Page 22 of The Art of Loving Ellie
Janie?
I’m so confused, but as I open my mouth to ask him a question, he steamrolls me again continuing to yammer on, “She told me you were a bright young woman, headstrong—much like herself. Successful, and a brilliant artist.” I flinch a little at the mention of what I’m supposed to be doing in New York. “And she said you found you a boy that you have been, um, well…in relations with.” He twitches his mustache uncomfortably. I guess Aunt Jane let that cat out of the bag.
My eyes practically bug out of my head. “Oookay! That is really none of your business, Mr—”
“Richard,” he supplies.
“Yes, Richard. Exactly how do you know my aunt so well? Are you not an Uber driver she sent to have me picked up?” My face is still hot with embarrassment from his comment.
He turns to look at me for an uncomfortable few seconds, and then bursts into animated laughter. He hits the steering wheel in the way someone would slap their knee at a funny joke, and wipes his eye. “Whew-ee! She didn’t tell me how funny you are!”
What is happening?
“Your Aunt Jane and I are, how do I put this eloquently?” Rubbing his goatee in thought, he snaps his fingers and supplies, “We’re cozier than two jackrabbits on a winter mornin’." The confusion covering my face must encourage him to continue explaining. “We’re lovers.” He winks with a childish grin.
I blink a couple of times, trying to understand what Aunt Jane has gotten herself into with this man. I lean back in the chair and rub my hand down my face, not bothering to respond to the Old West version of Fabio. Surely this day couldn’t possibly get any weirder.
A little while, and lots of jabbering from lover boy later, we pull up to a gate, and Richard types in a code on a keypad a few feet from the entrance. My aunt lives on some land far outside the city of Dallas, and I’m in awe of her estate as we roll down the long drive to a big white house with four large pillars connecting the top to the bottom.
It reminds me of an old plantation style home with a wide balcony that interrupts the pillars in the center of the house, showcasing a second story, and four large windows are displayed on each side. Someone has strung beautiful green vines around the white slated fence that runs the length of the balcony on the second story, giving the house a bright and welcome feel.
A red brick chimney is attached to the left, and contrasted against all of the white, it makes me think of Christmastime. Aunt Jane has lived here for quite some time now, but it never ceases to amaze me. She’s made a few renovations to the old home, but aside from redoing the plumbing, I like that she’s mostly left it the way it was.
I see her housekeeper, Helen, open the front door, and Aunt Jane rushes out to greet us. Richard steps forward to give her a big, dramatic kiss, and I have to stop my jaw from dropping when she fans herself after he pulls back. I guess the day just officially got weirder.
“Oh, Ellie!” She's practically bouncing with joy as she envelopes me in a hug that I’ve been waiting for since I booked my flight. Her straight, salt and peppered blonde hair tickles my nose, as does her scent—lavender and lemon. She was always big into holistic herbs, oils, and such, and lavender is her favorite. When she lets me go, we are both smiling like idiots, and I feel the most at home I have felt in such a long time.
“Well, let’s not stand out here all day! Come on in.” Richard grabs my bags out of the SUV and we make our way into my temporary home for the next week and a half.
Inside, she has decorated the entire place with fall decorum, and it looks like something you’d see in one of those high-class, rustic housing magazines. The orange, cream, and brown accents spread throughout make me wish it was colder outside so I could cuddle up by the fireplace that resides to the left of the foyer.
Plaid blankets and accent pillows adorn the two large couches and double recliners that create a sitting area around the fireplace, and windows accent a built-in bench at the front of the living space, bringing natural light into the room. If I advance forward, I can follow a large, spiral wooden staircase leading to the second floor, which Richard has informed me has two additional bedrooms.
“Aunt Jane, I love what you’ve done with the place—it’s so cozy!” I follow her through the living area to the kitchen, looking around in wonder. I can tell that the kitchen has been updated with some new appliances to give it a fresh, modern look, but it still has some of the old-timey flare.
The original black hutch hangs over the stove to my right, and there’s a butler’s pantry that's visible in the very back. To the left of the pantry is a nook area with a built-in cushioned bench that juts out from the wall, and sits underneath a small breakfast table that is bolted to the floor.
I take the liberty of exploring the dining area that exits from the kitchen to the right, and I admire the beautiful glass chandelier hanging over the long, eight-person table. The chandelier is the original from when the house was built in the late 1920s, and there’s no telling how much it could be worth now.
Running my hand across the wooden back of the chair at the head of the rectangular-antique table, I absorb the historic feel of this area, smiling at the history the old house still holds.
There’s a door at the end of the hall as I exit from the dining area that leads outside, and I peek out of the half window to see Aunt Jane’s horses grazing out back. The wide-open pasture is beautiful, and for some reason, as I stare at these two magnificent creatures, a sudden rush of peace begins to settle deep in my soul.
Light footsteps alert me that someone's approaching from behind, and turning to see my aunt I ask, “What is it about horses that make a person feel so at ease?”
She smiles fondly, stepping next to me to look at the faded green field where they are lazily nibbling grass. “You know, I’ve thought that very same thing to myself plenty of times,” she sighs dreamily. “I guess, for me at least, it’s the look in their eyes and the tell of their body language.”
“What do you mean?” Her farm dog, Rusty, zooms past where we’re looking and begins rolling around in a patch of dry grass with all four of his legs straight in the air. I laugh a little to myself—he’s always been a goofball.
“I mean, that horses are much smarter than people give them credit for. They can tell a person’s character before they even approach. If a horse feels safe, she will tell you in the way she makes eye contact, and her ears will relax. She may even lower her head to welcome your touch. Those seemingly simple acts create a bond—and knowing that I have the full confidence of a creature who could trample me should she choose to, gives me a comfort that I’ve never felt before.”
I look at my aunt as she stares out at her equine babies with longing. Being one of the most passionate people I have ever met, I’ve always loved listening to her speak. She blazed her path in this world, practically all on her own, and I feel a sense of pride being related to her.
My grandfather gave Robert and her each a separate loan to help them get out of the oil and ranching business, and discover who they were meant to be as individuals. The rest of the family shamed him, knowing he was letting a family legacy die by making that decision, but I suppose he had faith that his children would be successful.He was certainly right about one of them, I think to myself.
While Robert was busy knocking my mom up and blowing the money he was given, Jane decided she was going to invest, and that is exactly what she did. She owns several rental properties and a handful of small bakeries around Texas. She has bought and sold livestock and horses, and even competed in rodeos from time to time. She’s visited Europe a few times, too, and I always loved the little knickknacks she would send me from all the places that she’s been.
I suppose I admire her so much because she’s a woman of many talents. Aunt Jane is beautiful and funny, and when she laughs it echoes around the room, filling my heart to the point of bursting.
