Love, Suburban Style (18 page)

“Well, can you please hurry? I really want to get out of here.”

“I’m trying, Cosette!”

Meg conducts another quick, fruitless search for even a sweatshirt to pull on. The best she can come up with is a wool cardigan, and there is no way in hell she’s putting that on in this weather.

“Chita Rivera?” she calls as she hunts for something else to wear over her pajamas. “Where are you, kitty?”

No reply.

Chita Rivera likes to get her beauty sleep, but you can usually rouse her with a high-pitched “Here, kittykittykittykitty.”

No sign of the cat.

That’s unusual.

“Mom! Please!”

Oh, well. Shoving her feet into flip-flops and grabbing a pair for Cosette, Meg tells herself that she’d be wearing less clothing than this at the beach. So it’s not as though she’s indecent.

As for Chita Rivera, she couldn’t have come to Sam’s anyway. He hates cats.

It would just be nice if Meg knew where she was before she left the house.

She flips off all the lights and hurries back down the stairs, where she finds that Cosette is already out on the porch.

“I forgot pillows and blankets,” Meg remembers belatedly.

“It’s okay. I’ve got all that stuff. Come on.” Sam holds the door open for her.

“What about Chita Rivera?” Cosette asks.

“I can’t find her.”

“Well, cats are afraid of ghosts,” Cosette announces. “And she’s been acting weird ever since we moved here. Jumping around, skittish, looking at nothing like she’s seeing something…”

She has been doing that, Meg realizes as she grabs the key from the jagged nail beside the door. She’s been using it as a hook but she really should pound it in so nobody gets caught on it.

She really should do a lot of things around here.

Handyman. I need a handyman.

But not tonight.

She flicks the last light switch, and they make their exit.

As they walk away, down the path through the hot, muggy night toward the gate, she looks back over her shoulder at the house.

That’s funny.

She could have sworn she turned off all the lights upstairs.

But there seems to be a faint glow coming from the front bedroom window, almost as though it’s illuminated from a night-light.

Only… there is no night-light in the room.

Chapter
9

A
re you sure this is okay?” Meg whispers uncertainly to Sam.

“It’s fine,” he assures her in his regular voice as Cosette settles into the top bunk in his daughter’s dim, air-conditioned room.

The only sign that anyone occupies the bottom bunk is an oblong lump huddled beneath the patchwork quilt. Katie didn’t even stir when they slipped into the room just now.

“She sleeps through anything,” he informs Meg. “And she’ll be thrilled when she wakes up in the morning and finds out she has an overnight guest here.”

“Even if it’s a complete stranger?”

Sam wants to point out to Meg that it’s a little late now to pluck Cosette from the bunk and go home.

Instead, he just says, “Katie has been wanting to meet her.”

Which is semitrue.

She did say something about wanting to meet the new girl next door when she got home from her trip tonight. Then she caught sight of Cosette in the yard at dusk, and her enthusiasm faded.

“I just saw the girl next door,” Sam heard Katie telling Ben.

“You mean the ghoul next door.”

“Yeah! Is she a witch or something?”

“Dunno,” he replied helpfully. “Maybe.”

“Well, she looks like one. She freaks me out.”

Sam fought the urge to pop into the conversation and admonish his kids, knowing that wouldn’t do much good.

Now, he can’t help but worry about how Katie will react in the morning when she finds that the ghoul next door—rather the girl next door—is her roommate.

With any luck, she’ll stagger out of bed without noticing. She’s not exactly a morning person.

“Where are you sleeping?” Cosette asks her mother, peering over the rail.

Meg looks at Sam, who wants to say,
not with me
!

Just in case that’s what her daughter was thinking.

Her daughter? Who are you kidding?

You’re worried that that’s what Meg’s thinking.

No, that isn’t it, either.

He’s worried that Meg might somehow sense that it’s what
he’s
thinking.

Yes, that’s it exactly. He does his best to rid his mind of salacious thoughts as he says, “Your mom will be down the hall in my room.”

Cosette’s jaw drops.

Realizing belatedly what he just implied, Sam stutters, “I, uh, I-I—no, not, you know, with me, I mean, I’ll be downstairs on the pullout couch and, uh, your mother—”

“Right. Gotcha.” Cosette all but winks. “G’night,” she adds, and rolls toward the wall in a clear signal that it’s time for Meg and Sam to leave the room.

“G’night,” they say in unison.

Sam leads the way out to the hall. A wall of heat greets them. The T-shirt he donned a few minutes ago seems to instantly stick to his skin.

“Whoa,” Meg says as he shuts Katie’s bedroom door. “I almost forgot for a minute that it was sweltering tonight. I wonder when this heat wave is supposed to break?”

“Saturday,” Sam tells her. “We’re supposed to get a lot of rain from a tropical storm and after that things are going to cool off.”

“That’s good.”

“I wish my room were air-conditioned,” he says. “Unfortunately, it’s not. I usually don’t mind it, but on a night like this…”

“It’s okay,” she says quickly. “Honestly, the heat doesn’t bother me all that much. I was sound asleep before Cosette freaked out.”

“Right… what do you think happened?”

“I think the house is haunted.”

Her prompt, straightforward reply surprises him—but it shouldn’t. After all, she’s not the levelheaded, commonsense type.

What do you expect?

Trying not to sound as if he’s scoffing, he asks, “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t sound like he’s scoffing. He sounds concerned.

More concerned than he should be about someone with whom he’s trying to maintain a platonic distance.

She nods vehemently. “I saw it myself.”

“A ghost?”

“Something.
Someone.
”

Sam shakes his head.

“You think I’m crazy?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I read minds,” she says with a shrug and a glint of amusement in her eyes.

She’s kidding,
he assures himself, but a ripple of alarm shoots through him anyway.

“It’s just that I don’t believe in any of that stuff,” he says, trying to keep his thoughts pure just in case she really can read them.

“Stuff like…?”

“Spirits. Hauntings.”

“Why not?”

Because if there were any way a person who died really could come back, Sheryl would have done it. She would have let me and the kids know she’s all right, and she would have found a way to say good-bye.

But now isn’t the time to bring up his late wife—or the tsunami of complex emotions that rise along with thoughts of her.

He answers Meg’s question, “Because there’s no evidence that ghosts exist.”

“I just told you I saw one.”

“Maybe if I saw it with my own eyes…”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not that…”

“Either you think I’m lying, or you think I’m telling the truth.”

“It’s not that simple, Meg.” The sound of her name on his lips gives him pause.

Meg.

It’s run through his mind countless times since they met, and he even said it to Katie the other night… but has he ever said it to Meg?

Never.

Now he finds himself wanting to say it again.

He refrains.

“I think you believe you saw something. In a strange house, in the middle of the night, on the heels of your daughter’s screaming about a ghost… well, it’s not really surprising that you think you saw one.”

“I don’t think I saw one. I know I saw one,” she persists stubbornly.

He shrugs.

Then he realizes they’re just standing here in the hallway, talking, when he should be showing her where everything is.

Getting ready for bed.

Maybe he should take a cold shower first, before he hits the couch.

“
Anyway
… that’s my room,” he says, motioning at the door he left ajar down at the end of the hall. “You can—oh.”

“What?”

“I should change the sheets. Sorry. Being a gracious host doesn’t come naturally.” He smiles.

She returns it. “That’s okay.”

“The only trouble is… the only other king-size sheets I have are flannel. And it’s too hot for flannel, right?”

She politely avoids answering. He can’t read minds, but he’d bet his life she’s thinking,
there’s no way in hell I’m sleeping in flannel sheets tonight.

“There was another set of king sheets, but I used them for a drop cloth last spring. They were so worn-out they had holes in them,” he feels the inexplicable need to elaborate. “I guess I’m still not used to shopping for stuff like that. I don’t do sheets, or towels, or place mats… I mean, I wash them, but I don’t buy them. That was always my wife’s—”

He breaks off, realizing he’s gone and introduced the taboo subject.

“Your wife’s department?” Meg asks helpfully, without missing a beat.

“Right.”

“I know how that is. There are certain things that are a man’s department, too.”

“So you know what it’s like, then. Trying to get used to doing things that your husband used to do.”

“Not really. The only thing my husband used to do was plot his escape.”

“What?”

“Never mind. He was a loser, that’s all.”

“How long ago did he…?”

“Escape?” she supplies. “Before Cosette was even born.”

“He never…?”

“No. He never stuck around to see his own child into the world, which should give you some idea of his character.”

Sam nods, feeling sorry for Meg even though there isn’t the slightest indication that she feels sorry for herself.

“I’m guessing your wife stuck around for your kids’ births,” she says dryly, catching him off guard.

“Oh… right. She did.” His attempt at a laugh is a pathetic staccato choke.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke about your divorce, even though mine was long enough ago that it sometimes seems almost funny. In a humiliating kind of way.”

“I understand. It’s just… I’m not divorced.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and she actually takes a slight step back from him.

“You’re married?”

“No!”

“Then…?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “My wife was killed in a car accident.”

Meg’s hands fly to her mouth as she gasps. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Sam. I just assumed… I mean… I’m an idiot. I had no idea.”

“I know you didn’t. How would you?”

She touches his arm, and he’s startled to realize that he’s trembling. It isn’t so much from grief or emotion as it is from relief.

There.

He’s said it, without breaking down.

My wife was killed in a car accident.

That’s not something he voices very often anymore, now that he’s been living around here for four years. But back in the beginning, when he and the kids had newly moved back in with his mother, he was forced to say it almost constantly.

He cried every time.

Not this time, though. This time, he feels as though he’s just set down a box of bricks he’s been lugging around.

“I wish I had known,” Meg says softly. “About your wife.”

Does she mean that she wishes she had known back when it happened—before he even knew her?

Or does she mean now, since they met a few days ago?

“Why?” He can’t help being struck by the tide of genuine sympathy in her eyes. It washes away his misgivings about her, try as he might to cling to them.

“I don’t know… I just wish I could have… done something. I know it sounds crazy, since you didn’t even know me, but… well, I would have helped you, if I could.”

It’s a bizarre thing for her to say, really. They’re strangers even now.

Yet somehow, Sam is tremendously comforted.

For a moment, they just look at each other.

Then, remembering that he’s supposed to be helping her get settled, he clears his throat. “Do you, ah, want me to just put a clean blanket over the sheets that are already on the bed, or something?”

“What? Oh. No, I’ll be fine.”

He nods, finding an odd intimacy in the notion of her naked limbs settling into the tangle of sheets he just vacated.

“Where are you going to sleep?” she asks him.

“Downstairs, on the pullout couch.” He pauses. “I’ll let you get some sleep, then. You must be exhausted.”

“Not really. Must be the adrenaline. I feel wide-awake.”

“Me, too. Do you want…”

Watch it, Sam. What are you doing?

“Do you want to come down and watch TV with me?” he offers, and wonders why he feels as though he’s just made an indecent proposal.

It’s TV.

Nothing more.

Really.

Oh, well. She’ll undoubtedly say no. At this hour of the night, who wants to stay up?

Meg does, apparently, because she responds with an enthusiastic, “Sure.”

You should have gone to bed,
Meg scolds herself as she watches Sam take two beers from the fridge and open them.

But she wasn’t the least bit tired.

Well then, I should have at least said no when he asked if I wanted something cold to drink. Or asked for ice water.

She distracts herself, looking around the kitchen. It’s comfortably worn, the appliances dated and a harvest gold shade that hasn’t been popular in a few decades. The fridge is covered with paper reminders and invitations held in place by colorful magnets. There’s a stack of newspapers and mail on the laminate counter, alongside a couple of paintbrushes and a pair of sneakers.

This isn’t a woman’s kitchen, Meg thinks, smiling to herself.

Then she sees the lush, potted geranium blooming on the windowsill. It seems out of place here. Somebody’s obviously tending to it, though. Sam? Or maybe…