Hungry for More (2012)

by Chelsea Scott

  Cover Image ©Wavebreak Media Ltd./bigstock.com

  Used with permission

  Hungry For More

  By Chelsea Scott

  Edited by D. Oland

  Proofread by J. Welch

  Copyright ©2012 by Chelsea Scott

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  “What if Daddy doesn’t like Mr. Hoppypants?”

  Bridget Parker looked up from the pile of suitcases that she was arranging by the front door of an almost-empty apartment and gave the little boy who was speaking what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “Of course he’ll like Mr. Hoppypants,” she told him. The syllables of her English accent were low and soothing as she reached over to stroke his cheek with the pad of her thumb. “He’ll love him.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?” the child persisted. “What if he makes him go away? What will happen to him then?” The child stepped back into a nearby corner, clutching a tatty stuffed rabbit to his chest. “He doesn’t have anywhere to go. Mr. Hoppypants’ mommy died too…” he said in a mournful whisper as he sank down onto the floor.

  Bridget stopped what she was doing to pull the boy into a hug. She crushed him against her ample bosom and rubbed her fingers through his soft, dark hair. “Mr. Hoppypants doesn’t have to worry,” she assured him. “Nanny isn’t going to let anything happen to him-or to you.”

  “Do you promise?” the boy asked, looking sheepish as she easily sussed out his true concern.

  She nodded her head gently. “I promise,” she told him. “You’re going to like it at Daddy’s- I can just tell.”

  “But I’ve never been to Daddy’s before! Not alone!”

  “Well, you won’t be alone,” Bridget said, forcing her voice to stay cheerful. “You’ll have Mr. Hoppypants with you.”

  “And Raymond,” the boy added anxiously, glancing toward the pile of stuffed animals that Bridget had carefully arranged inside an unused laundry basket. “And Frog and Ninjaboy.”

  “Yes, Raymond, Frog and Ninjaboy will be with you too...” Bridget told him. She included his imaginary friends without hesitation. “I hope that Daddy has gotten you a nice big room!”

  “Maybe if he didn’t, we can come back here,” the boy said hopefully.

  Bridget blinked back tears as she shook her head.

  If the boy’s mother had still been alive, she never would have dared to use his nickname. Phoebe had always insisted that her son be addressed by his ridiculously pompous Christian name, Atherton Whitman Devoe, but the single syllable slipped easily off Bridget’s tongue now.

  “Tad…” she whispered. “Nanny has already explained. You have to leave. Another family is coming to live here, and you get to move to a nice, new apartment by the park. Isn’t that exciting? You can go and play every day. Why, I bet you can look out your window and see the zoo!”

  Tad refused to be distracted. “But I don’t want to see the zoo! I want to stay in my old room!” He started to cry. “Why did Mommy die? When is she going to come back?”

  Bridget kissed her charge’s forehead. She struggled, once again, to explain. “She can’t come back, darling, not ever. I’m sure that she didn’t want to die, but…well, it happened, and you have to be a strong, brave boy – a brave boy who’s going to have a wonderful adventure!”

  “But I want you to come on the adventure!” he insisted in a quivering voice.

  “I want that too,” Bridget said, biting her lip and fighting back tears as the boy inadvertently touched on her longing.

  She had been with Tad for his entire life.

  Everything had been frantic at first. His mother, Phoebe, wanted Bridget on hand for the birth, so that she could deal with diaper changes and feedings from the start. It was a planned C-section. Bridget rode with her employer in the cab to the hospital. She was sitting outside the delivery room on a hard plastic chair when they wheeled out Tad’s bassinet on the way to the nursery. Phoebe had insisted on general anesthesia (she refused to deal with any pain), and so, apart from the doctors and nurses, Bridget had been the very first person to see him alive.

  She had followed the attendants all the way to the nursery. Then she watched them from behind the glass. She stared, fascinated as they weighed and measured the baby, cringed as they drew blood, and then sighed in wonder as they gave him a bath.

  The hospital must have misunderstood Phoebe’s instructions, taking her statement that “Bridget was going to be looking after the baby” to mean that she was going to adopt the boy, because they let her into the sterile room where only parents were allowed to go. Gowned and scrubbed, she fed Tad his very first bottle and, not too long thereafter, gave him his very first diaper change.

  Phoebe was recovering from surgery. She had taken the opportunity of her C-section to get a tummy tuck. Sore and heavily medicated, she didn’t ask for the baby all night, and so Bridget stayed with him. She had stared adoringly, taking a thousand photographs, swooning over how tiny and perfect he was.

  The next morning, things changed. Friends and relatives came to see baby Atherton (Bridget still despised the name!) and Bridget was, necessarily, pushed aside. Bridget went home to shower and change while Phoebe showed off her child- but Bridget couldn’t wait to get back. Even after only one day of being away from Tad she felt like a rubber band that had been stretched too far. She had to return or snap. She spent most of the afternoon at the hospital working a crossword until the visitors were gone- and then she swooped inside to reclaim him again the very second that they left.

  After the novelty wore off, Bridget had the boy more or less to herself. She didn’t allow herself to wonder whether Phoebe had actually loved her little boy. She hoped, for Tad’s sake, that the woman did, but she knew very well that her employer had never been able to offer any real affection. Phoebe treated the baby like a hot new accessory. She flashed him around for a season, and then relegated him to a drawer. Happily, that drawer was Bridget’s domain. By the time that Tad was six months old, Phoebe rarely involved herself with the baby at all. Shortly thereafter, she had taken up with a foreign investment banker and drifted almost completely out of their lives. There were months at a time when the most Bridget saw of her employer was the signature on her checks. Of course, she never complained! The wages were outstanding, the benefits were tolerable and she had hours alone with the sweetest baby in the world. Bridget was left more or less to her own devices, raising the child as if he were her own precious son, with someone else picking up the bill. That was certainly how she thought of Tad – as her boy – and the idea that it was all about to end just because that idiot Phoebe Whitman had gotten herself killed in a skiing accident was breaking Bridget’s heart.

  “What’s wrong, Nanny?” Atherton cried, his huge brown eyes wide with worry when he saw the glimmer of moisture around her eyelids.

  Bridget reached into her pocket for a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes and then blew her nose. “Nanny is being silly,” she told him, ruffling his hair again. She turned around, hopeful that being busy would hold her gloom at bay, “Why don’t you tell me a story while I finish our packing?” she suggested. “Then I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.”

  It had been five years since Bridget had moved to America, but some things never changed. On either side of the ocean, there weren’t many problems that a pot of tea and a plate of McVities biscuits couldn’t solve. Luckily, she had trained the boy to feel the exact same way. He settled down at the promise of a treat. He made up a story about Ninjaboy and Frog going to the doctor, amusing himself while she finished arranging boxes. She was able to herd him into the kitchen after just a few minutes.

  “What time is D
addy coming?” Tad asked as he licked the chocolate off his biscuit.

  Bridget dabbed brown smudges off his cheeks with a napkin. “Aunt Dixie said three o’clock.”

  Bridget dearly wished that Tad’s brazen but warm-hearted aunt was coming to collect the child instead of his father. At least Aunt Dixie was someone that the little boy knew! To the best that Bridget could remember, Tad had always spent his holidays, and the other breaks that he was meant to pass with the father, in the care of his grandparents or one or another of his uncles and aunts. Tad’s father, Paul Devoe, was an up and coming celebrity chef who always claimed to be far too busy to look after the child himself. He logged appearances at birthdays and Christmas, but that was the limit of their interaction. Bridget herself had glimpsed Chef Devoe a mere handful of times.

  Bridget had seen Paul more often on TV than in real life. He had starred for two seasons on a restaurant channel reality program that revolved around amateur chefs trying to open restaurants in dream locations. His trademark was his nuclear temper. Bridget couldn’t count the number of times that Chef Devoe had reduced a would-be chef to tears over an undercooked piece of chicken or an over-salted vegetable, and there were vast stretches of the program with more bleeped out curses than actual words. It was great for ratings, but did not bode well for parenting a young child.

  Bridget knew for a fact that all the other family members had been asked to take Tad for themselves, but no one could make it work. Tad’s grandparents were in their 70’s- far too old and too frail to take on the care of a preschooler themselves. Paul’s older sister was in the Army, currently stationed with her family in Berlin. His brother Jack was a doctor, whose wife was juggling medical school with attempts at having a baby of their own. The house of Tad’s other uncle was Bridget’s first choice for placement. Bridget had never met Paul’s brother, Drew, but she was on very good terms with his wife. The first time she met Dixie Devoe, Bridget didn’t quite know what to think. Dixie seemed more like a sassy Southern belle from a movie than an actual human being, but Bridget quickly determined that the feisty redhead had a heart of gold. Moreover, Dixie was a natural mother, nurturing anything that came within range. She was the person who had given Tad his nickname (apparently Paul was known to his family as “Wog,” a derivative of “PaulyWog,” and she had decided that Tad, from “Tadpole,” was the logical choice for his little boy) and was always his favorite aunt. Bridget wanted Dixie to take Tad in, but Tad’s aunt was already struggling to raise her own son, to bring up the two children that she shared with her husband Drew, to nurture Drew’s teenage daughter and to run a business. There was simply no way to make it work.

  Paul Devoe was Tad’s only option. Bridget had assumed that a disinterested father was better than no father at all, but an hour later, she wasn’t so sure.

  “What time is it, Nanny?” Tad asked. He looked uncomprehendingly at the grandfather clock that stood in the hall.

  Bridget scowled at the display. It was nearly four. She was sure that Mr. Devoe had promised to come for Tad at three o’clock. She had written it down! She had called his restaurant the day before to confirm.

  Four o’clock came and went with nothing.

  At four-thirty, Bridget called the cell phone number that she’d been given, but no one answered. Fortunately, that was the time that the doorman buzzed up.

  “There is someone here to collect young Mr. Atherton,” he said over the intercom.

  “Thank you,” Bridget replied. “We have a lot of bags, will you send him up?”

  “Of course.”

  She waited by the door, holding Tad’s hand. She had just leaned over to kiss him when the doorbell finally rang.

  “Nanny will always love you,” she said. She dropped down to her knees, terrified now that the moment of parting had finally come. “You will always be my little boy in my heart.”

  Tad threw his arms around her neck, and they held one another tightly until the doorbell rang again.

  Struggling to compose herself, Bridget threw the door open. She frowned in puzzlement. She had only met Paul once, long ago, but the man standing before her wasn’t anything like what she remembered. A pudgy, balding man in a ragged navy blazer and black trousers tipped his hat and stepped inside.

  “Uhm…Mr. Devoe?”

  The man laughed and shook his head, “Hardly!” he said with a strong Brooklyn twang. “I’m Bob, the driver. Mr. Devoe sent me around to get the kid and bring him back to the apartment.”

  “Mr. Devoe sent you?” Bridget asked, horrified by the suspicion that was just beginning to form in the back of her mind. “He isn’t here?”

  “He had to go in early or something,” the man said with a shrug. “Don’t ask me- I’m just the hired help!” He laughed as though it was funny, and then he started gathering up the bags and boxes.

  Bridget didn’t let the conversation drop. “He had to go in early? Does that mean that he isn’t coming back tonight? Why didn’t the new nanny come with you?”

  “I don’t know anything about a new nanny,” the man answered. “Devoe just told me to pick the little guy up. He has a DVD for him to watch back at the house and money for pizza if he wants it. Oh, kid. I’m supposed to tell you that your bedtime is ten o’clock.”

  “You’re meant to tell him what?” Bridget said, aghast.

  “His bedtime is-”

  “There’s not going to be anyone there?” she continued, astonished.

  “Er…”

  “Never mind!” she told him, making a command decision. She picked up one of Tad’s suitcases and then grabbed the boy by the hand. “I can see that I’m going to have to come along too.”

  Tad tugged on his nanny’s arm in a sudden burst of excitement and relief. “Nanny, if you come I know Mr. Hoppypants won’t be afraid!” he announced eagerly. “And you can tell Daddy that you’re my nanny and then the new nanny can go home!”

  From the driver’s comments, Bridget wasn’t at all certain that there was a new nanny at all, but she didn’t want to get Tad’s hopes up too high by telling him that she would stay. She didn’t want to get her own hopes up either. Even if there wasn’t a nanny yet, there was no guarantee that Mr. Devoe would hire her. Of course, she would try her damnedest to see that he did!

  What sort of parent expected a child of Tad’s age to travel alone, take care of himself, feed himself, and put himself to bed? Bridget could feel her cheeks growing warm with anger. If Paul Devoe didn’t meet her standards then there was no way that she was going to leave her baby alone in his care.

  Bridget settled herself and Tad in the car while Bob finished stowing the luggage. Tad stared out the window at the passing traffic as he held his nanny’s hand.

  “Sort of glad you came along, miss,” Bob said as he jumped into the driver’s seat. “I didn’t realize the little guy was such a little guy.”

  Bridget offered the driver a smile, pleased that she wasn’t the only one utterly appalled by Mr. Devoe’s complete lack of care or common sense.

  “Nanny, can we play ‘I Spy’?” Tad asked. “Ninjaboy wants to play too, but Raymond and Frog are still scared there won’t be room for them at the new house,” he added, lowering his voice to a whisper, as though he didn’t want them to overhear.

  “I promise that there will be enough space for everyone,” Bridget assured her young charge, and then the two of them proceeded to play games for the duration of the journey.

  Finally standing inside of Chef Devoe’s apartment, Bridget realized that space would not be a problem. The place was huge.

  “Didn’t I tell you that there was going to be room for everyone?” she said, smiling down at Tad. He was still holding her hand. “I wonder if you’ll find any new friends here?” she winked.

  “Do you think?” Tad perked up for a moment, but then cast a worried glance around at the unfamiliar space. “Daddy’s not here, is he?”

  “Not yet, sweetheart,” Bridget said gently.

  “These are
the last two suitcases,” Bob grunted, squeezing in behind them and dropping the luggage inside the door. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry there were so many.”

  “That’s fine. Little guy needs all his stuff, doesn’t he?” Bob winked at Tad, who hid behind Bridget’s skirt. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh, just one more thing!” Bridget said quickly, before he could get away. “You don’t have a contact number for Mr. Devoe, do you? I tried his cell phone earlier, but he didn’t answer.”

  Bob laughed. “Yeah, he’s like that. He’s a devil of a man to get hold of- plain impossible to contact during service. His cell is the only number I’ve got for him too.”

  “But-” Bridget was shocked. “But what if there’s an emergency?”

  Bob shrugged apologetically. “I guess you could try his restaurant, but I don’t know if they’d dare to interrupt him.”

  “Right.” Bridget’s nostrils flared. She added this to the growing list of things that she and Tad’s father needed to have a talk about.

  “Am I really going to live here, Nanny?” Tad asked quietly, once Bob the driver had left. The child had released Bridget’s hand, but he didn’t wander more than a step or two away from her side.

  “Of course,” Bridget said, mustering some enthusiasm for his sake. “Why don’t we have a look around? I bet we can find your new room!”

  “Okay.”

  Tad sounded uncertain, and Bridget couldn’t blame him. She was sure the apartment cost a fortune. It was large and airy, but it was also sterile and imposing. It was most certainly not child friendly. The minimalist design of the place looked like it belonged in an art gallery, not a home. Bridget hoped the other rooms were a bit cozier.

  They weren’t.

  “Which bedroom is mine, Nanny?” Tad asked nervously.

  They had discovered two spare bedrooms, practically identical in their stark white design.