“You have arrived at your destination,” Jeff’s phone announces cheerfully, breaking through an old Police song.
He forgot to turn off the navigation, even after the house came into view. It’s sitting on top of a hill, because, of course, it would be. Jeff tries to think of what he’s heard about the place. It comes up frequently in Jenna’s family get-togethers, but then again, he tends to tune out of those just as frequently.
It’s barely a family, more of a clan or a brood. Jeff is an only child and is perfectly happy about it. He has two cousins, both of whom live out of state; he hasn’t seen them in years.
His wife’s family . . . well, he’d actually lost count of them a long time ago; learned to offer a smile and a nod instead of trying to recall anyone’s names. There are just so many of them. Too many. Jeff used to joke that the Doyles were a grand breeding experiment to take over New England, back when Jenna still found his jokes funny. But then again, apparently the Irish are particular about reproductive humor, so he stopped.
Drinking jokes had to go, too, although Jenna’s people drink like the proverbial fish. Jeff figures he’d drink like that too if he had to deal with all of them on a frequent basis. There’s always so much drama. Divorces, affairs, suicide attempts—so much for their staunch Catholicism.
And then, of course, there’s the mysterious Aunt Gussie. By far and away his favorite of Jenna’s relatives. She’s never chewed his ear off, and she left his wife some dough. A winner all around.
Jeff can’t remember seeing the photos of the house. Jenna is always shoving her phone in his face to show him this or that from her social media, and he nods without really looking.
But he does recall her describing the place as estate-like and he fails to see that now.
The house is large, sure, but clumsily so, as if executed by several different architects who never spoke with each other. It does have a certain imposing quality, but that might just be its hilltop positioning.
The driveaway is long and curved. Jeff hears the small rocks pebbling the sides of the Subaru and winces, wishing Aunt Gussie had sprung to have it paved. The car takes enough abuse already from being parked in the city, Jeff doesn’t want to add to it.
There’s a small man of indeterminate age standing in front of the house waving at them.
“Who’s that?” Jeff asks his wife.
“Oh, that’s Angus.”
And who the crap is Angus? Jeff wonders. The butler? He has seen enough Batman movies to like the idea, but he wishes he’d known in advance.
Jeff parks in a spot he deems appropriately shady and gets out of the car. He stretches and his limbs scream in protest, unfolding with the ominous cracking of someone depressingly aged.
Jenna gets out too, looking annoyingly fresh. He should have let her drive more, but she’s a terrible driver—too sharp on the turns, too quick on the brakes. Her own car, an older Honda, bears the scars of it all, and Jeff is reluctant to let the Subaru suffer the same indignities.
Jessie gets out too, waving her phone around like she’s lost reception. Shit, Jeff thinks, without reception this is going to be one long holiday. Surely there’s bound to be a tower somewhere. It’s upstate, not Timbuktu.
JJ remains in the car, so Jeff raps his knuckles on the rear window, then louder. The kid reluctantly pulls his oversized headphones down and climbs out. Looks around with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
The small man—Angus, Jeff reminds himself—approaches them, smiling.
“The Bakers, I presume. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve had the house all set up. Three bedrooms opened and aired out on the second floor, plus, you’ll have full use of the parlor, kitchen, library, etc. I understand it is your first time here. Would you care for a tour?”
The man has some sort of an accent. A light burr. Scottish, maybe? Jeff is crap with accents.
His idea of the Scots seems to be shaped by the movies, from Highlander to Braveheart. Large, long-haired, kilted macho men.
Angus can’t be much taller than five and a half feet. Whatever hair he might have is mostly hidden by a flat hat Jeff normally associates with old-timey cabbies. The man appears to have a slight but sturdy build, and he’s wearing a plaid button-down with neatly rolled-up sleeves, and sensible khakis.
They introduce themselves and get a brief firm handshake each.
Jeff doesn’t wait for the small man to offer them help with their bags—it might topple him; he grabs his and Jenna’s and tells the kids to bring theirs.
Angus ushers them inside. The large heavy door with an old-fashioned metal knocker appears well-oiled; none of those creepy haunted house creaks.
The entire place, in fact, appears to be in good repair. At least from what Jeff can see. The furnishings and decorations belong to a different era, but Angus assures them the plumbing and electric are fully up to date.
It is the largest private residence that Jeff has ever been in, and he doesn’t care for it. Doesn’t like how small it makes him feel.
The kids appear vastly indifferent until it comes to choosing bedrooms, at which point they squabble until Jessie gets the larger one with an en suite.
“Well, fine,” JJ mumbles snidely. “Take it, you need it more.”
Jeff wonders whatever the heck that’s all about, then forgets it.
Jeff hopes that eventually his kids get to a place where they can appreciate each other as siblings as opposed to the barely hidden hostile standoff they’ve got going on now, but he isn’t holding his breath.
JJ shoves past him, tosses a beat-up oversized backpack on the floor of his new room, and plops down on the neatly made bed. He looks, Jeff observes, like a beached whale. Then, guiltily, he banishes the unkind thought.
Jessie’s luggage is color-coordinated, a backpack, a tote, and a small suitcase. That she manages to bring all of it up by herself is almost impressive.
Jeff would have helped, but Jenna is a notorious overpacker, and he is struggling with the weight of her bags. Now he kind of wishes that Angus offered to help and hopes the guy doesn’t expect a tip.
The last stop on the tour is the kitchen. Impressive, retro style but with clearly modernized appliances, it’s vast, about the size of Jeff’s first studio apartment.
“I’m something of a baker myself,” Angus says, and Jeff rolls his eyes inwardly. He’s heard that same stupid pun for ages. “Made you these as a welcome.”
He gestures to a basket of muffins. Jeff’s stomach growls its gratitude in response.
Ah, the man’s good for something, after all. The muffins look huge and delicious and as photogenic as something from one of Jenna’s beloved baking shows.
He reaches for one, takes a bite, and almost moans in delight.
Better eat more than one, Jeff thinks. Once JJ gets wind of the muffins, they’ll be as good as gone.
Jenna picks a small section from the top of one of the muffins and chews it slowly. Probably contemplating how many calories she’s going to have to work off afterward.
They both thank the man.
“Well, I’ll be off, let you settle in.”
“Oh, you don’t . . . you don’t live here?” Jeff blurts out, carb-high and fuzzy-brained.
“Oh goodness, no. I’ve a cottage in the village below. I just take care of the place for the family. Left my number on the fridge for you. Anything you need, just call. Some other numbers there too—local things. Take-out menus too.”
“Is there Wi-Fi?”
“Oh sure, it’s everywhere these days, isn’t it? Just a bit spotty at times.”
Jeff doesn’t think of Angus as someone who uses the internet much. There’s something distinctly dated about the man, beyond his indeterminable middle-ageness. Some bygone old-world quaintness.
“Well,” Angus says again, rubbing his hands together. “Off I go. The keys are on the table by the front door. Enjoy your stay.”
And then, he’s gone.
Jeff eats another muffin, while Jenna picks at one. Jeff wants to tell her to just eat the entire thing and enjoy it, but he knows better.
“Should we have tipped him, you think?” he asks.
“Maybe we can leave something at the end?” She shrugs.
“Did you know he was going to be here?”
“Yeah, Jeff, I told you.” There’s a tone creeping into her voice that he doesn’t care for. Annoyance. Petulance. “You never listen, I swear.”
He tries to recall the conversation, but nothing comes to mind.
“Did you tell me he made muffins this good?” Jeff tries to joke. “Had I known, I would have come sooner.”
Jenna sighs, brushes the crumbs off her fingertips and says she’s heading upstairs to rest.
Jeff doesn’t know why everyone needs so much rest—he’s the one who did all the driving.
Well, doesn’t matter. More alone time for him.
He takes the muffin basket into the living room—the one Angus calls the parlor. It’s all leather chesterfields and quaintly embroidered footstools and small side tables of dark wood. There’s a large ornate fireplace and an imposing portrait above it of an older woman, with a face he’d call more handsome than attractive. Something too somber about her sharp features as if her face had been carved from a rock, but the combination is interesting, compelling. There’s an undeniable wry intelligence in the eyes, in the way they seem to follow Jeff around the room. A slight quirk to the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. It’s like . . . she’s summing him up.
Jeff isn’t much of an art fan, but he thinks it’s a good portrait. He doesn’t love it hanging there, watching him, but he can appreciate the quality of the work, how alive the woman looks.
That must be the famous Aunt Gussie, he figures, toasting the woman with a fresh muffin. Wishing he had a proper drink. And shouldn’t there be one? Isn’t there always a bar cart in places like these?
Jeff looks around and finds nothing. A dry Doyle house—what a joke. He’d have to make do with soda or whatever Angus left for them.
He gazes up. Gussie looks amused. Or so Jeff thinks. It’s difficult to tell in the low light streaming through the tall windows.
Jeff plops himself onto one of the chesterfields, his feet up. The baked goods are lulling him into a pleasant stupor. The place is quiet. It’s unusual to have a quiet house when all the family is present.
Jeff smiles contently. He can get used to this. Maybe this vacation won’t be a total shit show after all.