Window Dressing

Lauren Campbell thought she knew where she was going. After dropping her son off at college, she'd have four years to live out her dreams and plan the future. But she'd been so living in denial, spending her days baking cookies, cleaning the house and going to PTA meetings, that she missed the fine print on her divorce. Now she's about to go from empty nest to no nest because her ex's support has ended!

From dressing as a milkmaid at the local grocery to working on window displays, Lauren struggles to make lemonade out of lemons. But a strange thing happens along the way. This "temporary" life starts looking more appealing than the life she's built in her fantasies....

"Welcome to weirdness," Moira Rice said as she rode shotgun in my aging Chevy.

"Put on your glasses, Moira. That sign said Welcome To Indiana."

Moira shrugged her shoulders. She was the only woman I knew who could make a shrug look sexy. It didn't hurt that she was wearing a turquoise off-the-shoulder sweater and that her long, wavy chestnut hair was pinned loosely on the top of her head.

"Same thing," she said. "I mean, Lauren, just look —" she jutted her chin toward a steak and waffle house we were passing,

" — they don't even have normal fast food down here. And every other car on the road is a pickup truck. And, have you noticed, they all have gun racks? And every driver is wearing a cap extolling the virtues of farm equipment or beer. Even the women. Like I said, welcome to weirdness."

I craned my neck so that I could see the backseat in the rear view mirror. "I'm sure Indiana has no more weirdness than any other state and I'd prefer you didn't make comments like that in front of Gordy," I said primly.

Moira arched her brow and gave me a sideways look. "Gordy isn't hearing anything but whatever passes for music these days via that wire attached to his ear."

It was true. My eighteen-year-old son, Gordy, his head leaning back on the headrest, his eyes peacefully closed, had been hooked up to his iPod since we'd taken I-94 out of Milwaukee just after dawn. He'd only unplugged long enough to order when we'd pulled into a drive-through south of Chicago.

"I just want him to be happy with his choices, that's all," I said defensively.

Gordy was going to be living in Bloomington, Indiana, for the next four years while he majored in finance at Indiana University. Like the slightly obsessive mother I am, I wanted him to be enraptured with his surroundings. As much as I was going to miss him, I wanted him to be happy enough to justify my agreeing to let him go away to school.

Moira checked out the backseat. "Looks happy enough to me," she said. "You know," she added with a frown, "the kid is starting to look like the shirt more and more every day."

Moira had been calling my ex-husband, Roger Campbell, the shirt ever since she'd discovered that he had his business shirts custom made. I glanced in the rearview mirror again. Gordy did look like his father — which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Like his father, my son was a brown-eyed blonde — handsome with an athletic body. But I knew that he also got some of his beauty, style and grace from his grandmother. My mother. Who I am nothing like.

"How can he not be nervous?" was my question. The fact was, Gordy seemed as cool as the Abercrombie and Fitch clothes and the hundred and fifty dollar sunglasses he was wearing — all gifts from the shirt.

"Honey, how can you not be relieved?" was Moira's comeback. Moira was that rare thing in Whitefish Cove — the suburb of Milwaukee where we were neighbors — a mother who'd managed to completely let go of her children. Kenny and Gina had gone east to school and stayed to work on Wall Street and the Garment District, respectively. They made one trip home every year and Moira and her husband Stan made one trip to NYC every year and everyone seemed satisfied. But here I was having heart palpitations at the thought that I wouldn't see my son until he came home for Thanksgiving break. I was already planning the first meal in my head.

His favorite meat loaf. Garlic mashed potatoes. Glazed...

The blare of a semi's horn and the hoots of its driver snatched me from my recipe revelry.

"Nice rack!" the trucker yelled before blasting on his horn again.

"Are you crazy?" I demanded.

"Just trying to liven this funeral procession up a little," Moira said as she stuffed her sizable boobs back into her sweater.

I frantically checked to see if Gordy had witnessed Moira's flashing but his mouth was hanging slightly open as he softly snored, oblivious to the recent show. Of course, chances are, he'd already seen something of what Moira had to offer. She was fond of sunbathing topless in the back yard and exercising semi-nude in the living room with the drapes open. Whitefish Cove's Junior Leaguers didn't quite know what to make of her. But I liked her. I thought she was funny and audacious — different from anyone I'd ever known. My ex had never shared my appreciation of Moira's quirkiness so I didn't start to really get to know her until after my divorce. Now, after a few years of dancing around each other, we were starting to become best girlfriends and I was loving it.

I did, however, expect her to stay completely clothed on interstate highways.

"It's a wonder you don't get kicked out of Whitefish Cove," I snapped as I stepped off the gas and pulled in behind the semi, hoping the driver would see the maneuver as a sign that the show was over.

"That's the beauty of being married to a brilliant CPA, girlfriend. Half the men in Whitefish Cove have Stan on retainer. Several, who shall remain nameless, of course —"

"Of course," I hastened to agree.

" — would be peeling potatoes in some country club prison if it weren't for Stan."

Although I didn't know any details, nor did I want to, I knew she wasn't kidding. Stan might have been the neighborhood savior as far as the men were concerned, but to the women, Moira was the neighborhood thorn. She loved to shock the uptight wives and flirt with the bewildered husbands. More confident in her sexuality than any woman I'd ever met, she made no apology for carrying around twenty extra pounds while I seemed to be constantly apologizing for my extra fifteen. Although on Moira the pounds were mostly in the right place while I tended to be somewhat lacking in the rack area. Under similar circumstances, I was pretty sure that truckers would not be honking in my honor.

"Are we there, yet?" Gordy moaned sleepily from the backseat.

"Such enthusiasm for higher education," Moira drawled.

"Nah," my son, the college-bound, said, "I just gotta take a whiz."

I flicked on the van's blinker and took the next exit. A huge bag of potato chips and three diet sodas later, we were there.

Indiana University looked like it had stepped out of central casting. It was that perfect. Big, ancient limestone buildings, gorgeous landscaping and students who didn't know the meaning of the word acne. "Stepford U," muttered Moira.

"Behave yourself," I hissed as I pulled the van onto the U-shaped drive in front of the residence hall Gordy had been assigned to and claimed a parking space just vacated by a Mercedes. A few dozen kids were lugging trunks and duffels and what looked like several thousand dollars worth of electronics out of upscale SUVs. Gordy spotted his roommate — a boy named Dooley from Michigan that he'd been getting to know via email for the past month — and was out of the car and shaking hands before I even had a chance to turn off the engine.

"Isn't that cute," Moira said. "Acting like little men."

I gave Moira a stern look. "Am I going to have to make you sit in the car?"

"You and what fraternity?" she asked over her shoulder as she got out.

I opened my door and stepped into cloying humidity. "Holy hell," I gasped.

"You've got that right. What floor did you say Gordy is on?" Moira asked as she fanned herself with the empty potato chip bag. "Maybe I'd rather wait in the car, after all."

I slammed my door. "Nothing doing. You're hauling. In this heat it'll be no time at all before you'll be too dehydrated to open your mouth."

Close to the truth. Several trips to the second floor later, we were gasping for breath and...