Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

Bill choked back a snort of exasperated laughter and pulled the rest of me into his lap. “Have you ever done anything without overdoing it?” he asked, nuzzling my dark curls.

I smiled sheepishly. “Okay. I admit it. I could use some help around here.” I pushed away from him to ask, “But how do we find the right person? I don’t know anyone in the village.”

Although we’d been living at the cottage for nearly a year, Finch was about as familiar to me as the far side of the moon. I’d spent my entire pregnancy memorizing child-rearing manuals, knitting oddly shaped booties, and turning every available scrap of food into nutritious goo. My social calendar had been left to gather dust.

“There’s Emma and Derek,” I said, “but they’ve already got full-time jobs.” Emma and Derek Harris lived up the road from us in a fourteenth-century manor house they’d refurbished. Emma was a computer engineer and master gardener; Derek, a building contractor who specialized in restoration work. They were our closest friends in England, but I somehow doubted that they’d jump at the chance to mop floors or launder loads of diapers.

“There’s Ruth and Louise, of course,” I continued thoughtfully, “but I don’t think they’d have the stamina.” Ruth and Louise Pym were identical twin sisters who shared a house just outside of Finch. No one knew how old they were, but the fact that their memories of the First and Second World Wars were equally vivid suggested that they weren’t spring chickens.

“And Sally Pyne . . .” I was on my feet now, ticking off the short list of locals with whom I was personally acquainted. Sally Pyne was the cherubic, white-haired widow who ran the tearoom next door to Bill’s office. She was good-natured and energetic, “. . . but Emma told me that Sally’s granddaughter is staying with her this summer, so I imagine she has her hands full. So who . . . ?” I turned to Bill and saw that he was examining his fingernails, a smug smile plastered across his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve already found someone!”

“Okay. I won’t.” Bill nodded agreeably and leaned over to lift a cooing Rob from his bouncy chair. “Let’s get these poor mites fed and ready for bed.”

I spent the remainder of the evening trying doggedly to worm additional information out of my insufferably self-satisfied husband—and Dimity—but the only detail I was able to nail down was that “someone suitable” would be arriving shortly.

I wasn’t taken completely by surprise, therefore, when the Pym sisters fluttered up my flagstone walk on Monday morning with a calm and competent-looking dark-haired woman in their wake.

It was the other woman, the one who showed up screaming, who surprised me.

2.

I answered the front doorbell slightly flustered, with Will on one shoulder, Rob on the other, and a generous helping of hideous green glop smeared across my canvas apron.

Ruth and Louise Pym, by contrast, looked as though they were on their way to an Edwardian garden party. They were, as always, dressed identically, in dove-gray gowns with lace collars and tiny pearl-shaped buttons. They wore matching gray-and-cream cameos at their matching throats, sprigs of lavender pinned to their diminutive bosoms, and crocheted ivory gloves on their dainty but capable hands.

The third woman towered above the Pyms like an exotic hothouse bloom above a pair of Michaelmas daisies. She was a stranger to me, tall, broad-shouldered, and voluptuously curved, with an olive tint to her complexion, full lips, and almond-shaped eyes so dark they were almost black. Her auburn hair was drawn back from a high forehead and braided in an intricate coil at the nape of her neck. She wore a severely plain white shirtdress and comfortable-looking beige flats. The open collar of her dress revealed a slender leather thong from which hung a curious bronze-colored medallion.

I detected a look of swift appraisal in her dark eyes and blushed self-consciously as I greeted the Pyms. Even on my better days I looked like a scrub beside them, and this was not one of my better days.

“My dear Lori,” said Ruth. Ruth always spoke first. It was the only way I could tell the two sisters apart. “You look the very picture of . . .”

“. . . industry,” Louise continued. Watching the Pym sisters converse was like watching a Ping-Pong match. “We do hope we haven’t come . . .”

“. . . at an inconvenient time. We would have rung first . . .”

“. . . but Bill urged us to drive over straightaway.”

The Pyms’ car, an ancient vehicle with a wooden dash, quilted upholstery, and running boards, was parked on the graveled drive beside my black Morris Mini and the Mercedes Bill drove on rainy days.

“You know I’m always glad to see you,” I assured them, wishing I’d taken a minute to sluice the boys down before answering the door.

“And how are our . . .”

“. . . sweet angels today?”

“Fine, just fine,” I managed. Will and Rob had by now recognized the Pyms’ familiar voices and were squirming to get a look at the only other pair of identical twins they’d ever met. As Bill had pointed out the night before, I was outnumbered, and when the dark-eyed woman reached for Will, I handed him over with a wholly unanticipated sense of relief.

“Thanks,” I said. I shifted Rob so he could see where his brother had gone, and felt a perverse twinge of dismay. Will was taking the handover much too cheerfully. He dribbled happily on the dark-eyed woman’s shirtdress and showed more interest in flirting with Ruth than in fussing about who was holding him.

Ruth was not immune to Will’s charms, but as she leaned in to rub noses with him she said, in a puzzled voice, “Lori, are you certain that our darling Will . . .”

“. . . is feeling quite himself today?” Louise’s bright eyes had also fastened on my son.

“I think so,” I said, my pulse quickening. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Ruth’s brow wrinkled. “He seems to have come out . . .”

“. . . in little green spots. As has his darling brother.” Louise was now peering closely at a wriggling Rob. “I’ve seen red spots before, and pink ones . . .”

“. . . but never green ones,” said Ruth. “I do hope it’s nothing . . .”

“. . . tropical.”

My heart unclenched. “It’s not a rare disease,” I told them. “It’s avocados. I forgot to put the lid on the blender.” I stood aside. “Please, come in. The cottage is a bit of a mess, but—”

“Tut,” said Ruth, as she stepped over the threshold. “I’m certain you’ve had far more important things on your mind recently . . .”

“. . . than housekeeping,” Louise finished cheerfully, following me up the hall and into the living room. “And rightly so. What could be more important than . . .” The Pyms’ dueling dialogue trailed off into a politely discomfited silence.

I was almost as nonplussed as Louise. I distinctly remembered the living room as one of the most inviting rooms in the cottage, but at the moment it looked as though a gang of tramps had been camping out in it.Yards of cotton batting dangled from the coffee and end tables, an overflowing basket of laundry obscured the fireplace, parenting magazines spilled from the cushioned window seat to the floor, and a chaotic tangle of toys, stuffed animals, and oddly shaped booties littered the overstuffed armchairs and sofa.

The dark-eyed woman picked her way down a narrow path leading from the doorway to the playpen, but I had to kick aside a set of building blocks, a sock puppet, and a whole circus of plastic animals to enable Ruth and Louise to reach the sofa.

“Sorry about the mess,” I mumbled, scooting ahead to clear the sofa’s cushions by shoving an army of stuffed animals onto the floor. “I guess things have gotten a little out of hand.”