“Okay, that’s enough, Charlotte.”
But Charlotte stared right back at her nanny and said, “I’m just trying to get to know you.” And with that, she marched down the aisle and plopped herself in Smitty’s lap. Smitty startled awake, but then let Charlotte rest her head against his shoulder. Ryan couldn’t believe that, until last night, she’d thought he was just a roadie, when in fact he was this amazing guitarist who had been with Marcus his entire career, and even co-written a couple of his smash hits. Smitty was such a good guy, and Ryan felt thankful that his kindly presence translated into some down-time for her.
She didn’t know what it was like to be a child of divorce. Her own parents had had a pretty great marriage––maybe not the most exciting marriage in the history in the world, but a stable and loving one, at least––so she had no idea what it would have been like to be exposed so early to a relationship that had withered and died. It made her sad that Charlotte knew about such things as “loving somebody else” at her age. Ryan herself had known that a relationship could end painfully, that loss and betrayal existed as concepts, for some time. But she’d never really known the pain of being abandoned, thrown away like yesterday’s newspaper, until Nick and Natalie had hooked up, destroying her two closest relationships in the process.
Ryan still couldn’t believe they’d done that to her. She’d been with Nick for almost a year, and it had been––or so she’d thought––the best year of her life. She and Nick were so alike. They loved all the Montana stuff: hiking, canoeing, kayaking, and running, sometimes fitting in three sports activities in a day. It drove their friends crazy, how active they were, and the couple was often teased for their well-scrubbed, all-American obsession with fitness. But Ryan never felt more alive than when she was outside, taking in the natural beauty of her home state, those endorphins pulsing through her and making her feel strong and almost giddy. And when she’d found someone to share that with, well, she’d felt like she’d found the first true companion of her life.
So when she’d innocently picked up Nick’s phone one day and seen an insanely racy sext message from Natalie, her best friend since middle school, it cut her deep. She confronted Nick right away, shocking the hell out of him, and getting straight answers before he could make up lies. He’d been fooling around with Nat on the side for more than a month, during which he’d told Ryan he loved her probably a gazillion times. Baldfaced dishonesty like that? To Ryan, it was disgusting.
After the breakup, Nick had left with his buddy Jack on a summer-long road trip to God knows where. She didn’t know if she’d ever see him again. She did know that it would be a good, long time—years, maybe—before she’d be in a relationship again. Being single was a little lonely at times, sure, but it beat being so depressed she couldn’t even get out of bed.
Ryan’s phone buzzed. For a minute, she thought she might have conjured Nick just by thinking negative thoughts about him, but it was just a text from Em.
Hey you, it read. Just a heads up. Guess who popped up on my Internet today? You! You’re famous!
Em had posted a link, which Ryan clicked on right away. It took her to a website she had never heard of called CelebriBites. After clicking on a headline that read, “Troy Tour Takes Off,” she found a slide show with captions. Most of the photos, of course, were of Marcus, talking and laughing and being his charming self while a drenched Serena held his umbrella for him, though there were also a few of Jacey and her band entering the hotel at God knew what hour of the morning.
But there was, just as Em had said, a single photo of her. It showed a vexed-looking Ryan covering Charlotte’s and Miles’s faces from the light of the flash. Her shirt was soaked, and horrifyingly, see-through. The caption read: “Introducing Marcus Troy’s hot new nanny, Ryan (no last name yet, folks, but we’re working on it).” The story had been posted a full day earlier, and there was only one comment. “What’d she have to do to get that job?” asked somebody named BRadfar, “Win a wet T-shirt contest in that hick town where Troy lives these days?”
Oh my God, she texted Em. Not good.
Em texted back a sad-face emoticon, and Ryan opened a browser window on her phone, typing in “Marcus Troy Nanny Ryan,” but she found no other images of herself, and at least at first glance, no other site had posted that particular picture. It was impossible to tell, of course, but CelebriBites couldn’t have been too popular if the story had been up a whole day and there was only one comment. She Googled “Ryan Evans” and the picture didn’t appear. That must have meant that nobody had managed to sleuth out her last name yet. Maybe that also meant nobody cared about her and her wet T-shirt. She just hoped it would stay that way. Was this what it meant to be part of Marcus’s life—you would be subjected to the constant threat of Internet exposure? How did he live this way, and how would anyone else begin to share a life with him in an environment like this?
“Hi there,” Marcus said suddenly, plopping down in the seat across from hers. “Mind if I hang here for a minute?”
“Oh hey,” she said, cramming her phone into her bag. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” He unbuttoned a button on his shirt, which made Ryan swallow, hopefully invisibly. “I’m just killing time, I guess.”
“Why, thank you. How flattering.”
Marcus laughed, a bit uncomfortably. Ryan was trying to hold it together. Wasn’t there a law against taking a picture of someone without his or her permission? Didn’t that photographer need a release from her before selling (she assumed) the picture to a gossip blog? She tried to block out these thoughts and focus on what Marcus was saying.
He’d been acting a little odd since that instant they’d locked eyes, when he’d lost his place in that dark, strange song of his. Not that Ryan was absolutely sure that she was the reason he’d spaced out, but there had definitely been a moment. And ever since, Marcus had seemed unfocused. Unlike the friendly, teasing, naughty character he’d been only yesterday morning, the man in front of her seemed a little forlorn.
“I liked that song of yours,” she said, thinking it might cheer him up to hear praise for the song that the audience hadn’t seemed to appreciate very much.
“Oh yeah? Which one?”
“That super-depressing one. About locking the door on yourself.”
“Are you being serious?”
“Yeah. I liked it. It was…interesting.”
“Interesting? I’d rather say you loved it or you hated it. But ‘interesting’? Interesting is the kiss of death.”
Ryan realized she was no music critic, but how could interesting be considered an insult? She realized she was in over her head—Marcus probably didn’t get a whole lot of criticism on new compositions from his staff—but tried to come up with something intelligent to say.
“No, I really mean it. Most of your music is good-time music.”
“Ouch.”
Everything she said was turning into an insult, somehow, though this was the exact opposite of what she meant. She’d had no idea how sensitive musicians could be.
“Well, it makes people feel good—you see that, right? They were loving it. But in that ‘Lock the Door’ song, you were obviously digging deeper, and I for one appreciated it.”
”Really? Do you mean that?”
“I did. I mean, it was a little dark and a little weird, and I don’t know if I understood every line, but life can be dark and weird, and sometimes people need to hear about that, too.”
“Exactly.” He leaned forward in his seat. “I just wish I could do more of that—sing about whatever’s on my mind, without worrying whether it’s going to work as a video or get radio play, you know?”
“Listen, I can tell what you’re trying to do. You want to reinvent your style, to give your audience something that’s actually challenging.”
“Right!” Ryan couldn’t believe that Marcus actually cared about her opinions on his music. “The only problem is, they’re there to see us play the songs they’ve
known for years. They basically just come so they can drink and party with their friends.”
“And you know this how, exactly?”
“I don’t know, maybe by the deafening silence that followed the song?”
“Well, it’s a new song, right?”
“Yeah, very new.”
“Maybe it’s not finished yet.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That song is perfect.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Ryan had no idea where this confidence came from, but somehow she felt comfortable telling Marcus exactly what she thought. He looked strong enough to handle it.
“Well, how would you change it, then?”
“That’s your job.” Ryan laughed. “I mean, I would have no idea, but…”
“What?” Marcus leaned forward. He was actually waiting with bated breath, or so it seemed, to hear Ryan’s thoughts on the craft of songwriting.
“Well, that song is personal, and it’s dark. Almost hopeless. And if you go that dark, you need to show a little glimmer of light, too.”
“A glimmer of light?”
“Yeah, like, if you lock the door, you need to unlock it, too. Show people a little hope.”
“Who are you, Ryan Evans? Are you a rock critic, posing as a nanny?”
“Nope, I’m just a nanny,” Ryan said. “But I’m an honest nanny.”
She thought, Hopefully I’m not going to become a celebrity, wet T-shirt nanny.
…
Marcus tried his best not to show it, but Ryan’s critique had unnerved him. Ever since he’d come up with “I Lock the Door,” he had considered it one of the best songs he’d ever written. He knew he would never scale the musical heights of his heroes, guys like Springsteen, Bon Jovi, and Chris Martin from Coldplay—songwriters whose compositions would endure for decades, maybe even centuries. But with “I Lock the Door,” he thought he had gotten pretty close, for the first time ever.
And as Ryan, his nanny for God’s sake, critiqued this precious gem that had sprung from his imagination, it had taken a superhuman feat of willpower not to get defensive. Except for Smitty, no one in his inner circle would have dared to give him songwriting advice. And if they had, he would have probably responded by asking just exactly how many number-one hits they’d been responsible for (Marcus had written or co-written eleven), or how many triple-platinum albums they’d released (he’d put out four).
Yes, the songs he’d written and performed, from the very beginning of his career, were hugely popular, had made him a multi-millionaire who never had to worry about a day job again. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when a critic, or a fan, or his nanny, told him his writing wasn’t good enough. It did hurt, just as much as it had when he’d started writing songs for his high-school garage band in 1994, and just as much as it had a decade later, when his first album had sold millions while also being lambasted by writers from Rolling Stone, Spin, and the New York Times. More recently, Marcus had learned to grin and bear it, to take the inevitable bad reviews a bit more graciously, but that didn’t mean he liked it.
It might have been an exaggeration to say that he liked hearing Ryan tell him his near-masterpiece of a song needed some lightening up, but he did like talking to her. She was honest, direct, and best of all, whip-smart. So many people near him had become yes men, willing to tell him what they thought he wanted to hear. But Ryan wasn’t censoring or second-guessing herself; she was simply being truthful. Marcus found himself not only trusting her, but wanting to glean more wisdom from her.
He realized, with a shock, that he actually wanted to be friends with Ryan. But was it possible for him, Marcus Troy, to just be friends with a woman? A woman as sexy and fun as Ryan? The idea seemed insane. But was it so crazy that it just might work?
Chapter Eight
The Ferris Wheel
It was 6:15 a.m. Ryan was out for a run in Portland, on a dirt path that was rocky and rambling, the crowns of twisted tree roots sticking up everywhere, so that she had to look down at her feet to avoid tripping. She ran by a beautiful, fast-flowing river she did not know the name of. A mountain range loomed in the distance; Ryan had no idea what it was called. After a lifetime in a small Montana town, she realized she liked not knowing the names of things, and the excitement of exploring what was, for her, uncharted territory.
She was on her sixth mile, and feeling proud of herself, not just for the fact that it looked like she was going to put in a full ten before she had to pick up Charlotte and Miles, but because she’d been so disciplined in the last couple days, with both the kids and herself. Not that she’d been hard on them, but Ryan was a firm believer in the need for schedules and routines when working with children. And Charlotte and Miles were just like every other kid, every other human, she’d known: as much as they protested new rules, they secretly loved structure.
She tried to imagine what brilliant kernels of wisdom her parents might offer her after she had foolishly run her mouth off with Marcus. Obviously, the rigors of a 24-7 nanny job had already begun to tire her out, because who in her right mind would have the gall to tell a huge rock star how to make his song better? It made her blush just to think of how nosy she’d been. But there was something about Marcus, some energy around him, that made her feel like anything was permissible. Was it her imagination, or had he actually been super-excited as she’d talked about that idiotic “glimmer of light?” And had she really noticed a relaxation in his shoulders, an overall calming of his mood, as they’d continued talking? Ryan wasn’t stupid; she wouldn’t go around spouting ideas about topics she knew nothing about unless the person she was talking to wanted to hear them. The question was why. Why did Marcus care about what she had to say? She was just the nanny, and yet he seemed genuinely interested in her. Yesterday, he’d leaned in, and she’d felt a shiver run through her entire body. Being that close to him, so close that she could smell the sweetness of his skin, did something to her, there was no use denying it.
Ryan reached into her armband and checked the app on her phone. She had just over three miles to go, and didn’t need to report for duty with the kids until 7:00, over an hour from now, which despite how early it was, felt like absolute luxury. She still had tons of energy, and told herself she was going to beat her previous time of eighty-three minutes for a ten-miler. She knew she could do it.
Ryan put her phone back in her armband, then looked up for one last view of the sun glinting off the water before the path veered off the river and back into the Portland streets. But she never got a real look. She snagged her toe on a tree root, and her ankle twisted under its own weight. Bracing her fall with her hands, she fell hard on her right elbow and hip. Stupidly thinking, I just fell, she lay in the dirt and bled from her elbow and knee.
As she rose and dusted herself off, the rush of adrenaline tricked her into thinking she’d escaped any real injury. But when she moved toward an inlet in the river shore to wash herself off, pain shot through her foot and up her calf. Instantly, she knew her ankle was going to be a problem. It wasn’t broken, and it would probably be fine in a few days, but three miles lay between the river path where she was limping around and the hotel, where she was due to pick up the kids in about an hour. Unless she hitchhiked, which she’d never done in her life, she was going to be late. She needed to tell Marcus. Or Serena. Somebody.
Ryan pulled her phone out again, and when it wouldn’t turn on—obviously it had taken a pounding along with her ankle—she felt real fear for the first time. Not for her physical well-being, but for her job. The phone’s face hadn’t cracked, and there was nothing else obviously wrong with it, but no matter how long she pressed the power button, or how hard she prayed that the goddamn piece of crap would miraculously power up, it did not. She was going to be very, very late. So late, she might be unemployed before getting the chance to shower.
…
Marcus was up and about at 6:45, although he wasn’t as spry and bushy-tailed as he would have liked. For some reason, Ryan hadn’
t appeared at seven, as they’d agreed—she’d probably overslept, which was fine, she’d make up for it soon enough with the crazy hours her job entailed—but he hadn’t let that stop him. He’d gotten the kids up and ready for breakfast so quickly it had to be an all-time record. It was necessary, though. He had a full day of junket-style interviews to look forward to, one after the other, starting at nine. These couple of hours he had with Charlotte and Miles might prove to be the only quality time he’d get with them until dinner, so he had to make the most of them.
He and the kids had fun horsing around at the buffet, though Marcus probably shouldn’t have let Miles pile up the bacon so high. He loved having the kids all to himself like this, and could entertain them for hours. Maybe he’d give Ryan mornings off a few times a week, and this would become the new routine. Still, he was sleepy, and needed a couple strong cups of coffee to keep his edge.
Before he’d hit thirty, Marcus had been able to thrive on less than a full night of sleep. Way less. In fact, he often preferred the mild delirium and strange bursts of energy that came upon him when he wasn’t properly rested to the even-keeled sense of well-being he had when he’d gotten a full eight hours. But now, he actually wanted to change. He didn’t want his grogginess to compromise his parenting time.
“Daddy, where’s Ryan?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m not sure,” Marcus said. “What’s wrong? You miss her?”
“Sure, a little.” Charlotte smiled, while Miles looked away shyly. Marcus knew they both liked her better than any nanny they’d ever had.
“Maybe you miss her, Daddy,” Miles said.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, son,” was his only response. Miles took him at face value, cutely covering his mouth while he chewed.
Marcus would have to be more careful; he couldn’t let the kids see this crush, or whatever it was, that he was developing. Still, the fact couldn’t be avoided: he was wishing the nanny were here with them. Wouldn’t it be more fun? He imagined them all laughing at Miles’s eating habits, and at Marcus’s permissiveness. He scratched that last idea about giving Ryan mornings off. Instead, he vowed not to get in bed by eleven every night so all four of them could enjoy these mornings.
Love Songs for the Road Page 6