Plenty of us live in the suburbs, but suburban settings are pretty rare in romance novels. I have to admit that I can see why. I’ve lived in a suburb for about ten years now, not because I think suburbs are the sexiest thing going, but because I have four children. I’m here for the excellent schools and because I needed a house big enough for my large family. While not every suburbanite is here for the same reasons, it does seem like most of them are; my neighborhood is not exactly teeming with the hot singles who populate romance novels.

The hero and heroine of Love, Suburban Style are, perhaps predictably, single parents. Sam Rooney’s wife died in a car accident, and he lives with his two children in his childhood home. Meg Addams is a former Broadway star with a troubled teenage daughter. She decides that it’s time to leave Manhattan and her career behind, and buys the only home she can afford in Glenhaven Park, which is where she grew up as well. Her new home is next door to Sam’s, and it’s only inexpensive because it’s haunted. At least that’s what the last several residents (none of whom stuck around for longer than a few months) say. Meg doesn’t particularly care; her daughter Cosette needs a change, and so does she.

When Meg was in high school, she adored Sam Rooney from afar. He was a year older, and basically never knew she existed. When he meets her again, he wonders how he could have missed her the first time around. He helps her settle into her home, and before he knows it they are kissing. It seems to come from out of the blue, and he is determined to fight his attraction to her. Several failed relationships have soured Meg on men in general, so she is happy to avoid any kind of commitment as well. Then an unexpected ghostly appearance drives Meg and Cosette into Sam’s home, and Meg and Sam make love. They need to evaluate where their relationship is going, and whether they should even have a relationship at all. Sam is especially cautious. His wife’s accident has left him obsessed about his children’s safety, and he’s afraid to start a romance for fear that it will end badly – irreparably scarring his children. Meg is both baffled and hurt as Sam blows hot and cold. Their children don’t share their reservations, however. Sam’s daughter Katie adores Meg and goes out of her way to spend time with her. And Cosette seems to be striking up a romance of her own with Sam’s son Ben.

As all this drama unfolds, there are other conflicts as well. Meg’s house really does seem to be haunted. There are noises she can’t explain, lights that turn off and on seemingly at random, and ghostly figures and music. And while Meg tries to resolve her relationship issues with Sam, she also struggles to find her footing in a community that has become foreign to her. When she grew up in Glenhaven Park, it was a sleepy little suburb. Now it’s full of high-end stores and “fancy moms” – Meg’s term for the designer-clad women who are always trying to one-up each other. Meg wants to start a new business as a voice coach, and her plans are complicated by her ambivalent feelings about her potential students and their snobby parents.

Oddly enough, there was something refreshing about the suburban setting, and something gratifying about love blossoming between two people who go to soccer practice, the mall, and The Cheesecake Factory. Let’s face it; lots of us do these things, but romances don’t really reflect that. Either heroines are shopping at tony boutiques and department stores and eating at fancy city restaurants – or they live in a small town, marry the sheriff, and eat at the down-home diner run by the local busybody. While it may be a little silly to hail a visit to The Cheesecake Factory as a brilliant innovation, it really did feel like a victory for, well, ordinariness. I really liked the idea of two people getting a second chance at love, and falling in love under circumstances that are commonplace. And while some of the “fancy moms” seemed a little too vapid and materialistic, even this stereotype felt almost new.

Other elements of the book also work well. I liked that both the hero and heroine are single parents. Usually it’s just one or the other. In this case, both of them have to weigh the needs of their children in their decision-making; indeed, Meg’s entire reason for moving in the first place was to find a different environment for her child. Similarly, the ghost plot is there for a reason – which is only disclosed at the end. There were just enough ghostly happenings to move the plot along without overwhelming the romance. It can be pretty tough to achieve that balance.

Unfortunately, there were also areas of the book that didn’t work as well. I found Meg basically likable, though I wondered at her inability to buy a house. She paid half a million dollars in cash because she was sure she wouldn’t be able to get a mortgage. I didn’t see why not, because she had substantial alimony and child support checks coming in (her ex-husband was a famous actor), as well as a viable business. Mortgage or not, surely for that kind of money she could have afforded a non-haunted house. Anyway, Meg was nice enough. But Sam dragged his feet so much that his initial likability plummeted as the book went on. I got that he was afraid to see his kids hurt, but as Meg was nothing but nice and never showed any signs of bolting, his fears appeared to be completely unfounded. Eventually he figured that out for himself, but only at the bitter end.

The bigger problem for me was the writing style, which distracted me. The book is written in the third person, but in present tense. As in, “He lifts the shades on the two windows to usher in the morning sun. Thanks to the apartment’s southeastern exposure, the place brightens instantly.” That’s just one example from the beginning of the book, but the whole book is written in that style – except when it’s not, and the more common past tense sneaks in. After discussing it with fellow reviewers, I realized I’d read other books written in the present tense that didn’t bother me, but most of them were written in the first person, which perhaps works better. Some of my discomfort can be chalked up to stylistic preferences, but the inconsistency (with occasional forays into the past tense) is likely to distract many readers.

Though parts of Love, Suburban Style are innovative and interesting, it’s mostly an average read. Cheesecake Factory and soccer practice notwithstanding, this isn’t a book I’d seek out.