Love, Suburban Style

“Not black, I hope.” Mary Addams is well aware of her granddaughter’s recent decent into gothdom—and it troubles her.

  “No, Mom, actually, she picked out a nice shade of dark green.” She glances down at her paint-smeared hands and hopes it will scrub off before she leaves to pick up Cosette in fifteen minutes.

  “Thank goodness. Daddy and I were wondering how you’re settling in. We haven’t spoken to you since late last week.”

  “I know, I’m sorry… I’ve just been so busy.”

  “As long as you’re happy, Meg.”

  “I am,” she says, with more conviction than she feels. “I mean, it’s been quite an upheaval, but I’m sure we’ll get used to all the changes eventually.”

  “You will. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that after any upheaval, things right themselves again eventually. Somehow, life always goes on.”

  “I know that,” Meg murmurs, thinking back over the years to when Calvin abandoned her, eight months pregnant.

  “Anyway, Meg, Daddy and I were thinking we’d come up to visit you and Cosette for Thanksgiving… if that would be all right with you.”

  “That would be more than all right,” Meg manages over a lump in her throat.

  She had already been dreading that particular holiday. In years past, she and Cosette always spent it with Geoffrey and an assortment of good friends from their neighborhood, one of whom had an apartment that overlooked Central Park West and the Macy’s parade route. It was a tradition to kick off the holiday with coffee and bagels, watching enormous balloons drift by at window level.

  This year, Meg assumed she and Cosette would either go—and not feel as though they fit in any longer—or stay here in town for a lonesome turkey dinner for two.

  “Then we’ll buy our plane tickets,” her mother says cheerfully.

  “I’m glad, Mom.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Meg? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Have you made any new friends? Or found any old ones, other than Krissy?”

  Meg hears a familiar, disapproving note in her mother’s voice. Her parents never did like Krissy. They thought she was a bad influence.

  “Not very many people I used to know live here anymore,” Meg tells her mother, wondering if she should prepare her for the drastic changes in their hometown.

  “You mean Krissy is the only one?”

  “Well… there’s Sam Rooney. He actually lives next door.”

  “Sam Rooney… Sam Rooney… Oh! The Rooneys lived on Boxwood. That’s right, I remember them. Great family. Well, it’s nice that he’s right there next door.”

  “It is nice.” More than nice.

  Actually, naughty would more fittingly describe the recent turn their relationship has taken.

  She and her mother chat for a few more minutes, but not about Sam. Meg isn’t about to let on that he’s anything more to her than a neighbor… because technically, that’s really all he is.

  Finally, she looks at the clock and tells her mother she has to get cleaned up to go pick up Cosette.

  “Tell her Grandpa and I said hello, and that we’ll call back to see how she likes her new school.”

  “I will, Mom.”

  And life goes on.

  Funny how that happens, Meg thinks as she drives over to Glenhaven Park High ten minutes later, paint scrubbed off, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. It happens even after the kind of upheaval she experienced with Sam over the weekend.

  That was like taking a terrific vacation and managing to forget, the whole time you’re away, that you have to go back home again.

  One minute, you’re on a strange and exotic new island; the next, it’s back to business as usual, as if you never left the real world at all.

  Yes.

  One minute, she was making love to Sam, experiencing all the things she ever fantasized about with him…

  The next, she was back home unpacking boxes and feeding the cat and arguing with Cosette and painting her room.

  This is how it has to be, though.

  She and Sam never said it when they went their separate ways on Monday morning, but she knew. If he wanted more, he wouldn’t have seemed so wistful when they made love that last time.

  They lingered in his bed for longer than they should have, before the mood was shattered. The weather was iffy so Sam’s phone began to ring nonstop with parents wondering whether he was having soccer practice. Then his kids needed to be picked up from their grandfather’s, and the train was coming in from the city…

  Sam and Meg kissed hastily and dashed in different directions, no backward glances, no promises. Nothing other than Sam’s hurried mention that he’d be happy to take a look at her wiring someday this week. That was it.

  There wasn’t time to discuss what had happened between them, and maybe that was best.

  What was there to say?

  Soccer practice was on. Geoffrey went with her, and Sam was busy on the field. Katie was there. She spent most of her time tending to a couple of toddlers, but she also sat with Meg for a while, happy to see her. She updated her on everything that happened over the weekend, unaware, of course, that Meg had spent the best part of hers at Katie’s house, with Katie’s dad.

  Meg wore sunglasses despite the overcast day, not wanting Katie or Geoffrey or the Fancy Moms to realize she couldn’t stop staring at the coach.

  “Somebody’s falling in love!” Geoffrey’s singsong declaration startled her at one point, until she realized he was talking about Cosette.

  Clearly, something is going on between her and Ben. Even Meg, obsessed with keeping an eye on Sam, couldn’t miss the flirtatious glances between her daughter and his son, or the way they gravitated toward each other every chance they got, on and off the field.

  Cosette might be falling in love, but Meg is determined not to.

  She might ease up on herself if she thought she and Sam stood a chance in hell. But he gave no indication that he wants anything more than what they shared, and she’s been down this road before, with other men. She knows the signals, the body language.

  Too many times, she was the only one trying to make something work.

  She’s already vowed not to do that again. Not even with Sam.

  Anyway, being infatuated with Sam Rooney is old hat, she tells herself as she slows the car in front of the school, looking for a place to park. So it shouldn’t be difficult for her to go on with business as usual. She did just that for years where he was concerned.

  And now I’m right back at the scene of the crime, she thinks, climbing out of the car and looking at the familiar redbrick school. In the distance, from one of the open windows, she can hear the last bell ringing.

  Seized by nostalgia, she hurries forward.

  This morning, when she dropped Cosette off at school, she didn’t even park or get out. Cosette wouldn’t let her. She barely wanted her to slow the car at the curb, and leapt from the passenger’s seat with a brief “see ya.”

  Now that there’s no Cosette here to stop her, Meg can walk right up the sloping sidewalk toward the entrance. She gives a wide berth to a garbage can with loudly buzzing bees hovering above it, then passes the familiar stone bench donated by the Class of ’40 in memory of their classmates killed at Normandy, and the spot by the towering flagpole where she used to meet Krissy every morning, and the bike rack where Sam used to park his Schwinn.

  Nearing the end of her memory lane, she looks up as students begin to flood from the wide double doors, abuzz with first-day excitement.

  She finds herself scanning for familiar faces, and has to remind herself that this is a new generation. She’s not going to know anyone in this—

  Oh, yes, you do!

  To her surprise, she finds herself looking right at Mr. Dreyfus, her old drama teacher, who has emerged and is standing on the steps, talking to a couple of students. He’s aged a bit, but she’s pleased to see that his wiry, diminutive
presence still emanates his trademark dynamic enthusiasm.

  Smiling, Meg keeps an eye on him while looking around for Cosette. Her daughter has yet to materialize when Mr. Dreyfus finishes talking to the students and turns to go back inside.

  “Mr. Dreyfus?” She hurries toward him.

  He turns and his eyes widen with pleasure. “Meg? Meg Addams? Or, wait, I’m sorry, I know it’s Astor Hudson now… I’ve been following your career.”

  “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.”