The Last House on Sycamore Street

by Paige Roberts

Genres: Humor & Satire

Synopsis

As intriguing as it is relatable, Paige Roberts’ compulsively readable novel delves into the secrets and ties that lie between friends—and neighbors.
 
When Amy Kravitz opts to leave Washington, D.C., behind in favor of a less stressful life in the Philadelphia suburbs, she has a certain kind of house in mind. And on a charming street in a
family-friendly neighborhood, she and her husband Rob find it. It’s a perfect brick colonial with plenty of space, a beautiful yard, and great schools nearby. The sellers, Julian and Grace Durant, are eager to make a deal. In an unexpected bonus, the Durants’ young son, Ethan, strikes up a friendship with Amy and Rob’s introverted four-year-old, Noah.
 
Soon, Amy is unpacking boxes in her new home and arranging playdates for Noah and Ethan. But as weeks go by, Amy suspects something isn’t quite right. Julian’s mail keeps arriving at their old address, and Amy can hardly miss the “Final Notice” stamped on the envelopes in big, red letters. Behind the
laid-back veneer projected by the Durants, Amy senses lives reeling out of control. But how much does Grace know, how much is she choosing to ignore—and is there more at stake in Amy speaking up or in staying silent?
 
Praise for Virtually Perfect
 
“Newcomer Paige Roberts serves up a fresh take on reinvention and acceptance. Light and satisfying, Virtually Perfect is the perfect weekend read!”
—Amy Sue Nathan, author of Left to Chance
 
“Entertaining and incisive . . . Readers are treated to ample helpings of snappy dialogue and vivid characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
 
“Roberts’s spot-on debut novel delves into the virtually perfect façade of an internally imperfect family. The author also eloquently splashes in a dash of humor.”
—Library Journal

Release date: September 25, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

The moment Amy stepped out of the realtor’s car, she knew she’d been had. Not that she was surprised. She and Rob had been looking at houses for, what was it now? Three months? By now, she’d gotten used to disappointment. But this one had looked so promising online. Granite counters! Stainless-steel appliances! A cute backyard with azalea bushes and a vegetable garden! In her heart, she’d hoped this would be “the one.” Finally they could stop making weekend trips to Philadelphia from Washington, DC, and move on with their lives.

But this wasn’t “the one.” She could already tell. She’d never been the kind of person who believed in that kind of kismet. Whenever people asked how she and Rob met, the follow-up question, at least from a certain type of person, was always, “And did you just know the second you met him?” The truth was, it took her months to realize Rob might be the kind of person—if not the person—she wanted to marry. She was never sure if that was because love at first sight didn’t exist in general, or just not for her, but she didn’t tend to make snap judgments one way or the other.

And yet somehow she knew they wouldn’t buy this house. Even from the outside, it looked nothing like the listing she’d seen online. What had, in photographs, looked like a cute, stone Cape Cod, now looked more like a tired house in need of a facelift. How had she not noticed the paint flaking off the shutters in the photos? And the roof . . . was that moss?

“A beauty!” crowed Cynthia, their realtor.

Amy and Rob locked eyes. They were on the same page.

Cynthia must have caught their look because she fiddled with the rhinestone broach on her bright yellow blazer and added, “Of course, it needs a loving touch, but then doesn’t every house?”

She rushed ahead to open the front door.

“I guess everything looks better when you’re also the listing agent,” Rob whispered in Amy’s ear.

She laced her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I really wanted to love this one.”

“You still might.”

She glanced up at him. “Wishful thinking.”

“Come on. Let’s take a look.”

They held hands as they walked up the driveway, and Amy surveyed the neighborhood. She liked it. A lot, actually. The houses were close together, but in a friendly, “meet your neighbors” kind of way. She could already see at least five houses with swing sets and immediately pictured kids running from one yard to the next, their squeals filling the air on a warm summer day. Oh, what she would give for Noah to be one of those kids. Even if they moved here, he would probably still want to sit inside and play math games and wouldn’t want to—

No. Amy put the brakes on her runaway train of thought. He’s never had a yard, she reminded herself. If he did, he’d probably want to play in it. That’s why they were moving here, wasn’t it? Well, that and to be closer to Rob’s family. But they both knew they’d never be able to afford a decent-size house with any property in DC, and they’d decided that was a lifestyle Noah would need if he was going to come out of his shell. They just needed to find a nice house in a friendly neighborhood that wasn’t too expensive and didn’t require many renovations.

“So basically a unicorn,” her friend Jess had said.

Amy laughed off the comment at the time, but she was beginning to think Jess was right. Why was finding a house so hard? She’d always thought she had good taste, but after seeing so many houses she considered hideous, she was starting to wonder if maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was a known fact among her friends and family that she dressed horribly, bought terrible furniture, and was otherwise aesthetically blind. She peered down at her brown leather boots. Were they maybe a little too rugged? And the skinny jeans—they were still “in,” weren’t they? She’d thought so when she’d bought them, but now she wasn’t sure. Nothing was making sense, least of all Cynthia’s comments about the house.

“I think you’ll see it has an understated elegance,” she said as she led them through the front door.

The first thing Amy noticed was the smell. Cigarettes. Having grown up with a smoker, Amy knew the thick, musty smell of tobacco would linger long after the current owner left. Her mom had quit years ago, and yet every time Amy visited her back in Rhode Island, the house still bore the same stale, almost sweet smell her Parliaments had left behind. The smoke had latched on to everything it could—the curtains, the carpet, the walls. Amy knew this house would be no different. At the very least, they’d have to prime and repaint everything, rip out the carpets, and buy new window treatments. If that was all, Amy wouldn’t mind, but she had seen enough houses by this point to suspect that wouldn’t be the end of the problems.

“The dining room.” Cynthia gestured to the left and let Amy and Rob go in first. “Perfect for entertaining.”

Amy walked around the dining room table, and as she did, she felt as if she were walking downhill. “Is it me, or . . . is the floor slanted?” she asked.

“Slanted?” Cynthia sounded baffled by Amy’s question, but in a way that made her seem disingenuous rather than truly confused. Any idiot could tell that the floor wasn’t level.

“Yeah, see?” Rob reached into his pocket and pulled out a bouncy ball he had confiscated from Noah earlier that morning. He placed the ball on the floor and it began rolling toward the wall.

“Ah. Well. It is an older home, and homes settle. But it isn’t a problem. Your son might even enjoy it!”

Amy didn’t consider this a selling point. She had visions of Thanksgiving dinner sliding off the table, the centerpiece tumbling into the gravy and cranberry sauce.

“Let’s move on to the kitchen,” Cynthia said, wisely bursting Amy’s thought bubble.

As they entered the kitchen, Cynthia began talking very loud and very fast, but Amy barely caught any of what Cynthia was saying because she was distracted by an inescapable funk. This one was different than the cigarette smoke. It smelled of damp, as if a pipe had been leaking under the sink, or mold had been growing beneath the dishwasher. Instinctively, Amy made her way to the sink and opened the cupboard beneath it. She bent over to identify the source of the smell, when she heard a rustling in the trash can. Before she knew what was happening, a small mouse leapt out of the can, scurried down the side, and disappeared through a small hole near the drainpipe.

“Aaaahhh!”

“What is it?” Cynthia asked.

“A mouse—under the sink.”

“Are you sure? Maybe it was a—”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, obviously if it was a mouse, that’s something the owner would take care of before settlement.”

Amy had to admire Cynthia’s ability to dismiss or pretty up any potential problem. Part of her wondered how Cynthia would address the decaying roof, but she realized it didn’t matter because she and Rob officially would not be buying this house.

“Shall we move on to the family room?” Cynthia continued.

Amy looked at Rob. He tugged at his earlobe, their agreed-upon signal that the house was a no go. “I don’t think so,” Amy said.

“Would you prefer to see the powder room first?”

“No, I mean we don’t need to see any more of the house. We aren’t interested.”

“Oh. But in your e-mail you said—”

“I know. I really did think this could be the one. I love the neighborhood. Just not this house.”

Cynthia stroked her chin. She had strong features and weathered skin but maintained a sophisticated look with cropped silver hair and bright red lipstick. “But you do love the neighborhood,” she said.

“Definitely. The swing sets, the vibe—I could see us living here. Just not . . . here.”

“Well, if you like the neighborhood . . .” She narrowed her eyes and scrunched up her lips, apparently in deep thought. “I probably shouldn’t even mention this, but there is a property a block or so away. It isn’t officially on the market yet, but it will be in a few days.”

Amy’s and Rob’s eyes met. “What’s it like?” Rob asked.

“Four bedrooms, two and half baths. Brick colonial. The kitchen was redone a few years ago. It’s a beautiful house. A young couple like you. A young child, too, I believe. I’m not exactly sure what the story is, but they contacted another person at our firm and seemed anxious to move quickly. I think the photographer was there earlier this morning.”

“But it’s not on the market,” Amy clarified.

“Not yet. But if I . . . Hang on.” Cynthia pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her contacts. She put the phone to her ear and waited while it rang. “Connie? Hi, it’s Cynthia. I’m calling about that house in Glenside Park, the last one on Sycamore. I know they haven’t listed it yet, but I have some buyers who might be interested. Do you think they’d mind if we . . . you’re sure? Because we’re at the place on Juniper now, so we could be there in a minute or so. Could you? That would be great. I can hold.”

Cynthia raised her eyebrows excitedly with the phone pressed to her ear. Amy couldn’t help but be excited, too, even if she knew better than to get her hopes up about any house, particularly one for which she’d never seen so much as a photograph. But she was so tired of combing through listings and living in limbo that she found it comforting to think that their dream house could be right around the corner.

“Yes?” Cynthia directed her attention back to her phone call. “Oh, wonderful. Wonderful! We will be there in just a minute. Thanks for your help—the next coffee is on me!”

Cynthia hung up and clapped her hands together. “Today, my friends, is your lucky day.”

Cynthia slowed the car as they approached a brick house with black shutters and a glossy black door.

“Is this it?” Amy asked, looking out the window.

“Yes, 120 Sycamore. What do you think?”

Amy sized up the property. From the outside, it was just the sort of house she’d imagined them buying when they initially decided to decamp to the Philadelphia suburbs: an old but well-maintained brick colonial that was brimming with character and warmth. There was a brick walkway extending from the front door to the street, surrounded by shrubs and flowers, and the front of the house was flanked by bright azalea bushes, in shocking shades of pink and purple. She didn’t want to get too excited before seeing the inside, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

“I like it,” she said, trying not to come on too strong for Cynthia. She looked at Rob, who nodded in approval.

They got out of the car and made their way to the front door. It suddenly occurred to Amy that they were about to barge in on a woman with a young child, having given her about two minutes’ notice. If someone did that to Amy, she would panic, and the house would most likely look like a war zone.

“Are you sure it’s okay for us to stop by like this? I feel bad not giving the owner much notice. If it were me—”

“It’s fine,” Cynthia said. “Like I said, the photographer was here this morning, so everything is clean and organized.”

Amy glanced at Rob. “How long do you think it would take for Noah to tear the house apart? Three minutes? Five?”

“Somewhere in that ballpark.”

“Well, then, you’ll understand if it isn’t pristine,” Cynthia said. “I’m sure it isn’t a problem. If they’re anxious to sell, they aren’t going to turn away a qualified buyer.”

She hurried ahead of them, rang the doorbell, and thumped the shiny brass knocker. Amy and Rob came up behind her just as a slim woman with long dark hair opened the door.

“You must be Cynthia,” the woman said. She extended her arm. “Grace Durant.”

Cynthia shook her hand. “Thank you so much for letting us in on such short notice. This is Amy and Rob Kravitz. I think your house might be just what they’re looking for.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” She smiled at Amy. “Come in. Have a look around. I was just putting in a load of laundry, but I promise I’ll stay out of your hair.”

“Please—we’re the ones in your hair,” Amy said as she walked through the front door. And what nice hair it is, she thought, as she compared Grace’s glossy chocolate locks to her own limp auburn ones. “We really appreciate you letting us in like this. We have a four-year-old. We know what it’s like.”

“Thankfully mine is at preschool,” she said.

“Well, we’re grateful anyway.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Grace closed the door behind them. Amy pretended to size up the foyer, but really she found herself eying Grace. Already, she could tell Grace had probably always been popular in school, the kind of person everyone wanted to be friends with but also envied. Amy had never been that person, nor had she managed to befriend anyone who was, at least not until college. Aside from the fact that Grace was gorgeous—exotic, even, with upturned narrow eyes, olive skin, and glittery hazel eyes—she had a relaxed, Bohemian vibe and exuded confidence and style. She wore the sorts of clothes whose origins Amy couldn’t immediately ascertain. Amy was hardly a clotheshorse, but she could generally tell if someone had bought her shirt at a place like J. Crew or Gap or another mainstream store. But Grace’s clothes—her linen pants, her dip-dyed tank, her brown leather sandals—looked expensive and rare, and Amy was certain she’d never encountered anyone wearing their likeness.

“I love your sandals,” Amy said before she could stop herself.

“Thanks.” Grace looked down and studied her foot. “My parents took us to Greece last summer, and I bought them super cheap.”

Sandals from Greece. She was even more worldly than Amy had assumed.

“Anyway, let’s have a look around, shall we?” Cynthia suggested.

Grace disappeared down the hallway, and Amy and Rob began looking around the first floor. Grace’s distinctive style extended to the décor. All of the furnishings were tasteful yet unique—a living room chair that hung from the ceiling like a swing, fabric patterns and materials that were at once lush and relaxed, a coffee table made of an antique wooden trolley. Amy knew she was buying the house and not the things in it, but Grace made the house look so effortlessly chic. And with a four-year-old! Amy’s vision of her family in this house suddenly became more fashionable as well, as if the house itself would confer her with impeccable taste. Maybe then she’d know for sure whether her skinny jeans were a fashion faux pas.

They wandered through the house, into the bright and airy renovated kitchen and upstairs to the cozy bedrooms. Amy stopped in the doorway to the bedroom that obviously belonged to Grace’s son. The letters E-T-H-A-N hung above his bed, surrounded by bright and sporty decals—soccer balls, basketballs, footballs. A tent shaped like a rocket ship sat in the corner, surrounded by toy rockets and cars and a light-up globe. Amy looked up and noticed glow-in-the-dark stars and planets affixed to his ceiling. Her heart swelled.

Noah would LOVE this, she thought. Again she knew the space paraphernalia wouldn’t come with the house, but Noah had been obsessed with the planets since he was three, which made visualizing him in this room a no-brainer. She noticed framed photos of Ethan with other kids (Friends? Cousins?), and a part of her clung to the idea that if they lived here, Noah would make friends that he could pose with in photos, too. Maybe he would have the social childhood he hadn’t so far and that she never did.

“What do you think?”

Rob had snuck up behind her and rested his hand on her shoulder.

“I like it,” she said. “It feels . . .”

“Like home?”

She turned around to face him. “Yeah, or at least as if it could.”

“I know.”

Amy peered over his shoulder. Neither Cynthia nor Grace was in site. “It’s kind of awkward with the owner here, isn’t it?”

“A little. She seems nice, though. Cool taste. Did you see the painting hanging in the family room?”

“The abstract sunset?”

“Yeah, pretty rad.”

Amy sniggered. “Rad? Since when do you call anything rad?”

“I don’t know. Since now? See, this house is making me hipper already.”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far. . . .”

Rob nudged her in the side. “So what do you think? Do you want to make an offer?”

Amy looked back into Ethan’s room. It felt so . . . right. She hadn’t had this feeling in the three months they’d been looking at houses. “I do. Do you?”

“Yeah, let’s talk to Cynthia.”

Rob headed downstairs, and Amy trailed behind but stopped when she reached a closed door she hadn’t noticed before. “I’m guessing this is a linen closet?”

She looked for Rob, but he was already downstairs trying to find Cynthia. Amy attempted to open the door, but it fit snugly against the frame and wouldn’t budge. She pulled harder, but the door remained shut, until—pop!—it swung open, catching her by surprise. A pile of sheets that had been stacked on the top shelf tumbled to the floor with a loud thump, followed by the crash of an orange prescription pill bottle hitting the hardwood floor. Amy was still scrambling to pick everything up when she heard a voice coming up the stairs.

“Sorry about the closet—it’s a mess,” Grace said.

Amy turned around. “It’s not—I was just—”

Her cheeks flushed as she stammered through a response. She felt as if she’d been snooping, which she supposed technically she had been, but then wasn’t that what looking at any house was, in effect? Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Grace had caught her doing something wrong.

She clumsily attempted to refold the sheets and slide them back on the shelf, then picked up the pill bottle and handed it to Grace. “Sorry, I’m not really sure where this went.”

Grace took the bottle and quickly glanced at it. Amy thought she noticed Grace’s expression harden, if only for a moment.

Amy flashed an embarrassed smile. “I was just looking for—”

“Ah, there you are!” Cynthia appeared right on cue. “Rob says you’d like to talk?”

Amy looked back at Grace, whose gaze had returned to the pills. “I’d like to see the backyard first,” Amy said. She didn’t want to discuss the potential for an offer in front of Grace, but mostly she wanted to get away from the linen closet. Something about it had laced the air with tension, and Amy wanted to diffuse the situation as quickly as possible.

“Of course,” Cynthia said. “I think you’ll absolutely adore it—let’s have a look.”

Amy followed Cynthia down the stairs, and as they walked down the hallway and toward the back door, Amy pretended she didn’t hear Grace slam the linen closet door shut, a little louder than she thought was necessary.

“The Durants want to discuss a settlement date.”

Cynthia’s voice boomed through Amy’s phone, which she held between her ear and her shoulder as she scooped a helping of macaroni and cheese into Noah’s bowl. They’d been back in DC for less than a day, and yet Amy felt as if she had lived a year in that amount of time. She and Rob had made an offer on 120 Sycamore the evening after they saw it, and by the next morning, the Durants had accepted. The house was going to cost them more than they’d wanted to spend, but they had crunched the numbers, and they could afford it.

“It’s perfect for you,” Cynthia had said when she was trying to convince them. “And perfect doesn’t come around every day.”

Amy gestured at Noah to put away his activity book. “Rob and I need to discuss our timeline.”

“They’d like to settle as quickly as possible,” Cynthia said. “It’s mid-May now, so what about Memorial Day?”

“I was thinking more like July.”

Cynthia took a deep breath. “I’ll ask. But between you and me, I don’t think that will fly. I’m not sure what the story is, but Connie tells me they want to close within the next few weeks.”

“We haven’t even done our inspections, and our bank still needs to send out an appraiser.”

“Yes, but those things take days, not weeks.”

“Unless we find out the house is infested with termites.”

“Well, obviously, but I don’t think you’ll run into any problems there.”

“Mommy?”

Amy gestured at Noah to eat his macaroni. “Let’s hope not.”

“Mommy, what are termites?”

Amy covered the receiver. “Bugs.”

“What kind of bugs?”

“They eat wood.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what they like.”

“So what do you want me to tell them?” Cynthia asked. “July first?”

“Can I get back to you? I need to talk to Rob.”

“Our new house has bugs that eat wood?”

Amy shook her head and covered the receiver again. “No. At least we hope not. Eat your dinner.”

“If they eat wood, then what if they eat my bed?”

“They’re not going to eat your bed.”

“It’s wood.”

“I know, but—”

“And you said they like to eat wood.”

“Yes, but—”

Noah began to tear up. “I don’t want them to eat my bed! I don’t want this house!”

“They aren’t going to eat your bed! Eat your dinner!” Amy realized she was yelling.

“Is this a bad time?” Cynthia asked.

“No, it’s fine.”

In truth, it wasn’t a great time, but these days, it was no worse than any other. If it wasn’t dinnertime it would be time to pick Noah up from the preschool he attended three days a week, or she’d be working on a freelance project, or she’d be lugging four too-heavy bags of groceries into the elevator to their apartment. One of the first houses Cynthia had shown them had a hammock hanging between two old oak trees. Amy tried to envision herself lounging in it while reading a book, but she couldn’t because even in a fantasy she had trouble imagining that kind of downtime. It would come, or so people told her, but some days she had trouble believing them. How on Earth had her mother done it with two? And on her own, working a full-time job? As she got older, Amy began to understand why her mom had been gruff and unsentimental. Who had time for sentimentality when you barely had enough time to shower?

“So you’ll talk to Rob and let me know,” Cynthia said.

“Yes,” Amy said. “Tonight.”

“Good. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

Amy hung up and looked at Noah, who sat sullenly in front of his bowl of macaroni. Amy tried to conceal her irritation. She loved her son more than she thought it was possible to love anything, but he had a tendency to get weepy over the most trivial things, and tonight she wasn’t in the mood.

“Noah, sweetie, what’s wrong?”

His lip began to quiver. “You yelled at me.”

“Because you interrupted me when I was on the phone. We’ve talked about that.”

“But you said the house might have bugs.”

“No, I was just trying to negotiate with our realtor.”

“What’s negotiate?”

Amy took a deep breath. She loved Noah’s innate curiosity, but on nights like tonight she wished he’d show no interest in language or semantics and just eat his mac and cheese. “When you talk back and forth with somebody until you come to an agreement.”

“Like when I ask for another story and you say no, but I ask again and then you say okay?”

Amy smiled in spite of herself. “Yes, kind of like that.”

He poked at a piece of macaroni. “Will our new house have the same stories?”

“Sweetie, of course.” Amy sat down next to him and rubbed his shoulder. “Everything is coming with us—everything in this whole apartment.”

“Even my markers?”

“Even your markers.”

“And my pillow?”

“That too.” She pulled him in for a hug. “And you know who else is coming?”

“Daddy?”

“Well, of course Daddy is coming. But, did you know . . . the tickle monster is coming, too?”

She wiggled her fingers under his armpits as Noah giggled wildly. He had the most wonderful laugh—a full belly laugh that seemed to fill the room with joy. It was like a drug. No matter how many times she heard him laugh, the effect never dulled.

Amy stopped tickling him and kissed him on the head. “Now eat your dinner.”

“But first let me tell you something.”

“No, first eat your dinner.”

“But, Mommy, I’m trying to negotiate.”

Amy laughed and rolled her eyes. In moments like this, she never knew whether to be proud of him for mastering a concept, or exasperated because her precocious son was utterly exhausting. “Let’s leave the negotiating to the adults for now, okay?”

“But, Mommy.”

“Noah?”

“Okay, fine.” He shoveled a forkful of mac and cheese in his mouth. “I just want to say—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He swallowed. “I just want to say I’m excited for our new house. But a little bit scared, too.”

Amy wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight. “I know, sweetie. But it’s going to be great. I promise.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay.” He wiggled from her arms and scooped up another helping of his dinner. Amy watched as he proceeded to scarf down the rest of the meal, his worries over the new house seemingly gone. She always marveled at the way kids could generally move on from an emotional state so quickly. One second they were worried or angry or sad or elated, and the next they would flip to another emotion, like taking off one T-shirt and putting on another. She wished she had that ability, especially now, because the truth was, for all of the assurances she gave Noah about their move, she was a little scared, too.

The Kravitzes and Durants came to a compromise: They would settle the second week of June. When the day came, they sat across from each other at a long conference table as a woman from the title company shuffled and copied papers they all needed to sign.

“All right,” she said. “First, here is the settlement sheet for you to look over.”

Everyone smiled politely at each other. It was all a little awkward. After today, they’d probably never see the Durants again, yet for the next hour or so, Amy and Rob would be sitting directly across from Grace and her husband, Julian, forced into an unnatural intimacy.

“So you guys are moving from DC?” Ju. . .