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As we made our way there, I could hear music coming from the classroom. I was happily surprised to peek through the open door and take in a bright and colorful classroom full of paintings and art, and the entire kindergarten class, twenty-plus kids, engaged in a massive game of freeze dance. To Bach.
I knocked softly and one of the two adults circling the massive bunch of dancing peanuts gave me a big smile. She hurried over to the door, her high ponytail bobbing behind her.
“Hi hi hi!” she said. “We were wondering when you guys were going to get here! Come on in, we’re on the French Suites.”
She heralded the twins inside, and, as they joined the musical fray, she slipped back through the doorway and joined me in the hallway.
“I’m Claire, Dexter and Sammy’s teacher,” she said.
Then she pointed to the other woman in the classroom, outfitted in an oversized UMass sweatshirt with matching sweatpants. “And that’s Carolyn, the assistant teacher. She’s a graduate student in early education over at the university. We have her two days a week. Sometimes three. Needless to say, they are much better days.”
I smiled. “I can imagine,” I said. “I’m Annie. I’m the twins’ . . . well, I guess I’m their aunt.”
The words felt a little weird coming out of my mouth, but it was also the simplest explanation, or so I thought.
Except that Claire crossed her arms over her chest, a grin taking over her face. “I didn’t know Cheryl had a sister!” she said. “It is fantastic to meet you. I know she and Jesse are in a bit of a hard place at the moment, but she’s been checking in with me regularly. She’s a strong lady, your sister. . . .”
I shook my head, intending to correct her, and quickly. “No, I’m actually not related to—”
But, before I could finish, there was a loud bang from inside the classroom. We turned to see Sammy and Dex, still in their long winter coats—standing on either side of the boom box—now on its back on the floor.
“Oh boy,” she said. “That’s my cue. It’s really nice to meet you, Annie. I hope to see you soon.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
She started to head in, but then turned back, something occurring to her.
“Actually, you know what? Is the end of next week too soon? ”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Well, the kids have a class trip to the Children’s Museum. The science and nature museum in Hartford?” She shook her head, as if already imagining the chaos of that. “Anyway, it’s looking like we’re a mother short for the excursion. And could definitely use the extra pair of hands. Aunts’ hands count. Would you be willing to join in? Are you still going to be in town then? ”
“I’m supposed to be, but I really never know my work schedule for sure. I’m a travel writer and I’m definitely heading back out on the road soon. I’ve actually never been on a break this long, but I just got married and . . .”
“Great! ” she said. “Then it’s settled! That’s really great. Thank you! And if you have a minute on your way out, you should head down the back stairs and check out the breezeway. The holiday art show is still up. Our art teacher, Ms. Henry, is beyond incredible. And the twins did a painting of a purple Christmas tree. It rocks!”
I laughed. “I’m sure it does.”
“Go see for yourself.” Then she pointed at my fleece as she walked back inside. “And if you’re sticking around, you need a real coat or you’ll get a bad cold. And good luck getting rid of it before spring.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Anytime.”
The door flew shut and I was left in the quiet hallway. I stared at the closed door for just a second—watched through the small window as she scrambled to right the boom box and get the kids dancing again. Then I headed the way she told me, down the staircase, toward the open breezeway, partly because I wanted to see the purple Christmas tree and partly because I wasn’t so anxious to head back outside in my too-light fleece.
I was glad I did. As soon as I stepped onto the breezeway, I saw how right Claire was. A truly great display of paintings and collages and charcoal drawings was taped over the windows. I was captivated, walking slowly down the hall, checking out the artwork of each grade: snowmen and reindeer, bright scenes of stick-people Thanksgiving dinners. There was also a beautiful drawing of several pears among the second-graders’ lot. (I wasn’t sure what pears had to do with the holidays, but it was beautiful nevertheless.)
I was staring so hard at the pears that it took me a minute to realize I wasn’t in the breezeway alone. There was another woman, who had made her way from the other end, trailing a metal dolly behind her. She was diminutive in a tea-length turtleneck dress and a beautiful, bright orange scarf, her long blond hair falling down her back. She was reaching high above her head to remove one of the paintings from its perch.
Even on her tiptoes, she was struggling to reach both corners at once, and was looking less than steady. So I walked over and reached for the upper left-hand corner, and the two of us pulled off the painting together.
“Oh, thank you for that!” she said, giving me a large smile as she rolled up the brown paper painting and gently placed it onto her dolly. “One down. A thousand to go.”
“Seems like I got here just in the nick of time,” I said.
She nodded, tilting her head to the side, and I couldn’t help but notice that up close she was even more striking, with birdlike features, high cheekbones, dark eyelashes.
