the au pairs crazy hot

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Jer …” She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t even really sure what had just happened. Did this mean …?

  “I love you,” he said, pulling her to him and kissing her under the setting sun.

  Eliza kissed him back, and when she opened one eye to look at her hand, her new ring winked at her, almost as if to say, Gotcha!

  www.blogspot/hamptonsaupair1

  about me

  Hello. Hello. Is this mike working? Ha. Just kidding. I’m new to this Internet thingy. But allow me to introduce myself. I’m M., a nineteen-year-old au pair in the Hamptons. And no, I don’t have a webcam. Besides, contrary to popular belief, I don’t just hang out in my bikini and neglect the kids all day. It’s a lot of work taking care of five overachieving children under the age of thirteen while their mom yells at you for feeding them non-free-range chicken nuggets. (Not that it’s happened yet—it’s only been a week—but I’m just saying.)

  my charges

  VIOLET is twelve going on thirty-five. She speaks five languages and can probably balance the federal budget. Her advanced-Mandarin tutor arrives every other day. Otherwise, this summer Violet is busy with art, drama, sculpture, Bikram yoga, experimental dance and movement, etiquette, horseback riding, and violin. Her schedule is busier than that of a CEO of a large financial company. I know, because her mom is one, and she actually has time off. Violet’s goal? Early admission to Harvard (Mom was class of ’92), a Rhodes Scholarship, and world domination. Violet displays all twelve signs of extraordinary ability according to Twelve Signs Your Tween is Gifted. She is well balanced, well rounded, and incredibly mature for her age. Sadly, I have not yet seen her laugh.

  LOGAN and JACKSON are seven-year-old twin child geniuses. Logan has composed a piano solo in the style of Chopin and beat the former Soviet chess champ when he was five years old. Jackson wrote a one-act play that was produced by a New York theater company last year. (Title: A Car Seat Named Desire.) They are obsessed with CNN and ending global warming and are full-fledged members of the Libertarian party. Logan asked me with total sincerity what I was doing to lower my carbon monoxide emissions. Told him I myself don’t even own a car anymore—I sold my Camry to pay for my first year at Columbia. These days I drive their mom’s Lexus hybrid. Does that count?

  WYATT is five and has proven the theory of relativity. Joke! Wyatt has eaten a sandwich. As far as I can tell, he is a normal five-year-old with five-year-old likes and dislikes: Tonka trucks, Legos, PlayStation 3, SpongeBob. His mother is convinced there must be something wrong with him.

  CASSIDY is six months old, and he’s already beginning to crawl. (Yes, Cassidy’s a boy—thank God I’m not going to be around during those difficult, name-teasing preteen years.) His toilet trainer comes twice a week. Cassidy is proficient in BSL (baby sign language). I myself cannot speak BSL and therefore did not understand that Cassidy wanted a bottle rather than a cuddle, which resulted in major vomit. Vomit is gross in all languages.

  Seriously, they’re all adorable, and their mom is surprisingly down-to-earth considering she lives in a thirty-thousand-square-foot house. We’ll see how long it lasts.

  personal notes

  Taking care of kids isn’t my entire life. I’m also here at the beach with my two best friends in the whole world, and between the three of us, we have a lot of fun and get into a lot of trouble. (Not necessarily in that order.)

  E. is a designer diva, probably the best-dressed gal on the Atlantic coast. She’s blond, gorgeous, funny, and will lend you the Pucci shift off her back—a girl after my own heart. She’s opening her own store in the Hamptons this summer and has asked me to model at the opening! Me? Model? Bet you really wish I had a webcam now, huh?

  J. is a South American sexpot, as well as one of the sweetest, nicest girls I’ve ever met. She’s been unlucky in love in the past, and I’ve noticed she’s been a bit subdued since we arrived. Every time I turn around, she’s googling “Pete Rockwood, Indianapolis” on the computer. I asked her what the deal was, but she wouldn’t tell me. No worries—J. will spill when she’s ready. She’s not one to keep secrets from friends. Unless, of course, it’s about how one’s boyfriend fooled around with one’s other best friend a couple of years ago. But that’s an old story and all is forgiven between the three of us. Seriously. Said ex-boyfriend is old news. Ancient history. Totally. Anyway, moving on …

  My boyfriend D. and I have been together for almost a year. We were supposed to spend the summer in Europe together, but alas, as they say—“the best-laid plans of mice and men …” or “Life happens when you’re busy making plans.” Anyway, who knew that passports can expire? Last I saw him he was hightailing it to gate 24 in terminal 3 at JFK. He has sent a number of apologetic e-mails and texts but has yet to call. Should I give him the cold shoulder when he does ring? Or fake happiness? Which is more likely to prompt gifts of handmade Belgian chocolates?

  Till next time,

  HamptonsAuPair1

  jacqui meets the

  boys from oz

  JACQUI GLIDED DOWN MAIN STREET, ENJOYING THE warm sunshine and colorful shop windows and almost forgetting the troop of children trailing her. A sweeping boulevard lined with weeping willow trees, rustic shingled cottages, and hand-painted signs as far as the eye could see, Main Street could have been in any quaint New England town. Filled as it was with dog-walking, child-toting parents, it was impossible to believe that this was one of the most fashionable places on earth. But on closer inspection, those tiny cottages actually housed storefronts for flashy designer labels and expensive apothecary stores, the dogs were hypoallergenic purebreds, and the children’s play clothes were made from imported French cotton.

  All three Finnemore boys were happily licking generous ice cream cones as they marched behind Jacqui in an orderly fashion. Logan and Jackson were quietly discussing the merits of last night’s Hannity & Colmes debate, while Wyatt was devouring as much ice cream as possible while making sure not to spill any on his stubby little chin. She smiled, feeling a bit like Julie Andrews’s Maria in The Sound of Music, the well-loved nanny with her rosycheeked, happy troop. Of course, Maria never wore sexy white Stella McCartney jumpers like the one she had on. But then again, Maria was a nun.

  Jacqui stopped to look at a Calypso display in one of the cottage windows, admiring a handwoven leather belt. Without her having to tell them to, the boys immediately stopped behind her, waiting patiently.

  Just as she had predicted, the kids were an easy bunch to manage. Their first week had been hassle- and trouble-free, with nary a tantrum or a toy thrown. In fact, the little boys were so serious Jacqui hoped to shake them up a bit. Violet was so studious she hardly ever went outside. Even the baby never cried. Well behaved was one thing, but these kids were so calm they were practically Stepford. Jacqui, trying to squeeze some fun into the kids’ challenging schedule, had brought them to the ice cream counter as a treat, and they’d looked almost bewildered when she told them they could get anything they wanted.

  Jacqui leaned in toward the show window, shading her eyes with her hand to block the reflection off the well-polished glass. The store had some beautiful things, and she immediately missed being able to buy what she wanted without worrying how much it cost. Payday was a few weeks off, and Jacqui knew exactly how she wanted to spend it: in their short jaunt, she’d made a mental note of the floaty sundresses at Tracy Feith, the newest thong sandals at Scoop, and a wallet-busting crocodile bag from Georgina.

  Jacqui sighed. Those were things she wanted, all right, but she knew she wouldn’t buy them. Suzy was paying her handsomely, and Jacqui intended to save every penny of it just to be safe. She’d had the rug pulled out from her once already this summer, and she wanted to have backup plans for her backup plans.

  “I’m dripping,” Wyatt whined, startling Jacqui from her reverie. “I tried to stop it from melting, but I couldn’t.”

  “Oh no, sweetie.” Jacqui bent down to help dab the front of his shirt, which was co
vered with sticky ice cream residue.

  They had run out of napkins a few blocks back, so Jacqui rifled in her handbag for suitable alternatives. She came across the invite to Eliza’s store opening that night—Eliza probably wouldn’t be too happy to find out her invite was being used to wipe a five-year-old’s face, but what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. Jacqui squatted down and began to gently wipe off Wyatt’s face with the soft paper, crouching so low that the short-shorts on her jumper rode even farther up her thighs, and bending so far forward that she was dangerously close to revealing to the world that she was not wearing a bra underneath her eyelet top. She was almost done cleaning him when she heard the distinctive click of a camera shutter.

  Jacqui jumped at the sound, teetering on her wooden Chloé wedges. Meu Deus! Was it the paparazzi again? But what would they want with her? She’d been keeping a low profile ever since Eliza’s impromptu beach fashion show last summer. The camera continued to click and Jacqui rolled her eyes. Seriously, what did it take to be left alone these days?

  She straightened, whipping her head around, about to unleash a smart retort—until she noticed who was behind the lens.

  A lanky guy with shaggy, light brown hair and deep blue eyes stood on the sidewalk, squinting into his camera. He was dressed in a pair of worn cargos and a thin, faded All-Blacks T-shirt. “Hello, love, just hold that, will you? Brilliant! Now if you could just turn this way …” He motioned with a hand, still looking through the viewfinder.

  Jacqui bristled. Who did he think he was? She was minding her own business, taking care of the kids in broad daylight on Main Street. She could tell from his accent he was Australian—she’d watched enough Crocodile Hunter with the Perry kids to be able to differentiate a Brit from an Aussie—and maybe things were done differently Down Under. Still, she certainly didn’t need to add paparazzi to her list of things to deal with.

  “Right there, perfect,” the photographer said, just as Logan pulled on the hem of her jumper.

  Jacqui looked down at the owlish little boy, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Yes, sweetie?”

  “Why is that man bothering you?” he asked. “Doesn’t he know about privacy law?”

  Jacqui couldn’t stop a grin from spreading across her face. “I don’t know. Why don’t we ask him?” She finished wiping Wyatt’s face and gave him his ice cream cone back.

  “Am I bothering you? I’m so sorry.” The photographer smiled and his whole face lit up. He held the lens up to his eye again. “Could you hold that pose, please? Perfect, thanks. And maybe turn your chin down just a bit?”

  Jacqui found her chin moving down automatically, her eyes locking with the camera’s lens. Dozens of photographers in Manhattan had told her she was made for the camera, and the way her body seemed to respond to his directions naturally, almost against her will, she began to wonder if it were true.

  “Jacqui …,” Jackson whined from behind her, his voice breaking the spell of the camera’s flash. “I dropped my ice cream.” She turned to face him. The little boy was dangerously close to tears, pointing to where his ice cream cone rested upside down on the sidewalk. “It was my fault—I was trying to count how many diamonds there were in the waffle cone and it fell,” he added miserably, staring at the drippy pink mess. Jacqui hurried to his side, bending to give him a big hug.

  “No worries, mate, we’ll get you another.” An even deeper voice startled her.

  Jacqui and the kids looked up to see another man, identical to the first photographer except with even shaggier hair, so long that it licked the edge of his shirt collar but artfully tousled. He wore a rare vintage concert tee and his cargos were the seven-hundred-dollar designer kind—as she crouched down, the Maharishi logo was just at Jacqui’s eye level. He winked at her and she felt a thrill zigzag up her spine.

  “Don’t mind my brother,” he said, nodding at the first photographer. “Atrocious manners. Thinks he can just start taking photos of any girl off the street without asking permission.” He shook his head in mock frustration, his shaggy locks bouncing adorably back and forth. “Let me introduce us. That’s Midas there and I’m Marcus.” He held out a hand. “We’re the Easton boys. At your service, mum.”

  Midas waved from behind the camera. “Hello there!”

  “Jacarei Velasco.” She stood, extending a hand. Instead of shaking it, Marcus leaned forward and kissed it. She smiled. “But you can call me Jacqui.”

  “But why should I when Jacarei is such a pretty name?” Marcus’s eyes twinkled. “You’re from Brazil then, yes?”

  Jacqui nodded, surprised. She straightened the hem of her jumper, hoping it hadn’t ridden too high. “You know Brazil?”

  “We were just there last month, shooting in Praia da Baía do Sancho.” He nodded, naming one of the country’s most beautiful and remote beaches. “We had to hike a few miles on foot to get there and helicopter in the models. But it was worth it.”

  She couldn’t help but grin. Whenever she met anyone who had been to her country, it was usually only for Carnaval in Rio. It was refreshing to meet someone who understood that there was more to Brazil than women in feather bikinis dancing the conga.

  Midas resumed his monologue as he continued to snap away with his camera. “Yes, those eyes, very good. Very Linda. And my God, those legs. Haven’t seen a pair like that since Karolina. And that hair rivals Gisele’s.”

  “Where were we?” Marcus frowned, ignoring his brother and studying the kids, who were looking up at him openmouthed. They clearly weren’t quite sure what to make of the two big boys who had so suddenly and noisily interrupted their quiet walk. “I remember, you, sir, had lost your ice cream and need a replacement, yes?” he asked, bending down to tickle Jackson’s chin. “Now, what flavor can we get you?”

  “Passion fruit, please,” Jackson said politely.

  “Good boy.” Jacqui smiled. The kids had chosen low-fat fruit-flavored ice cream rather than the chocolate variety all on their own. Suzy had taught them well.

  Marcus loped off to fetch the cone from the nearby Scoops storefront and returned momentarily, handing it briskly to Jackson with an elaborate bow. “Your wish is my command.”

  Jackson reached out for the cone. “You’re silly,” he observed. Marcus responded by stretching his face into a contorted grimace and sticking out his tongue. Jackson giggled and Logan, after a minute, followed suit. Soon, Wyatt was laughing too. It was the first time Jacqui had seen the kids let loose, and she giggled along with them.

  “They’re adorable. Yours?” Marcus raised an eyebrow, his sleepy-sexy eyes twinkling.

  “Deus! Of course not, I’m only nineteen!” Jacqui laughed. If he wasn’t so adorable, she would have been extremely offended. But she’d always had a soft spot for Australian accents, and his was particularly yummy.

  Marcus drew a hand across his brow, pretending to look greatly relieved.

  Midas, who was still taking photographs, mumbled, “Perfect. And undiscovered, I can bet on it. But how?” He finally put the camera down and addressed Jacqui directly, wiping the sweat off his brow. “You’re not with any agency, are you?”

  Jacqui shook her head. She had been mistaken for a model so often in Manhattan, it was always tempting to lie and say that she was so people would stop bothering her about it already.

  Midas fished in his pants pocket for his card and handed it to her. “I’d love to take more photos of you if you’re interested.”

  She took the card and put in her pocket, crumpling it with her fingers. She wasn’t sure if she even believed they were real fashion photographers, and besides, she’d heard that line many times before.

  “Oh, playing hard to get, are we?” Marcus teased, having noticed the discreet diss. “What my brother is too shy to tell you is that we just arrived here from Sydney to scout locations for a magazine shoot, and you’re just the face we’re looking for.”

  Jacqui shook her head again, more firmly this time but with a smile. “Y
ou’re both very sweet, but it’s just not for me.” Once upon a time, Jacqui eagerly traded in her looks for anything it could bring―the use of older men’s Black AmEx credit cards, free drinks at a bar, a better table in restaurants. But she was tired of being treated like an empty-headed doll. She wanted to prove to the world that she was a serious girl with serious ambitions—to be known for the size of her brain rather than that of her bust.

  “Don’t tell me we’ve found the only girl in the world who doesn’t want to be a model!” Marcus laughed. “You’re going to put Tyra Banks out of business!”

  Midas shrugged. “Just think about it,” he said, in a serious, professional manner. He began putting away his camera and nodded, the conversation already over for him. “Let’s go—we told Tonne we’d check out the pond to see if we can use it for the shoot.”

  “Hang on a sec,” Marcus said, still eyeing Jacqui. “Sure you’re not interested? We don’t bite, you know.”

  Jacqui returned the smile. “I’m not. But if you guys really are fashion photographers, you might want to come by my friend’s party tonight. She’s opening her store.” She dug out the invitation, which was only slightly grimy from having been used as a napkin. “Eliza Thompson. She’s the biggest thing in the Hamptons right now.” Okay, so that might not be true—yet—but it would be soon. She stretched out a hand with the invitation and Marcus took it, his fingers lingering over her own for a brief moment.

  “Good on ya.” Marcus nodded as he drew his hand away, smoothly pocketing the invite. “See you there.”

  Jacqui watched them saunter down the street until an insistent tug on her hem reminded her that there were other, smaller boys who needed her attention as well.

  eliza’s ring only promises

  misunderstandings

  “IT’S SO TIGHT!” MARA EXCLAIMED AS ELIZA TIGHTENED the straps on the white floor-length mermaid gown she’d asked Mara to model at the store-opening party.