Neighborly(6)

“Going on again about the whole trans-urban thing?”

She laughs and swats at him.

While I’d never state anything as forcefully as Regina, she’s right: the AV is rare. Neighborhoods tend to be homogenous—everyone has great wealth, or no one does. But here you have houses of vastly different sizes on the same block, used Subaru Outbacks beside Porsches, hedge-fund managers next to normal people like Doug and me (he’s a senior market analyst, so his field is about as lucrative as mine, which is to say, not terribly).

It’s everything I never had growing up. Good schools, a community full of warmth and kindness, and, above all else, safety. I’m going to make sure nothing happens to this little dangling bundle of mine.

But I have to admit, the AV is not diverse in all ways. I’m looking at a sea of white faces, an alabaster undertow.

Meadow says, “Potty, now!” and Raquel excuses herself, heading toward her brown-lawned Georgian. I notice that her husband is following, and I feel a tightness in my stomach, like we shouldn’t leave them alone together. Which is crazy, because they’re married. They’re behind closed doors all the time.

“It’s not quite the best of everything,” Tennyson says, her face suddenly somber. We all look at her expectantly. I’m the most worried of all. A part of me has been waiting for the catch ever since we went into escrow. “You can’t park just anywhere on the street.” She indicates the open spot in front of a rambling Victorian with peeling green paint, the closest this block has to an eyesore.

I laugh the loudest, the most relieved. “I met her!” I say. “Well, I didn’t exactly meet her. She came out to yell at Doug and me about not parking in front of her house, when we’d actually just parked on the opposite side of the street, in front of our house.”

“You’re Gladys’s worst nightmare. A Craftsman couple with two cars and no garage. You’re a threat,” Tennyson informs me with a grin.

Doug and I had laughed about Gladys (not that we knew her name). We called her “the old crone” and “the local color,” the eccentric everyone has to put up with, who’s probably lived here forever and who’ll undoubtedly die here. The one bad apple, the exception that proves the rule. Gladys keeps this place from being too good to be true.

“She doesn’t even own a car,” Tennyson says, “but she wants the space available in case someone visits her.” She rolls her eyes.

“Which is practically never,” Gina says. “It’s kind of sad, really.”

A handsome man with gelled curls and wolf-blue eyes comes up behind Tennyson, snaking his arm around her waist and whispering in her ear.

“It’s too early,” Tennyson says. “Wait until after we eat.” She looks at the rest of us. “He can’t wait to get in his clown suit. It’s a shame it’s not something plush. Then at least I’d get a little kink out of it.”

Vic lets go of Tennyson, a bit reluctantly, it seems, and extends his hand to me. “Good to meet you. Kat, right? I was just talking to your husband. Great guy. We’re really glad you’re both here.”

“Thanks,” I say. “We’re really glad we’re here, too.”

He slips back into the crowd. I have a sense the spell has been broken, the inevitable conversation is over, and everyone is considering their next move. If they disperse, where will I go? I look around and see that Doug is headed my way, his plate piled high. He’s always the first at a buffet, with utter unselfconsciousness.

“For you,” he says. “Do you want to give Sadie to me for a while so you can relax and eat?”

The other women seem impressed by his solicitousness. There are introductions all around. Doug takes Sadie from me, and a new crowd forms around us, all couples. Some of them have plates, but those who don’t are happy to accept Sadie, saying that Doug should eat, too, since he’s the guest of honor.

It’s Sadie’s first time crowd surfing, and she clearly loves it. Having all these new people to bewitch by looking into their eyes, touching their faces, and trying to put anything she can into her mouth . . . what more could she ask for? I work to quell the slight anxiety that I feel. After all, this is why we came; this is the Village.

It is nice to actually focus on eating, to not just scarf but to relish. I do that so rarely, and this food is so worthy. The ribs are succulent, alongside an arugula fennel salad with mandarin oranges, some sort of marinated greens, and homemade corn bread. Doug quickly fills a plate for himself, and then between bites of barbecued chicken, deviled eggs, and potato salad, he fields questions about the new house.

“Kat has all these amazing decorating ideas,” he says. “Have any of you heard of the tiny house movement?” Heads shake no. “There’s this network we call THN—for Tiny House Network—because every show is about building and decorating your tiny house. And most of them are way smaller than ours, like three hundred square feet. We’ve got nine sixty. We’re huge!” Everyone laughs.

It’s true, I have been pretty obsessed with THN ever since our bid was accepted. It’s where I could find a whole spate of shows to validate our decision. On one, an eco-friendly host announces that tiny houses are the next big thing, and I like that. It’s not that Doug and I couldn’t afford a larger house; it’s that we’re part of a movement with a shared ethos to pare down to your own personal essentials. It’s about figuring out what you truly value, about having less and doing more. It’s not about possessions but about living fully. Yet that trash mound in front of our house told a different story. Thankfully, it’s gone.