Goddess of Suburbia Read online

  GODDESS OF SUBURBIA

  STEPHANIE KEPKE

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2015

  COPYRIGHT 2015 STEPHANIE KEPKE

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Greg Simanson

  Edited by J.C.Wing

  Proofread by Lynne Cannon Menges

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  So Ordinary lyrics by Ryan Star, Used With Permission - Copyright Ryan Star Kulchinsky BMI 2005

  PRINT ISBN: 978-1-5137-0229-2

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-5137-0271-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015912863

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Quote

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Two

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Delicious Bonus Content

  More Great Reads from Booktrope

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Booktrope for taking a chance on this book about a regular mom whom readers can relate to—I’m forever grateful. And thank you to my amazing Booktrope team: Kellie Sheridan for joining me on this journey and helping to get Goddess of Suburbia out into the world; J.C. Wing for being a fabulous editor; Greg Simanson for my gorgeous cover—you perfectly turned my vision into reality; and Lynne Cannon Menges for your eagle eye proofreading. Thank you to Tracy Gorman of Clix Huntington for the fantastic back cover author photo and for reading, of course.

  Thank you to Ryan Star for allowing me to use your lyrics to open this book. They so perfectly capture Max’s journey. I heard your music for the first time while working on revisions for this story and it always inspires me.

  Thank you to my mother, Beverly Kepke, for believing in me, encouraging me and for the fabulous and very special family recipes that appear at the end of this book for apple cake and rugelach, and to my siblings, Jodi Schinz, David Kepke, and Shari Morris.

  Thank you to Jill McCorkle for being an amazing writing teacher—your imparted wisdom has stayed with me, even decades later, and still influences my writing. Thank you to Scott Syat for always reading my work and supporting me, for your expert legal advice and for your very particular critiquing skill set. Thank you to Shari Goldberg for being one of the first readers of Goddess of Suburbia (if not the first) and for insisting it will make me famous. Thank you to John Giannone for always believing in this book and for reading it more times than anyone else has. Your advice is always spot-on. Thank you to Debra Druzy for reading, critiquing and helping me sharpen my synopsis and pitch. Thank you to Cheryl Popiel, Melissa Levine, and Jeannie Feldman for reading and always being my cheerleaders. Thank you to Seth Agatstein, Meredith Berke, Stacey Thorner and Debby Syat for reading—and being supportive and encouraging for decades. Thank you to Barri Feurer, Steve Osterweil, and Judy Karul for not only reading once, but reading rewritten scenes and giving me stellar feedback. Thank you to Aliza Greenberg, Brian Ronan, Joy Weiser, Liz Danziger, Vivian Chen, Donna Sansaricq, Jill Pfeiffer, Deb Ellis, Tina Skowronek, Shari Kubrick, Eileen Small, and Teena P. for being early readers and for the words of encouragement. Thank you to the Long Island Romance Writers, not only for the critique sessions, but also for the connections that paved the way for my dream to become a reality. There are so many people who have read this book and/or encouraged me through this winding journey. Thank you to Danielle Wardley, Nina Gilbert, Laurie Satcowitz, Melissa Kupferschmid, Chrissy Boninti, Amy Goldsheid-Martin, Nancy Merriman, Beth Meyer, Phyllis Flatt, Theresa Eagle, Julie Ann Wallach-Golombek, Kathy Barstow, Ellen Sherin, Jamie Paul, Lisa Hindi, Lori Frucht, Jodi Brett Clarin LaManna, Sherman Levy, Barbara Mars, Claudia Patricia, Amy Wynne and Carolyn Menke. Thank you to all of the fans on my Facebook author page. Thank you to a reader on my Mitzvah Market blog, Renee, who shared the story of a bubble that floated through her apartment after her father passed away. And thank you to everyone who has supported me along the way—I’m sure I’ve missed someone.

  For my family, Jeff, Drew, Joshua, and Aidan

  In Memory of

  My father, Mervyn Kepke

  He was always proud of my writing accomplishments.

  Stop trying to be so ordinary,

  Be strong and be brave, and begin your story.

  ~ So Ordinary

  By Ryan Star

  Part One

  Prologue

  THE PAPARAZZI START trailing me the moment I pull out of my driveway at 532 Rockwell Circle. My street sounds fancier than it is—mostly ranches and capes dot the landscape of postage stamp size lots. It’s a slice of blue collar nestled in this mostly upper-middle class Long Island town. My neighbors have never seen a line of paparazzi follow anyone, and they certainly have never seen the paparazzi follow a worn out mom dragging her cranky son to ShopRite for eggs and milk. One of my neighbors glances up from watering her mums and stares at the spectacle, jaw slack, until small muddy puddles form at her feet.

  It is an achingly beautiful October day. It’s the kind of day that reminds me why autumn is my favorite season—blue skies and no humidity. There’s the tiniest bite of a chill in the air, mild enough though that the sweatshirt jackets necessary this morning will be stuffed in backpacks by this afternoon. I would love to take a detour, take my four year old son, Sam, to the playground. I would love to catch him at the bottom of the slide, give him a push on the swings while he pretends to be on a spaceship, valiantly pumping his little legs. Only I can’t. I constantly glance in my rearview mirror. Are they still there? Where will these pictures end up? How much more can my family take? Like the silver spheres of a pinball machine, these thoughts bounce around my brain.

  In the parking lot I shield Sam from the cameras exploding like flashes of lightning around us as we try to make our way into ShopRite. He is gripping a handful of my shirt in each fist, his face pressed into my stomach. His voice is muffled as he wails, “Why are all these people around us, Mommy? Why are they keeping us from going in the store?”

  I’m breaking out in a sweat, panicking that I might not actually be able to get food for my children. My heart is hammering in my chest and I’m beginning to feel a bit speckly as I beg the faces behind those massive lenses, “Please, back away. You’re scaring my son. We just need to get food.” One photographer steps back a few feet, letting us by. Maybe he’s a parent, maybe he just feels bad for me. Maybe, he’s realized I’m not that interesting.

  So, how in the world did I, a bedraggled suburban mom of four just trying to get through housework, carpool, homework and errands end up fodder for the tabloids? How did I end up with a sex tape of me whipping its way around cyber
space? I’m no Kim Kardashian. Let’s get that straight. I’m one of those people sometimes referred to as a “pillar of the community.” You know, I’m the mom in the PTA you can count on to run the book drive for needy kids and then lug all the books to the community center three towns over. I’m the one you can call at 8:30 Monday night with a Tuesday morning cupcake emergency. I’ll stay up until midnight swirling icing and sprinkling sparkly sugar just so—a nod to my pre-child life as a pastry chef.

  Last year I chaired six East Hollow Elementary School PTA committees. That didn’t even include the Hebrew school Mitzvah Fair I organized. This year I’m chairing six again. So, yes, I am a good person with morals almost to a fault. My own mother used to tell me that I was too good before she passed away. “You’re always bending over backwards to please people, Maxie,” she tsk tsked every time I put my own needs aside, which I’ve done pretty much my whole life.

  I’m not what you would call sexy, either. Maybe I was circa 1988 with my big, wild, caramel curls and tight acid wash jeans. Now my uniform consists of a velour tracksuit—Target, not Juicy—and my hair up in a ponytail. It’s not even a chic, glossy ponytail—it looks more like a rabbit’s tail, puffy with bits of frizzy fluff framing my cheeks. If my bangs weren’t side swept, they’d be grazing my nose, because it’s been so long since I’ve had a haircut. It’s the only spot I bother to beat into submission with a flat iron, and every time I do it I swear I’m going to make a salon appointment that day. Oh, and that lustrous caramel—my favorite thing about myself—it is gone. It’s been replaced by Garnier Dark Natural Blonde, #80, bought whenever it’s on sale at Walgreens or CVS. The day I noticed my honeyed locks growing in gray was a sad one.

  After I finally make my way into the store, I turn from the end cap of Cheerios to see my face staring back at me from the cover of Us magazine. The lovely sunny yellow letters below it proclaim me to be the Suburban Sex Goddess. I squeeze the box of Multi Grain Cheerios in my hand until it has fine wrinkles lacing the top. Sam whines, “I want the Fruity ones too!”

  “Ask me in your nice voice,” I chide, glad to be snapped out of my reverie by my usual task—instilling manners in an instant-gratification-obsessed I-want-it-now child.

  “Mommy, please may I have the Fruity ones?”

  “Yes, you may,” I answer, hoping no one notices me giving in to sugar and artificial colors, which may be as bad in this town as my face plastered across Us with a tawdry headline. I can just hear the whispers; She’s embroiled in this Internet sex mess—and she feeds her kids sugar in the morning. She’s not what I thought she was.

  So, how did I end up the Suburban Sex Goddess with my naked, pumping butt plastered all over the Internet? I honestly have no clue. Well, let me rephrase that—I know how, I just don’t know why. All I know is that every time I think about that video, I wish I had taken the Pilates class at the gym next to Sam’s preschool. Why my not so spectacular rear end would wind up one of the most viewed videos on the Internet, causing a blogstorm and even being tweeted about, mystifies me.

  I truly cannot understand why anyone would want to watch me have sex, talk about me having sex or even blog about it. According to Oprah though, it’s because I am everywoman. I am every mom who is too tired, too run down to do anything for herself—yet there I am in all my imperfect glory—gray roots showing, cottage cheesy butt pumping. I am lost in the moment, reveling in my womanhood and therefore, I am a new icon. At least according to Oprah.

  Chapter One

  IT ALL STARTED with a request—one little request—and my desperation to please, my desperation to make sure my husband, Nick, never strayed. But, it became something bigger than either of us could have anticipated and instead of saving our marriage, it destroyed it. Though, I suppose it was on that path already—this just hastened the final blow.

  Still, I trusted Nick. I really did. I trusted him as much as I ever trusted anyone. Actually, I trusted him more, but he’s the proverbial traveling salesman. He’s away at least one week out of every month and often more, giving him plenty of opportunity to have an affair—or at least a fling. Even worse, his job hawking restaurant supplies brings him into contact with all those svelte, little fashionistas manning the helm of swanky restaurants. Somewhere in the back of my mind was this tiny fear that one of them, young and beautiful, would catch his eye. I’ve always had this very slight unease in my relationships, this nagging waiting for the other shoe to fall feeling.

  My senior year in high school my boyfriend cheated on me with Angela, a vicious wisp of a girl with black slashes of eyeliner and garnet lips, her halo of buttery blond curls in stark contrast. She’d trip kids on crutches, laughing as they splayed out on the floor, and tormented anyone showing even an ounce of flab in the locker room. For all I know, she punched puppies too. She thought nothing of stealing someone’s boyfriend—to her that was even better than finding her own.

  So, it didn’t mean a thing to her that Jason and I dated for almost a year. She could give him what I wouldn’t, and that was all the ammunition she needed. I had let Jason get to third base, but I was a virgin and terrified that if we had sex, I’d get pregnant, my parents would find out, it would hurt, Jason wouldn’t love me anymore, or I would suffer some unknown punishment for my wanton behavior— not necessarily in that order.

  I finally decided right before our one year anniversary that I loved Jason and wanted to lose my virginity to him. I planned it all out and it was perfect. I knew his parents were away for the weekend and I showed up at his house in my new blush lace bra under a pale pink, deep V-neck sweater, a condom tucked into the pocket of my favorite faded Levi’s. My health teacher had handed out the condoms the week before and I hid it from my parents, sticking it in a small pocket inside my backpack.

  I even bought Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers at the little liquor store that never checked IDs. The six pack was tucked under my arm as I climbed the steps to his massive oak door. I rang the bell, but there was no answer. I tried the door handle and it opened, so I walked in. There to the left of me on the couch in the formal living room was Angela straddling Jason. They were both naked and the plastic under them made a creaking noise as Jason jumped up, almost knocking Angela to the floor. As he did, a crystal tumbler flew off the coffee table, shattering in what seemed a million glittering shards. Another tumbler with a mere trace of amber liquid—scotch I assumed—sat next to the empty spot. All I remembered thinking as I ran out of that house was that I hoped they cut their bare feet on the shards of crystal. In my poetic teenage mind, those sparkling fragments represented my broken heart.

  The next day Angela said, “Well, maybe if you’d done it sooner, he wouldn’t have cheated. He got more from me in two weeks than he did from you in a year. I mean, who waits a year to do it?” As I walked away biting my lip and blinking back hot tears I wished that I had smacked her. I never spoke to Jason again. I never asked him for an explanation—I didn’t want to hear it. I’ve worried about an Angela showing up in every relationship I’ve had since then—someone who can give my boyfriend or husband exactly what he wants. I know that might seem a little crazy. Jason was so long ago, but who can really explain what gets stuck in one’s head from our youth? We all carry something with us into adulthood—whether we realize it or not—some tiny, or not so tiny, scar that shapes the way we behave in relationships. This is my thing.

  The final nail in my anxiety coffin—putting on the charm is Nick’s job. It’s part of why he’s so successful. It worked on me. I was a pastry chef at one of those swanky restaurants when our glossy-haired hostess brought Nick back into my kitchen. Our eyes met over the loveliest tinplate madeleine mold he was showcasing and I was gone. He had the longest lashes I had ever seen on a man, black fringes that framed gorgeous azure pools. He didn’t even have to tell me that his mold would turn out the most delicate madeleines, and he didn’t have to sell me on the twenty-nine piece pastry tube set I ordered, either. Ditto for the six-piece pastry cutter set
and the tinplate brioche mold. I would have ordered his whole damn lot if I didn’t have the restaurant’s owner to answer to.

  When he delivered my order, there was a rolled-up note tucked into the largest pastry tube. It was written in neat script on cream paper with deckled edges. I bit my lip and tucked my hair behind my ear before daring to look down. It simply said, “I’m sweet on you.” A grin spread across my face. So corny, it was cute. Plus, I was always a sucker for good penmanship. My mother always told me, “Look for a man with good penmanship. It means he cares about the details and will take the time to do things right, instead of just rushing through them.” It had been so long since I’d met someone I was excited about.

  If I had really thought about it, I would have realized that good penmanship is a pretty flimsy reason to fall for someone. But it wasn’t just that penmanship and those blue, blue eyes. Nick swept me away on whirlwind dates. We had great sex—really great sex. He asked me once if I married him for the sex and I had to admit, “Well, yes, actually I kind of did.” But, I reasoned, his generosity in bed reflected on him as a person, so it wasn’t that shallow.

  A marriage based on sex—a house of cards if there ever was one, but it worked for us. There was more; of course there was more. His smile. His gifts—the first one, a white men’s shirt, sleeves rolled up and a bottle of my favorite perfume. “This is all you ever need to wear when you’re with me,” he whispered. It was an amazing departure from the lacy teddies, the breath-sucking corsets, the way too short negligees my last boyfriend, (a controlling banker who lasted a mere five months) had bestowed upon me.

  Nick thought I was sexy in a more cerebral way than most of my exes. He laughed at my jokes. He asked my opinion on books and movies. He never once told me, “Just show up and look hot” (as that banker did). Nick reminded me of my ex, Ben. Ben and I would spend hours talking, just talking, about everything under the sun—music, books, politics, food. We’d sit cross-legged on my bed, knees touching, entranced with each other’s voice. But at twenty-two, relationships implode with the slightest spark. I spent years trying to duplicate that connection, and finally I thought I had found it. Nick and I might not have spent hours talking like I had with Ben, but we were grown-ups. Who spent hours talking as grown-ups? We had amazing sex, but he didn’t treat me like a sex object like the other men I dated after Ben had. How could I not love Nick?