Chapter Thirty-Nine Piper
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Piper
Piper hated to admit it. But her mother-in-law was right. The Experiment was a disaster.
The first two weeks of school flew by in an exhausting, incoherent blur of long division, algebra, history, and Island of the Blue Dolphins.
Each day presented problems they hadn’t anticipated, like timing.
Some days they went too fast, and the kids were baffled and confused by the material.
But if they went too slowly, the kids squirmed in their chairs, whined for snacks, begged for screen time, bickered, and stared out the window, yawning.
Luke was the canary in the coal mine. He became bored about fifteen minutes before everyone else. Once he lost focus, he took the rest of the school down with him.
Piper tried to remember how to solve for x with the older kids while Rosamund tried to teach the younger ones about nouns and verbs. Kiersten fluttered around like a distracted butterfly, trying to work one-on-one with anyone who needed extra help.
Meanwhile Luke made farting noises with his hands, Caitlin rolled her eyes and shot scornful looks at her classmates, Olivia and James fought over the same mechanical pencil, and Johnny begged for his fourth bathroom break in an hour.
Piper and the other moms finally threw in the towel at the end of the second week, right after lunch. They hustled the kids outside two hours before school was technically supposed to dismiss and declared an end to the school week.
The older kids headed for the basketball hoop in Kiersten’s driveway, where they talked and shot baskets. Caitlin, she noticed with a sinking heart, stood on the sidelines, scowling with her arms crossed.
The younger kids sat on Kiersten’s front porch with markers and a giant roll of butcher paper, elbowing each other and bickering over crayons.
Piper sat on the front steps, “supervising” the little kids with a cup of coffee that had gone cold hours ago because she’d been too busy to drink it. She tossed back two Tylenol and massaged her forehead.
“Lovely artwork.”
She looked up, shading her eyes against the afternoon sun. A middle-aged man with brown hair, glasses, and a British accent stood on the sidewalk.
Eeyore Man. That’s what the girls called this neighbor who never seemed to smile.
He shuffled to his little white car with hunched shoulders as he headed off to work in the mornings, then came home again at the end of the day and shuffled back inside.
He’d moved in two years ago, after the death of his wife.
Her youngest daughter stopped drawing and looked up at the man with wide eyes. “Do you know Mary Poppins?”
He turned to her with a patient smile. “I do, as a matter of fact. She’s a lovely person. But that carpet bag of hers is heavier than it looks.”
Her daughter nodded gravely, as though she had always suspected this to be the case, then returned to her coloring.
“A little after-school arts and crafts?” he asked, inclining his head toward the children.
“Sort of,” Piper said. “We’ve dropped out of regular school for a while . . . and now our school is here.” She gestured toward Kiersten’s house with her coffee cup.
His eyes widened. “That’s rather bold, isn’t it?”
“Bold is one word for it,” she replied with a wry smile as the front door opened, and Rosamund joined them on the porch.
“I’m a teacher of sorts myself, actually. A professor. At Georgetown.” He extended his arm, and they shook hands. “Miles Townsend.”
“Piper Mondello,” she said, then introduced Rosamund as well.
“I’ve come to enquire about the potluck.” He produced a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to her.
Her eyes narrowed as she read the flyer, which stated that Piper, Kiersten, and Rosamund had graciously volunteered to organize the potluck harvest feast, all children’s games and concessions, face painting, the bouncy house, and the decoration of front porches for the Harvest Festival.
She felt her cheeks flush with irritation.
“Something wrong?” Miles asked.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m irrationally irritated because someone has apparently taken me up on my completely insincere offer to help organize the Harvest Festival.”
“Ah. I see. So would this be a bad time for me to ask what I’m supposed to bring?”
Piper sighed. “What would you like to bring?”
He scratched his head and looked up at the sky. “Well. Um. My wife was our household chef. But she passed away. Two years ago, about this time. Ovarian cancer. And I’m afraid I haven’t learned much in the way of cookery since she . . . left. I can make a lovely spotted dick, though.”
Piper had watched just enough episodes of the Great British Baking Show to know this wasn’t an inappropriate sexual innuendo.
“Can you remind me . . .”
“Oh yes, of course. Spotted dick is a steamed pudding. Quite lovely.”
She pinched her lips together, stifling a juvenile desire to giggle.
Why couldn’t they have one of those English people who whipped up coronation cakes or a Victoria sponge with Italian meringue?
It was like getting an American who didn’t know how to make apple pie.
Although come to think of it, she’d never actually made an apple pie herself.
“I’m sure your . . . spotted dick . . . will be perfect,” she said, glancing at Rosamund, who was staring at their neighbor with a thoughtful expression.
“So what exactly do you teach at Georgetown?” Rosamund asked.
“Ah, yes. Well, I teach biology classes to freshman, of course, when it can’t be avoided, but my real area of expertise is wildlife biology, with a particular interest in the North American red fox.
In fact, I’m running a research study right now.
A couple of our neighbors have just given me permission to place wildlife cameras in their backyards, and also here in the cul-de-sac, as I attempt to learn more about their habits in heavily populated areas.
In fact, if you ladies would be willing . . .”
Piper’s heart leaped. She would love cameras in her backyard. And more cameras in her front yard to augment the Ring camera too.
“Absolutely. Front yard. Backyard. Anywhere you like, as long as I can look at the footage every now and then . . . you know . . . just for fun,” she added.
“Thank you ever so much,” he said. “This is very helpful.” He turned to Rosamund. “And would you be willing also, to donate your backyard to science?”
“How about a trade,” Rosamund said. “You can put cameras in my backyard . . . but in exchange you become a guest lecturer at the Beaverbrook Academy for Inquiring Minds. You teach our kids about the scientific method, about wildlife biology and the North American red fox.”
A smile creased his face. “I would be honored. But I’m afraid I must ask for additional compensation for my services.”
Rosamund raised an eyebrow. “What kind of compensation?”
“Well, I don’t need money. But I could use some cooking lessons.”
Piper watched as Rosamund’s face lit up, making her every bit as lovely as Sigrid Thovaldsdotter, the Shield-Maiden of Stamendahl from one of Rosamund’s romance novels.
“Deal.” Rosamund gave him a brilliant smile. “We’ll start with sausage and mashed potatoes.”
The corner of his eyes crinkled as he smiled back. “Bangers and mash?”
She inclined her head in a little bow. “I look forward to it.”
Piper glanced from Miles to Rosamund as they gazed at each other for just a second longer than necessary for polite conversation.
Potluck suppers. Wildlife cameras. Secret diaries. And now, romance?
What could possibly happen next? An alien abduction?
She picked up her coffee mug and tried to hide a smile as her exhaustion temporarily melted away.