If You Were Here

the street.

“Calliope and Gregor?” Mac’s expression vacillates between shock and awe.

I reply, “Don’t look at me, dude.”

We try to shake off the incident, chalking up Lululemon’s attitude to toddler-based exhaustion and a desperate need for carbohydrates. Then we spend a few minutes discussing furniture placement with the movers before the bell rings again.

“I’m almost afraid to answer it,” I tell Mac.

This time there’s an old man — ancient, really — standing in the center of our porch, and he doesn’t look happy.

Of course he doesn’t.

Even his wrinkles are frowning. We joked about buying a welcome mat that said, GO AWAY, but now that seems like it might have been a wise investment.

Before we can say anything, the old guy begins to wave an eagleheaded cane at us. “Tell your kids not to park in my driveway,” he hisses.

“Is someone parked in your driveway?” I query. I thought everyone here arrived via the moving van, but I double-check. “Hey, guys? Anyone parked anywhere other than this driveway?” I confirm they haven’t and turn back to the visitor. “If someone’s there, it’s not us.”

He scowls so hard his jowls tremble. “I didn’t say there was someone there now, missy. I said I don’t want your kids parking in my driveway.”

Mac is utterly confused, so I field this one. “I promise that won’t be an issue, sir, as we don’t even have kids.” Because I’m polite, I don’t add that if we were to reproduce, by the time our children were old enough to get a license, he’d be dead.

His beady little eyes dart back and forth beneath fleshy lids. “Well, keep it that way.” Then he totters off our porch and proceeds to slowly traverse the cobblestone path. When he gets to the street, he kicks our mailbox.

“Did you sign us up for a reality show and not tell me?” Mac demands.

“I tried to get us on Property Virgins, House Hunters, and My First Place, but no luck,” I admit. Apparently the producers at HGTV aren’t doing a lot of episodes where first-time buyers purchase starter mansions.

When the bell rings for a fourth time, I send Mac out to oil the doggy door. I’m a lot better in confrontational situations, since I’m not so quick to escalate.

Although, really, odds are good that someone’s going to bring us a damn casserole soon and that we’re finished with all the Negative Nellies. We’ve already been yelled at by neighbors on either side and across the street. Surely there can’t be anyone left in our immediate proximity who has reason to dislike us without even having met us.

You know what?

There are a lot of angry people in this neighborhood.

My shoulders are killing me. Between yanking open the heavy front door and tensing up when strangers yell at me, I’m in desperate need of a massage.

By the time the bell rings for the fourteenth casserole-free time, I’m spoiling for a fight. I’m tired of being told that my driveway needs to be power-washed, that I’m remiss in planting my purple ornamental cabbage to show support for the high school’s baseball team, that I put my recycling in the wrong kind of bin, and that the moving van needs to be repositioned because it’s causing “an uncomfortable glare while I’m trying to watch Wheel of Fortune.”

How is everyone around here so mean? These people live in amazing houses on the most beautiful street in the coolest town and yet no one’s happy? How does that work? At this point I don’t blame this home’s caretakers for not keeping it in better shape; there’s no pleasing anyone around here, so why bother?

Despite the pain radiating up my shoulder, I whip open the door with all my might. “What now?” I bark into the shocked face of Liz, our Realtor.

“Is this a bad time?” she asks, then tentatively offers me an enormous basket filled with lots of wine and cheese and serving accessories.

I apologize profusely, call Mac, and crack open one of the bottles of pinot.⁸⁸ We move to the couch, where we give her a rundown of our afternoon.

“I don’t get it,” I cry. “Everyone seemed really nice up here when we were looking at houses. What went wrong?”

“Why don’t we have any casseroles?” Mac adds.

“I don’t really know what that means, Mac,” she replies. “But I’m afraid what you’re saying makes sense. After the closing I ran into the trust’s attorney at Starbucks. I found out that if the trust wasn’t able to sell this place by April first, there was a plan to turn the property over to the community.”

“Turn over? I’m sorry. I’m lost,” I tell her.

Liz sighs and takes a small sip of her wine. “Meaning that this property was going to be torn down and made into open lands. Basically, your house was earmarked for a nature preserve that the neighbors would be able to access, and now that you’re here, they won’t get it.”

Mac leans forward and sets his glass on the coffee table. I’m so relieved about finally having furniture that I don’t even dive for a coaster. “We were in a bidding war! If we didn’t buy this place, someone else was going to. The neighbors wouldn’t have gotten their park regardless.”

A pained expression flashes across Liz’s face. When we asked Liz to represent us, she balked, insisting she wasn’t that familiar with the Abington Cambs market and that having the inside scoop could be crucial. But we insisted harder, and now. . here we are.

“So what you’re saying,” Mac continues, “is that we’re already in the proverbial doghouse with these neighbors. They’re predisposed to dislike us.” Then he slumps back onto the couch, mourning the loss of casseroles in perpetuity.

“Unfortunately, that’s about the size of it. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I should have turned you over to a local Realtor and—”

I’m not accepting this brand of defeatism. “Stop right there.You did a great job, because we’re here, aren’t we? Maybe we’ll have to try a little harder to win over the neighbors, but I’m sure we can, because, need I remind you, we were destined to live here. I mean, if the Jablonskis could get over Babcia rewashing everything on their clothesline⁸⁹ and the Pasquesis forgave her for annexing their yard for her vegetable garden,⁹⁰ then we can rally. All we did was buy our dream house, and all they need to do is get to know us.”

Liz smiles at me. “I admire your determination.”

“Or your delusion,” Mac adds.

“Everything’s going to be fine. We just need to give it a little time. Trust me.”

After we finish our visit, I walk Liz to her car, hugging her briefly before she leaves. “Thank you for everything, and we’ll see you soon.”

When I close the front door, a blinding flash of pain travels up to my neck and the knob comes off in my hand.

This had better not be a sign.

Chapter Nine. FALLING THROUGH THE EARTH (OF SORTS)

“Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Tracey and I are standing in my front hallway. The area that had once been dated and dingy is now — hmm, what is the proper designer term for it? — ah, yes, a frigging war zone.

The Dumpster we requested a week ago hasn’t yet arrived, so Mac thoughtfully placed every piece of broken