Glass Houses

by Helena Maeve

And Elliot recognized me, too. I could see it in his eyes.

  I was in a world of trouble.

  Chapter Two

  After Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had treated their guests to cocktails and showed them the house, we sat down to dinner—as a family. The Hamiltons liked to treat me as though I was one of their own. Normally I would have appreciated the lengths they went to to make me feel included. Not so much tonight. I was down by the kids’ end of the table, the better to hand-feed Zara and make sure Phoenix and Riley didn’t start lobbing spoonfuls of risotto at each other, and Elliot was seated right beside me.

  Every time I looked up, I could feel him staring at me. He was being about as subtle as a freight train on a collision course. The smell of his cologne, of clean laundry was making it hard for me to concentrate on little Zara pushing her carrots around on her plate with the tip of the fork.

  Eventually, Elliot worked up the nerve to address me directly. “So, Miriam…how long have you been working as a nanny?”

  Innocuous, straight to the point. I had to hand it to Elliot. He knew how to play ball.

  “Not long,” I said, “I’ve been with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton for about six months.” I knew why he was asking. The last time we met, I’d been a political science major with a ton of student loans and an appetite for painting the town red. I still had the student loans—and probably would for the rest of my days—but I wasn’t exactly going from party to party anymore.

  When he’d taken me to bed, all those years ago, Elliot had enjoyed the co-ed experience at its most basic, albeit with a few groundbreaking trimmings and a not-so-innocent partner. It must have freaked him out to see what I’d become. Not a sexy lobbyist patrolling up and down the halls of Washington but a nanny making sure someone else’s kids behaved at the dinner table.

  I’d seen the pornos. Babysitters could be sexy. Me, I was living the Mary Poppins life, minus the magic and the singing.

  I sipped my water and, concealing the movement of my lips, I asked, “How long have you been writing?” I knew him as Professor McFarland, PhD, but if we were pretending to get to know each other, I figured turnabout was fair play.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw his beautiful mouth twitch into what might have been a smile. “Couple of years,” he replied, parroting my answer. “I’ll try not to take offense at you not knowing any of my stuff.”

  “Do people normally know you by name?” I asked and spooned a little more of the risotto into Zara’s waiting mouth. She made me think of a baby bird, still so dependent on its mother. Across from us, Phoenix was shaping a fort out of his baby carrots and Riley was not so secretly texting under the table. I was safe to continue my clandestine chat, as imprudent as that was.

  “Some,” Elliot said. “I’m not exactly a Hollywood movie star.”

  “Probably depends on the audience.”

  “So I assume.”

  His accent still did things to me, years after the fact. I plowed on quickly. “The more impressionable, the better it is for you, right? No doubt you’re fawned over like a movie star.”

  Elliot paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. I knew it was a blow below the belt, but I felt uneasy and twitchy and when that happened, I sometimes said what I knew I shouldn’t.

  And yes, fine, I was a little resentful that fate had seen fit to throw him back into my orbit now, when I wasn’t even looking my best. I had left him my phone number after our one and only night together. He hadn’t called. What more was there to say? Revisiting any one-night stand was a bad idea—revisiting ours was like whacking myself over the head with one of Zara’s dolls.

  “Is that what you think?” Elliot murmured. “That I take advantage of impressionable young women?” I hadn’t said anything about women, young or old, but he wasn’t stupid. He could puzzle out my meaning without a dictionary.

  I opened my mouth to answer—what, I didn’t know, but I didn’t want to let him think I felt used by him or anything like that—when Mrs. Hamilton anticipated me. “How about it, Miriam?”

  They must have been talking about me, I realized. “Um, I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, Elliot’s made another conquest,” Terry giggled and I vowed to revise my feelings about leggy, drop-dead gorgeous blondes.

  Mrs. Hamilton smiled indulgently. “We were discussing a brief jaunt to Santa Barbara. Jana and Terry just bought a house there…”

  “It’s more of a bungalow,” Jana corrected with a small shrug. “Your house in the Hamptons is much nicer.” I couldn’t decide how old she was. Her skin was so pale, so infuriatingly blemish-free that it might have been cloned from the pages of a women’s magazine. From the way she spoke, it almost seemed like she’d been educated at a charm school.

  “Seafront views are all I care about,” said Terry and raised her wine glass. “I spend six months in Chicago listening to trains buzz past me all the time. I want to come home and stare at the ocean!”

  “And now you’ve gone and invited us along,” Mrs. Hamilton finished, seamlessly bringing us back to her original point. Law school had clearly paid off. “Trouble is the kids have school next week and it would really be too much of a disruption to have them miss even a couple of days—”

  “But, Mom,” Riley interjected.

  One glance from her mother was enough to silence her. “You know as well as I do that you hate feeling like the other kids know more than you. And if you miss class, well… What about your violin lessons? We’ll have to postpone those, too, and then you’ll never be ready for the recital.” The arguments just rattled off Mrs. Hamilton’s tongue like pennies from a slashed purse.

  I was awed.

  Then the other shoe dropped as Mrs. Hamilton added, “Miriam will stay and hold down the fort—won’t you, Miriam?” Her smile could’ve melted the polar icecaps it was so saccharine sweet. I wasn’t fooled, though. I knew it was only skin-deep, meant for the audience and not for me. I had been more or less railroaded into accepting the unenviable task of taking care of her children twenty-four-seven while their parents splashed in the Pacific. And there was only one answer I could give.

  “Sure,” I said and nudged Riley under the table with my foot. “Cheer up, kid. It’ll be fun. We’ll TP the house.”

  Mrs. Hamilton’s jaw just about plummeted to meet her imported Limoges.

  * * * *

  I was glad when dinner finally drew to a close. Zara had become a limp, sleepy bundle in my arms as I carried her up the stairs and put her to bed. She yawned as I buttoned her into her pajamas, but for the most part she didn’t stir. There was no need for a bedtime story tonight, so I went back downstairs to help clear the table while Riley and Phoenix got ready for bed.

  Mrs. Hamilton’s voice rang out from the dining room, an elegant chime that for some reason had my stomach churning. What was I afraid of? As strict as she could be, Mrs. Hamilton had never treated me poorly. She didn’t abuse or insult me. She was generous with my salary and generally good about remembering the evenings I asked for time off.

  I had the sense that she behaved as coldly to me as she did to everyone else, that there was nothing special about me that cranked her Ice Queen engine. That was just her nature.

  Before I could reach the dining room door, I noticed Elliot in the foyer. He was tugging on a pair of black leather gloves and brooding. He glanced up, noticed me on the stairs, and something in his expression shifted abruptly.

  I realized that we were, for all intents and purposes, alone for the first time in almost two years. It was crazy, but the thought of being near to him still appealed to some small and giddy part of me.

  “You haven’t changed,” Elliot said, breaking the silence.

  I snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Elliot shook his head once, very slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’ve always been beautiful, Miriam.”

  I wished he hadn’t said that because the undeserved compliment only seemed to fan the heat I could feel coiling in my belly.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” I heard myself say, trying for levity and falling short.

  The elephant in the room was begging to be acknowledged, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so instead I crept down another step and winced as the stairs creaked under my feet. There was no let-up in the dining room. I could only assume that Mrs. Hamilton must not have heard me come down.

  “So… You’re some bigshot novelist now, huh?” I asked and nodded to the black and silver helmet resting solitary on the half-moon console table. “Do you actually ride a motorcycle or is that just for show?” The paraphernalia certainly made for a curious sort of contrast next to the white orchids.

  Elliot smirked. “Do you think pretending to ride a bike would get me girls?”

  “Some girls,” I shot back and realized with some surprise that I was flirting. Not for the first time that evening, my cheeks felt hot. “You know I’m going to have to find all your books now—”

  “—and write scathing reviews?”

  It was my turn to shake my head. “I’d never do that,” I lied. A week after I’d left his bed, when the hurt had still been fresh and I hadn’t understood why he hadn’t called, I might have. I told myself I was over the rejection by now. I’d had three boyfriends in the meantime—well, more like one boyfriend and two friends with benefits, but who was keeping count?—to say nothing of about a dozen mutually satisfying one-night stands.

  “You should consider it,” Elliot said. “It can be therapeutic.”

  “I’ve heard the same thing about week-long vacations in Santa Barbara…” I might have spent my days with teens and preteens, but by God, I could meet him quip for quip for as long as he wanted. We had done this dance before, only this time there were no real stakes involved. For all I knew, he was happily married with three kids of his own. Maybe he had a nanny, just like me.

  Elliot held my gaze. “I’m not going to Santa Barbara.”

  I arched my eyebrows, but before I could ask why—and really, it was none of my business—maybe he just wasn’t very fond of the seaside—he went on, “I’m doing a book signing at the City Lights in North Beach tomorrow morning. The bookshop, not the café. It’s that big pink building on—”

  “I know where it is.” I had lived in San Francisco my whole life. I knew my way around the town. All the same, I knew I’d interrupted him a little brutally. I found myself struggling to find a way to get back to that bizarre flirting thing we’d had going but couldn’t.

  That was when I heard footsteps approaching. I drew back a step, trying to make it seem natural, trying to pretend I wasn’t fleeing. I don’t think he bought it.

  Mr. Hamilton had both hands on Terry’s shoulders. “…settled, then? I’ll probably be the one driving. Bridget can’t stand traffic jams.” When he caught sight of Elliot and me, he chuckled knowingly. “I hope you know you’re making a terrible mistake, old man.”

  God, was one look at us all it took? I wanted to disappear into the mahogany paneling on the walls. Could I be any less professional? I was the Hamiltons’ nanny, for crying out loud, not some co-ed out for a good time—

  “What’s he done now?” Mrs. Hamilton asked, following with her arm looped around Jana’s elbow.

  “Still refusing to come with us,” crowed Mr. Hamilton. “I’m telling you, Elliot, you’ll regret it when you’re stuck here with all the noise and dust—”

  “—and my legions of adoring fans?” Elliot concluded for him, smirking. “I think I’ll cope. Have a good night, you two. Miriam, was it?” He held out his hand, and I shook it again, like we were strangers meeting for the first time.

  I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until the guests filed out of the door like a gaggle of unruly children, Jana and Elliot on either side of Terry, who seemed to be in a very good mood. The wine may have played a small part in that. I suddenly wished I’d had some myself.

  “I’ll go upstairs to pack,” Mr. Hamilton said, beaming a wide grin at no one in particular. I wondered why he was always so happy to be leaving when he had such a lovely home and such a beautiful wife. The kids weren’t bad, either, but then I spent all day with them so I might have been biased.

  Mrs. Hamilton lingered in the foyer with me. “You asked to have this Sunday off, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not a problem—” I started to say, because it wasn’t and because I didn’t want to make Mrs. Hamilton feel like she owed me. I wouldn’t have wanted to go to Santa Barbara, anyway. It would be uncomfortable for everyone involved, not to mention overcrowded. Mr. Hamilton drove a BMW coupé, not an SUV.

  “Good,” said Mrs. Hamilton, smiling one of her icy smiles. “I really appreciate it, Miriam. Mr. Hamilton will be leaving for Naachtun in ten days and this is probably our last chance to spend some time together…”

  She was scrupulous about calling her husband ‘Mr. Hamilton’ when she spoke to me, as if to reinforce the distance between us. In some ways, it was a welcome fixation because it meant I wasn’t likely to forget that she was my boss. In other ways, I always felt demeaned by the mention, as though I couldn’t figure out on my own that the Hamiltons were just my employers and that I was just the girl who put their kids to sleep at night.

  I would have preferred to eat my dinner in the kitchen with Paolo than be reminded of my position all the goddamn time.

  I kept my mouth shut and stopped myself from testily pointing out to Mrs. Hamilton that she wouldn’t be alone in Santa Barbara with her husband. Terry and Jana would be around to open the house for them, plus whatever other friends they made while they were there.

  There was no point in saying as much. I got the message crystal clear.

  She meant that the kids wouldn’t be around to disrupt their marital bliss.

  I tried not to judge her, I really did, but caring for her children inevitably forced me to question why I was needed at all, why Mrs. Hamilton didn’t just try to get to know Riley and Phoenix, why I was the one putting Zara to bed at night and getting her dressed in the morning.

  I went to clear the table and hoped it would do the same for my head. It didn’t.

  Riley was already asleep by the time I made my way upstairs to check on her. I turned down the light on her nightstand and plugged in her phone charger. She’d make a fuss about it tomorrow if the battery was dead, as if being disconnected however temporarily from her new text-pals was a calamity. I tucked her in and eased the door shut behind me before I went to check on the others.

  Phoenix was out like a light and Zara hadn’t stirred since I’d put her to bed. I turned on the baby monitor before I went to my room, just in case she woke up during the night and needed me.

  My tour was complete, the day officially over.

  As I powered up the computer and stripped out of my floral print dress, I noticed that the digital clock on my toolbar read midnight on the nose.

  It was a warm night and I almost felt tempted to sleep in my underwear, like I’d done at home, but I didn’t feel comfortable doing that in someone else’s house. As laid-back and ‘with it’ as the Hamiltons pretended to be, I didn’t want to test the limits of their laissez-faire.

  I still had Penny’s wedding album open in my browser, so I bit the bullet and wrote her a quick message of congratulations. I was happy for her. She was my best friend, even if she was annoyingly cagey sometimes, and I hoped she would be happy in her marriage. With that, I closed the photo album and started Googling for Naachtun, a place I’d never heard of before, and Elliot McFarland, a man I’d been intimately acquainted with not too long ago but still knew so little about.

  A map of Guatemala only held my attention for about three seconds. There was no competing with the sharp tingling in my fingertips as I scrolled through the sixteen million hits I got back when I typed in Elliot’s name. I had barely made it to the middle of the first page before I found his website.

  I didn’t know what I expected as I clicked the hyperlink, but it wasn’t a full-page artsy black-an
d-white of Elliot smiling at me like he knew my deepest, darkest secrets. I squirmed a little on the bed, uncomfortable for no good reason.

  “Let’s see what you’ve written,” I muttered aloud. Talking to myself couldn’t possibly make this any weirder.

  I discovered quickly that Elliot had been a busy boy since I’d left him in that hotel room two years ago. Bare Silence, his first novel, had apparently won the Nebula and been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. He’d also published the first two novels in a trilogy called Rewind and I read a few messages from fans pleading with him to hurry up and publish the last installment.

  The message boards were rife with speculation about his work, about the characters and plots he wove. I found a few dissenting voices, too, people claiming that he was a hack, that his novels weren’t realistic, and for some reason, I felt myself bristling on his behalf. I refrained from adding my two cents to the discussion. For all I knew, the vocal minority of his critics was right.

  I couldn’t form an opinion until I had some idea about the material.

  In a way, it felt like I’d been plunged right back into college, with required reading needed to substantiate my claim that Elliot McFarland was, in fact, a good author. I couldn’t claim he was a good man—my knowledge of Elliot was purely carnal, though admittedly I had sat in on a few of his lectures before deciding to bone him. My conclusion? He was a good public speaker and an even better lover.

  I found Bare Silence and Rewind for cheap online and snagged them without a second thought. My bank account would recover. The expense wasn’t that important.

  One glance at the clock told me I could get through at least one chapter before I crashed, if I read fast. Besides, after our intense after-dinner staring contest and having read up on Elliot’s most recent accomplishments, I felt too keyed up for sleep. I plunged into the first of the Rewind novels as though the key to life eternal was hidden in those pages. It wasn’t, but the next time I moved my cursor to the toolbar, the digital clock read three in the morning.