If You Were Here
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: #Chicago, #Humorous, #Family Life, #General, #Suburbs, #Women Authors, #Illinois, #Fiction, #Remodeling, #Dwellings
Table of Contents
Nonfiction Titles by
New York Times
Bestselling Author Jen Lancaster
New York Times
Bestselling Author Jen Lancaster
Bitter Is the New Black
Bright Lights, Big Ass
Such a Pretty Fat
Pretty in Plaid
My Fair Lazy
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First published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, May
Copyright © Jen Lancaster, 2011
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Lancaster, Jen, 1967–
If you were here/Jen Lancaster. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-51447-4
1. Suburbs—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 2. Dwellings—Remodeling—Fiction. 3. Women authors—Fiction. 4. Marriage—Fiction. 5. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I.Title.
PS3612.A’.6—dc22 2011003171
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For the man who defined a generation.
Godspeed, Mr. Hughes.
Godspeed, Mr. Hughes.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
This is not a true story, but was inspired by our adventures in suburban real estate. However, we quickly came to our senses and realized that buying a crumbling home by the lake was an incredibly stupid, potentially hazardous, ridiculously expensive, and almost-certain-to-end-our-marriage idea.
We did not purchase the house in this book.
We moved elsewhere.
This didn’t occur.
(Yet.)
XO,
Jen
P.S. I feel it’s important to note here that I love Stephenie Meyer. This might not make sense now, but it will later, I promise.
Prologue
I blame HGTV for what happens next.
Chapter OneTHERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT ORNESTEGA
“No.
No.
Oh,
hell
, no.”
No.
Oh,
hell
, no.”
I’m standing upstairs in my office when I spot someone in an oversize hoodie and low-slung pants paint ORNESTEGA in puffy silver letters on the flat red bricks of the building across the street.
Which is a
church
.
church
.
I imagine the Lord probably has His own way of dealing with little thugs who deface houses of worship, but I can’t just stand here waiting for Him to scramble a swarm of locusts or turn rivers to blood. I imagine He’s got a lot on his plate right now, what with war, poverty, the Sudanese situation, and all those reality-show contestants asking for His divine guidance as they navigate their way through the obstacle course and into the Jell-O pit.
The other thing is, if He does take notice and sends down hail mixed with fire, it’s going to ruin my lawn. I think sometimes God expects us to act as His emissaries; ergo,
I
will fix this.
I
will fix this.
I press the “indoor talk” button on the intercom system. “Mac! Maaaaac! There’s a tagger outside and ...” Before I can even finish my sentence, my husband, Mac,
1
has exited his basement office/lair and flown across the street.
1
has exited his basement office/lair and flown across the street.
When it comes to wrongs that need righting, Mac fancies himself a modern-day Batman. I mean, if Batman were pushing forty, with a hint of spare tire around his waist, seven gray hairs, and a job in middle management for the phone company. The truth is he’s more like Dilbert, only with a fully stocked arsenal.
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