Single in Suburbia Page 3

  Had she never been carefree? Unconcerned about what everyone else felt and wanted? What had she felt and wanted then? She couldn’t remember.

  Opening a set of cabinet doors, she began to rifle through the stacked photo albums, searching for a shot that reflected her real self. But even the shots of their early married days, when she’d been all of twenty-one, showed the preoccupied smile and furrowed brow.

  Worried now, she rooted through the cabinet, finally pulling out a battered imitation leather album whose binding was cracked from age and neglect. Clutching her prize to her chest, she plopped down onto the sofa and opened it.

  The photographs were dated and dog-eared; the captions scrawled beneath them were written in the spidery cursive she’d affected in college.

  The first one read, Me and Jean-Claude in front of Eiffel Tower. And sure enough there they were, too tiny in the foreground, the passerby Jean-Claude had gotten to snap the picture clearly more concerned with including all of the landmark than the expressions on their faces. But she could actually remember the feel of the smile that had split her face that day. Could still remember the way her jaw ached from smiling and laughing as he gave in to her mad insistence to see every site, every museum, every worthwhile café that Paris had to offer.

  “Tu es enchanteur et électrifiant.” You are enchanting and electrifying, he’d said as he’d stared down into her eyes on the steps of the Louvre. “Tu es mon beau papillon.” You are my beautiful butterfly.

  Mon beau papillon. He’d called her his beautiful butterfly so many times that she’d finally come to believe it.

  For almost the entire year she’d studied in Paris, she’d flitted and flown like the butterfly he’d named her, embracing the freedom like a prisoner suddenly and unexpectedly set free from her cell.

  In every picture her face declared her adoration of Jean-Claude and her fascination with all things French. For a moment, she heard his voice whispering intimately. Mon beau papillon.

  Her gaze flew around the beautifully decorated family room and she saw it for what it was; a carefully designed cocoon into which she’d retreated and where she’d traded in her wings for a perpetually furrowed brow.

  Stung, she slammed the photo album shut and shoved it under a pillow. Searching for a distraction, she strode into the kitchen and began opening cupboards, but she was too agitated to eat and too scattered to cook. Beneath the sink she spotted a bucket and a jug of vinegar and before she knew what she was doing, she’d filled the bucket with warm water, added a healthy dollop of vinegar and located the mop. Moments later she was mopping the wood floors, finding unexpected comfort in the repetitive rhythm of a chore she’d always paid others to do. She finished the kitchen floor quickly and then moved into the dining room, where she swabbed carefully around the Oriental rug on which the mahogany table sat.

  As she worked, another, more private snapshot surfaced in her mind. She and Jean-Claude in the bare student apartment he’d maintained on the Left Bank, discovering what making love actually meant.

  “Tu es incroyable.” You are incredible, he’d breathed as his mouth moved over her naked breast. “I can’t get enough of you.”

  She was dumping the dirty water down the laundry room drain when the phone rang. “Oui?” she said, unable to pull her mind from Jean-Claude, his lips, or the wonderful sense of abandon he’d stirred in her.

  “Amanda?” Her mother’s voice brought her back to the good old U S of A more quickly than a speeding bullet.

  “Oui,” Amanda said. “Um, I mean, yes.” She set the still damp mop outside the kitchen door to dry and crossed to the bay window that overlooked the backyard.

  “Are you all right?”

  Amanda cleared her throat. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m fine.”

  “And Rob and the kids?”

  Amanda winced. Her parents had been married for forty-five apparently blissful years, a record she had hoped to meet and possibly even exceed.

  Which went a long way toward explaining why she’d never mentioned Rob’s desertion. Telling her parents would have made the demise of her marriage all too real; it would have been a one-way ticket out of the Land of Denial.

  But she now had an attorney whom she’d instructed to “start squeezing.” Rob’s financial records would be subpoenaed any day now. It was time to tell not only her parents but her children. Oh, God, how was she going to do that?

  Amanda opened her mouth determined to come clean. She’d simply tell her mother the truth and then somehow she’d find a way to tell Meghan and Wyatt. This would actually be good practice; a dry run of sorts.

  She drew a deep breath, but none of the words she knew she should say actually came out. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to spoil her parents’ cross-country trip; the one they’d been planning for as long as Amanda could remember.

  “Everybody’s fine,” she said in her perkiest good-girl voice. Then without meaning to, she repeated it in French, the translation popping into her head unbidden as if unleashed along with the memories she’d kept so tightly tucked away. “Ils vont très bien.”

  She’d just lied to her mother in two languages.

  “Goodness,” her mother said. “I haven’t heard you speak French in ages. Are you planning a trip?”

  “Not exactly,” Amanda heard herself say. “I just seem to have France on the brain right now.” This at least was true. Maybe she wouldn’t burn in Hell after all. “How’s your trip going? Where are you right now?”

  “We’re in Arizona, right outside of Sedona. We’re going to stay here for a few more days. It’s beautiful, Amanda, the sun setting over the red rock is just glorious. Your father’s been trying to photograph it for days.”

  Amanda could picture them there together, soaking it all in. Sharing the days and nights in the cozy motor home they’d purchased.

  “We thought we’d sort of work our way toward Atlanta. Maybe end up at your place.”

  “That’d be super, Mom.” Maybe by then she would have worked up the nerve to tell them the truth.

  “Hey,” her mother said as they began their good-byes. “Maybe Rob will surprise you with a trip for your anniversary. Maybe I need to put a little bug in his ear.”

  “Wouldn’t that be great?” Amanda asked as she bid her mother au revoir.

  It would certainly be a whole lot greater than the girlfriend he’d surprised her with for Christmas.

  chapter 4

  T rying to ignore the stares of the other adults she passed, Candace Silver Bernstein Sugarman picked her way over the gravel path toward the ballpark concession stand.

  She had to concede that the Prada jacket might have been a mistake. Ditto for the Italian calfskin demi-boots with the three-inch heels.

  “Damn.” Her ankle turned yet again and she windmilled to regain her balance as red dust flew and pebbles scattered around her. She was NOT going to land on her rear end in the middle of the Saturday morning crowd. A pint-size ballplayer with a bulging equipment bag slung over his tiny shoulder pointed a finger at her as he and his mother approached.

  “Look how fancy that lady is, Mommy!” He piped at the top of his voice. “How come she’s all dressed up?”

  The mother, who was dressed in jeans and sneakers like every other woman Candace had seen so far, shot Candace an apologetic smile and pulled her son along beside her. “I don’t know, honey. Maybe she’s going somewhere nice after this.”

  If only. Actually, Candace thought the child’s question a good one. An even better one might be: What was a nice Jewish divorcée with no children doing spending an entire Saturday afternoon at a Little League ballpark? And why would said divorcée offer to sell snacks while she was there?

  The answer was tall, dark, and Irish. And his initials were DD.

  By the time Candace reached the concession stand she had a red dirt smudge on the front of her jacket, a large chunk of gravel wedged inside her left boot, and absolutely no desire to explore this strange ne
w world into which this Sugarman had never gone before.

  Too bad she couldn’t get Scotty to lock onto her coordinates and beam her up.

  Brooke Mackenzie also wished she was somewhere else. Like on her way to the East End Day Spa for her weekly mani and pedi instead of wending her way through a throng of Little Leaguers to a broken-down concession stand. But Hap was out of town yet again, and the former Mrs. Hap Mackenzie, who claimed to have the flu, had called to ask whether Brooke could take Tyler to the ballpark and then work her scheduled shift.

  Brooke, whose cuticles and psyche were clamoring for attention, had picked up her stepson from his mother’s, driven the totally hostile and completely silent preteen to the field, and watched him stomp off to the batting cages where his team awaited. Tyler got to play baseball. Brooke got to spend the next three hours in a concession stand with two other women who would probably make her stepson look like Mr. Friendly.

  Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she tilted her chin upward and headed up the gravel-strewn hill reminding herself as she walked that she was exactly where she wanted to be.

  Married to a successful man with a home in the suburbs, she had come a long way from her trailer park beginnings. Making the rent on a doublewide had been her mother’s crowning achievement. But Brooke had been born with her mother’s looks and a calculator of a brain—undoubtedly inherited from the father her mother had been unable to identify—and she had used them both to get her accounting degree, which had led to a position at Price Waterhouse. Which in turn had led to Hap.

  Keeping her gaze fastened forward, Brooke ignored the admiring looks of the fathers she passed. The hostile looks their wives aimed her way were harder to duck.

  Brooke’s smile slipped a notch. Her single friends, who treated a trip to the suburbs like a trek to Siberia, had largely abandoned her. The wives of Hap’s friends and the women she met here weren’t planning to welcome her into the fold any time soon. She was their worst nightmare and the fact that she’d refused to go out with Hap until after his divorce was final was a hair they weren’t interested in splitting.

  At the concession stand she spotted Candace Sugarman and hid a smile as the older woman leaned against the concrete building and yanked off her boot. When she turned it upside-down and shook it, a landslide of dirt and pebbles poured out.

  Brooke looked down at her own black suede mini boots, which were now covered in dust. “This place isn’t exactly high heel friendly.”

  “No, it’s not.” Candace gave her the once-over then went back to clearing the debris from her shoe. “But I don’t own Levi’s or sneakers. And I don’t think I want to.”

  Brooke considered the blonde. The woman was much too sophisticated and independent to fit in with the mothers from the team, but there were things to be learned from a woman like this. Like how to carry herself and how to look like she didn’t give a damn, without giving offense—not the sort of thing one picked up around the trailer park. Or even in an MBA program.

  Amanda Sheridan arrived for concession duty dressed like the other mothers, for comfort not show. Brooke couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, being dumped like she had after almost twenty years of marriage.

  But Brooke didn’t think the woman was finished. Not by a long shot. In fact, she could probably learn everything she needed to know about being a suburban wife from Amanda Sheridan. As Brooke had discovered at a very young age, there were lessons to be learned from everyone. She’d just have to figure out the holding on to her husband part by herself.

  Amanda knew just how far her stock had dropped when she discovered that she’d been assigned to work the concession stand with Brooke Mackenzie and Candace Sugarman.

  Ushering them into the boxlike structure, she stowed her purse under the counter and considered her coworkers. They looked like aliens plopped down on earth with no idea of the local dress or customs.

  Brooke’s auburn hair cascaded down her back in carefully orchestrated disarray and her black suede man-tailored shirt nipped in to a Scarlett O’Hara–sized waist. Low slung jeans and pointy-toed boots in the same black suede as her shirt completed the ensemble. Her diamond studs were big enough to double for doorknobs.

  Candace, too, looked more suited to a lunch date than an afternoon flipping burgers. Amanda tied an apron over her own faded sweatshirt and tried not to stare at the blonde’s Prada jacket and string of perfectly matched pearls. Not even the layer of ballpark dust that now covered her could detract from the woman’s smartness.

  “So,” Amanda said, “which one of you wants to get the grill going?”

  The two stared at each other obviously waiting for the other to volunteer. Brooke caved first and went outside with the lighter.

  “I could cut up the tomato and lettuce, maybe make an arrangement of crudités to decorate each plate,” Candace offered.

  Amanda opened the refrigerator and pulled out industrial-sized bottles of ketchup and mustard and slapped them into Candace’s hands. “These go outside on that picnic table. They can have their burgers plain or with cheese. These are the plates.” She reached for the roll of aluminum foil and ripped off a square. “The only crudités here are the men.”

  With a knowledge born of long experience, Amanda directed Brooke and Candace through the opening checklist. She’d been team mom more times than she could count and had headed up the park concession committee for three years in a row. She was known at this ballpark, respected as a hard worker who played well with others. Now she was tainted with Rob’s indiscretion, pitied as a discarded wife, and stuck here on a Saturday with an overdressed crew of outcasts.

  Amanda checked the cash drawer and straightened the display of candy bars realizing as she did that she’d forgotten to eat again. She considered having a Snickers bar, but couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for it. Rob had even ruined chocolate for her; the man had a lot to answer for.

  Leaning on the counter, she stared out toward the playing fields and did a slow scan for Rob. Wyatt’s team was warming up in the flank of batting cages to her right. To her left, a game was already underway; the fielders’ hazing chatter to the batter carried up to her on the breeze.

  Keenly aware that Rob might appear at any moment, she busied herself educating Brooke and Candace on concession stand procedures then sent Candace over to their sister stand to get more ice. Brooke got window duty.

  When the first customer appeared, Brooke stepped forward with a big smile. Amanda waited behind her prepared to help, but Brooke didn’t turn to her for assistance. She simply got out a cardboard holder, retrieved a slew of items from the warming tray, the refrigerator, and the chip and candy rack and began piling them into it as she’d been instructed. “That’ll be twelve sixty-five,” Brooke said with another smile then reached her hand out for payment. Taking a twenty, she opened the register, made change, which she passed through the opening and sent the bulging holder after it. “Thanks so much. Hope you enjoy it.”

  Still smiling, she turned to Amanda. “What?” she asked, noting Amanda’s expression. “What did I do wrong?”

  “You didn’t ring anything up or use the calculator,” Amanda said. “How did you know what his total was?”

  Brooke looked startled then tapped her forehead with her index finger. “I just do it in my head.” She shrugged, her expression self-deprecating. “Numbers are kind of my thing.”

  Amanda considered the younger woman. “OK.” She stepped past Brooke and began gathering items. When she had twenty things, she laid them out on the counter careful not to put them in any particular order then picked up the handheld calculator and began punching in prices.

  Before she could hit the total button, Brooke said, “Fifteen dollars and ninety-five cents.”

  A moment later the same number appeared on her screen.

  “One more time.” Amanda removed four items and replaced two. She hadn’t even turned the calculator back on when Brooke said, “Ten dollars, twenty-five cents.”

 
; Amanda slid two more items off the counter.

  “Eight fifty.”

  Amanda nodded and wondered what, besides a calculator-like brain, Brooke Mackenzie was hiding behind her pretty face. “All right,” she conceded. “You keep the window. I’m going to sit back here”—she gestured toward the lone chair near the refrigerator—“and work on my math skills.”

  A steady stream of gaping men eager to purchase whatever Brooke was selling made their way to the concession stand window. Brooke never once wrote anything down or touched the register except to deposit or withdraw money. But as the line grew, Brooke began calling out each order so that Amanda could help fill it.

  During a lull at the window, Amanda checked the till. “Good grief,” Amanda said as she examined the piles of bills. “I can’t total it in my head like you do, but it looks like we’ve sold more food and drink in the last twenty minutes than we normally do in an afternoon. Maybe I should send you out into the stands like the Pied Piper and let all the men follow you back.”

  Brooke laughed. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “But it might make sense to upgrade some of your offerings. I bet we could increase the per transaction total two to three percentage points immediately just by adding a few items.”

  Amanda blinked.

  “Your client base is upscale,” Brooke continued. “I mean they may be at the ball field, but these people are used to double lattes and Macchiatos from Starbucks. Has anybody looked at the idea of adding some designer coffees? Or maybe even just purchasing a cappuccino maker?”

  There was the sound of wheels on gravel and Candace staggered in clutching two large bags of ice to her chest. Her jacket was rumpled and had wet stains across it. “I have a cart out there with three more bags.” She looked down at her boots and groaned. “My shoes are finished, but I think I’ve taken care of the gravel problem. I just stashed all the loose stuff in my shoes and brought it with me.”