if I’ll ever get used to that. But you know, the funny thing is, you’re already starting to
look
like a Meg.”
Holding the squirming cat with one hand, wiping another sweaty clump of hair from her face with the other, and glancing down at her grimy, mismatched clothing, Meg concludes he doesn’t mean that as a compliment.
She thanks him anyway and tells him to go ahead to get something to eat and take Cosette with him.
Geoffrey has always been—if not a father figure for Cosette, then at least a big brother figure. He’s certainly old enough to be her dad, but his relationship with Meg’s daughter has always been more fun and conspiratorial than paternal. Hopefully, that will continue even now that they’re moving.
“Oh,” she calls after them, “I just remembered that there’s a great burger place four blocks from here, across from the train station. They have the best battered french fries!”
“Sounds good, in a revolting way. Are you sure this place is still there?” Geoffrey asks.
“I saw it the other day from a distance…”
Then again, it might have turned into another yoga studio or something.
She still hasn’t had much of a chance to explore her former—and future—hometown again since that first day.
The next time she came up a week later, it was to look at the house on Boxwood with Kris. The time after that—for Friday’s closing—Geoffrey drove her straight to the house for the walk-through, then to the lawyer’s office.
She’s still itching to stroll down Main Street again—and she’ll have plenty of time for that now. Home, sweet home.
“Do you want us to bring anything back for you?” Geoffrey offers, hand on the car door handle.
“Furniture would be good.” She brought only the essentials up from the city, telling herself—and Cosette—that the style is too modern for the new place.
To which Cosette replied sarcastically, “Oh, right, we need a lot of dark, heavy stuff with velvet and mohair upholstery, fringe, tassels… Maybe somebody’s great- great-aunt will be having a garage sale when we get there, and we can load up.”
Actually, given the sorry state of Meg’s household budget, visiting garage sales wouldn’t be a bad idea.
“I’ll help you decorate, but not today,” Geoffrey informs her. “So no furniture. What else do you need? You know how I love to shop. Give me a list.”
“You’re going to be sorry you asked. I need a box cutter, toilet paper, toothbrushes and toothpaste because I didn’t remember packing them, a case of bottled water, paper towels and cleaning stuff, a bucket, a cheeseburger, medium rare, and battered french fries,” she rattles off. “Oh, and a side order of onion rings. With mustard.”
“Gotta love a woman who eats like a trucker even in this heat. Where am I supposed to get the nonfood items?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. You’re the shopaholic. Find one of those big suburban sprawl superstores people are always complaining about up here.”
“Will do,” Geoffrey calls with a cheerful wave, and they’re off.
“Come on, Chita Rivera, before you pee all over me—or worse.” Leaving the van at the curb, Meg carries the cat to the black iron gate.
On the other side, in the weed-choked yard, she can see fat bumblebees lazing among the dandelions. It’s August. Bees are always plentiful at this time of year. And pesky, she remembers from her suburban barbecue days, when she was prone to shrieking into the house in terror as they dive-bombed her plate.
She takes a deep breath, trying to work up the nerve to step into the yard.
She isn’t barefoot, and she isn’t carrying a plate of chicken.
Come on, you know they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them,
she reminds herself.
It’s about time you conquered this irrational fear.
The gate creaks loudly when she opens it.
Nothing a little WD-40 can’t handle,
she tells herself. The building super uses the stuff all the time back
look
like a Meg.”
Holding the squirming cat with one hand, wiping another sweaty clump of hair from her face with the other, and glancing down at her grimy, mismatched clothing, Meg concludes he doesn’t mean that as a compliment.
She thanks him anyway and tells him to go ahead to get something to eat and take Cosette with him.
Geoffrey has always been—if not a father figure for Cosette, then at least a big brother figure. He’s certainly old enough to be her dad, but his relationship with Meg’s daughter has always been more fun and conspiratorial than paternal. Hopefully, that will continue even now that they’re moving.
“Oh,” she calls after them, “I just remembered that there’s a great burger place four blocks from here, across from the train station. They have the best battered french fries!”
“Sounds good, in a revolting way. Are you sure this place is still there?” Geoffrey asks.
“I saw it the other day from a distance…”
Then again, it might have turned into another yoga studio or something.
She still hasn’t had much of a chance to explore her former—and future—hometown again since that first day.
The next time she came up a week later, it was to look at the house on Boxwood with Kris. The time after that—for Friday’s closing—Geoffrey drove her straight to the house for the walk-through, then to the lawyer’s office.
She’s still itching to stroll down Main Street again—and she’ll have plenty of time for that now. Home, sweet home.
“Do you want us to bring anything back for you?” Geoffrey offers, hand on the car door handle.
“Furniture would be good.” She brought only the essentials up from the city, telling herself—and Cosette—that the style is too modern for the new place.
To which Cosette replied sarcastically, “Oh, right, we need a lot of dark, heavy stuff with velvet and mohair upholstery, fringe, tassels… Maybe somebody’s great- great-aunt will be having a garage sale when we get there, and we can load up.”
Actually, given the sorry state of Meg’s household budget, visiting garage sales wouldn’t be a bad idea.
“I’ll help you decorate, but not today,” Geoffrey informs her. “So no furniture. What else do you need? You know how I love to shop. Give me a list.”
“You’re going to be sorry you asked. I need a box cutter, toilet paper, toothbrushes and toothpaste because I didn’t remember packing them, a case of bottled water, paper towels and cleaning stuff, a bucket, a cheeseburger, medium rare, and battered french fries,” she rattles off. “Oh, and a side order of onion rings. With mustard.”
“Gotta love a woman who eats like a trucker even in this heat. Where am I supposed to get the nonfood items?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. You’re the shopaholic. Find one of those big suburban sprawl superstores people are always complaining about up here.”
“Will do,” Geoffrey calls with a cheerful wave, and they’re off.
“Come on, Chita Rivera, before you pee all over me—or worse.” Leaving the van at the curb, Meg carries the cat to the black iron gate.
On the other side, in the weed-choked yard, she can see fat bumblebees lazing among the dandelions. It’s August. Bees are always plentiful at this time of year. And pesky, she remembers from her suburban barbecue days, when she was prone to shrieking into the house in terror as they dive-bombed her plate.
She takes a deep breath, trying to work up the nerve to step into the yard.
She isn’t barefoot, and she isn’t carrying a plate of chicken.
Come on, you know they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them,
she reminds herself.
It’s about time you conquered this irrational fear.
The gate creaks loudly when she opens it.
Nothing a little WD-40 can’t handle,
she tells herself. The building super uses the stuff all the time back
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