I reach up and give the Brit a tender and thoroughly impressive kiss. These are the moments when I’m sure we’re going to overcome the hurdles of our vastly different lifestyles. I can just picture a Mrs. Doubtfiresque, Mrs. Hedgegrove, fussing over Elliot and his sister and I admire him for wanting the same thing for our children. After all, if I had the countess for a mother, I’d crave someone to love me with unrestrained joy, too. Victoria does not bring about thoughts of tender maternal moments. She was probably too busy lunching with the queen and killing cute little foxes on the hunt, probably bare-handed.
The next three women we meet don’t inspire a lot more confidence than Elka. They are a cross section of boring middle-aged women who seem to lack excitement for their chosen careers. By the time the fifth applicant shows up, I’m sure I can convince Elliot the error of his thinking. Then the doorbell rings.
I jump up to answer, eager to put the great nanny debate to bed. I pull the door open and there she stands. She looks like the cross between a 1970’s hippy and a new millennium hipster. She’s wearing a long jean skirt with patches sewn into it, cowboy boots, a flannel shirt tied at the waist and a derby hat, covering what looks like a pile of curly brown hair. She’s completely unexpected.
I greet, “Hello, you must be Abigail.”
With a huge grin on her face, she replies, “How’d you guess?”
“Well,” I smiled, “you’re the last person we’re meeting today and I haven’t crossed Abigail off my list yet.” I lift my list and wink, “Pretty ingenious of me, huh?”
She laughs, “Totally.” Then she walks in, puts her hand out and introduces herself to Elliot. She exclaims, “I love your house. It’s so cute!”
I’m guessing our final candidate is about twenty-five or so, though her energy feels a lot younger. She’s appealing without being obviously pretty, but it’s her aura I find so compelling. She’s sparkly and effervescent. If she was a drink, she’d be champagne.
I offer her a cup of coffee but she refuses, instead she pulls out a bottle of something green and chunky looking. She lifts it up and announces, “Kale and pomegranate smoothie, so delicious and unbelievably nourishing.”
I gag a little at the thought, yet I’m kind of jazzed that she’s into health food. I ask, “Do you make things like that for the kids you take care of?”
Abbie, as she asks us to call her, responds, “Oh, well, this would be my first gig. I haven’t done any professional nannying yet.”
I find I’m disappointed by her response. While I’m not really looking to hire a nanny, she would have been my vision for the perfect one, had she been experienced, that is. I ask, “What in the world made you want to be a nanny?”
Abbie laughs, “I never really thought I’d be one but I have to survive, right?”
Elliot interrupts, “What have you been doing to make money up until now?”
Our guest answers, “Recycled art collages.” Noting our confused looks, she explains, “You know like scrap metal, sea glass and assorted trash all fashioned together into art. It’s a totally invigorating way to express yourself.”
I can’t relate to this at all, but I still find myself infected by her excitement. “So what made you change your direction to being a nanny?”
Abbie explains, “I’m the oldest of nine children. Taking care of kids just comes naturally to me. So I figure I can be a nanny and make money to create my art when I’m off the clock. Cool, right?”
Elliot smiles, nods his head and replies, “Cool.”
I offer, “You know this is a live-in position.”
Abbie answers, “I didn’t, but that’s awesome!” Looking around, she says, “This would be a great house to live in, too.” I don’t know why but I don’t tell her we’re leaving this house behind and moving on up ala George and Weezie Jefferson. “I’d be able to rent an industrial space for my art so I wouldn’t crowd us with it.” Looking at my stomach, she asks, “What number are you working on there?”
I answer, “Number one.”
She looks shocked and turns between me and Elliot before asking, “I don’t mean to be dense or anything but why do you need a nanny for one baby?”
My husband raises an eyebrow, “Mimi might go back to work after Sophie is born. Surely we’d need a nanny then, yes?”
Our prospective employee looks confused before answering, “Actually, you’d just need daycare, not a nanny.” She explains, “I thought you’d have three or four kids for me to take care of, at least.” Then she adds, “I’m not sure this is the job for me. I don’t like to be bored.” Then she adds, “And babies sleep, a lot.”
I’m a little disappointed even though I don’t really want a nanny or rather didn’t want one until meeting Abigail. So I say, “Well, if we hire you, we could use you in other areas, like light housekeeping and maybe cooking once in a while.” Why I’m saying this I don’t know. I don’t want a nanny and I certainly don’t want a housekeeper or cook. But I really like this girl. She seems like she’d be fun to be around and I bet kids love her. Also, if she likes kids so much, maybe I could get her to keep an eye on Ginger’s brood every now and again.
Abbie announces, “I love to cook! I made most of the meals at home growing up and I make a killer whole wheat tofu mac and cheese with pine nuts and kale.” Kale seems to be a staple in this girl’s life. She shrugs her shoulders, “What the heck, I can do anything you need me to do. I don’t mind cleaning and I’m brilliant at mowing lawns. I could be your gal Friday!” She amends, “As long as you give me enough work to earn my keep.”
After another ten minutes of small talk, we learn that Abbie’s family lives on a farm in rural Oregon and that she’s not seeing anyone, but if she does, she promises to keep all nocturnal activities off the premises; we bid her goodbye and promise to be in touch with her agency soon.
Once she’s gone, Elliot and I snuggle in front of the fire and he teases, “So, you don’t want a nanny, huh?”
I smack his arm. “No, I don’t. But I think I want Abigail.”
Chapter 27
I continue to debate whether we really need to hire a nanny until the week before Christmas. Elliot talks me into giving it a six month trial and as I already like Abigail, I agree. I figure with a house as big as Fielding Abbey, that’s right I’ve named it, we never have to see each other if it’s not working out.
I call to inform the agency of our decision and learn that Abbie can’t wait three plus months for our baby to come before she’s employed, which is how I wind up hiring a nanny for me and Elliot. My hubby has a good laugh when I tell him our childcare provider will be moving in with us right after the New Year, months before there’s a child to care for. But I figure I can use her to help get the house in order.
We’re going to get our Christmas tree today. I find the whole thing bittersweet. This is my first Christmas as a married woman and expectant mother, which makes it as sweet as can be, but it’s also the last one in my house. I love my little yellow house and all the memories I’ve made here. Sure, I was single and lonely most of the time, but I bought this place all by myself and I don’t want to say goodbye to it yet.
Elliot suggests we don’t sell it but offer to let Muffy and Kevin move in as caretakers. Muff moved out of her house after she divorced Tom, her cheat of a husband, and moved in with Kevin, who’s leasing a condo ever since his philandering wife left him. With their new business venture, The Buff Muff, just starting out, neither wants to buy a place until the market turns a bit. It sounds like a brilliant idea to me and we’re going to put it to them Christmas morning.
The holidays are going to be a low key affair this year. Renée and Laurent are taking the kids to Paris to visit Laurent’s family. So Mom has decided she and Muffy will cook Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve dinners at her house. We’ll have everyone over Christmas morning for assorted goodies that I’ll be buying at the bakery and Ginger and Jonathan will make an egg casserole and ham for New Year’s Day brunch.
We are officially moving into Fielding Abbey on December 27th. It’s all a bit harried, but I suppose there’s no point in waiting. The painters are finishing up this week and there isn’t another thing that needs to be done to the place.
I am officially 27 weeks pregnant and Miss Sophie has expressed a real love of jazzy Christmas music. Every time Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree or Holly Jolly Christmas comes on the radio, she kicks up her heels like she’s auditioning for the Rockettes. It’s by far the coolest and strangest feeling in the world.
Ginger’s abdomen is so full of babies that when she lifts her shirt you can see various hands and feet pushing out as if trying to escape. Speaking of which, my panic attacks over Sophie feeling confined have eased up since starting a gestational yoga class last week. There seems to be something about the breathing that helps me win the mind over matter fight.
Ginger comes with me to class and pretty much just lies on her yoga mat and does nothing else. There are no movements that come easy to her right now and the doctor recommends not starting any new exercise at this stage in the game. She tags along to get out of the house and because we go out for frozen yogurt after every class. White chocolate raspberry mousse with eighty-three assorted toppings is a temptation few could resist.
The triplets are all doing well and the doctor expects no complications as long as she can keep them in for another month. Although, they’re hoping to get as close to thirty-six weeks as possible. There are no guarantees with multiples though, so she’s taking it really easy.
Jonathan has given up traveling until after the babies come and our mom has taken over their grocery shopping and other sundry errands as Ginger doesn’t drive anymore and Jonathan is working around the clock.
Their nursery is all set up with three cribs, three mobiles, a changing station and more stuffed animals than you can shake a stick at. She’s gone with a gender neutral owl theme that I tried to talk her out of. My reasoning is that owls stay up all night and you don’t want to send the wrong message. She told me owls were cute and babies weren’t smart enough to grasp the subtleties. It’s her funeral.
The only real reason I’m excited for our move is to start getting Sophie’s room ready. The painters covered the walls in a whispery pink called Cotton Candy Clouds and the crown molding offers a crisp white in contrast. I haven’t ordered any of the furniture yet because I’ve been a little preoccupied getting everything ready for the move, which turns out to be more of a chore than I remember.
As I pack up my house I realize I’m something of a hoarder. I have five boxes full of recipes I’ve clipped over the last fifteen years, one crammed with wedding ideas that I started in high school and fourteen-and-a-half bottles of sunscreen varying in age from 1998 to just last summer. I’ve throw away nine tubes of ancient lipstick, all clothes older than five years and six bottles of hairspray with the nozzles glued shut. I’ve also gone nuts and pitched all the spices that moved in with me seven years ago. Note to self, have Abbie shop for spices in the New Year. Oh, and mention my aversion to kale.
Chapter 28
Christmas was relaxing and thoroughly delightful. It was also extremely quiet with Finn and Camille in Paris. We missed them dreadfully but know that next year will more than make up for it with six grandchildren under foot. Everyone was on their best behavior and the stress levels were in the negatives. I can’t help but think it was the calm before the storm.
I think back to all the proclamations of an enchanted life that were bandied about at our wedding and occasionally worry the pendulum is destined to swing back. But for now, I’m just going to enjoy everything going in our favor.
Today is moving day and I’m very emotional and a touch grumpy. Elliot suggests we go out for breakfast before the men come to uproot my whole life. I burst into ugly tears and accuse him of wanting to rob me of my last meal at home.
When he proposes he go out and get us breakfast and bring it back, I yell, “And never use my stove again?”
Somewhere around the time I call him an uppity aristocratic, thoroughly unprovoked, he decides to humor me and not fight when I poke him. This just pisses me off more. Yes, I know I’m totally irrational but I’m itching for battle. The least he can do is accommodate me.
It turns out the only person willing to indulge me is the head mover, Bob. Every time I bark at him to be careful with a box, he stops and yells, “Lady, this isn’t the first house I’ve moved! If you don’t trust us, fire us. Otherwise, get out of my way.”
I turn bright red with fury when he insults my dining room set by commenting that he and his wife bought one just like it at a yard sale when they first got married. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good garage sale but there’s something in his tone that seems judgmental.
At the new house I show Bob where the kitchen is and instruct that I’d like all the boxes piled on surfaces, not the floor, so I can reach them when I unpack them. Miss Sophie is seriously getting in the way of my even seeing the floor, yet alone bending to reach it. So much so, I’m back in loafers because I can’t finagle the pose necessary to put on tennis shoes.
When he nearly drops the first box of dishes on the counter, I admonish, “Be careful! We didn’t hire you to break things.”
That’s when he suggests, “You might want to take your shoes off.”
“Excuse me, what?”
He laughs snidely, “Well, you’re already pregnant, now you just need to be barefoot to get the picture right.”
What in the hell? Steam starts to rise out my ears and I’m ready to pummel the stuffing out of this moron. Instead, I yell, “Elliot, get in here!”
The future earl hightails it into the kitchen to find me with my hands on my hips, my jaw clenched in fury and panting like I’ve just run a marathon. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
“This, this, maggot,” I thrust my hands forward in a very Italian gesture to indicate I’m speaking about Bob, “has been insulting me and our things all day.” Then I demand, “I want you to fire him, now!” That’s right, Bob, put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Elliot looks from me to Bob and after a significant moment of silence, bursts into laughter. He finally manages, “You’ve played your part very well, Bob, thank you.”
Wait, what? Why is my husband thanking this offensive beast?
Our mover shrugs his shoulders and joins into the laughter. “I did my best, Mr. Fielding.”
I’m totally confused, so I demand, “What in the hell is going on here?”
My husband explains, “Darling, you seemed to be looking for a bit of a fight this morning.”
“Yeah, so? I’m leaving my house. I’m a tad emotional,” I offer defensively.
“Well,” he continues, “I don’t want to fight with you. But I thought having someone to clash with might take your mind off your sadness. So I told Bob what was going on and he offered to be your target.”
I don’t quite know how to respond to this. I know I’ve been a handful today, but this seems like a betrayal. Elliot couldn’t deal with me so he tells the mover what a pain I am and the two of them conspire to keep me mad. At the same time, fighting with Bob has totally taken my mind off moving and truth be told, it’s been kind of fun. I’m torn between anger and gratitude. Much like a thunderstorm is the result of two opposing energies, so is my reaction to this news. I burst into tears.
Elliot rushes to my side and wraps me in his arms. He apologizes, “I’m so sorry, darling. I just didn’t know what to do.”
A chagrined Bob offers, “Geez Mrs. Fielding, please don’t take it so hard. I’m sorry, too. My wife gets just like you when she’s pregnant and I know she would love someone to
give her a reason to scream.” He continues, “I only wanted to help.”
I decide to let them both off the hook. My temper did take my mind off the move and now that we’re in the new house I find that I’m thoroughly wrung out and explain all I want to do is lay down.
Bob offers, “I had my boys put your bed together first thing.”
With a watery smile, I excuse myself and go upstairs to the master bedroom. I’m currently so overwhelmed by this vast new house that I want to drive back to Mercer St. for my nap. Although, there’s no bed there now so I’d have to sleep on the floor.
What is the opposite of claustrophobic? Because that’s what I’m feeling right now. Every room on the second floor is totally vacant with the exception of our room and the furniture in there is so dwarfed by the space, it feels pretty close to empty.
I fall into a restless sleep and wind up having the same dream I had when I was first pregnant, the one where Prince Charles wants to rub my bunion but turns into a lizard and licks it instead. I haven’t consciously thought the future king of England looks like a reptile but after these recurring reveries I’ve started Googling pictures of him and there is some resemblance. No offense meant.
I finally wake up at dusk and I’m starving. I don’t bother with shoes and opt to pad down the hall barefooted. I know we’ll eventually get some rugs but the cool of the hardwood is very comforting for Edith. You might have noticed that even though she’s still around, my bunion has stopped talking to me. It makes me wonder if she ever really did talk or if I was presenting with early signs of insanity. Either way, I don’t miss the nagging.
Elliot atones for his earlier sins by bribing me with Chinese food. He’s ordered all of my favorites including Kung Pao Shrimp, Cashew Chicken, Won Ton Soup and Pork Eggrolls. So I decide to forgive him. It should come as no surprise to you that I can be bought with food. It’s my Buddha nature.
Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2) Page 12
