cosette, whom he can’t see.

He can hear her, though. Loud and clear.

“I was not dreaming! You don’t dream when you’re wide-awake.”

“Maybe you just thought you were awake. That happens.” Meg’s voice, fainter and more reasonable than her daughter’s, floats to Sam through the screen.

“It does happen, but not when it’s a hundred freaking degrees and as humid as a swamp. Who can sleep in this weather?”

“I can.”

“Good for you. I can’t. And I’m telling you, someone walked into the room and was standing over me, watching me.”

Sam immediately comprehends the source of the scream—Cosette—and the reason behind it.

Apparently, she got wind of the haunted rumors and now she, too, is falling under the spell of suggestion.

“Think about it, Cosette—this is irrational,” Meg says, obviously trying to sound reasonable.

But even from out here, Sam can hear the telltale waver in her voice.

“Irrational? Thanks a lot, Mom. Next time a harmless little yellow bumblebee scares you shitless, I’ll remind you that you’re irrational.”

“Don’t use that language.”

“Irrational?”

Sam perceives parental exasperation taking over as Meg says, “I think we should just go back to bed and try to get some sleep. You have soccer practice tomorrow, and—”

“I’m not going back up there,” Cosette interrupts—sounding almost tearful.

Maybe she is tearful, because Meg walks toward the sound of her voice with outstretched arms, disappearing from Sam’s view.

For a moment, there’s silence. Mother is presumably comforting daughter.

She’s got things under control here,
Sam assures himself.
You should go home. They’ll be fine.

He turns toward home.

Then he hears another scream—this time, from Meg.

“What?” Cosette shouts. “What is it?”

“Nothing, I just thought I saw…”

Either Meg doesn’t finish the sentence, or Sam can’t hear her voice from wherever she is. No matter. The implications are clear.

Something has scared her.

How can Sam walk away?

He can’t.

With a purposeful stride, he walks up the steps and rings the bell.

This time, both Meg and Cosette shriek.

“What was that?” Cosette asks, clinging to her mother as she hasn’t since she was a young child in rough surf at the Jersey Shore.

“It was just the doorbell,” Meg realizes.

Not that a ringing doorbell in the middle of the night should be reassuring in the least.

“Maybe the ghost did it.”

“No, Cosette, there’s no ghost.”

“You know there is.”

Cosette is right.

She
does
know there is. She saw it with her own eyes: a glimpse of a shadowy figure watching them from the foot of the stairs just now.

It was little more than the outline of a human being, really—she couldn’t make out its gender, much less its features.

And when she screamed, it vanished abruptly.

But it was definitely there.

And if she had any doubt that someone—something—was hovering over her daughter upstairs, she no longer does.

This place is haunted.

They’ve got to move.

“Meg?” a voice calls from the porch.

A human voice.

“Oh my God, it knows your name!” Cosette says in a high-pitched, terrified whisper, clutching her arm.

“That’s not the ghost.” Meg hurries toward the door, Cosette right with her. “It’s Sam.”

“
Who?
”

“Sam Rooney. From next door.”

“What’s
he
doing here?”

Meg has no idea, but when she opens the door, she realizes that she’s never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

“I heard someone scream over here. Are you okay?”

She appreciatively takes in the sight of him, barefoot, bare-chested, wearing just a pair of shorts.

Amazing how, even in a moment of stark fright, one can still manage to shamelessly lust after someone.

“Are you okay?” Sam repeats, not meeting her eyes.

“I’m… not sure.”

“
I’m
sure. We’re not,” Cosette puts in. “This place is haunted.”

“Really.” Sam’s gaze flicks from her back to Meg.

Looking into his blue eyes, she silently asks him not to mention what happened here the other night.

The disembodied slamming, creaking, footsteps…

The kissing, either, for that matter.

Sam lifts his chin a fraction of an inch in a half nod that seems to promise that their secret is safe.

She gives him a return half nod of appreciation.

Then, remembering that she’s scantily dressed in summer pajamas, she glances down, hoping that everything that should be covered is covered.

Yes, but barely.

She really should throw on something over this.

Unfortunately, there’s no robe hanging conveniently on a hook beside the door. All she can possibly do in the moment is hope Sam’s eyes don’t wander below her neck.

So far, so good. In fact, despite his heroic presence here and the look that just passed between them, he seems almost… professionally disengaged.

“Well, if you two are okay, I’ll go.”

If he were wearing a hat, Meg thinks, he’d be tipping it politely right about now.

“We’re fine. Thanks for checking in.”

“You’re welcome.”

Wow. He couldn’t seem more detached if he were a professional ghostbuster she’d summoned on a hotline.

“I’m not staying here.” Cosette’s voice quavers then, propelling Meg instantly back into maternal mode.

She turns to see that her daughter is shaking her head adamantly, eyes wide with fear. In her pastel summer pajamas, with her face scrubbed free of extreme makeup and her hair hanging loose around her face, she looks like a frightened little girl who needs a hug.

Meg gives her one.

And for once, her daughter lets her.

“Listen, Cosette,” she says, “I know that you’re scared, but we can’t just pick up and leave in the middle of the—”

“Mom, you can stay if you want, but I’m leaving.”

Meg purses her lips. “Where are you going?”

“Back home to the city.”

Conscious of Sam’s silent presence, taking it all in, she says, “Okay, you have to be reasonable here.”

“I am being reasonable.”

“You’re
not.
For one thing, it’s the middle of the night, and you don’t drive.”

“You do. And we have a car now.”

“I’m not driving you to Manhattan.”

“Then I’ll take the train.”

Ignoring that, Meg goes on, “For another thing, somebody else is living in our apartment now, remember?”

“Then I’ll go to one of my friends’ apartments. At least they’ll have air-conditioning. And no ghosts.”

Meg doesn’t have the heart to remind Cosette that the few friends she retained after the school disaster have all but ignored her since they found out she was moving to the suburbs.

Why bring that up again? They’ve been through that repeatedly, anyway, with Cosette blaming Meg for ruining her life and making her an outcast.

Tension hangs more densely than humidity in the sultry night air.

Then Sam pipes up unexpectedly, “You guys can stay at my place, if you want.”

Surprised, she looks at him.

Something flickers in his eyes; he seems ambivalent about having made the offer.

Yet he continues, almost as if he can’t help being a nice guy, “We have air-conditioning—well, in a couple of rooms—and no ghosts.”

Spend the night with Sam?

The tension thickens.

“Great,” Cosette says, as though it’s a done deal. “Thanks. Let’s go.”

“We can’t do that,” Meg protests. “There’s no reason to do that.”

“Fine, if you believe that, you can stay here, Mom, and get haunted all night. But I’m out of here.”

Sam catches Meg’s eye. “It’s okay. Really. You guys can come over, and at least get a good night’s sleep.”

“But…” Meg fumbles for a plausible protest to an offer that’s all too tempting. “We don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s no inconvenience. Really.”

Meg wants more than anything to say yes. For selfish reasons that have nothing whatsoever to do with ghosts and everything to do with him.

Right.

Like
that’s
going to happen—like she and Sam are going to have a romantic evening together at his place.

Knowing that with three kids underfoot it’s guaranteed to be anything but, Meg shrugs and nods. “Okay. We’ll come with you. Thanks, Sam.”

What can possibly happen?

“No problem. Do you want to get your stuff?”

“I’m not going back upstairs,” Cosette says firmly.

Meg sighs. “I’ll get it.”

She turns toward the staircase and remembers the reason they’re leaving.

Terrific. Why did she volunteer to go back up there alone?

Heart pounding, conscious of Sam and Cosette watching her from behind, she gingerly climbs the steps. As soon as she’s out of their view, she darts into the bathroom, grabs their toothbrushes, then snatches some clothes from the duffel bags on the floor in the side bedroom.

She looks for her robe, but of course she can’t find one. It’s probably still packed. It’s been too hot all week to even miss it until now.

She’ll have to find something else to—

“Mom? Are you okay?” Cosette calls anxiously from downstairs.

“I’m fine.”