Love, Suburban Style (28 page)

“No, it’s actually Meg again,” she says with a grin, giving him a quick, hard hug.

“And you need to call me Bill, now that you’re not a student. You look great. I’d know you anywhere even if I hadn’t seen your face in a couple of Playbills since you left here.”

“You’ve come to my shows?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ve never come backstage? But you should have! I would have loved to see you.”

“I wish I had, then. It’s so good to see you, Meg.”

“You, too. And you look exactly the same.”

“Oh, come on, I’m gray, and I’ve gained about thirty pounds.”

He’s right; he is and he has, but he’s got the same smile and the same energy, and she welcomes it. At last, someone familiar here in Glenhaven Park. Someone besides Sam.

Oh, come on, do you always have to think about him?

Yes, apparently, she always does. He flits in and out of her mind like lyrics to an old song that gets stuck in your head after you hear it on the radio.

“You might look the same, but you seem more relaxed,” he tells her.

“Really?”

He nods. “Back then, you were consumed by teen angst.”

“Well, now it’s my daughter’s turn for that.”

“Oh, right, I heard you have a daughter starting school here. That’s great.”

“I’d love to introduce you to her if I can find her.” Meg looks around.

It takes a moment for her to recognize Cosette. She’s still toning down the hair and makeup, and she’s wearing regular blue jeans and a polo shirt. Black, but a polo shirt nonetheless.

Seeing Meg, Cosette turns her back, pretending that she has no idea her mother is standing here waving her arms. She’s talking to a pair of girls, Meg realizes, narrowing her eyes in the sunlight, watching them, hoping they’ll become Cosette’s friends.

Please, God, just let her make friends.

“Is that your daughter over there?” Mr. Dreyfus asks her.

“Yes. She’s not going to be in any of your sections, though. I checked her schedule when she got it. She’s in instrumental appreciation this term; vocal appreciation isn’t until next. I was trying to convince her to audition for the musical, though.”

“Oh, she should. It’s
Sunset Boulevard
. In fact… how busy are you these days?”

“That depends. Why?”

“Because I’m in over my head between this musical and the new school year and building an apartment over my garage so that my mother can move in with me.”

“You’re building it yourself?”

“Do you know how hard it can be to find a trustworthy, available, affordable contractor around here?” He rolls his eyes. “I figure, once you’ve supervised the building of a couple of high school musical sets, you can figure things out on the home front.”

“Wow, really? Maybe I should have been on stage crew instead of just onstage.”

“You? No, you had to be onstage. It was your calling. Anyone could see that.”

Meg smiles. It’s nice to be appreciated, especially now that she’s out of the spotlight.

“I heard you’ve retired from all that now, though,” Mr. Dreyfus continues.

“You did? How did you hear that?”

“Small town, remember? News travels fast.”

“Wow, I guess so. Who told you? Krissy?”

“No, your new neighbor, Sam. Sam Rooney. He teaches here now… you know that, right?”

She nods, her heart quickening at the mention of Sam’s name and the realization that he’s been talking about her.

Why?

Is Mr. Dreyfus a close confidant? Did Sam tell him that he and his new neighbor got caught up in some kind of romantic—

“I mentioned in the teachers’ lounge at lunch today that I need help with the show because I just can’t do it all alone. I asked if anyone knew anyone, and Sam spoke up and recommended you.”

Oh.

Well, what did you expect? He wasn’t rhapsodizing about having a crush on you. This isn’t high school.

Not for the teachers, anyway. Grown men don’t go around confiding about their love lives to their coworkers.

Or maybe they do, but obviously, Sam didn’t.

“What do you say, Meg?” Mr. Dreyfus asks, as she’s trying to process her illogical disappointment.

“Hmm?”

“How about helping me out with the show?”

“Sure, why not,” she says without a second thought.

“You’re kidding. You’ll do it?”

Startled, she drags her thoughts away from Sam and realizes that she just made a tremendous commitment, and Mr. Dreyfus is beside himself with excitement.

“Wait until everyone hears that you’re involved, Meg. This show is going to be a tremendous hit when everyone hears we’ve got a Tony-winning actress as our assistant director.”

Assistant director?

“I can’t thank you enough.” Mr. Dreyfus sweeps her into a surprisingly strong hug for one so wee.

“You’re welcome,” she says lamely, wondering what the heck she just did.

Walking into Tokyo Cafe a few days later, Meg can’t help but remember the coffee shop that once occupied this site. It was lined with booths along one wall and a lunch counter on the other—invariably populated by at least a dozen familiar faces at any given moment. There was a chalkboard that listed the daily soups and specials, frequently meat loaf and moussaka. The waitresses were tired single moms who lingered over cigarette breaks in the alleyway between the restaurant and the old warehouse next door.

The brick warehouse has long since been converted to office space and shops, and the alleyway is now lined with entrances to the building’s boutiques.

And here in Tokyo Cafe—formerly known as the Glenhaven Park Diner—there’s no sign of the booths, lunch counter, or chalkboard.

The minimalist decor features black lacquer, blond wood, and rice paper screens. The lunch counter is now a sushi counter manned by male Japanese chefs with serious expressions and quick hands. The waitresses are gentle young Asian women in kimonos.

Hovering just inside the door, Meg sees that the place is crowded, but there’s nary a familiar face—including Kris’s.

“I’m meeting my friend for lunch,” she tells the hostess. “But I don’t see her yet. She made a reservation, under Holmes.”

The woman checks her clipboard, then nods. “Right this way. You’re the first to arrive.”

Meg follows her through the restaurant, conscious of the glances from strangers and glad she took care with her appearance for a change.

She’s wearing a simple black sleeveless turtleneck tucked into trim black pants, with leather flats and silver accessories. Her curls are restrained by a low ponytail.

Stylish, understated, and chic.

I fit in just fine,
she thinks, sneaking a peek around her as she settles at the table and accepts the menu the hostess hands her.

Then she realizes she’s seated at a table for four.

“Excuse me… I’m just meeting one friend. Her name was Kris Holmes. I think I’m at the wrong table. She made a reservation…”

“We know Ms. Holmes very well,” the hostess says with a smile. “This is the right table. Reservation for four at one o’clock.”

Four?

Kris didn’t mention that anyone would be joining them when she left a message this morning to confirm their lunch date.

Hmm. Maybe she invited some other old friends along to join them as a surprise.

That would be fun.

So where is everyone?

Checking her watch, Meg sees that it’s 1:04.

She sips ice water and studies the menu, glad she’s no stranger to sushi. She and Cosette ate it all the time in the city.

Yes, and it was cheaper, most places in Manhattan, than it is here.

She got a couple of twenties from the ATM machine down the block, thinking that would be enough to cover her lunch and the new paint roller she’s going to pick up at the hardware store before she heads home.

Doesn’t look that way.

“Are you Meg?” a voice asks, and she looks up to see an attractive auburn-haired stranger standing beside the table with the hostess.

“Yes…?”

“I’m Brett, a friend of Kris’s. She’s running late again, it looks like.” The woman slides into the seat opposite Meg’s without further explanation.

“It’s, uh, nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” Brett places a napkin on the lap of her own black slacks—which, Meg couldn’t help but notice before she sat down, are much more fashionably cut than her own. And Brett’s simple black top somehow manages to scream Designer Label, though there’s nary an auspicious trademark in sight. Both pieces—pants and top—drape gracefully over her near-skeletal frame. Brett’s hair—that smooth, obedient kind of hair Meg has always envied—is also pulled back in a low ponytail. But hers is sleek, as opposed to Meg’s waves, and hers is held by an elegant silver clip, as opposed to Meg’s coated rubber band—
to think I was so pleased to find a black one in the bathroom drawer.

“So how do you like it here in our little town?” Brett asks.

Our little town?

It’s
my
little town, actually,
is what Meg wants to say.

She refrains. She’s getting used to being treated as an outsider.

“I grew up here,” she informs Brett mildly, “so for me, it’s really coming home again.”

“You
grew up
here?” Brett couldn’t look more surprised if Meg told her she grew up in an African pygmy tribe. “That’s so amazing! I mean, hardly anyone did.”

“Oh, a lot of people did,” Meg can’t resist saying airily. “There were hundreds of us.”

“Oh, I know there were… but nobody who’s here
now
grew up here. That’s what I meant.”

“Kris did.”
And Sam did. And me. That makes three.

“That’s right… you know, it’s funny, but I always forget Kris is a townie.”

A townie? So that’s what they’re calling it now?

“So is that how you know Kris?” Brett asks. “From growing up together?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s just… neat.”

Yes, isn’t it just.

“How do you know Kris?” Meg asks.
And why are you here?
she wants to add.

“My first husband and I bought our first house from her. I’ve been working with her ever since.”

“Working with her? You’re a Realtor too?”

“Oh! No,” she says, looking taken aback—and amused. “I mean working with her as my Realtor.”

She says it the way most people refer to their physicians or their accountants.

My Realtor.

“So you’ve bought more than one house, then? As, um, rental properties, or…?”

“Rentals! No. We could never be landlords. We live in them.”

“How many houses do you live in?”

“One at a time,” Brett says with a grin. “Kris is right. You are completely charming. Should we order some sake?”

“We definitely should,” mutters Meg, who isn’t sure why
completely charming
suddenly sounds completely insulting.

As they sip their sake and make small talk—mostly about the menu, though Meg learns that Brett has a daughter in college, a stepson in high school, and two more sons in elementary school—and notices that Brett doesn’t ask more than cursory questions about her own life.

Either Kris filled her in already, or she doesn’t really care.

Meg suspects the latter. Brett gives off an air of self-involvement that seems to be as pervasive among privileged suburban moms as it was among the theatrical divas Meg left behind in the city.

Relaying a boring anecdote about her last trip to Japan, Brett interrupts herself to exclaim, “Laurelle! How nice to see you!”

Her gaze is focused on someone—and Meg can guess whom—over Meg’s shoulder.

Sure enough, she turns around to see Laurelle Gladstone standing there.

“Hi, Brett. Hi—Meg, is it?”

“Right.” As opposed to Maid. “How have you been?”

“Great.”

Meg can’t help but notice that Laurelle doesn’t ask how she’s been.

To her dismay, Laurelle takes the chair beside Brett’s.

Ah. So their little foursome will be complete when Kris shows.

“Isn’t Kris here yet?” Laurelle asks, draping over the back of her chair a purse that undoubtedly cost more than the Blue Book value of Meg’s car.

“No, she’s late, of course,” Brett says. “You know how she is.”

Meg, who no longer knows how Kris is, can’t help but resent these two women who do. Watching them nod knowingly, she wants to blurt, “I knew Kris before you did!”

But that would be incredibly childish. Right? Of course it would.

Do I really care what they think of me, though?

Yes. You do. You don’t want these women to gossip about you behind your back.

Yeah, yeah, whatever.

Why the heck are they here? And why isn’t Kris?

“So what have you been up to, Laurelle? Did you find a live-in yet?” Brett asks sympathetically.

Apparently, Laurelle’s maid problems are legendary in these parts.

“Oh I did! And he’s entirely macrobiotic.”

He? A macrobiotic male maid?
Meg thinks.
What does that even mean?

It’s hard to tell, even as she listens to Brett and Laurelle conversing back and forth on the topic.

“Sorry I’m late!” a familiar voice announces, none too soon.

They look up to see Kris standing there, cell phone in hand, très chic in a beige pantsuit.

“Meg, I thought it would be good to have you meet some of my friends—and I wasn’t even here to do the introductions.” Kris delivers air-kisses all around, then dives into her chair, cheeks flushed, expression distracted as she sets her phone on vibrate and tucks it into her pocket. “So what did I miss?

“Laurelle was just telling us about her new chef,” Brett tells her.

She was?
Meg can’t help but feel as though she missed something—and she’s been here the whole time.

“Good for you! Did you get the maid settled into the new room upstairs, then, so the chef could take over her old one?”

“Yes, but now Ludmilla is miffed because she has to share her bathroom, and she isn’t speaking to me or Ted.”

Who’s Ludmilla?
Meg wonders.
Must be her teenaged daughter.

“Well, is she speaking to the kids, at least?” Brett asks.