Aspen reread Shep's letter for the eighth or ninth time and then set it aside, thinking. After she'd read it the first time, she'd understood why it had taken her old friend over a week to reply to her.
She stirred the pot of soup on Gus and Brigitte's stove top and then sat back down with her pen and stationery box. No words were coming to her mind, though.
"What the heck am I supposed to say. She's responsible for her mother's death and she thinks her father hates her," Aspen said to Bartholomew, the Moneypennys' cat.
"Meeeeerrrrow," said the cat, walking away with a flick of his tail.
"Oh, Aspen! What a pleasant surprise!" said Brigitte, coming into the mansion's kitchen.
"Hi," said Aspen. "I hope it's not a problem that I'm preparing your lunch here today instead of in my own kitchen."
"I like your company, my dear," said Brigitte. "You can make lunch over here every day, if you'd like."
"I figured it made sense. I'm making dinner in here every afternoon. I thought I might as well make lunch in here too, and then I don't have to carry it on that cobblestone path."
"Yes, that works just fine," said Brigitte. Then she cleared her throat and her watery blue eyes met Aspen's eyes. "How's everything in the guest house?"
"Good," said Aspen. She searched Brigitte's face, wondering what she knew.
"You're comfortable there?"
"Sure," said Aspen. "It's a lovely little house and you've decked it out with all the cozy things a person could ask for. I don't think we could fit another quilt or teacup in it without the walls bursting open."
"Is it too cluttered?" asked Brigitte, looking genuinely horrified at the notion.
"No," Aspen laughed. "It's just right."
"And the children. How are they liking it?"
"They love it," said Aspen. That seemed to be the truth. Neither seemed to be picking up on the nightly—and sometimes daily—visitors that were beginning to drive Aspen mad.
"Alright," said Brigitte. There was an awkward pause so Aspen stirred the soup a little more and added a pinch of salt to it.
"What about school?" Brigitte said brightly. "Are Stormy and Normy enjoying it?"
"They seem to be fitting right in," said Aspen. "They've each made friends already."
"Oh, how wonderful. The Burgy Blossom school district is the best in the state. I suppose you already knew that when you decided to move here."
"Oh, of course," said Aspen, even though it wasn't the kind of thing she'd even considered.
"You know," said Brigitte, "the cable sometimes doesn't come in so well in the guest house."
"I haven't noticed a problem."
"Well, if you do—" Brigitte said.
"I'm not that much of a television watcher," Aspen interrupted. "I'd just read a book."
"But if you were wanting to watch a program and you were having any trouble... with reception," said Brigitte, "you'd be welcome to use our den here at night. We're in bed by eight or nine at the latest. If you wanted to come back here after you tuck in the kids and watch television for an hour or two, you'd be more than welcome to."
Aspen nodded. "Maybe," she said. "I appreciate the offer."
"Gus and I really think you're doing a nice job. We'd hate to lose you," said Brigitte. She said it rather... forcibly. Desperately almost.
Aspen nodded again, anger rising in her like bile. She knows. This sweet old lady knows that the guest house is haunted as hell and she's going to do whatever it takes to keep me from leaving like everyone else did. She's even suggesting I let my kids sleep there alone so I can get a break from it.
"Where is Gus?" Brigitte asked brightly, looking at the delicate antique watch on her narrow, liver spot-covered, crepe paper-skinned wrist.
"He's still raking leaves," said Aspen, pointing out the window above the sink.
"I'll go get him. I could use some fresh air."
"I'll have everything ready for you in the dining room whenever you come back in," Aspen said, since the bowls and bread were already in there waiting.
"That will be very nice, dear," said Brigitte, bundling herself into a padded down coat and mile-long scarf, despite that it was forty-five degrees outside. She looked cute. Like a kid about to topple over. Aspen sighed, already on the brink of forgiving her. After all, it wasn't her fault the guest house was haunted. And wouldn't Aspen do the same thing if she were in her shoes?
As soon as Brigitte stepped outside, Aspen sat down at the kitchen table and composed a letter to Shep:
November 18, 1989
Burgy Blossom, Iowa
Dear Shep,
Forgive me if this is a quick note. I'm writing it while I cook lunch for Gus and Brigitte.
Wow! I'll just come out and say it—I'm honored and touched that you've shared so much with me. I'm also very sad for you.
Yes—that splotchy water mark on the page is a tear drop.
Actually, it was soup. But what a lucky mistake! That splotch really added something to their exchange. It was theatrical without being melodramatic. Respectful of the seriousness of their conversation. Reverent, even. Aspen considered dripping some more soup on the page, but was afraid it might make the letter smell like a cafeteria so she refrained.
"You always did have a flare for the subtle," she murmured to herself, giving the splotch a tender little kiss before continuing:
I know you don't want my pity, Shep, but I can't help feeling distraught over the injustice of it all. I can't believe you went through all of this and I never knew. It just shows how in-my-own-world I was!
Have you tried getting in touch with your dad? Do you even want to? If you need a friend to help you do it, count me in. Or, if you're not quite ready for that, I say we hunt down Nadine Karpinsky and make her pay.
About being a mom and feeling guilty: As a parent, especially a single parent, so much of my kids' lives, happiness, future, success, etc. is really up to me. So if I get exhausted and slack off for a while, that's a missed opportunity to love them or enrich their lives or help them become stronger and smarter. Any time I take time for myself, it's time away from them. So, the guilt. I'm not complaining, just explaining. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. My life is definitely better with them in it!
Like my bosses, this job is getting old. Gus and Brigitte are working me to death! The worst chore of all? Darning socks. Why don't people this rich just buy some new ones?
Aspen chewed her pen, debating whether or not to mention her unwelcome visitor. Because things were getting worse. Just let night, after the kids had gone to bed, she'd looked up to discover the low ceiling of the guesthouse kitchen covered in a thin, smoky blue haze. She'd squinted and stood up, sniffing. Was the house on fire? All she could smell was the faint, cool, damp scent of soil. The kitchen turned colder and the smell intensified. It reminded her of a a root cellar. Or a grave. She'd turned on the light above the kitchen sink, and as the kitchen brightened up a bit the haze dissipated. The soil smell went away.
The whole incident lasted less than a minute or so, but it had left her completely shaken. She'd checked on the children and then tucked herself into bed, pulling the blankets up to ears, and barely slept all night.
Had it all been in her head? It had seemed so real, but now, in the light of day, it seemed like she must have imagined it all.
Shep was so practical, and she was dealing with what was essentially post-traumatic stress disorder.
"How selfish of me to have never seen it," Aspen whispered aloud. She sighed. But that was her thing. Selfishness. Before the twins were born, she'd never even considered the feelings of anyone but herself. And once they came along, sure, she was devoted to them, but wasn't it because they were a part of her? Wasn't loving your kids just an extension of selfishness?
Her own small, ghostly problems would probably seem delusional or fanciful in comparison to Shep's huge, very real problems, she realized. Shep's own issues relating to death and the netherworld were enough for one friendship. "Keep it light," she told herself, and finished off the letter with:
Oh, shoot! What's that burning smell? Oops, it's their lunch. Yikes, gotta go!
Aspen a.k.a. Cinderella