Page 47 of Pucked Up Plans
Marsha is my father’s half-sister, older by about seven years. Never married, no kids, she volunteers a lot at various organizations here in Havenwood and Wilmington—the closest big city—along with her work as a therapist. She runs her practice out of her home, an office in the house's front. She mentioned once it was to cut costs, but she’s not hurting for money. If memory serves, her father passed when she was young, leaving behind a wealthy inheritance.
Her house is exactly the same as I pictured it from trips years ago: an old, large farmhouse she inherited along with the money. The floor, made from wide planks of wood, shows its age, probably as old as the house. Over a hundred years, I’d venture to guess. Big windows let in tons of light but also a draft. In the kitchen, yellowing cabinets practically fall off the hinges, in need of a good repair and major upgrade. The stairs leading to the second level creak with every step. Upstairs, there are four bedrooms—the primary bedroom, two large rooms, and a tiny one, the size of a closet.
Marsha didn’t grow up here, having lived with my father, their mother, and her new husband, Dad’s father, back in Kansas, but after college, she settled and made her life in Vermont. There’s such a sense of comfort here, a feeling ofhomewithout actually having any family. Throughout our visit today, she reemphasized she’s our family in Vermont, and whatever we need, we shouldn’t hesitate to ask.
I don’t know how to ask her about babysitting without sounding like a horrible mother for dumping my kid so I can get it on with Walsh. I would never mention that’s what I wanted to do, but guilt can be a bitch.
“Are you all settled into the condo ? Everything else good?”
“Yes. All good. Aubrey loves school, made a new friend and everything, and I’m slowly learning my way around, only getting distracted by the beauty of fall in New England.”
And a certain man I can’t get out of my head.
“The exact reason I couldn’t sell this house and move back to the Midwest.” Her whimsical expression compliments her tone.
“Totally understandable. It’s so pretty.”
“What are your plans for Thanksgiving? Have you made any yet?”
Her out of the blue question startles me. I haven’t given it much thought. I plan to trek home for Christmas, but wasn’t planning a visit to Kansas for the few days Aubrey has off for Thanksgiving.
“No.”
Aunt Marsha’s face lights up with exhilaration. “Great. Come here. I’ve invited some of the families I’ve met through volunteering, so there will be other kids for Aubrey to play with.”
“Only if I can help with the cooking.” The stipulation falls out of my mouth unfiltered, but it’s the real reason I was avoiding thinking about it. Because it’s one of my favorite holidays to cook, but it seemed like too much work to go all out for Aubrey and me. I would have done a smaller version of our usual meal, but this way, I may get what I truly want.
“Only a fool turns down help in the kitchen. Want to come Wednesday and help prep?” Her smile grows wider. “Sleep over. We’ll have a girls’ night, and then in the morning, we can watch the parade like I used to do with your father when we were kids.” She claps her hands together. “Yes. I like this plan more and more. Are you in?”
Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I agree to it all. Taking a brash leap, I blurt, “Would you ever consider babysitting Aubrey? I have time to myself when she’s at school during theday, but occasionally, I want to go out alone for an hour at night or on the weekends. If it’s too much, forget I even asked.” The entire diatribe falls out of my mouth in one breath. I gulp in air when finished.
She pats my hand. “Of course. I was waiting for you to ask. I didn’t want it to seem like I was offering because I didn’t think you could handle things on your own.”
Her comment strikes me as a little odd, but it’s coming from a genuine place. “Aubrey needs to get used to other adults too. But the more we come here, the more she’ll be comfortable. Even with the cats.” We both laugh as Aubrey squeaks as a cat rubs her leg. She doesn’t reach out and pet it, but she doesn’t run away screaming either. Progress.
“Absolutely. I remember her mother being the same way.”
I study Aunt Marsha’s face. She resembles my father in eye shape only. The rest of her features are from her father. Her small crow’s feet deepen when she smiles, enhancing her charm. Gray roots top her head of otherwise mousy brown hair, which extends just past her shoulders. She doesn’t look a day over fifty, even though she’s almost sixty.
We sit and chat with Aunt Marsha for an hour more before Aubrey decides she’s ready for a bath and bed. I’m certainly not going to argue with the five-year-old.
“Come again soon, Aubrey.” Aunt Marsha leans down and squeezes Aubrey’s body into her. Over her head, she meets my gaze. “Come next weekend. We’ll work on the menu for Thanksgiving. Do you know how to make Nannie’s pecan pie?”
Sadly, I shake my head. “Dad wouldn’t divulge the recipe.”
Her face becomes a visage of distaste. “Oh, I’ll give my brother an earful. Maybe we should make two so you can practice.”
The mere thought of having the recipe for the pie in my hands has me ecstatic. “Yes. Two pies would be great. I’ll need lots and lots of practice.”
Letting go of Aubrey, her hands come together in front of her chest. “Great, that’s settled then. And there will be plenty of leftovers.” She surveys my daughter whose look mirrors Aunt Marsha’s from moments ago.
“Aubrey’s not a fan.”
Aunt Marsha’s hand flies to her chest. “Heavens to Betsy, child. Why the heck not?” Her eyes scan between the two of us.
“It’s not Nannie’s pie. It’s any pie. Or rather, all desserts. The girl has no sweet tooth.”
“Oh dear. That’s dreadful.” Her demeanor is pained, as if it’s truly the worst news she’s ever heard.
