Love, Suburban Style (12 page)

Other than the nagging feeling he had that it was all too pat.

That there was supposed to be more to relationships than falling together like neatly interlocking puzzle pieces.

More… passion. Not just physical passion—though for Sam, married intimacy had faded into a comfortable, if lackluster and predictable rhythm by the time Katie came along. No, Sam also wondered if there wasn’t supposed to be, between husband and wife, more of an emotionally charged connection fueled by fervent feelings.

But their marriage did work. Especially because the children were one more thing—the most important thing—they had in common. He and Sheryl were fiercely devoted parents, with Ben and Katie, they were a wholeheartedly cohesive family unit.

He just wonders what would have happened, had Sheryl lived, when Ben and Katie left the nest.

Would the vaguely restless, unsatisfied feeling have persisted, grown stronger?

Would he have forever wondered whether there was supposed to be… more?

Would he or Sheryl have had a midlife crisis at some point, and left the marriage to find out if there was more?

That would have been horrible: divorce. Not as horrible as widowhood, because at least his kids wouldn’t be motherless. But horrible nonetheless.

And why am I thinking this way this morning?

I need some kind of distraction to break this mood.

Sam’s gaze automatically goes to the digital clock on the microwave—8:06. Too early for Katie to be calling, ready to come home.

Sam’s brother Jack showed up with Ben just after he’d left Meg’s.

They were chatty about their golf outing at Chelsea Piers and dinner afterward at the famous Ben Benson’s Steakhouse—“Where else would I take a kid named Ben?” Jack asked jovially.

Sam did his best to carry on a reciprocal conversation, but he was still trying to absorb what happened between him and Meg in that upstairs bedroom—and everything else about the evening.

He still can’t figure out what caused the slamming sound he and Meg heard when they were on the stairs. And he has to admit, he did think he heard someone down in the hall the first time, just as Meg did—when there was nobody there. He still doesn’t believe in ghosts. But realizing that he, too, is susceptible to the myth really threw him for a loop.

So, for that matter, did kissing Meg.

As did meeting Meg’s daughter, who wasn’t at all what he expected.

All right, he admittedly didn’t give that much consideration before he encountered Cosette. But as a teacher and a parent, he knows enough girls her age to have a perpetual stereotype in mind.

Meg’s daughter shattered it.

Teenaged girls her age—most girls Sam knows, anyway—are insecure and spend a lot of time acting like they aren’t. They’re wrapped up in how they look and do their best to make the most of their God-given physical attributes. Their conversations are liberally sprinkled with
like
and their remarks frequently sound like they’re ending in a question even when they’re not asking one.

Cosette, however, exuded a centered confidence and articulation. And although anyone can see that there’s a pretty girl lurking somewhere beneath the unnatural hair and makeup and baggy black wardrobe, she is obviously bent on keeping it well concealed.

As far as Sam can tell, the only cliché Meg’s daughter personifies at this point is her antagonistic attitude toward her mother.

Unfortunately, the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew Ben—whose budding interest in girls is apparently limited to surface appearance at this point—would probably want nothing to do with her. The girls Sam has caught his son checking out are your garden-variety high school cheerleader/prom queen types.

The same kinds of girls Sam used to date.

He wishes he could retract his offer to have his son kick a soccer ball around with Meg’s daughter.

Not that Cosette is likely to have any interest in that, anyway.

But her mother seems hell-bent on having her play on the team.

And, lucky me, I get to be her coach.

Naturally, Sam checked his list of players first chance he got last night. At first he thought she wasn’t on it.

The list goes alphabetically by last name, and there is no
Addams, Cosette
at the top.

There is, however, a
Hudson, Cosette
a third of the way down, and the address is 33 Boxwood Lane.

That’s her.

Sam also, embarrassingly, got online as soon as Ben went to bed, and Googled Meg Addams. He figured that if she’d been on Broadway, there would be a wealth of information about her.

There was nothing.

Remembering the soccer team list, he then checked Meg Hudson, figuring she might have used her ex-husband’s name on stage.

Still nothing.

Which
means
nothing, really…

Other than that Sam is feeling more and more like an infatuated teenaged boy.

Now, reaching into the cupboard below the sink to find a can of Pledge and a dust rag, he abruptly stops himself.

What are you doing?

Act your age.

You’re a grown man.

And you absolutely cannot let things go any further with Meg than they did last night.

If only he could remember, in the bright, promising light of day, exactly
why
that can’t happen.

Driving—as opposed to, say, kissing—doesn’t come right back to you when you haven’t done it in a while.

Late last night, Meg was nervous behind the wheel of her new used Hyundai on rain-slicked roads after leaving the truck rental place in White Plains. Cosette glowering in the front seat didn’t help matters much.

Now, as she steers the car through the streets of her old hometown, the sun is shining, and the roads are dry, but Cosette is still glowering in the front seat with her, and Meg’s driving skills are still rusty.

Not only that, but things around here are unnervingly unfamiliar.

There’s a whole strip of chain stores on what was once a sleepy stretch of tree-lined highway. There are lights at intersections where there used to be four-way stops, and it’s much harder to make left turns than she remembers—not because of her driving skills but because of all the traffic. Chestnut Street is now one-way—which she discovered after a near-head-on collision that would have been her own fault.

Even worse, nobody seems to obey the right-of-way or speed limit laws.

Were people always this impatient?
Meg wonders, as yet another supersized SUV tailgates her for a couple of blocks before swerving around her at the first opportunity.

By the time they’ve reached Glenhaven Memorial Park, a wooded thirty-acre plot on the edge of town, Meg feels as though she’s driven a couple of legs of a road race—and lost.

Oh, well. Time to stop worrying about her driving skills and turn her attention to her parenting skills… or lack thereof.

“I swear, Cosette, if you embarrass me in any way, shape, or form, you’re going to regret it,” she informs her daughter as she pulls into a space in the crowded lot adjacent to the athletic fields.

Slumped in the passenger’s seat in her usual position—spine resting against the seat bottom, knees propped against the dash, arms folded stubbornly—Cosette retorts, “That seems really unfair, considering that everything about this embarrasses me in every way, shape, and form, and you don’t seem to regret that.”

Meg ignores that.

She also ignores Cosette’s heavy sigh as she turns off the engine and pulls the key from the ignition. “Let’s go.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

I can’t, either. But…

“It’s for your own good.”

And I can’t believe I just said that.

That was Meg’s parents’ favorite phrase when she was growing up—and one of the many she swore she would never, ever,
ever
use on her own children.

It’s for your own good.

Mom and Dad said that whenever they made Meg do something she didn’t want to do, like eat beets or get a shot or take swimming lessons.

They also said it whenever they wouldn’t let her do something she was longing to do, like trade Glenhaven Park High for a private school specializing in the performing arts. Or audition for a European tour of
Annie.
Or even study voice in Manhattan.

Her parents weren’t trying to smother her creativity, though—as she accused them of doing on more than one occasion. They just wanted to protect her, to keep her healthy and happy and close to home—and them—for as long as they could.

Which is exactly what I want for Cosette.

She climbs out of the car, starts across the gravel past the row of shiny parked vehicles, and promptly notices that hers seems to be the only Hyundai in the lot. The others all seem to be either massive sport utility vehicles—including Hummers—plus Volvo station wagons, expensive sports cars, and glossy sedans.

She watches a pair of fashionably dressed, impeccably groomed Fancy Moms emerge with Starbucks cups from an SUV big enough to transport the entire cast of
A Chorus Line
. Meg momentarily wonders if she knows either of them, then dismisses the thought.

Probably not.

Krissy said there aren’t many locals left in town. After running into her, then Sam, Meg figures her resident acquaintances are most likely tapped out.

Sam.

She’s about to see him again.

Her hand immediately goes to her hair. If only she’d had time this morning to fix herself up a little.

Not that she’s trying to be seductive.

What happened between her and Sam last night won’t be happening again.

At least in the city, after a bitter breakup, she didn’t have to cross paths regularly with her ex-boyfriends.

But if she allows Sam into her life, only to have him turn it upside down and walk away, he can’t walk far.

It was hard enough nursing one-sided feelings for him back in high school, when he didn’t know she was alive. It would be torture to let this flirtation go any further now, then be forced to spend wistful years watching him live his life right under her nose.

Then again….

Maybe that wouldn’t have to happen.

Maybe for once…

Suddenly, Meg realizes Cosette isn’t walking with her. She turns and sees that her daughter is still sitting there in the Hyundai with the door closed, sulking.

With a weary sigh, Meg marches back over to the passenger side, jerks open the door, and orders, “Get out.”

She’s prepared for a battle, but Cosette scowls and gets out.

That’s probably because she’s overcome by the heat in the car with the windows rolled up—especially when she’s wearing all that black: long spandex shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt, socks, and high-tops.

Having learned to choose her battles, Meg didn’t bother to criticize her daughter’s unorthodox practice gear this morning. She’ll leave that up to the coach.

Sam.

Sam Rooney.

So you’re back to this, are you, after all these years? Back to palpitations and a butterfly-filled gut every time you so much as think about him?

How ironic. She came to Glenhaven Park for a fresh start, but here she is, feeling as though she’s picked up her old life where she left off years ago.

Still infatuated with Sam Rooney…

And still feeling as though she doesn’t fit in.

She watches another pair of Fancy Moms disappear around a clump of trees and knows there are probably more where they came from. Even here, it’s going to be just like it was in the city, with Meg and Cosette on the outskirts of the socially “in” crowd.

So what?

Why do you care? This isn’t high school…

Well, it is for Cosette.

Remembering the painful bullying experience they left behind, Meg wonders if she’s made a big mistake. Is it going to be even worse here in the suburbs?

This was supposed to be her small-town safe zone, a place where all the bad stuff can fade away.

She glances at her daughter, whose face is clearly visible, for a change, because she’s got her black hair pulled back in an elastic. Her jaw is tense, and she’s looking straight ahead toward the crowd at the edge of the soccer field, wearing a grim expression.

“Are you okay, Cosette?”

“No. I hate this.”

For a second there, Meg was certain she was going to say
you
instead of
this.

That she didn’t gives her a flash of maternal hope.

“I know you hate it,” she says, and reaches out to touch her daughter’s arm.

Cosette flinches.

Meg releases her. “Listen, it’s going to be hard, but in the end, everything will be okay. I promise.”

“You can’t promise. You don’t know.”

There was a time when Meg would have contradicted that statement. Like when Cosette turned to her for reassurance after the 9/11 attacks. They had a similar conversation then, tightly holding hands, standing on their building’s rooftop, watching the black smoke from the ravaged twin towers curl into the clear blue September sky.

Cosette was frightened. Crying.

So was Meg.

But she said,
I promise you, sweetheart, that everything is going to be okay.

You can’t promise,
Cosette protested.
You don’t know.

Yes, I do,
Meg said firmly, and her daughter was young, and idealistic, and naive enough to believe the lie.

Not anymore.

Now, Meg merely admits, “You’re right. I don’t know. I just hope.”

“Hope is stupid.”

Meg bristles at that.

Sometimes, hope is all you have.

That’s what she wants to say, but she keeps it to herself. Under the stressful circumstances, she’ll cut Cosette a bit of slack.

As they walk toward the athletic fields, she notes that some things around here, at least, have remained the same. The park itself is virtually unchanged, right down to the familiar gravel pathways, deer netting around some of the newer shrubs, and a cluster of stone and timber picnic shelters.

Meg makes sure to give a wide berth to the trash cans around the shelters. She can see bees and wasps buzzing around them even from here.