Page 4 of Mistletoe & Magic
I study the door like it holds an answer. The paint is scuffed near the bottom, the handle shines from a thousand turns. Home. That is what it looks like. Not imposing. Not grand. Just a place where people hang up their coats and stay warm.
I raise my hand to knock and hesitate. What if he looks surprised, and I hear that pause people make when they are trying to be kind. I picture my suitcase by the step, me backing away with a laugh that is not real. I could call Tate back. I could be gone in three minutes.
I knock anyway. Gentle first, knuckles to wood. Then the bell gives a small chime. Silence answers.
I wait, listening hard. Heat ticks in the baseboards. I knock again, a little louder. My heartbeat counts off the seconds. I can smell woodsmoke drifting from the chimney, and something like cinnamon if I let myself believe it. I rest my palm against the door to steady myself. The wood is warm.
Please let him want me here.The thought moves through me like a prayer I have not said in years.
I knock a third time and press closer, ear tilted to the quiet. “Remy,” I call, softer than I meant to. “It’s Ivy.”
“Maybe they’re not home,” I say aloud, because talking to myself is a hobby at this point.
The front door opens, and Donna looks out, with her pencil tucked behind her ear. “Ivy!” she calls and opens her arms for a hug. “There you are. Come on in.”
Donna is probably in her mid-fifties if I had to guess. She has a silver bob of hair, bright green eyes, and they are the kindest eyes I’ve ever known. Donna has been friends with my mom since before I could remember, and she’s always been kind to me and my sisters.
I give her a hug and a big smile. “Hey, Donna.”
She looks out toward the big barn at the front of the property. “I’m glad you’re here. Junie will be so excited to see you after school.”
Of course she has school. I forget tiny people go to school.
I glance past her at the house, and it’s a complete disaster. It still has Fourth of July decorations everywhere and bags of fall decorations in bags along the wall like they never got put up or got put back in a hurry. But I’m guessing they never got put up. And now it’s the middle of the holiday season. There are piles of things everywhere with boxes, bags, and random ornaments and streamers in weird places. And it’s chaos.
“As you can tell, Remy desperately needs your help,” she says with a grimace. She moves to the dining table where a notebook waits, open beside her laptop, pages flagged with sticky notes. She lifts her coffee, her lipstick stamped on the rim like a signature, and takes a sip while her gaze sweeps the room.
I glance around, too. The boots by the door. The cereal bowl abandoned on the counter. The stack of unopened mail. She looks weary and also determined, like a general taking stock before a battle.
I hover near the chair and tuck my hands into my sleeves. “I’m happy to help. I just want to be clear on what you want me to do.”
“Good,” she says, and the word sounds like relief. She picks up a pen and draws a neat line down the center of a fresh page. “You are here as Junie’s nanny first. Not a housekeeper. Not a maid.”
She writes NANNY on one side and OTHER HELP on the other. “Let us start with Junie.”
She ticks items as she talks, her voice settling into a rhythm. “School bus comes at eight-ten. Drop-off is at three. After school snack. Homework check. Play time. Bath and bed by eight if she is melting, eight-thirty if she is wide awake. She loves stories.She will try to talk you into two. You can give her as many as you can tolerate.” Donna looks up, eyes kind. “You can handle that.”
“Yes,” I say. “That part I can do.” I love to read, and I know that Junie does, too.
“Good. Now, Remy.” She writes his name in the margin and taps it with the pen. “He works until he cannot see straight. You are not his housekeeper, but if you can help keep the day from falling apart, that will help Junie.”
She marks a few bullets. “Light cooking is welcome. Family dinners are not required, but they make life easier. Toss a load of Junie’s laundry in when it piles up. Wipe counters if they are sticky. That sort of thing.”
“So nanny first,” I say. “Light household support second.”
“Exactly.” She circles both columns. My shoulders loosen a notch.
“Where you will live.” She flips to another page. “There is a small bedroom down the hall across from Junie’s. There is a dresser, and a closet, too. The bathroom is shared. If this does not feel right after a week, there is a studio over the garage that can be made comfortable, but I would like you close to her at first.”
“That’s totally fine,” I say. The thought of being near Junie makes me happy.
“Money.” She closes the notebook and reaches into her tote. She sets an envelope on the table and slides it toward me. “Your first week’s pay in advance. A prepaid card for groceries and household items. A little cash for incidentals. Don’t use your own money. If you need more on the card, I will add it.”
I blink. “Thank you. That is more than fair.”
She smiles back, then sobers. “Two more things. Boundaries and communication.”
I nod, tense again.
