Spotlight & Giveaway: Welcome to the Neighborhood by Lisa Roe

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Lisa Roe’s new release: Welcome to the Neighborhood

A heartwarming and life-affirming story of family dynamics, mother/daughter relationships, and second chances

 
After years of struggling to make ends meet, Ginny, a single mom from Queens, falls for a hard-working and loving man, and relishes the idea of moving with her quirky eleven-year-old daughter Harri to his home in an upscale New Jersey suburb. Though she’s never been impressed by material things, she is thrilled that getting a second chance at love comes with the added bonus of finally giving Harri everything she never could before.
 
And then she meets the neighbors.
 
Ginny is quickly thrust into the complicated realities of a neighborhood defined by the ever-shifting alliances of PTA moms, Real Housewife contenders, and their mean-girl daughters. When the neighbors’ secrets, back-stabbing, and bad behavior take a devastating toll on her daughter and new marriage, Ginny must decide what really matters—and protect it at all costs.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Welcome to the Neighborhood 

When Harri agreed to the marriage proposal I’d accepted the night before, there was no question we’d move out of the apartment in Queens. I couldn’t pack my bags fast enough. But when Jeff asked me to consider moving into his house, I was surprised. I’d assumed he wanted a fresh start, just like I did. Then I found out why he wanted to stay.
“There’s almost no equity,” he’d said, his head low, his face reddening. “And with the balloon payment and then the second mortgage to renovate the kitchen.”
“You are speaking a foreign language.” I laughed, not understanding the seriousness of his admission.
“It means I can’t sell the house without losing everything. I’m so sorry, Ginny. This is a shitty thing to pull on you. But, hey,” he said, brightening a little, “the school system is top notch and the street is filled with kids. And you know, New Jersey Magazine named us one of ‘America’s Top 25 Towns to Raise a Family.’ Can’t beat that, right? Harri would blossom here, Gin. And I’ll make it up to you. Both of you. As soon as I can.”
It didn’t take me a minute to make up my mind. We were sitting on his barge of a couch and I scooted over so my thigh pressed against his.
“I’d live anywhere with you. Here, Queens, Timbuktu. As long as we’re together, the three of us.”
He leaned back to look at me and raised his eyebrows. “Have I told you how amazing you are?”
“Maybe. But you can say it again if you want.”
“It’ll be great. I promise you. And you can redecorate—change it all. Only maybe let’s hold off until we see what my bonus looks like this spring.”
“Jeff, I don’t care about any of that, really. Besides, look at it from my point of view. I don’t think you realize what a gift you are giving us. A beautiful house on a street where Harri can play outside and instantly make friends and go to a great school? I could sell a million dog paintings and never be able to give that all to her. I hadn’t thought about it before, but this is the perfect solution.”
“So, you don’t care about—”
“I love you. I don’t care about any of this stuff,” I said sweeping my arms around the room like Vanna White. “Oh, except that elephant statue. That’s gotta go.”
* * *
Against the wall of the garage is a set of stairs. Jeff and my box take them two at a time.
“This used to be what they called a Granny Flat,” he’s saying. “Or maybe it’s a Nanny Flat. I can’t remember. We used it for storage all these years.”
I continue to follow him, each step feeling more leaden as I climb, optimism leaching out of me. At the top of the stairs, I am expecting boxes and trunks, old suitcases, and years of dust.
But the room is empty. The floor is new. The walls freshly painted a soft tan. Sunlight pours into the room, throwing long windowpane shadows onto the floor.
“What is this?”
Jeff puts the box on the floor and shoves his hands in his jean pockets. A lock of hair falls over one eye, making him seem young despite his ten years on me.
“It’s your studio,” he says. “What do you think? I got rid of all the junk, laid down a new floor, threw on a coat of paint. I went with beige. I thought it was the most neutral, but I can repaint it if you want something else. Maybe something brighter? Is brighter more inspiring?”
I circle the space. Jeff watches me, smiling in a charming, hesitant way, as if he is not sure I approve. I am stunned.
“No one has ever—”
“I am going to build you shelves. But I didn’t know where you wanted them.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, running my hand across a freshly painted white windowsill.
“Well, if you’re going to be the region’s premier pet portrait painter, you’ve got to have the right work space.”
Painting dogs and cats in a style I call folk art inspirational—think slightly stylized pets with flower wreaths on their heads or angel wings or quirky bow ties— was never going to pay the rent. But now, with this amazing man and this incredible space, who knows.
“I have no words.”
“Just say that when Harri goes to school in a few weeks, you’ll spend all your time up here.”
“Well, I know we talked about this,” I say. “But I’ll have to get a job at some point.”
I was happy to hand in my notice at my day job. Commuting to Astoria from New Jersey was a non-starter. And JMR Properties could easily find another disenchanted bookkeeper.
“Of course, if that’s what you want. But I still think you should take your time, Gin. Get acclimated. Help Harri settle in. Like I’ve said before, no rush.”
I take in this little room above the garage. My mind leaps and dances towards the projects that have until now lived in notebooks, and on scrap paper and the backs of envelopes.
“I honestly don’t know—”
“It’s nothing really. If I had to bribe Harri to move out to boring old Jersey with a chicken, I figured I had to up my game a little with you. I want to you to think it was worth it.”
I weave my arms through his and wrap them around him. He smells like coffee and laundry detergent. I reach up on my toes and give him a long kiss.
“Neither one of us needed any bribing. We would have moved here if we had to sleep in our car to do it. But thank you. I love you. This is amazing. I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be like, spending my days in this beautiful room. Wait, did I tell you I love you?”
When I first started painting, I had to wait until after work, sometimes until after I got Harri off to bed before I could set up my canvas. I’d sit at the kitchen table with a terrible overhead light and a cheap set of watercolors. At first, I did it to prove to myself there was something left of me, that my whole existence wasn’t just raising my daughter on my own and keeping our heads above water.
God, I was terrible at it.
Still, I loved moving the brush across the paper, blending the colors, creating the world how I wanted to see it.
I turn away from Jeff and lean against his sturdy frame. I can see Harri out the window, playing with Mrs. Clucklesworth. She is following the bird as it pecks for insects in the perfectly manicured lawn.
“Ginny, I just want you to be happy here.”
I spin around and reach up on my toes until my lips are touching Jeff’s ear.
“Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I say slowly.
“Hello-o!”
The voice and the perfume race up the stairs before their owner.
“Jeffrey? Are you up here? It’s Margot.”
Jeff and I step away from each other. The moment that could have been is gone.
“Up here, Margot.”
“It’s Margot Moss-Marks,” he whispers to me. “My ex used to say she ran the street. Queen bee type. Are you ready for this?”
“Of course,” I say, pulling out my messy ponytail and running a hand through my hair.
Before I moved in, Jeff tried to apologize about the women who lived on Elderberry Lane.
“They were Stacey’s friends,” he had said and raised one eyebrow as if I should know what that meant.
“Don’t worry about me.” I laughed. “I get along with everybody! And besides, we’re all mothers. It’s like men and sports. We start talking kids we automatically have everything in common. We’ll all be fast friends.”
But now one of my new fast friends is coming up the stairs and I’m losing a bit of my “it takes a village” confidence. What if it’s not like sports at all? I wish I had a chance to change out of my sweatpants or grab a breath mint or, at the very least, slip a rose quartz confidence crystal in my pocket.
“What on earth are you doing up here?” asks the top of a blond head just before it clears the stairs and is level with the studio floor. “Oh, what is all this?”
When she appears in full, wearing a perfect ponytail and yoga gear that shows off every tanned and tight muscle of her body, I have to bite my cheek to prevent my jaw from dropping. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to someone so perfect. No stray hair, or uneven skin tone, or any of the little bumps and tiny bulges that populate the bodies of us mere mortals. No, Margot Moss-Marks is a finely curated exhibit.
Behind her is her carbon copy. A tall, lanky teenager, still soft in all the places Margot is hard, wearing shorts so tiny they might be confused for underpants, a crop top exposing a bulging outie, and a bored-already expression.
Margot is holding a small shopping bag exploding with gold tissue paper. Her beautifully made-up eyes scan the empty room and stop on me. She gives me a quick vertical glance, head to toe, before landing back on my face.
“Margot, this is Ginny.”
“Don’t be silly,” Margot says. “We know who this is. It’s so lovely to finally meet you. We’ve all been eagerly anticipating your arrival! We’re a girl short on this street, you know.”
She looks over at Jeff and winks as if he is responsible for upsetting the gender balance in the neighborhood. Jeff’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t offer evidence to the contrary.
“Jeff has talked about you nonstop. I feel like I know everything I need to know about you!”
She leans in and gives me a stiff hug. The gift bag in her hand hits me in the back. There is something heavy and solid in there. Finally, she pulls away and hands me the bag.
“This is for you. Just a little moving in gift.”
I take the bag, and I look at the girl standing behind Margot’s shoulder.
“Thank you, guys. This is so thoughtful. I’m Ginny, by the way,” I say to the teenager who has not been introduced.
Before she can respond Margot steps forward.
“And, this is my daughter, Madison,” she says as if she’s introducing the guest of honor.
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Madison. I’m going to be in the market for a babysitter soon, how convenient for me that you live right across the street.”
Madison’s kohl-lined eyes widen and her raspberry-glossed mouth forms a perfect O. Margot lets out a lilting laugh.
“Babysitting? Madison is only eleven!”
I cock my head like a dog who doesn’t understand.
“I know, I know,” says Margot. “It’s the height. She gets it from her father. It’s an issue, really, for her acting career. This gargantuan height might be fine for modeling and even manageable for film—you know, bring out a box for the male lead—like they used to do with Tom Cruise. But you can’t get away with that on the stage. And Madison is Broadway bound, you see. If fact she’s just back from theater camp in the Berkshires, aren’t you darling?”
Madison shrugs and makes no apology for her career-limiting stature.
Margot moves on. “Open your gift!” she sings.
I open the bag and pull out a heavy white candle in a thick glass.
“It’s Diptyque,” she says. “My absolute favorite. Bulgarian Rose and Black Current. I have this one in my downstairs powder room. But, of course, it’s lovely in a dressing room.”
I recognize the label of a candle so expensive that it was awarded its own window display at the posh apothecary I occasionally walk past on Madison Avenue. I smell the fruity wax and place it on the windowsill.
“You won’t want to leave it out here in the garage,” she says.
“I won’t,” I answer.
“Where will you put it? Not your kitchen. Somewhere where it can be the dominant fragrance.”
“Um, my bathroom, I guess?” I am confused by the interrogation over the candle that is now allegedly mine to do with what I please.
“Yes. Good. Fine.”
I steal a glance at Jeff who lifts a brow in an I-warned-you kind of way.
“It’s lovely, Margot. Thank you.”
Margot flaps her wrist, dismissing me.
“It’s nothing. Oh dear, we have so much to catch you up on. You missed your chance for Class Mom, but I’m sure we could get you on the list for party donations, and field trip chaperone, and PTA meeting hostess. After morning drop-off, we do a group walk, unless we have tennis—you play, don’t you? Oh, and you’re here just in time for the fall fundraiser, and you need to know where we shop, and…”
She reaches up with her perfectly manicured hand and pulls gently at a strand of my hair. “…of course, you’ll be wanting a new hairdresser. You don’t want your husband seeing those grays.”
She laughs and looks over at Jeff in a conspiratorial way. “Am I right?” she asks him. Jeff, to his credit, remains mute on the subject. I’m a second away from telling her I’m all set in the hair dressing department, thank you very much, that a trim every six months and henna rinse from a woman in Williamsburg, who also creates the most amazing henna tattoos, does the trick, when I hear Harri at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mom!” she shouts.
“And now that Ginny is here, I hope we’ll be seeing more of you, Jeff,” Margot says, undeterred by the calls of a child. “I think you’ve been avoiding us.”
Jeff looks like he’s been caught. “No, not at all, Margot.”
“Mom!” Harri’s voice echoes up the stairwell.
“Which leads me to my very reason for being here. I’m throwing a little dinner party. To introduce you to everyone. Very casual, of course. This Saturday night.”
“Mom!”
“Don’t bring anything,” Margot commands.
“Mom, guess what?” Finally, Harri gets to the top step. She has the chicken in her arms. Mrs. Clucklesworth’s head is making staccato back and forth movements, her little eyes wide. I am not versed in chicken body language. But I’ll tell you this. It doesn’t look happy.
Harri takes in her new audience and stops at Madison. She has the same look on her face I saw last summer when her favorite Nickelodeon star walked past our booth at the Brooklyn Crafts Fair.
“I like your lipstick,” she says breathlessly.
Madison flips her hair over one shoulder, but doesn’t say anything. Harri looks at me for help but I can only send her a telepathic don’t-ask-me message. I’ve already got this girl very wrong. A second later my daughter is back on Planet Harri.
“Mom, I taught Mrs. Clucklesworth a trick! Look!”
She takes a step forward, eager to show off her prized bird, but before any performance can proceed, she trips on an untied shoelace. Her knees thunk when they hit the floor. Her arms splay out in front of her, and she drops the chicken. It flaps and cackles as tiny feathers dance with the dust motes in front of the sunny window.
In unison, Jeff, Margot, Madison and I duck and cross our forearms in front of our faces. MargotMrs. Clucklesworth, mistaking Margot for an escape hatch, flies up at her and collides with her raised arms before bouncing off and landing on the floor. The chicken skitters and squawks across the room, more tiny feathers scattering in its wake. MargotHarri runs after her, her sneakers squeaking on the new wood. She tries to corral the animal who is done being manhandled for the day.
I see the three long scratches on Margot’s arm before she does. Tiny droplets of blood begin to ooze from the wounds. MargotMadison, both hands over her mouth, steps away from her mother as if she now has chicken cooties. MargotMargot examines her arm as I hold my breath. Her face flashes anger but she instantly regains control. She starts to speak but I jump in first.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry!” is all I can say.
Welcome to the neighborhood, is all I can think.

Excerpt. ©Lisa Roe. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 

Giveaway: Paperback copy of Welcome to the Neighborhood by Lisa Roe

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Meet the Author:

After graduating from the Newhouse School of Communications at Syracuse University and spending many years as an advertising creative director and copywriter in New York City, Lisa Roe accepted the tougher job of stay-at-home mom and turned to writing fiction. A classic firstborn, a reluctant empty nester, and a Dr. Doolittle wannabe, she lives with her husband and three incorrigible dogs in New Jersey.

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