by P. Dangelico
“Hi, I’m here to see Jordan West.”
The snobby doorman does not recognize me because I get an actual smile. “Is he expecting you, miss?”
“Not today,” is my well crafted reply. Which is technically true.
He picks up the phone and calls up. Someone answers. “There’s a young lady here to see you Mr. West. A…”
“Riley James,” I say, forcing myself to speak. I’m getting the same feeling right now that I did the first time I kissed my one and only boyfriend, Jimmy Gates. And the feeling is, this might turn out okay or I may regret it for the rest of my life. The kiss turned out okay. Which means my odds are not looking good this time around. Law of averages and all that.
“A Miss Riley James…hmm.”
After a few moments of silence, the doorman hangs up. “Penthouse. The elevator is on its way for you.”
Gain access: check. Step one accomplished.
Like clockwork, the elevator arrives and transports me to the top floor. On the way up, a new round of the stomach willies kicks up and I send a silent prayer of gratitude that I took the second Pepto. Because nothing says you should hire me like getting a nasty case of the runs at a prospective new boss’s house.
Before I get a chance to ring the doorbell, as I’m in the middle of pulling myself together, plucking the shirt away from my boobs, the front door abruptly swings open.
How to describe the scene…
In the threshold stands a man… a disheveled man in jeans and a black T-shirt holding a baby girl… an Asian baby girl who’s wearing a small… baby helmet. A disheveled man holding a baby girl––around two years old is my best guess––who is crying her eyes out while wearing a baby helmet.
Huh.
What follows is a good few seconds of staring at each other while West bounces the baby on his hip. It’s impossible not to stare. West has one of those shockingly beautiful male faces that make most people stupid. Then he opens his mouth and the fascination dies an explicable sudden death.
Back to right now, though. Right now the expression of pure exasperation on his face tells me everything I need to know about him––dude is in way over his head with this baby. On the inside, I’m pleasantly smiling. What a delightful balm to my exhausted nerves and unreliable stomach.
“Come in,” he says and walks away.
He doesn’t even look surprised to see me. Which is strange. Then again, strange seems to be our thing. I assume I’m meant to follow, so I do, down the hallway, walking in big strides just to keep up with him.
In daylight his home is even grander and more intimidating than it is at night. The ceilings are very high, giving the place an almost church-like feeling compelling one to speak in hushed tones. The austere contemporary furniture in shades of gray and brown looks too expensive to touch. I’m getting depressed just walking through the place.
Along the way, multiple female voices spring up and continue to grow bolder, echoing into the hallway the closer we get to the living room.
“I’m done discussing this, Joan…,” says a woman with a Caribbean accent.
“Gabby, I’m begging you…”
I follow West into the living room which overlooks Central Park and the first thing I notice is the view. Done by design, no doubt, it is a sight to behold. I would be mesmerized were it not for the two older women in the midst of a heated discussion.
“I understand you have a problem, but we all agreed on two weeks.” The Caribbean accent belongs to a black woman with close cropped white hair, wearing peach lipstick and a mauve nurses uniform, her expression more than a little annoyed. “You were in a bind, and I did my best to help you out. The Johnsons made arrangements the moment they found out they were pregnant and I’m not about to break my commitment to them.”
“You can’t just abandon us like this. You’re the only one we trust––” replies the other one, a white woman around early sixties with short silver hair and a sharp calculating look in her green eyes. There’s no mistaking that the green-eyed one looks a lot like West.
“Call the agency whose number I emailed you,” the Gabby woman tells her while she retrieves a purse from the couch and slings it over her shoulder. “Maybe they can help.”
“Nobody nearly as qualified as you,” is the green-eyed one’s––possibly West’s mother––shrilly response.
“It’ll be fine, Joan. I promise.”
The Gabby woman squeezes the Joan woman’s arm and walks past her.
“Bye, Gabby. Thank you,” West calmly adds as he watches her go.
I’m surprised to discover West speaking to anyone with warmth in his voice. I didn’t think he was physically capable. The guy has the personality of a pet rock. Warmth is not exactly in his wheelhouse. Another equally shocking discovery…he looks sorta kinda normal holding that baby.
“Bye, baby. Good luck,” she replies with a gentle smile directed at West. Then she exits down the hall.
Brooding, the woman who I assume is his mother watches the Gabby woman leave. As soon as that’s over, the sharp green stare refocuses. Her head slowly turns, and turns, and the green stare lands on me. Every hair follicle on my body stands up straight.
“Who’s this?”
“Riley James Jr,” answers West in that blasé way he has about him.
His mother makes a face. “How odd.”
Internally, I cringe, my neck prickling with heat. It confuses people when they hear the Jr. And it’s too much trouble to explain that my father was absolutely convinced I was going to be a boy and never recovered when he discovered I was a girl.
“Just, um, Riley James is fine.”
“Nice to meet you Riley James is fine. I’m Congresswoman West.”
Yikes.
“My mother,” West adds. As if that needed clarification. My soon-to-be new boss approaches, bouncing the baby on his hip. She’s really cute and in obvious distress even though the crying has transformed into soft whimpering.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
This is a curveball I hadn’t anticipated. His mother looks like a suspicious meddler, a politician no less. The odds of me pulling this off and convincing him to give me the job have now dropped significantly. I’m bummed, my shoulders slumping with the corresponding sentiment.
“Why are you here?”
“She’s my new assistant,” West replies like it’s no big deal.
Conversely, my surprise cannot be contained. “I am?”
“She is?” his mother simultaneously asks.
“You wanted me to hire an assistant. Here she is.”
Mrs. West makes yet another pained face. “She’s a little young, isn’t she?”
“She’s old enough.” His attention pivots to me. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
I mean…yeah, but isn’t he even going to interview me? “Yeah, but…aren’t you going to interview me?”
“Saving my life qualifies. And it’s yes. Yeah is unprofessional.”
My entire face flares cherry red. “Yes.”
“Saving you? From what?” his mother asks.
Saving his life is a bit of an overstatement. At the most, he might’ve taken a few more shots to that pretty face had I not intervened, but I’m not going to quibble. I have the job. I got the job with minimal effort and no begging, so I’m not about to do or say anything to jeopardize that. One thing Tommy has taught me is the secret to success in life half the time is not getting in your own way.
Ignoring his mother’s question, West comes closer and holds out the baby. “Take her.”
“Oh, I don’t––” Too late. He dumps the baby in my arms without even a second warning. Good thing I’m used to lifting heavy objects.
The baby immediately wraps her tiny legs around my waist like octopus tentacles––she has a surprisingly strong grip––and lays her head on my shoulder, her helmet hitting me in the chin.
West exhales tiredly. He watches me with an unreadable expression.
&nbs
p; “What’s her name?”
“Maisie.”
“Congratulations on being a father. She’s beautiful.” She really is just the cutest baby.
“Not mine,” he says.
Oh. Because that’s not weird.
“Not yours?” Probably not a good idea to accuse my new boss of being a child thief but whose baby is this? “Whose baby is this then?”
“Eli’s.”
“And Eli is…”
“Not here.”
The man is a human Rubik’s Cube, a lot of work and not worth the effort. “I’m not very good with kids,” I feel compelled to explain. Just in case he was getting any ideas.
“Probably not, but we don’t really have a choice right now, do we?” his mother says, jumping into the conversation once again. Very unpleasant woman. Which explains a lot. It makes me feel sorry for her son.
And why is she implying that I’m the choice? Because child care is not what I signed up for. I signed up for screwing up Zoom meetings, not screwing up toddlers.
“So…the nanny isn’t coming back?”
While West casually walks to the window overlooking Central Park, his mother lays a look of pure contempt on me.
“Gabby Walters is the most sought after child care professional in the city.”
No mystery where West gets the attitude.
“Sorry. Is the child care professional coming back?”
Her shoulders fall and she gets a hopeless look on her face. Shoot. This does not bode well for me. “No. She’s not.”
“But someone else is, right?” I nervously glance between mother and son.
She frowns––or what I imagine would be a frown were it not for the copious amounts of Botox in her face. “Try getting a last-minute qualified child care provider in this city”––she scoffs––“impossible.”
I’m about to ask about an unqualified one because what’s the alternative? Me? No. Absolutely not.
His mother’s gaze falls on the quiet child tucked in my arms, her baby fists holding tightly onto my shirt, her head resting on my shoulder, a wet spot developing on the delicate silk from her tear-soaked cheeks. For the first time I see the severe lines on Mrs. West’s face soften. “You’ll do for now.”
How the heck did I get roped into this? “No ma’am. I am seriously unqualified––like a danger to this child. I don’t even know which way is up or down on her.”
Mrs. West points to Maisie’s mouth. “That’s where the food goes.” Her short French-manicured nail points to Maisie’s butt. “That’s where the poop comes out. You clean both in that order.”
After which, the woman picks lint off her white linen shirt, fixes the wooden bangles jangling on her wrists, and grabs her purse off the chair next to her. “Well…I’ve got to get back to DC.” Tucking it under her arm, she makes for the exit.
“You’re leaving?” West asks in that irritatingly indifferent tone.
“My work here is done. I’ll call when I find someone more suitable, Jordan.” Looking directly at me, she adds, “Try not to break her in the meantime.”
Out she goes without a backward glance, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and a lot of confusion in her wake. The confusion is all mine of course.
Chapter Six
Riley
I’m not a kid person as a general rule. I don’t gush when I see babies. I don’t dream of a family. I mean, one would be nice, someday, but it’s not a priority. Besides, with who?
Bottom line, I don’t know anything about kids. I was barely a kid myself––and even then, not for very long. If you’ve ever lived with a chronically sick person, you know that life revolves around them while yours gets pushed to the back burner, if not off the stove altogether.
All I can remember up until the day Tommy saved my life is hospitals, and nurses, and the smell of vomit and antiseptic cleanser. My mother screaming not to play near the oxygen tank. My dad telling me it was okay. That it wasn’t my fault that Mom was upset. That she was just tired from lack of sleep.
And yet here I am…a child care provider for a toddler.
“Um, Mr. West,” I say, testing his name out. Awkward but what else do I call my new boss?
“Jordan,” he’s quick to correct.
“Jordan…” Yeah, okay, that feels weird too. “I’m not a babysitter.”
“No, you’re not. You’re my assistant and I need assistance with my God child.”
God child…another crumb of information to stash away and examine later. He’s not exactly the forthcoming type and managed to side stepped the question about Maisie’s parents pretty smoothly. I’ll bide my time for now. It’s too soon to start pelting him on personal matters.
I take a seat on the couch, the baby getting heavy in my arms. She barely stirs.
“Mr. West…” Um awkward. “Jordan, I––”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” he says, interrupting. “I need you here seven days a week.”
“Seven?!”
“For now––until I find someone else. And some nights.”
“Nights?”
Here? I have to sleep here? With him in the house? This is escalating quickly.
“Yes. I’m paying you three thousand a week, I expect you to be available to me.”
That would’ve sounded super dirty if his voice wasn’t so hollow. Then I recall…
“You said four thousand.”
Green eyes narrow on me. His hands, his nice hands, go to his hips and stay there. A moment of intimidating silence ensues in which I start to regret my bout of courage. He undoubtedly learned this trick from his mother. “Three thousand.”
“Four thousand,” I insist. I don’t know what just came over me, but the cat’s out of the bag now. I can’t take it back. Go big or go home. “That was your offer when you came to my job site. And now you want a few nights so…”
His mouth gets a little tight. If he thinks he’s going to “silent treatment” me into submission, he’s got another think coming.
“Four thousand, and you jump when I say so,” he says eons later, breaking the stalemate.
I try not to react but the thrill of victory is coursing through my veins. There’s nothing like winning a hotly contested negotiation and the smile spreading across my face can’t be denied. “Deal.”
He checks me out, scrutinizing my hair and clothes. “Dress casually. Bring stuff to keep here.”
That’s when I get a feeling, a thought. Something strikes me as strange. Do I point out that he’s essentially asking a total stranger to move into his place and take care of a baby? West is a human island. The man barely speaks and he’s inviting me into his home?
“You’re okay with me living here part-time? Like…you don’t know me.”
I should be treading as carefully as possible and yet here I am, tempting the devil.
West sits on the armrest of the couch, facing me. “Riley James Jr, age twenty-six. Birthday, January 18. Five foot nine. A hundred and twenty-five pounds. Never been arrested. Credit score 800. That makes you less of a risk than most people.” A pause. “And don’t say like, it’s unprofessional.”
The grammar lesson flies right past me as I digest the rest of his little speech.
“How did you…wait, I didn’t give you any of my info.” His expression shifts to one you could describe as amused––for a robot that is. “How do you know so much about me?”
He shrugs. Not an ounce of shame or remorse to be found anywhere on him. “There are ways.”
I’m starting to get a clear picture of his ways and I’m not sure I like them. “Pretty sure that’s, again, illegal.”
The sense of entitlement with this guy is off the charts.
“Be here at seven a.m. tomorrow. I’ll fill you in on the rest.”
“Fine,” I say, slowly and carefully handing him the baby who has somehow dozed off. “But you’re wrong.”
He frowns.
“A hundred twenty-nine pounds.”
�
�A nanny?” My mother scrutinizes me above the rim of her Dunkin’ Donuts coffee mug.
It’s mornings like this one, when I glance around my little kitchen, the one I painstakingly renovated by myself––built the cabinets, stained them with no less than four layers of an Italian grey stain, at the white marble counters and subway tile backsplash I saved for an entire year to buy––that fills me with pride.
I did this. I built a business from the ground up out of nothing. The money we got from my father’s settlement didn’t last very long––most of it went to paying medical bills––and the little that was put aside for me helped me buy this place.
I think I can handle a toddler. I’ve definitely handled worse.
I do my best to avoid her scrutiny over the rim of mine. “Hmmm…,” I say to that, taking a sip of my coffee to delay the inevitable. “Not exactly. It’s a temporary situation. Until her father comes back.”
And who knows when that will be. First order of business is to get to the bottom of that situation. And what exactly is the deal with the mother? Where is that woman? How could she just abandon a two-year-old?
“But you don’t know anything about taking care of a child,” my most ardent supporter says. That’s sarcasm if you missed it.
Wrong, I know plenty now. I spent a big part of the night online reading and watching everything I could find on toddlers. Thank God for YouTube. Not to mention, I pretty much took care of myself when I was a kid. That must account for some knowledge.
“I’ll figure it out…besides, it’s not for long. Her father is…um, away and should be back soon.”
My mother’s expression matches my thoughts. She’s thinking bullshit. And she’s not wrong.
“You’re late.” My new boss declares the moment the door swings open. It’s safe to say this is going to be a painful few months. Better learn how to grin and bear it.
“Good morning,” I say, forcing some cheer upon him. He looks like he needs it. That and an enema.