Operation Cinderella

by Hope Tarr

  Sam had closed up like a clam. Sobbing, she made a beeline for his spare bedroom, the one earmarked for her when she came to stay.

  The opportunity lost, Ross picked up the call. “Frannie, listen up. Sam’s here. She’s safe.” He spent the next thirty minutes calming her down while trying to figure out what had gone so terribly wrong

  Only, Frannie was clueless, too, which scared the crap out of him. Until now, his ex had always been the cool parent, the confidante, the cross between a best friend and a big sister. If she was in the dark, then whatever had gone wrong with Sam wasn’t small. It was major. Learning that she’d apparently shoplifted a bullshit charm bracelet a few weeks before had stunned him to his core.

  “How the hell did that happen?” he’d demanded. “And why am I just hearing about it now?”

  “Don’t interrogate me, Ross,” Frannie snapped, her British sangfroid on the cusp of a major meltdown. “I know you think I’m a bloody poor parent but—”

  “That’s not true.”

  Frannie was no Mrs. Cleaver, that was for damned sure, but she loved Sam with all her heart. He might disapprove of her travel schedule and crazy work hours—he did disapprove—but she was a good mom. And a kid, a girl especially, needed her mother, which was why he hadn’t fought for shared custody, settling instead for seeing Sam during summers and every other holiday.

  He drew a deep breath and dropped his voice. “Look, whatever went wrong for Samantha went down in New York, and it’s obvious she sees DC and my apartment as her haven—for now, anyway. Let me get her calmed down, enroll her in school here, and see what happens. Just before you called, she was close to confiding in me. I could feel it.”

  That last statement had won Francesca over. In the end, they’d agreed he would keep Sam with him, but only until the winter break. In the meantime, he had his work cut out for him. He hadn’t been a full-time parent for years. Hell, he hadn’t been much of a part-time one, either. Still, he’d always thought his relationship with his daughter was pretty solid. Staring at her now, he admitted he’d been kidding himself. Just how well did he really know her? What was she into? Who were her friends? What were her plans for the future, her dreams? Did she even have any? More than the all-black clothing and the tongue stud, it was the dull, dead look in her eyes that had him worrying. Just last summer she’d seemed so bright-eyed, so…happy.

  “Why are you looking at me all weird like that?” Sam’s voice snapped him back to the present. “If you have some big-deal thing to say to me, then say it.”

  “Okay, I will.” He cleared his throat, steeling himself to deal with the proverbial elephant in the room: the confiscated magazine. Not yet able to go there, he started out with, “First off, I want you to know I’m working on getting someone to help us out around here. You know, keep house and cook and drive you back and forth to school and anywhere else you need to go so you won’t be stuck here when I’m held up at the studio.” Someone to watch over you when I can’t. Someone, a woman, to help me figure out what the hell’s going on with you before it’s too late.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that what Mrs. Alvarez does?”

  “Well, sort of. But Mrs. A doesn’t drive.” Nor was she young or cool enough for Sam to consider her as anything but an authority figure.

  She snapped out of her slouch. “So you fired her!”

  Ross stiffened. Why was she so hell-bent on seeing him as some kind of ogre?

  Reaching for what was left of his patience, he said, “I did not. Mrs. A asked for a leave of absence to help out with her new grandbaby. I told her she can come back whenever she’s ready.”

  It was the truth, though judging from Sam’s face, she wasn’t buying it. Lower lip dropping, she raked a hand through her hair, the nails painted black and bitten to the quick.

  “Seeing as we have an extra bedroom nobody’s using, I figured it would be easier if we had someone stay here instead of commuting,” he added.

  Whatever he’d said, it set her off like a firecracker on the Fourth of July. “You’re hiring a live-in!” she shouted, eyes blazing. “Is she going to search my room, too?”

  Finally, the elephant in the room wasn’t only acknowledged but paraded around like a prize pony. “Honey, I wasn’t searching your room. When you didn’t answer my knock this morning, I thought you’d overslept. I didn’t want you to be late for school.”

  Late for school, my ass. He’d been scared shitless she might have done something to hurt herself. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but she’d been acting so depressed and secretive, he hardly knew what to expect. Hearing the shower running in her bathroom, he’d heaved a sigh of relief. She was running late, end of story. He’d turned to go when the On Top Magazine lying open on the nightstand snagged his attention. The article title, “Forget the Fairy Tale: Teen Sex is Fact, Not Fiction” caught his eye, but it was the subtitle that had him seeing red. “Why smart parenting means prepping your daughter with condoms, the Pill…”

  Staring at those big bold block letters, Ross had felt like he’d been belted with a thunderbolt from the sky and a sucker punch to the gut all rolled into one terrifying freeze-frame moment. Time seemed to stop. His breathing seemed to stop. Everything seemed to stop, everything except for the fear. Was Sam thinking about having sex or was she already having it? And if she was having it, was she having it with or without protection? Did protection mean condoms or the Pill, both, or neither? If the answer to any of those questions was yes, then clearly he was doing the asking way late, maybe even…too late? Too late—and his baby was just fifteen!

  No previous ah-ha moment had ever hit him so hard or hurt so much. Somehow he’d become one of those parents—the parents he railed about on his radio show—the ones so selfishly wrapped up in their own lives they didn’t have a clue where or who their kid was. Now he was one of them, a lost tribe awash in denial. While he’d been the parental equivalent of Rip Van Winkle, his Sam was being poisoned with toxic cultural messages. The rage ripping through him had required an outlet and there’d been just one place for it to go. He’d picked up the magazine, screwed it into a tight cylinder, and shoved it beneath his arm.

  “When I saw that”—rag, piece of trash—“publication, I…”—overreacted? Okay, flipped out—“felt concerned. That’s not the kind of material you should be exposed to at your age.” Or ever, he wanted to add, but since he couldn’t protect her indefinitely, he could at least exercise the three years of parental rights he had left under the law.

  She folded her arms across her chest like body armor, an age-old symbol of defiance. “That’s my decision.”

  He glanced down at her latest “decision,” a gold naval ring, and felt another piece of his soul chip away. “No, honey, I’m afraid it’s not. As long as you’re under eighteen, your mom and I are responsible for you.”

  She let out a sharp laugh, the cynicism slashing at his heart. “Funny, Mom never censored my reading. Or my Internet access,” she added, referencing the parental controls he’d activated within hours of her appearance.

  Maybe she should have, he thought, but loyalty and something else, something deeper, held him back from saying so. Frannie had shouldered the main responsibility for raising Sam for a decade. Dissing her decidedly more permissive parenting style when she wasn’t present to defend herself wouldn’t be fair to her or good for Sam.

  Instead he said, “As long as you’re living under my roof, you’ll abide by my rules.” Good Lord, he’d gone from old to positively Paleolithic.

  She stared back at him, cheeks red and eyes defiant. “Maybe I won’t be ‘under your roof’ for much longer.”

  Her lower lip quivered, reminding him of when she’d been little and a skinned knee or broken doll had brought her running to him to make it all better. Back then he’d been her knight in shining armor, her hero to the rescue. If only he could figure out a way to rescue her now.

  “Look, Sam, if something’s…wrong…there’s nothing you could ever
do to make me or your mom stop loving you. Come here, baby.” He stood and stretched his arms out into the empty space between them, willing her to meet him, if only halfway.

  “Not this time, Daddy.” Eyes on the verge of overflowing, she turned and ran, bare feet pummeling down the hallway.

  Absorbing each retreating thud like a gut punch, he dropped his arms to his sides. The familiar sound of her door slamming sent him folding into the leather desk chair. Good going, Mannon. Now she really hates you.

  Scouring a hand over his forehead, he reached into his desk drawer and brought out the magazine. On Top. He flipped through, stopping at the cover story. He’d read it several times now, but like a kid picking at a scab, he couldn’t resist another look. Laced with interview quotes, slanted statistics, and colorful sidebar anecdotes, it wasn’t badly written even if its message was crap. Forget the Fairy Tale… He shook his head, thinking of another word beginning with F and swearing it beneath his breath.

  As if it wasn’t confusing enough being a teenager, the media had to put out the message that there was no such thing as Mr. Right, let alone Prince Charming. Apparently the best a young woman could hope for was Mr. Right Now, and parents could expect their daughters to go through several Mr. Right Nows before the age of twenty-one. Jesus H. Christ! Teens, both boys and girls, needed to understand that promiscuity brought consequences, serious consequences. Condoms were important for sexual safety but they also weren’t infallible. Sometimes they broke—and so did hearts. If Samantha had questions about sex, he’d like to think she’d bring them to him or, better yet, her mother. Instead, it seemed, she’d looked to a magazine for answers—the wrong answers.

  And just what the hell was wrong with fairy tales anyway? He’d believed in a few of his own…once upon a time.

  He tossed the magazine back into the drawer and closed it with a slam. If that was the kind of bullshit Samantha was reading, no wonder she seemed so pessimistic and depressed. The housekeeper ad he’d just rerun had better come through and fast. If not, he’d have to break down and go through a regular employment agency, though he didn’t hold out much hope of finding her there, at least not in Washington, DC, because he wasn’t just looking for a child care provider or a housekeeper or a cook, but some magical meshing of all three and more. What—no, make that who—he needed was a modern day fairy godmother, a woman not only young enough but also cool enough to connect with a jaded fifteen-year-old who’d spent most of her formative years in Manhattan. If she came with a magic wand, so much the better.

  An automated ding drew his attention back to the laptop, where a new e-mail had just landed. Wanting to be done with work for the night, he clicked on the mailbox icon. The subject line, “Sweet and Old-fashioned,” snagged his eye and piqued his curiosity. Another spam message advertising mail-order brides? It was most likely listener e-mail, although most people weren’t that creative with their headers. Still, with time on his hands, he might as well open it.

  Dear Dr. Mannon :

  For the past several years I’ve been employed as an au pair in Manhattan to a family with two teenage children. My employers are moving overseas to undertake mission work for their church, and having just learned through your radio program that you are seeking a housekeeper/childcare provider, I’m interested in discussing a possible placement in your home. I hold a bachelor’s degree in Education from the Catholic University of America and will be happy to provide additional references upon request.

  P.S. I absolutely *love* your program!

  The message was signed Martha Jane Gray and included a cell phone number with a Manhattan 212 area code.

  Ross dragged a hand through his hair and tried not to get his hopes up, though the woman sounded promising. Hell, she sounded downright perfect. He read the e-mail again just in case he might have taken wishful thinking to the point of dreaming her up. Her bachelor’s degree was in Education. She had experience dealing with teenagers. She lived in New York! The Manhattan address was sure to be a selling point with Sam, who had the attitude that anyone who lived farther out than Jersey City must be some kind of hay-chewing hick.

  And to top it off, apparently her current employers were missionaries. That was just the kind of wholesome, positive influence he was looking to bring into his daughter’s life.

  Martha Jane Gray. Even her name seemed to carry him back to a kinder, gentler time. Already he was seeing her as some kind of cross between Julie Andrews from Mary Poppins and Juliet Mills from Nanny and the Professor—solid, serene…magical.

  And yet in a world chock full of nuts, you couldn’t be too careful, especially when bringing somebody into your home. First thing tomorrow he’d check her references, starting with a call to her current employers, the Swansons. One more phone call to her alma mater, Catholic University, and then assuming she came up clean, he’d arrange to bring her down to DC for a face-to-face interview. He’d be sure to have Sam come along as well. No matter how good Miss Gray might look “on paper,” the tipping point would be how she handled herself with Samantha.

  Ross reached for the computer’s mouse. Well, Miss Martha Jane, let’s see what else you have to say for yourself. Smiling for the first time that day, he clicked on the Reply icon and started typing.

  Maybe it wasn’t time to forget the fairy tale, or give up on the dream, just yet.

  Chapter Two

  Mannon’s e-mail reply landed in Macie’s inbox as she was rushing to her meeting with Starr. Skimming it from her phone, she held back a whoop. Slam-dunk! Her frog hadn’t just taken the bait, he’d gobbled it hook and all, asking her to e-mail her resume and references as soon as possible. He’d signed off as Ross Mannon, no Dr. or PhD in the signature line, not that Macie was buying his just-folks humility act for a minute.

  Now she had to sell the story to Starr. Walking the hallway to her boss’s office felt a lot like walking the plank of a pirate ship. Other than her assistant editor, Terri, who managed a wobbly smile and a thumbs-up, none of her coworkers looked her in the eye as she passed. By the time she raised her fist to knock on Starr’s closed door, she was primed to gnaw off all ten faux fingernails.

  The brushed chrome handle slipped in her slick palm, but she managed to get the door open. Poking her head inside, she said, “You…er, wanted to see me?”

  Cynthia Starling, known as Starr, looked up from the pile of layouts spread across her glass-topped desk, a scowl darkening her delicate porcelain features.

  “That pulled ad hurt us in a major way. Beauté is one of our biggest accounts, not to mention our oldest. They’ve been with us since day one. Cultivating a new relationship to replace that lost revenue isn’t going to happen overnight. Under the circumstances, it may not happen at all.” She beckoned Macie inside with a toss of her shoulder-length, copper-colored curls.

  Heart drumming, Macie pulled the door closed and crossed to the desk on Jell-O legs. She and Starr were friends outside of work but only to a point. Inside the office, her friend was all boss—and all business. “I know and I—”

  “Sit down and listen up. I’ve spent most of my day upstairs getting my ass chewed out for giving you the go-ahead on that teen birth-control story.”

  Macie braced herself. Here it comes, five years on staff flushed down the friggin’ toilet.

  As if reading her thoughts, or maybe just her face, Starr said, “Relax, you still have a job. But any more sponsor calls like that and you’ll be collecting unemployment, and I’ll be right there with you.”

  So she was safe—for now. Weak with relief, Macie sank into one of a pair of vintage modern chairs positioned in front of the desk.

  Perched on the edge of the cold chrome seat, she moistened her dry lips and prepared to make her pitch. “What would you say if I told you I thought I could pull off a story so high-profile, so hot, that Beauté will be calling us back, begging for space?”

  Behind the round wire frames of her John Lennon glasses, Starr’s eyes lit. “Go on.”

&nbs
p; Macie pulled her shoulders back from the tall girl slump she still sometimes fell into. “I’m thinking a celebrity profile, only with real teeth to it, an exposé, with a series of shorter outtake pieces to run as blog posts afterward to keep the momentum going. Something like, ‘Ten Reasons Why This Guy Sucks’ with every day’s post building toward the big reveal. We could add a poll, too, really amp up reader engagement.”

  Starr cocked a ginger-colored eyebrow. “We’re talking a big name?”

  Macie drew a deep breath, readying herself to make her own big reveal. “Ross Mannon.”

  Starr’s eyes widened, the black pupils nearly obliterating the aquamarine. “The conservative talking head who’s made this an Extra Strength Tylenol day for me?”

  “One and the same.”

  Starr eased back into her chair. “What makes you think he’ll talk to you?”

  Macie hesitated, then admitted, “Because he…uh…just e-mailed me back.” She quickly rolled out the basics of what she was coming to think of as Operation Cinderella.

  Starr took off her glasses and kneaded the bridge of her nose. “And you think that, after turning down a half dozen Washington Times reading women, he’s going to open his door to you? I’ve seen your apartment, remember? You’re no Martha Stewart.”

  Holding onto her game face, Macie shrugged. “He needs someone to drop off his dry cleaning and chauffeur his kid. How hard can that be? As for the cooking and cleaning, let’s just say I have connections.”

  “Connections” came in the form of her college roommate, Stefanie, who lived in DC and owned a successful personal chef business. Good Enuf to Eat catered to dual career couples, delivering high-quality home-cooked meals hot to their doors.

  Starr stabbed her expensive fountain pen behind one ear. “How long are we talking?”

  Always ask for more than you can hope to get. Macie swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Two months ought to do it.”