“Good morning,” Abby said. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“And I wasn’t expecting you to be here on a Saturday. I brought Mandy over to work on her project with Rachel.”
Abby would just bet she hadn’t expected her to be here. She stamped her feet to rid her boots of the caked-on snow. “Mitch has a lot of catching up to do at work right now, so I offered to work extra days for a while.”
“How kind of you.” Perky tipped her head to one side. “I don’t suppose that offer extends to evenings as well, does it? So that he can get out for some...adult time?”
You don’t suppose right, Abby thought, but she settled for a politer, “Unfortunately not.”
“Hm,” was the response. Assessing were the eyes. Then Perky shrugged. “Oh, well. I’ve waited this long to get that man to relax for an evening. I suppose I can wait a little longer.”
Abby was sure Mitch would be profoundly grateful to hear that. Her gaze traveled to Mandy, who stood to one side watching their exchange with wide eyes. “You can go inside, if you like, Mandy. Rachel is up in her room.”
Mandy sidled between them and headed for the porch, casting glances over her shoulder. Abby could just imagine the upcoming conversation between Rachel and her friend as they analyzed the exchange between nanny and mother, most likely punctuated by giggles and gasps and multiple exclamations of “No way!”
The front door closed behind Mandy, and Abby looked back to Perky. “I’ll make sure she calls you when they’re done.”
“Oh, she knows to do that. But seeing as how Mitch isn’t here, and I was hoping to invite myself in for a coffee...”
“I promised Kia and Britt that I’d make hot cocoa and watch a movie with them.”
“Another time, then.”
“Perhaps.”
Perky grinned and shook her head. “You needn’t be so shocked by me, you know. Nanny or not, you’re still a grown woman, and I’m sure you can understand my interest in your employer.”
I can, but I’m darned if I’ll admit it to you. Or myself.
“Your interest in Mitch is none of my business,” Abby replied. “But his desire not to have you ‘organizing his closets’—she emphasized the words ever so slightly—“is.”
To her surprise, Perky took no offense at her words and instead burst out laughing. “You’re too funny,” she declared. “You make a great watchdog, Abigail Jamieson, but I’m a determined woman, and I’m used to getting what I want.”
“Is that supposed to be a warning of some kind?”
“Let’s call it a declaration of intent. I hope you’ll honor it.”
Perky was back in her car and halfway down the street before Abby managed to close her jaw. She stared after the disappearing taillights. Well. That had certainly been blunt. She honestly had no idea how to respond to Perky’s overt intentions, but a part of her admired the woman’s sheer confidence. How must it feel to know what you wanted and simply go after it like that? Abby stamped her feet again, shedding the last of the snow from her boots, and then headed into the house.
Chapter 12
Abby had just finished loading up a tray with cocoa and snacks, destined for the basement television room, when she heard the garage door open, followed by the rumble of Mitch’s truck. She hesitated, then set the tray aside and took down another mug from the cupboard. By the time Mitch came in through the laundry room, she had a fourth cup of cocoa heating in the microwave. Mitch’s head poked through the doorway, followed by the rest of him.
“I swear I’ve hired a human dynamo,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the side of the pantry. “I came home early to clear the driveway before you could get outside, and you still beat me to it. Do you ever stop moving?”
“You didn’t hire me to sit around doing nothing,” Abby pointed out.
“No, but I didn’t hire you to work yourself to the bone, either. Especially when you’re putting in six days a week. You are allowed to take a break now and again, you know.”
And have time on my hands for thinking? No thanks.
“I like being busy, and besides, I’m about to watch a movie with Britt and Kiana. That’s almost two hours of sitting.”
He snorted. “Will you survive?”
Abby flinched from the squeeze of pain in her chest at the innocent question. She’d been asking herself the same thing since she and the girls had come into the house, steeling herself to be snuggled up on a couch with two warm little bodies, neither of which was her daughter. Trying, so very hard, not to let herself think about the awful hollowness at her center.
The fact that Mitch hadn’t meant his question that way mattered not at all.
Mitch’s brows twitched together. “You okay?”
“Of course. I’m fine.” But the brittleness of her tone said otherwise even to her, and Mitch’s eyes narrowed. Fortunately, the microwave beeped just then, and she turned away to remove the mug and give the cocoa a final, brisk stir, grateful for the chance to recover. Then she set the mug on the island countertop. “For you,” she told Mitch. “I was making some for the girls when I heard the garage door.”
For a moment, she thought he might not follow the change in subject, but at last he unfolded his arms and straightened away from the pantry.
“Thank you,” he said. “Do you mind if I take it into my office with me? I have a project estimate I need to finish today so I can have tomorrow free for the girls.”
“Of course.”
With a last thoughtful look over his shoulder, Mitch carried the mug from the kitchen. Abby put the almond milk back into the fridge, then closed the door and rested her forehead against the cool stainless steel. It would probably simplify things if she told him about William and Olivia so he understood her occasional odd response to something he or one of the girls said, but it didn’t seem right. His family had suffered a loss of their own, and she was here for their benefit, not hers. Besides, any show of sympathy right now was likely to result in her dissolving into a puddle—as it had with Gareth yesterday. It wasn’t a scenario she cared to repeat, especially with her new employer.
The whole talk about it approach recommended by therapists might work for others, but she much preferred the bury it as deeply as you can method. She just needed to try harder.
She pushed away from the fridge, picked up the tray, and went to join her charges.
***
“We're hungry,” Rachel announced a few hours later, marching into the kitchen with Mandy on her heels.
Abby looked up from peeling potatoes as the girls seated themselves on the stools at the island. She studied the determined set of Rachel's jaw and the challenging tilt of her head. Then she glanced at Mandy, whose round-eyed gaze darted from her friend to Abby and back again. Finally, she went back to the potatoes.
“Dinner is in an hour,” she said. “But there are some veggies cut up in the fridge if you'd like to have those.”
“We don't want vegetables. We want the muffins you made yesterday. With jam.”
Abby peeled another potato. “It's too close to dinner for muffins.”
“I don't think you understand, Abigail. I said, we want—”
“I'd like you to go upstairs to your room, Rachel.” Abby turned on the tap to rinse the colander of potatoes. “Mandy, it's time to call your mother and ask her to pick you up, please.”
“Excuse me?” Rachel's voice rose an octave—and several decibels—in indignation. “Who do you think you are, ordering me and my friend around? When I tell you to do something—”
“Rachel Marie Abrams!” Mitch's voice boomed through the kitchen, making all three of them jump—and Rachel squeak.
“Daddy! You're home!”
Mitch stalked into the kitchen, his scowl like an impending storm. He pointed at the doorway to the hall. “Upstairs,” he growled at his daughter.
“But I—”
“Now.”
Rachel jumped again at the bark of a word. Tears
filling her eyes, she slipped from her stool and scurried out of the room. Mitch turned his attention to Mandy.
“Abby asked you to call your mother. Get your things from Rachel's room and wait for her in the front hall.”
Mandy's head jerked up and down as if pulled by a string. “Yessir,” she croaked, trotting wide-eyed in Rachel's wake.
Silence descended over the kitchen. Abby watched Mitch curl his hands into fists at his sides and take a deep breath, his shoulders rigid and jaw clenched. Then he turned to her, his gaze hard.
“Has it been like this all week?”
“Actually, no. And yes, I would have said something if it was,” Abby replied. “I'm not the pushover you and your daughter both seem to think I am. She was showing off in front of Mandy. I was handling it.”
“I never thought you were a pushover,” Mitch disagreed, “but you shouldn't have to handle that. Not in my house. Apparently, I didn't make that clear enough to my daughter.”
“It really is okay,” she said. “Rachel is still figuring things out, that's all.”
He snorted his disbelief. “Fine. Then I'll help her figure.”
Abby filled the pot with enough water to cover the potatoes, set it on the stove, and switched on the burner. Then she turned to Mitch. “Look, I don't want to interfere between you and your daughter, Mitch, but I'm asking you to please not intervene on my behalf. I really can take care of myself where Rachel is concerned, and I would prefer to do so.”
“You're serious.” Mitch stared at her. “After what she just said?”
“Especially after that. You riding roughshod over her is just going to increase her resentment.”
“You're suggesting I not speak to her?”
“I'm suggesting you let me handle it my own way.”
Temper still simmered behind Mitch's gaze, and Abby could see the war he waged with himself, but at last he gave a single, terse nod. “Fine. But you need to keep me in the loop, so I know what I'm supposed to back you on.”
“Of course. Are you eating with us tonight, or do you want a plate in your office?”
“I have an estimate to finish, so office. Please.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but after a last shake of his head and tightening of his jaw, he headed back down the hall.
***
Mitch closed the door to his office and stood for a moment with his hand resting on the knob, staring at the shambles within but not really seeing it. His mind was too preoccupied with the kitchen scene. His daughter's outrageous behavior; Abigail's quiet, measured response, so unlike the overreactions of her predecessors—or his own, for that matter. He thought back to the slammed doors and raised voices over the last year and realized with a start that there hadn't been any of the usual drama in the house since Abigail's arrival.
Well—his mouth twisted—no drama except from Rachel.
Where the hell had that attitude come from? Had it been there all along? Was that what all the other nannies had been trying to tell him? A twinge of guilt rippled through him. He'd been so busy trying to keep himself afloat that he hadn't had time to listen—and, he admitted to himself, he hadn't wanted to hear or deal with it, either. He hadn't wanted to deal with a lot of things. Still didn't, if he was being honest, but Abigail hadn't left him a lot of choice with her three-month deadline.
What she had done, on the other hand, was bring an efficient confidence into the family that made it possible for him to breathe for the first time since Eve's diagnosis—something he hadn't been aware he'd stopped doing until now, when he realized his children were well enough cared for that he really might be able to get his act together.
Even the obnoxious oldest child.
Mitch's temper flared again at the memory of Rachel's haughty words. A part of him still wanted to storm up the stairs and ground her for a month, but another part of him—a surprising one—trusted Abigail to handle it as she'd asked. Trusted her judgment. He gave a soft snort. It was unfamiliar territory, this trust thing, because he certainly hadn't felt it where any of the other nannies were concerned. Maybe it was the age difference between her and the ones who'd seemed hardly old enough to look after themselves, never mind three children. He shook his head at himself. No, it was more than that. There was something else. A depth the others hadn't had. A compassion rooted in what felt like empathy rather than sympathy. Like there was more to Abigail's story than simply needing a job as a nanny.
He'd seen it in the haunted shadows in her eyes when she'd first arrived, and again when she'd informed him she would only stay for three months. He'd ignored the shadows because he had enough to worry about, he'd told himself, and because Abigail's business was her own. Which it was, except...
Except he couldn’t help but wonder who was looking after Abby's problems while she looked after his.
Chapter 13
Balancing a tray in one hand, Abby tapped on Rachel's door with the other. There was no answer. She tapped again and then turned the knob and pushed inside. The bedside lamp was on, but there was no sign of the girl other than a mound under the duvet. Abby carried the tray across the room and cleared a spot for it on the nightstand.
“I thought you might need a bit more time to yourself,” she told the lump of bed covers, “so I brought your dinner up for you.”
The lump didn't respond.
Abby chewed on her bottom lip. She'd run through a dozen conversations with Rachel in her head before coming upstairs, all of which felt like she'd be treading on the thinnest ice possible if she attempted them in real life. Finally, she'd decided on the simplest approach. But simple still didn't mean easy.
“I'm not your enemy, Rachel, and I won't let you make me into one,” she said. “Like it or not, your dad needs help getting things on track around here, and it's my job to give him that help. Part of that means looking after you girls, and yes, that includes discipline issues when they come up.” The mound of covers shifted. Abby waited, but no body parts emerged. Holding back a sigh, she kept her voice neutral. “That said, I've asked your dad to give you a one-time pass on what happened downstairs earlier. No lecture, no repercussions, nothing. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened. But it doesn't happen again, either.”
This time, the top of Rachel's head appeared from under the covers and pale green eyes, inherited from her father and swollen from crying, peered at Abby. “Daddy agreed?” she sniffled. “That's it?”
“It is if you want it to be.” Abby walked back to the door and stood in the opening, looking back at the girl in the bed and seeing the pain and loss behind the suspicion. She wanted to take Rachel in her arms and tell her that she understood more than the girl would ever know, but she didn't, both because she knew Rachel wouldn't welcome the sympathy and because she didn't trust herself not to come apart in the telling. So instead, she gripped the doorframe and said, “Whether you like it or not, I'm here until the end of January, Rachel. It's up to you to figure out how to deal with that.”
Softly, she closed the door behind her and went to run a bath for Kia’s wash-day—and to learn how to properly look after the very patient child’s hair.
***
Abby stared at the mug of cocoa that appeared between her and her book, then at the dark hand holding it, and then at Mitch.
“It's the powdered kind and not nearly as good as yours, but you've been waiting on this family hand and foot since you came,” he said, his expression inscrutable. “I figured it was my turn.”
“I've only been doing my job.”
“Maybe. But the hot chocolate is made now, so you might as well drink it.”
She hesitated, then laid aside the book and took the mug. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” He indicated one of the armchairs opposite the loveseat where she'd wrapped herself up in a blanket after tucking Kiana into bed. “May I?”
She hid a little smile. “My job, your house.”
“Good point.” Mitch settled with his own mug into the chair, liftin
g his feet onto the coffee table between them. “Thank you for overseeing baths and bedtime tonight. I was afraid if I stopped working on the estimate, I wouldn't be able to get back into it. Any trouble with Kia’s hair?”
“Now that I know what I’m doing, no. Thank you for the instructions.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry I didn’t think to give you a heads-up about it when you started here.”
Abby shrugged. “We had a lot of other stuff to deal with. I managed.” Not well, but she’d managed. “So did you get the estimate done?”
He nodded. “I sent it off a few minutes ago. Now I cross my fingers.”
Abby sipped at her hot chocolate. It was sickly sweet, but given Mitch's reputation with his daughters for cooking—and his burnt pancake history—she didn't suppose from-scratch cocoa was in his repertoire.
“Construction is a tough business,” she said. “How long have you owned your own company?”
“Three years. I bought into my boss's business. We're still partners—for now.”
“For now?”
“Derek is quite a bit older than I am, and his health isn't good. His husband has been nagging him about retiring.”
“Will you take over his share?”
“Ideally? Yes. Practically? It might be difficult.” He nodded at the mug in her hands. “How is it?”
“It's good,” she said. “Thank you again.”
He regarded her lazily. “You're just being kind, but you're welcome.” He waved off her objection with a grin. “I recognize the tone. Eve used it whenever I made her something, too. I'm pretty sure she was just glad she didn't have to do it herself.”
Abby tugged the blanket closer around her shoulders. “You must miss her.”
Mitch gave a soft snort. “I do when I have the time. There hasn't been a lot of that.”
He said it as a statement of fact, rather than a ploy for sympathy, but Abby's heart twisted a little at the sadness underlying the words. She'd had nothing but time in the year since William and Olivia had died, and she'd never stopped to consider that others might not have the opportunity to grieve. Odd how she and Mitch had lived two sides of the same coin.
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