by Janette Rallison, Heather B. Moore, Luisa Perkins, Sarah M. Eden, Annette Lyon, Lisa Mangum
Now, as she gazed at the dial that showed the elevator’s laborious progress, Marisol took a series of deep breaths. This new job opportunity wasn’t perfect— it was only for the summer— but it would be the ideal bridge to September, which was prime nannying season. It would get her through the crisis the Rubins had thoughtlessly put her into.
Finally, the elevator reached the penthouse level. Marisol relaxed her shoulders and smoothed her long, shapeless skirt. She’d consciously copied the dress of the Orthodox Jewish women who lived around her in Washington Heights, not wanting to draw attention to her body. Her potential employer was a single dad, and Marisol didn’t want any favors or even any extra attention. She’d seen the way Bob Rubin’s eyes had lingered on her chest and hips lately when she played Legos on the living room carpet with Bayla and Tikva. As much as she’d resented Miriam’s urgings of uber-modesty, she could now see the wisdom in it too.
After she exited the elevator, Marisol lifted the heavy brass knocker on the polished mahogany door and knocked. A moment later, the door opened. Marisol looked up— way up. She was short and used to looking up into people’s faces, but this guy made her neck hurt. He looked a bit like Will Smith, only younger— and much taller.
“May I help you?”
“I…” Marisol was confused. Had she gotten off the elevator on the wrong floor? Downstairs, a woman’s voice had answered when the doorman had announced her over the intercom; single dad or no, she hadn’t been expecting a man to answer the door.
The man raised an eyebrow at her. His height, his beautiful amber eyes, and his eyebrow all intimidated Marisol. But she had to nail this.
“I’m Marisol Flores. Team Nanny sent me. I’m here to interview for the job. Is this the right apartment? I’m looking for Dr. Jackson.”
Now the man frowned, looking her up and down. “There must be some mistake.”
“Oh…” So this was the wrong floor after all. Marisol turned to the elevator, and then looked back. “This isn’t the penthouse, then?”
“Yes, it is. What I meant was that the agency made a mistake. You’re not at all what I asked for.”
Oh. “Dr. Jackson?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. You won’t work out. Not your fault. I’ll call to let the agency know.” He took a step backward and turned away.
“Wait!” On a wild impulse, Marisol lunged forward and stuck her hand out, keeping Dr. Jackson from closing the door all the way.
He looked at her, impatience furrowing his brow. “What is it?”
“The subway ride here took forever. Could you at least look at my resume? And maybe… may I use your restroom?”
The doctor looked at Marisol for a long moment, and then relented. “Sure. Come on in. The bathroom is on your left. Give me your resume. Come down the hall to the living room when you’re done. I can’t give you more than a minute, though. I need to get the agency on the phone to see if they can send over someone else before I have to get to work.”
Darius watched the young woman go into his bathroom, her ugly black skirt sagging in the back. Walking into his living room, he scanned the paper in his hand. She’d been a nanny for three years, and before that had worked at a special needs daycare in Inwood. She hadn’t included any education details, other than a CPR and lifesaving course she’d taken the summer before.
Darius flopped onto his long, leather couch and fumed. What had the agency been thinking? He’d specifically requested someone older. Well, he couldn’t say that straight out because of anti-discrimination laws, but he’d asked for a college degree and a minimum of fifteen years’ nannying experience. He couldn’t stand a repeat of last summer’s disaster.
Ever since he and Phoebe had split up and she’d moved to Las Vegas, they’d shared custody of Reese and Seth. And when Reese had started school, Darius had consented to the boys spending the school year in Vegas as long as he had them all summer. It was a less-than-ideal arrangement, but Phoebe had been dead-set on accepting the prestigious position as Head of Bariatric Surgery at UMC.
Darius was ambitious too, and, especially in this day and age, he’d be the worst kind of hypocrite to demand that his ex-wife not further her own career. He ached for the boys all fall and winter— and then during the summer months, worked as little as possible so that he could spend every free minute with them.
But that still meant he needed a full-time nanny during the summer. Anesthesiologists couldn’t just take three whole months off. “Working as little as possible” meant keeping his schedule to thirty-five or forty hours per week plus on-call time, instead of the sixty or seventy he was used to.
Last summer, he’d settled for a college student. It had made sense at the outset; she wanted work only for as long as he needed her. But he hadn’t counted on the constant flirting and overt bids for his attention. Chelsea had been so over-the-top with her low-cut blouses and push-up bras that even his boys had noticed— and they’d only been six and four at the time.
This year, he was adamant. He wanted a matronly grandmother type. No one who was going to see his ringless left hand and start scheming. He was willing to pay a full year’s salary for the next three months if it meant getting someone who would focus on his boys and not him.
The woman— Ms. Flores— had come out of the bathroom and into his living room. She looked at him with solemn, dark eyes. He thought about her long commute via subway to his apartment and felt a twinge of guilt.
“Please, sit down for a moment, Ms. Flores. Can I have my housekeeper get you a drink of some kind? Tea, water, juice?”
“No, thank you.” Her voice had a slight lilt to it. South American, maybe? Her accent wasn’t Mexican or Dominican.
“Well, I’ll insist on paying for a taxi back to wherever you live— or over to Team Nanny’s office, if you prefer. I’m sorry that they’ve wasted both of our time. The fact is, I’m looking for someone more experienced. And with more education.”
The woman’s face fell, and she rooted through her briefcase. “But I have excellent references. My current employer—”
“I’m sure your references are fine.”
“Then why won’t you give me a chance?” she blurted. A second later, she looked mortified, as if she regretted her outburst.
“It’s complicated.” Darius exhaled and rubbed his forehead. “I only have my boys for three months of the year. Last summer, I hired a college student to watch them while I was at work. It seemed ideal, but it… wasn’t.”
No need to share the sordid details with a stranger. Chelsea walking around in her lingerie after the boys were in bed… Chelsea “forgetting” to close her bedroom door when she undressed… Darius cleared his throat and continued. “For one thing, my older son has Asperger’s, so I need someone with a high degree of patience, and someone with competence in dealing with special needs children. For another…” Darius looked into the woman’s deep brown eyes and lost his nerve.
She rushed to fill the momentary silence. “One of the girls I take care of now has Sensory Processing Disorder. I know it’s not the same, but if you read my references, you’ll see that I come highly recommended for special needs kids. I’ve worked really closely with Tikva’s occupational therapists for the past three years, and I’ve picked up a lot of techniques. If you would just give me a chance…”
Her bottom lip trembled the slightest bit, and she looked like she might be close to tears. Darius felt bad for her, but he had to do what was right for his boys. He steeled himself. “I’m sorry.” He stood and fished his wallet out of his pocket. Handing her a twenty-dollar bill, he said, “This should cover your cab. Thanks for your time. And good luck.”
She took the money without a word, ducked her head, and headed for the door. After she got on the elevator, he phoned the agency.
Team Nanny’s owner took the call herself and cut him off mid-complaint. “Dr. Jackson, hiring a caregiver isn’t like ordering a pizza. Marisol Flores is the only available candidate we have that has any
special needs experience at all. The rest of my roster this time of year is pretty thin. You may want to double check with another agency, but I’ve already made some calls to colleagues, and trust me: Marisol fits your profile best.”
Standing in his entryway, Dr. Jackson swore under his breath, then punched the intercom button. For once, he thanked heaven for his pre-war building’s ancient, snail-paced elevator. “Eddie? Has my guest left yet?”
“She just walked out, sir. Hank is hailing her a cab.”
“Can you do me a solid and run out and grab her? Tell her I’ve changed my mind.”
“Yes, sir!”
Five minutes later, the elevator clanked its way up to the penthouse again. Darius opened his door before Ms. Flores could knock. Her dark, cautious gaze met his.
“I was too hasty, Ms. Flores. Please forgive me. The job is yours if you still want it.”
Her face lit up with relief and hope. “Thank you, Dr. Jackson. You won’t regret this.”
I hope you’re right, he thought, swinging the door open all the way. “Come on in,” he said. “I’ll show you around.”
“Mami, por favor.” Marisol groaned into her cell phone as she glanced over at Reese. He was still contentedly arranging his collection of plastic spoons while Seth watched a cartoon.
“What?” her mother asked. Pots and pans clattered; Carolina Flores was surely getting an early start on onces— Chile’s version of afternoon tea. Her mother could afford a cook but preferred to reign supreme in the kitchen. For good reason— her cooking was legendary. “You can’t blame me for dreaming, gordita. He’s a doctor, he’s single, and he lives in a penthouse. And that photo you sent me of him and his boys. Es bien encachado. It actually worries me that you don’t find him attractive.”
Marisol lowered her voice so that the boys couldn’t hear. She and her mother were conversing in Spanish, but she couldn’t be too careful. She’d already learned that Reese was sharper than a tack and had picked up all kinds of random information purely by listening when others spoke too freely. “Of course he’s attractive. But he’s my boss. And I’m a professional.” She looked at the clock. After this show was over, Seth would run out of screen time for the day, and Marisol would have to help him make the transition to other summer activities. Maybe they’d go to the park.
“Professional,” her mother scoffed. “Taking care of someone else’s children is not professional. It’s being a servant.”
Marisol rolled her eyes. They’d had this conversation a million times. Her parents employed several servants and hated the idea of their preciosa lowering herself to such a thing. They also couldn’t understand her fixation with finishing college— and doing it all her way, without accepting help from anyone. She knew what was coming next: the plea to return home.
Right on cue, her mother begged, “Come back to Chile, Marisol. Your Tia Gabriela has a new tenant who’s just a little older than you. He’s a builder, but he owns his own business, and he’s saving up to buy his own ranch. I want you to meet him.”
“Mami, I’m not interested in any more blind dates, and I’m not coming back to Chile. You know I love you and Papi and the rest of the family. But New York is my home now. As soon as I finish my degree and have a real job and my own place, then I’ll think about dating. Not before. Please don’t ask me again.”
A heavy sigh traveled the five thousand miles between them. “I pray for you three times a day, Mari.”
“Sì, Mami. I know.” Marisol glanced at the television. “But I’ve got to go now. It’s time for us to go to the park.”
At the Bleecker Playground, Marisol shadowed Reese. Despite her brave speech to her mother, she felt a tidal wave of homesickness wash over her. Life in New York was exhilarating, but it wasn’t easy. If her parents had any idea how many times she’d been tempted to forget about college, pack up, and move home to Santiago… well, they’d probably push a lot harder for her to come home.
The past two weeks had been great, though. Reese and Seth were high-energy, but lovable. Marisol had her own room in Dr. Jackson’s penthouse apartment— something she’d never had before. And the pay was phenomenal; Marisol had been calculating whether she could actually go back to sharing a studio and paying rent in the fall instead of having to find another nannying job. If she could swing that, she could go to school full-time and graduate in December instead of June. She’d be that much closer to her goal— if she was very, very careful.
When two of the playground swings freed up, Marisol stopped doing mental math and coaxed Reese and Seth away from the sandbox. Both boys loved to swing, and it was great therapy for Reese in particular. She could push them both for a while, and then she’d tempt them away from the park with a trip to the Magnolia Bakery across the street. She’d quickly learned that with Reese, transitions between activities were a lot easier with some sort of carrot— in this case, a carrot cupcake with mounds of cream cheese frosting.
As Darius pushed open the double doors of the employee exit of St. Vincent’s Hospital, the familiar wave of summer humidity hit him and chased away the artificial chill of the air conditioners. He breathed in deeply, letting the tension of a particularly difficult shift roll off his shoulders. He texted Marisol to let her know he was on his way but immediately got a reply that they were at the playground.
I’ll meet you there, he texted back.
Marisol was pushing the boys on the swings. She moved over so that she was behind Seth and let Darius take over with Reese.
“I told them we were almost done,” Marisol said, a little out of breath.
“How long have they been swinging?”
Marisol glanced at her watch. “About forty minutes.”
Darius laughed. “Wow, that’s quite the workout for you.”
“I don’t mind. They both love it, and I promised them we’d go to the bakery on the way home.”
“Daddy! We’re getting cupcakes!” Seth crowed.
Darius looked away. Overall, Marisol had done a great job with his sons over the past two weeks, but clearly, they were starting to get into some bad habits.
“Let’s buy the cupcakes and have them after dinner,” he said.
“No. Mari said now!” Reese said, turning around so far in his swing that it got off balance.
Darius stopped it and started it up again. He frowned at Marisol. “I guess there’s no negotiating. Cupcakes it is… this time. But they’ll ruin their appetites for a proper dinner.”
“I’m sorry,” she said with a beguiling smile. “It’s just that it’s almost five o’clock. I’m used to onces— tea time in my country— with a small supper later in the evening. Onces is every Chilean’s favorite meal, and we do usually eat a lot of sweets. A cupcake from Magnolia is exactly what my body wants this time of day.”
Darius looked down at Marisol’s body, which was swathed in layers despite the heat. “Well, I don’t know where you put it all. Clearly, you have genetics on your side. But African-Americans are particularly prone to type II diabetes. My mother died of complications from it last year, so I’m trying to instill healthy eating habits in my boys.”
Marisol turned back toward Seth. “Again, I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
Once they got to the bakery, Reese got the very last carrot cupcake of the day, averting crisis yet again. Darius knew that his son liked what he liked and had difficulty with change of any kind. During Marisol’s first week of work, Reese had asked over and over again where Chelsea was. Marisol had eventually won him over, but it had taken days.
For the moment, though, Reese seemed content, methodically licking the cream cheese frosting off his treat. Seth happily buried his face in his vanilla buttercream, while Marisol took a huge bite of a caramel cupcake. She rolled her eyes in obvious pleasure.
“Almost as good as an alfajor,” she murmured. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”
Darius shook his head. He hadn’t ordered anything in an effort to make a point, but n
ow he secretly regretted it. All of the baked goods looked amazing, and he hadn’t eaten since an early lunch many hours before. “I’m not hungry right now,” he lied— and immediately his stomach growled, loudly betraying him.
The boys burst out laughing, and a moment later, Marisol joined them. Darius looked at them sternly, his pride stung. Idiot, he said to himself. He got up from their table and walked to the counter.
“Is Daddy mad?” he heard Seth whisper. Darius glanced back. Marisol looked up at him, then shook her head at the boy with a smile.
“I changed my mind,” Darius announced to the cashier. “I’ll have a banana pudding.”
He sat down with his snack and tried to act casual. But after his first bite, he had to keep himself from moaning. Fresh bananas layered with homemade pudding and delicate vanilla wafers… heaven.
Marisol smiled at him knowingly, her gorgeous eyes crinkling up at the corners. “See? How can something so delicious be bad for you? Savor the moment with your boys.”
Spooning more of the velvety pudding into his mouth, Darius decided he’d do just that. This time.
Darius knocked on Marisol’s door then opened it without waiting to be invited in. She looked up at him in panic, shoving papers underneath her pillow. What did she have to hide? Darius wondered, but didn’t have time to speculate.
“I’ve been called in to work,” he announced. “Emergency surgery for a traumatic brain injury. Can you take over?”
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
Darius closed the door again and went to the living room to say goodbye to the boys.
“What about our movie?” Seth whined in protest.
Reese just sat and glowered, shuffling his plastic spoons back and forth. “Not good, not good, not good,” he muttered.