CHAPTER ONE
The children are chattering. Some sing softly to themselves while others look around the room, lollipops in hand, occasionally glancing at their mothers, who are moving beyond the double French doors.
The doors click shut.
For a moment, the children look worried: mouths downturned, lollipop licking paused. They’re young, ages three and four, and their bodies stiffen with unease at watching their mothers go. But another woman enters the room smiling, and the children’s faces brighten at the sight of her. She’s beautiful, with diamonds the size of gumballs around her neck, a trail of heavenly perfume about her too.
The children look at her, awestruck, then confused. They’ve never seen her before. Until today, they’ve never had a reason to visit her Upper West Side apartment.
But I know Collette. I work for her, and not for much longer. After today, I won’t be her nanny anymore.
Collette hands them more candy and the children’s smiles widen, cherry-red flavoring sticking to the corners of their mouths. She points to a display of balloons and they giggle. She tells them about a birthday cake that is soon to come: four layers of vanilla sponge separated by strawberry icing, and the children settle into their seats, their mothers forgotten. For a short time, Collette seems happy too.
But then I see the way she looks at me and it feels as if ice has been dropped down my neck.
Collette wants to keep me.
The children face one another at a table, four girls and two boys plucked from a playground I stumbled upon several days ago. It was one of only a few parks I could find where the mothers would accept an invitation to a birthday party for a child they did not know.
They’d looked at me incredulously at first, asking, Why? Doesn’t the girl have her own friends from school? They wanted to know if I was crazy. They thought it was a joke. But after turning over the invitation cards in their hands, they saw the address and promised to show up promptly at 3:00 p.m. I’m sure the cash I handed them helped too.
For the party, the children are seated in a room usually reserved for elaborate dinner parties, the occasional high-profile guest. But not today—those occurrences are fewer and further between these days, and never on July 10.
Today, only children are welcome at West Seventy-eighth Street.
My eyes tick around the table and I see that the children are fidgeting again. They’re shifting in their seats, asking for cake. The patience of these preschoolers is waning by the millisecond, their shouts and sugar-high bouncing turning the room into a ticking time bomb.
Collette looks flustered too. She smooths the tablecloth with a snap, her hands trembling, an unmistakable twitch beneath her eye as she steals another glance at the door.
Where is the birthday girl? What’s keeping her?
Collette bursts forward to fill juice cups and adjust centerpieces. When she moves like this—jittery, sporadic, nerves jangling with caffeine and God knows what else she popped in her mouth before everyone arrived—she reminds me of a small bird. Thin. Eyes flickering. Body perched before darting away again.
Collette Bird. She couldn’t have married into a more perfect name for herself, and one of the wealthiest families in New York City too. Her wealth is what allows her to throw parties like this. It’s what allows her to get away with them too.
I look at my watch. One hour to go.
The room quiets, overhead lights dim, and out comes the cake. The housekeeper wheels it on a table as the children erupt into cheers, their small hands clapping, and they toss aside their lollipops.
One of the girls counts the candles out loud, “One, two, three, four. Same as me. I’m four years old!”
She looks around. So do the others.
But where is the birthday girl?
Collette glances at the door. I can almost hear her heart racing, the children’s eyes following hers. She rushes to the head of the table, a place setting she’s purposely kept empty, and pulls out a chair. She peers into the light shining from the hallway.
“Wait for it…” she says, a sharp intake of breath as Collette whispers excitedly, “Any time now…”
And then…
A sharp noise from the next room pierces the air, getting closer. My eyes race to Collette, who looks as if her heart has just been ripped from her chest.
CHAPTER TWO
“What do you think about me being a nanny?”
I hold up the flyer, the one I grabbed from the bulletin board in our apartment lobby.
Jonathan’s eyes drift toward me. There’s a layer of scruff on his chin from not having shaved yet this morning; his hair is a mess of thick waves across his head. In this light, I’m reminded of how handsome he is: rugged and sincere, the man who will be my husband. He rubs his chin, feeling my gaze landing there. I want to kiss that spot along his jaw, the one with the tiny white scar, and let my fingers trace the side of his face.
“Have you ever been a nanny?” he asks.
“I babysat in high school.”
“And that makes you qualified?”
“I was certified in CPR.”
He teases. “And when was that, ten years ago?”
I nudge him. “Don’t be mean. The ad doesn’t ask for any of that.”
He plucks the flyer from my hands. “Let me see.” We’re lounging on our bed, which later we’ll fold into a futon to make room in our tiny three-hundred-square-foot apartment. Two pillows are propped behind our backs, our legs stretched out in pajama pants, the coffee Jonathan makes for me every morning resting within arm’s reach on the floor.
He reads over the ad, the four short lines. “What’s with the discretion is of utmost importance part?”
“You mean the most interesting part?” I take back the flyer. “I think it must be a celebrity or someone important. I mean, the address is West Seventy-eighth.”
“It doesn’t say how many kids. It could be a dozen.”
“I doubt it.”
“Or an infant.” He inhales sharply. “Do you know how to handle babies?”
I think of my childhood: solitary, except for the one aunt who raised me. The ten-year-old twins I babysat in high school. Jonathan and I are making plans for our wedding but we’re still a long ways away from having our own children.
“I can figure it out,” I tell him.
“Why do you want another job anyway? I thought you liked it at Hearth.”
I sigh. I do like it at Hearth, the restaurant on the corner of East Thirteenth Street and First Avenue where we work. Jonathan helped me get the job a few months ago despite the fact that we were already engaged and didn’t tell the owner. Paul found out anyway and sat us down for a “serious talk,” warning us about arguing during shifts and said he didn’t want any drama. We told him not to worry. Jonathan and I never argue.
“I’ll work both jobs,” I tell him. “Nanny during the day and keep nights and weekends at the restaurant.”
“But you’ve already missed two shifts.”
“That was last week.”
“Paul keeps track.”
“The man’s all talk.”
Jonathan throws me a look. “I got in trouble because I didn’t set up my section correctly. He’s one of those three-strikes-you’re-out kind of guys.”
“I’ll make it work.”
“You’re talking as if you’ve already got the job.”
“Thinking positive, right?” I turn to him. “Anyway, what are you so worried about?”
“Besides the risk of you losing a good restaurant gig—”
“Which I won’t.”
“—you don’t know anything about this family. What if they’re batshit crazy?”
“At least they’ll pay me for it.” I point again at the address. “Probably pretty well if I had to guess.”
It’s his turn to sigh. “What if the dad comes on to you?”
I choke on my coffee, my hand wiping the dribble at my mouth.
“Come on,” Jonathan says. “You hear about that sort of thing all the time. Rich executive husband coming after the young, beautiful nanny.”
“Aww, you think I’m beautiful?” I bat my eyelashes.
“Of course you’re beautiful. And you’re young, you’re twenty-five.”
I roll my eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but you’re being a bit overdramatic.”
But Jonathan isn’t cracking an inch.
“Don’t you think the extra money would be nice?” I ask. “You can’t argue against that, can you?”
He tips his head. “Yes, the extra money would be nice—we need it, there’s no doubt about that.” His eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t say another word but I know he’s thinking about our debt. The envelopes stacked on the counter with a garishly red Past Due mark stamped across each one. The wedding we’d like to have some time this year if only we had the money. How we’re constantly living paycheck to paycheck.
We sit in silence. I’m chewing my bottom lip while he stares at the flyer and reads the ad one more time.
“You’d really work two jobs?” he asks.
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
“I could get an extra job too, you know.”
I squeeze his elbow, my heart warming, knowing he would do that in a heartbeat if he could. But he’s already working the most shifts anyone can have at Hearth and is always picking up extras when he can. No, I tell myself, another job for him is out of the question. I’m the one who needs to pick up the slack. It’s not his responsibility to pay my bills and get us out from under the mountain of debt I’ve found myself buried in. Filing for bankruptcy has come up more than once—a distinct possibility, I may not have a choice about it for much longer—and the thought of it makes me shudder. In truth, when Jonathan’s not looking, I bite my lip to keep from crying. I don’t want him to panic more if he doesn’t have to.
I tell him, “You already work so much. You’re paying most of the rent as it is and just about everything else. Besides, don’t you want to go back to school?”
He nudges my shoulder. “Don’t you want to go back to school?”
I scrunch against the pillows. “Of course. We both do. But that’s on pause, you know it is.”
Jonathan opens his mouth, closes it. This is an argument he’s lost many times before. We can’t afford it because the truth of the matter is, at this pace, living in the city, we’re both on a hamster wheel, making just enough to cover rent, utilities, some groceries, and nothing more.
And even though I’d been close to finishing my degree, the one I started back home in Virginia Beach a few years ago, all starry-eyed and looking forward to the day I could bring my sketches to life in the great big fashion world, Aunt Clara’s death changed all that—I had to give up and drop out. With the tidal wave of debt from her medical expenses, I couldn’t justify paying for college anymore. I had to work, so I packed away my dreams and my sketchbook and left school.
But after a couple more years of handing out one frozen daiquiri after another to tourists at the beach, I convinced myself to move to New York, the city Aunt Clara had loved and always dreamed of moving back to.
She told me, “It’s a place where anything’s possible. I never felt more alive than when I lived there.” And though I didn’t know a soul, had no idea where I’d find a new job, that sounded like a much better prospect than sleepy Virginia Beach.
So I told myself, if I had to work, the money I earned slowly chiseling away at the invoices from St. John’s Hospital, and the additional bills from Hospice Care, I could at least live in a place where I’d be surrounded by the fashion world, where the streets teemed with the latest designers and trends, with boutiques and showrooms on every corner, and I could find some inspiration again. Even if it took me years of waiting tables before I could afford to go back to school.
I just never realized how expensive living here would be.
Meeting Jonathan helped, not only with the apartment but with the job at Hearth. And he knows how precarious my situation is. He’s seen how high the stack of bills is getting. He hears me on the phone several times a week begging the debt collectors for one more extension and how defeated it leaves me feeling afterward. He hugs me every time and reminds me to breathe. He tells me it’s going to be all right, we’ll figure out a way together even though neither of us has a solution yet—not until this flyer at least.
Jonathan says, “How much do nannies make these days anyway?” My eyes slide toward him, and I feel a small jolt of hope he might be coming around to the idea.
“I’m not sure, but it would definitely help, especially if I can stay at the restaurant.”
“Let’s hope so. I’d like it if we could keep working together.”
I smile. Oh, my fiancé. The romantic. One of maybe only ten left in the city and somehow I managed to snag him.
Aunt Clara always told me not to settle. Don’t fall for a guy unless he makes you a priority. And I’ve found that with Jonathan, I know I have. He’s my everything, and I’m his everything too. We have each other’s backs. How I wish Aunt Clara could have met him and seen how happy I am.
She’d been in love once too. She never told me much about it, only that it was a love she’d found while living in New York. I could tell from the flicker in her eyes how deep it was.
She never said much but I imagine Aunt Clara’s relationship ended because of me. After my parents died, she was the only family I had left and I changed everything for her. She left New York, she left him, and she moved to Virginia to care for me. She told me all the time how I ended up being the greatest love of her life instead.
Now here I am, living in the big city where she had always wanted to return and planning a wedding. I’m sharing my life with someone who wants the best for me. But by the way he’s looking at me now, the way he’s running the different scenarios in his head, I can tell Jonathan is worried about the pitfalls I might be overlooking.
If I lose my job at Hearth and work days as a nanny while he spends nights and weekends at the restaurant, we’ll have little time together. We’ll be like ships passing in the night and he doesn’t want that.
I offer some hope. “Maybe I’ll make enough from the nannying job that I can start paying off everything, or at least put a dent in it. I can go back to school, finally get a salary, do what I really want to do. You can go back to school too. Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t you want that for me?”
“Of course.” He turns serious. “Of course, I want that for you. For us.” He takes another long look at the flyer. “So, Upper West Side, huh?” He mulls it over. “It does sound fancy.”
I nod, picturing for the seven hundredth time what I think the apartment will look like: a doorman, Venetian marble, silk drapes with tassel trim. A glamorous family stepping out on the town with me following and children in tow, obedient and dressed to the hilt.
“You think anyone else in this building is going after the job?”
I blink, visions of the picture-perfect family coming to a halt.
“The flyer,” Jonathan says. “How many were there?”
I stare at the copy in my hands. “This was the last one.” I feel a tight squeeze in my gut.
I don’t know why, but I don’t tell him the copy I’m holding is not the last flyer but the only flyer left in our lobby. I’ve been waiting for him to wake up to tell him about it. Last night I was coming down the stairs as someone was pinning it to the bulletin board. I saw only the back of his head before he turned and walked out the door.
I’d tried looking up the job on my phone, hunting for more information than the brief description on the ad. But I couldn’t find anything posted, not on Craigslist or any other job placement boards. From what I could tell, there was no public listing anywhere.
And that’s when it dawned on me: this family is so discreet they sent a courier to walk the streets of the East Village instead of looking for a nanny online. It’s their way of controlling how many people see it, reducing the number of respondents.
Making sure whoever does apply for the job can handle Special conditions apply.
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