Love, Suburban Style (6 page)

“Sorry,” Meg informs her daughter, “but you lost your vote when you got kicked out of school. This is my decision—and it’s already made. Welcome home.”

Cosette scowls harder, if that’s possible.

“Come on, let’s go.”

“No. It’s too hot. You can see the heat radiating off the asphalt. I’m not setting foot out there.”

“It wouldn’t be so hot if you weren’t draped in all that black,” Meg retorts, shoving wisps of hair off her already-sticky forehead.

“At least my clothes match, and these were bought in the past few months, instead of the past five years,” Cosette replies, casting a disdainful eye at Meg’s orange tank top and red shorts.

Meg opens her mouth to reprimand her daughter’s blatant disrespect but thinks better of it. Cosette is right about her outfit—which she wouldn’t be wearing in the first place if she hadn’t, while loading the van in concrete-radiated city heat, sweated right through her original shorts and top—no more current than this getup, but at least not clashing.

She was forced to change into the first items she’d found in the first suitcase she could locate in the full van.

They’ve just spent an entire weekend packing all of their worldly belongings—aside from the furniture, and her prized piano, which she hired a professional company to move. No, not just packing, but also scrubbing the apartment for Geoffrey’s friend Andrew, who’s arriving from L.A. to sublet it tomorrow.

They followed up that rigorous forty-eight hours with three more in this rented rattletrap, which is how long it took to make the mere fifty-mile trip up from the city. Traffic was miserable, thanks to the timing—late Sunday afternoon in summer, which meant a barrage of upstaters returning from the Jersey Shore and the Hamptons.

So who wouldn’t be cranky at this point?

Geoffrey wouldn’t be cranky, that’s who.

He parks his shiny red Prius at the curb behind them, checks his hair in the rearview mirror, then climbs out and stretches lazily, like a cat awakening from an afternoon nap. “Well, that was fun.”

“You actually sound like you mean that.” Meg strides around to the back of the U-Haul and tries to figure out how to unlatch the doors.

“I
do
mean it. There’s nothing like a Sunday afternoon drive in the summer.”

“That was no Sunday drive, it was a nightmare, and it’s no longer afternoon.”

Geoffrey checks his watch. “You’re right! Who’s ready to go get dinner?”

“I am!”

“I thought you weren’t getting out of the van,” Meg says to her daughter, who has materialized at her side.

“I think Chita Rivera needs to go to the bathroom. Here.” Cosette thrusts the squirming cat into Meg’s arms and tells Geoffrey, “Let’s go find a diner.”

“Brilliant plan.”

“Wait!” Meg protests. “Don’t you even want to go inside?”

“I’ve already been,” Geoffrey reminds her.

He was with her when they did the walk-through prior to closing on Friday morning. So was Cosette.

Neither was the least bit charmed by the cherry woodwork—painted over in shades of turquoise and pink; the vintage wallpaper—peeling; or even the oversized rooms—pronounced dark and drafty by Geoffrey.

“Drafty?” Meg echoed incredulously. “It’s ninety degrees out.”

“Wait until winter. Do you know how much it’s going to cost to heat this barn?”

“You just don’t want me to move,” she accused.

“You’re right, I don’t. What am I going to do without you and Cosette?”

“We’ll be an hour train ride away.”

“It won’t be the same.”

He’s right. It won’t.

But Meg didn’t want to dwell on that then, and she certainly doesn’t now. Especially in front of Cosette.

She hasn’t let her daughter witness a moment’s doubt on her part—and there have been plenty of those since she made the offer on the house back in June, the very day she first saw it with Kris.

She’s doing the right thing. She knows it in her heart. The right thing for herself, and definitely the right thing for Cosette.

It’s just not easy to pull up your roots and leave behind the only home you’ve known for almost two decades.

Oh, really? You did exactly that, once before, without the slightest qualm. When you left Glenhaven Park.

But back then, she had only herself to worry about.

Now, there’s a fifteen-year-old daughter who dramatically claimed she’d rather throw herself off the subway platform in front of an oncoming uptown express than move to “the middle of nowhere.”

Meg didn’t dispute that; Glenhaven Park
is
the middle of nowhere, relatively speaking.

That’s the beauty of it.

Just beyond the town’s perimeter are acres of nature preserve, unpaved roads, bridle paths that meander past ancient stone walls in the woods. These days, they also meander past massive estates occupied by bona fide blue bloods, Grammy-winning rappers, Wall Street superstars, and yes, the occasional ankle-bracelet-wearing white-collar criminal.

But there’s still plenty of old-fashioned charm here in the hinterlands.

It’s just too soon to make that point to a kid who is still lamenting the loss of her boyfriend—older man Jon broke up with her before the Fourth of July—not to mention the loss of her favorite hairstylist; and falafel readily available at all hours from a cart on the corner.

Meg pointed out, “You hate falafel.”

“Not lately,” Cosette shot back. “Lately, I love falafel.”

Yes, she probably decided to love falafel right around the time she decided to hate Glenhaven Park.

And soccer.

Meg has already signed her up for a fall league, though, via the mail, thanks to a Glenhaven Park Recreation Commission booklet Kris sent her. It’s time Cosette got some fresh air, physical activity, and wholesome new friends.

As for Meg…

Well, she’ll settle in and eventually make friends here, too.

It just might be a little lonely at first—especially with Krissy on an Alaskan cruise until after Labor Day. Not that she and Krissy have much in common these days. The unconventional girl who planned to move to a commune out west now makes a living selling million-dollar showplaces and lives in one herself. There are occasional glimmers of the old Krissy, but she’s no longer a kindred spirit.

Finding even one kindred spirit may not be as easy for Meg as it was in the city. Here, she’ll be isolated, teaching voice right here at home.

Brad Flickinger’s wife Olympia has already set up a meeting this coming week with the musically gifted Sophie, who has her heart set on a lead in the high school musical when school starts again. Meg called the Flickingers the moment she knew she was moving back to town.

A couple of Meg’s Broadway contacts who happen to live in Westchester have also inquired about private lessons for their kids. They said she won’t have a problem finding willing students.

She can’t entirely support herself and Cosette, but it will be a good start, and she has Calvin’s alimony and child support checks to fall back on.

Hopefully, her piano will be delivered on schedule as promised, in time for the Flickingers’ appointment.

“Aren’t you coming?” Geoffrey asks, turning back to Meg when he and Cosette are halfway to his car.

“Geoffrey! Do you know how long it’s going to take to unpack this van?” She shakes her head in exhausted dismay. “I’ve got to have it back in White Plains before midnight, and I can barely remember how to get back to the rental place.”

“Which is why you should have just rented it in the city, like I told you.”

“That was too expensive, like
I
told
you.
”

“I offered to spring for it. You wouldn’t let me.”

“That was very nice of you, and no, I wouldn’t let you. I’ve got to do this myself.”

Geoffrey sighs. “You’ve always done
everything
for yourself.”

“Exactly.”

“Come on, Astor. If you won’t take cash, at least let me treat you to dinner. We’ll all feel more like unloading the van once we’ve got some food in our stomachs.”

“It’s not Astor anymore, remember?”

“Oops! Sorry… I mean
Meg.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that. But you know, the funny thing is, you’re already starting to
look
like a Meg.”

Holding the squirming cat with one hand, wiping another sweaty clump of hair from her face with the other, and glancing down at her grimy, mismatched clothing, Meg concludes he doesn’t mean that as a compliment.

She thanks him anyway and tells him to go ahead to get something to eat and take Cosette with him.

Geoffrey has always been—if not a father figure for Cosette, then at least a big brother figure. He’s certainly old enough to be her dad, but his relationship with Meg’s daughter has always been more fun and conspiratorial than paternal. Hopefully, that will continue even now that they’re moving.

“Oh,” she calls after them, “I just remembered that there’s a great burger place four blocks from here, across from the train station. They have the best battered french fries!”

“Sounds good, in a revolting way. Are you sure this place is still there?” Geoffrey asks.

“I saw it the other day from a distance…”

Then again, it might have turned into another yoga studio or something.

She still hasn’t had much of a chance to explore her former—and future—hometown again since that first day.

The next time she came up a week later, it was to look at the house on Boxwood with Kris. The time after that—for Friday’s closing—Geoffrey drove her straight to the house for the walk-through, then to the lawyer’s office.

She’s still itching to stroll down Main Street again—and she’ll have plenty of time for that now. Home, sweet home.

“Do you want us to bring anything back for you?” Geoffrey offers, hand on the car door handle.

“Furniture would be good.” She brought only the essentials up from the city, telling herself—and Cosette—that the style is too modern for the new place.

To which Cosette replied sarcastically, “Oh, right, we need a lot of dark, heavy stuff with velvet and mohair upholstery, fringe, tassels… Maybe somebody’s great- great-aunt will be having a garage sale when we get there, and we can load up.”

Actually, given the sorry state of Meg’s household budget, visiting garage sales wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“I’ll help you decorate, but not today,” Geoffrey informs her. “So no furniture. What else do you need? You know how I love to shop. Give me a list.”

“You’re going to be sorry you asked. I need a box cutter, toilet paper, toothbrushes and toothpaste because I didn’t remember packing them, a case of bottled water, paper towels and cleaning stuff, a bucket, a cheeseburger, medium rare, and battered french fries,” she rattles off. “Oh, and a side order of onion rings. With mustard.”

“Gotta love a woman who eats like a trucker even in this heat. Where am I supposed to get the nonfood items?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. You’re the shopaholic. Find one of those big suburban sprawl superstores people are always complaining about up here.”

“Will do,” Geoffrey calls with a cheerful wave, and they’re off.

“Come on, Chita Rivera, before you pee all over me—or worse.” Leaving the van at the curb, Meg carries the cat to the black iron gate.

On the other side, in the weed-choked yard, she can see fat bumblebees lazing among the dandelions. It’s August. Bees are always plentiful at this time of year. And pesky, she remembers from her suburban barbecue days, when she was prone to shrieking into the house in terror as they dive-bombed her plate.

She takes a deep breath, trying to work up the nerve to step into the yard.

She isn’t barefoot, and she isn’t carrying a plate of chicken.

Come on, you know they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them,
she reminds herself.
It’s about time you conquered this irrational fear.

The gate creaks loudly when she opens it.

Nothing a little WD-40 can’t handle,
she tells herself. The building super uses the stuff all the time back home.

Wait…

Make that
back in New York.

This
is home now.

She steps through the gate and it closes behind her with another protesting creak. Keeping a wary eye on the bees, who ignore her, she sets the cat on the cracked slab of grass-choked slate walkway.

“There. Now you can’t run away.”

The cat mews in protest, as though she had every intention of doing just that.

“Go ahead, find a nice spot to do your business.”

Chita Rivera, who never in her life set paw outside before today, doesn’t budge.

“Look, I know you’re a house cat through and through, very dainty and ladylike and all that good stuff, but I have no clue where your litter box is,” Meg informs her. “So get moving and do your thing so I can stick you in the house and get on with the unpacking. Just stay away from those evil-looking buzzing things over there, okay? They’re the enemy.”

Chita Rivera blinks.

“Go on. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

No response.

“Oh… do you want me to turn my back? You’re modest? Is that it?” She folds her arms and turns away, coming face-to-face with her new home.

I can’t believe this is mine,
she thinks… and not in a pleased way.

No, more in a
what-the-heck-was-I-thinking?
way.

Porch half-hidden behind a broken-down trellis densely twined with overgrown wisteria. Sagging steps. Missing spindles. Dangling shutters. Peeling paint.

Yes, the place has oodles of potential, as Kris pointed out.

Though she didn’t say
oodles.

That’s Meg’s word, one she unfortunately used in a conversation in the company of the already-glowering Cosette. She immediately learned that cutesy words like
oodles
make glowering teenagers glower more fiercely.

Of course, it’s a word she’s actually never before uttered in her life. Along with several others freshly added to her vocabulary. Like
sapstain, radon,
and
sump.

There were others, too, which she hasn’t had occasion to use in quite some time:
deterioration, fungi,
and
architectural aberration
come most immediately to mind.