Broken Daddy: A Single Dad & Nanny Romance

by Blake North

  “Good evening, sir,” the guard on duty at the gate said.

  “Good evening, Spencer,” I said cheerfully. “Anything to report?”

  “No, sir. Mrs. Sand went to the arbor and spent a few hours there, but otherwise no-one’s been around here, sir.”

  I smiled. I was pleased Hayley was taking advantage of the beautiful garden. She liked roses, she had said. I was glad she was spending time with them, enjoying this stunning place in ways I rarely got to do.

  “Thank you,” I nodded to Spencer, and then went briskly from the garage to the steps, heading into my house.

  My watch said quarter past six. I breathed in, smiling as delicious smells filtered through to my nose. It seemed as if Mrs. Delange had taken my request to heart and gone all-out preparing our dinner for that evening.

  As if summoned by the thought, I heard her cough in the hallway. “Well, someone’s in time for supper,” she said dolefully. “Should I make cobbler for dessert?”

  I beamed. “Please do, Mrs. Delange. That’s perfect.”

  She smiled, her face flushed with pride at her work. “Very good, Mr. Sand. Now. Do you know when we’ll all be here to sit down for dinner?”

  “I think six-thirty,” I said, frowning. Unless otherwise arranged, it was when we usually had dinner together.

  “Good,” Mrs. Delange said. “You’re early for once.”

  I laughed. “Not you too!” I protested, raising my hands, a gesture of surrender. “I know. I’m guilty. I’m always late for family things.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Delange said firmly. “You are.”

  I swallowed. She had highlighted a very important and often-neglected fact. I did neglect my family. I always had. Making a profit, chasing the next goal, the next milestone, was more imperative. I had been stupid, forgetting what was ultimately more important. Happiness.

  “I’m just going up to shower,” I said quickly, as my thoughts raced from happiness to my new-found joy in Hayley. “If anyone’s looking for me, I’m down in ten minutes. Okay?”

  “Right, Mr. Sand!” she called cheerfully, and headed briskly to the kitchen, her personal domain.

  Upstairs, I showered, changed into jeans and a more comfortable shirt, and headed up the hallway to Hayley’s room. I knocked at the door.

  “Come in,” I heard a voice call softly.

  My loins already stiff with longing, I walked in.

  She was wearing a silky nightdress and she embraced me. I lost all control.

  Half an hour later, smiling and flustered, we helped each other dress in record time and headed downstairs.

  We were sitting in the dining-room, drinking San Pellegrino and chatting about our day, when Estella walked in. She was wearing a black cotton dress and looked at once casual and effortlessly stylish; a trait she shared with her mom, who always looked casually elegant.

  “Hello, sweetness,” I smiled at her. She nodded.

  “Hey, Dad. Hey, Hayley,” she added, nodding to Hayley. I tensed, noticing a slight friction between them. I had hoped they would overcome it, but it was still there. At least, from her side, evidently, it was.

  “Hi, Estella,” Hayley nodded. Estella sat down opposite me.

  I leaned back in my chair, wondering what to do to ease the tension. “We were just discussing the garden. Got any plans for the north end?” I asked casually.

  Estella had a natural flair for design, something I had encouraged but not really appreciated as much as I did now that she said she was passionate about it. She had always shared the design of the garden with me: the north end was her special project. As of yet she had made little progress with it but left the majority unfinished. I guessed school-work was more of a priority. As it should be, I reminded myself.

  “I was thinking about it,” she agreed, lifting her glass and looking into it as she swirled the bubbles. “I thought maybe I’d put maple trees there, in a sort of cluster, like a copse, you know?” she said, setting out the image with a fluid gesture of her hand.

  “Mm,” I agreed, taking a sip. “It sounds good. We could get Max to order them in.”

  Max, or Mr. Max as we affectionately referred to him, was the head gardener, a landscaper with many years of experience. We both consulted with him on all our efforts and, between the three of us, the glory of the Sand Castle gardens was maintained.

  “Oh, good,” Estella nodded enthusiastically. “And what about the irises? I thought we could put them round the pool. Like Monet, you know!” she said, enthused.

  I laughed, nodding. “Yes!” It was nice to see her looking so excited about things again.

  “You know a lot about painting,” Hayley said, in what was meant to be an engaging manner. I tensed fractionally, feeling Estella stiffen.

  No, I wanted to say to Hayley. Let her talk. Don’t question her—she doesn’t like it.

  Estella was at that critical age of being essentially an adult, an age at which she resented anything that sounded like someone was talking down to her. Hayley’s gentle probing could so easily be construed as such. I really didn’t want them fighting.

  “I don’t know that much,” Estella said politely.

  Good, I thought, relaxing more. Good answer. Maybe they wouldn’t argue after all.

  “And is that what you want to study after school?” Hayley asked. I saw Estella tense again and drew breath. “It’s a very demanding job. If I were you…”

  That did it. I knew it would. I leaned forward in my chair as the ice-storm built inside Estella.

  “I think,” she said coldly, “that it is my decision what I study. Mine and maybe Dad’s,” she added, giving me a brief glance. “You are a newcomer here and I don’t think your interest in my career is necessary.”

  I stiffened. I saw Hayley’s face turn from dismay to horror to hurt. I cleared my throat.

  “Estella…”

  “Don’t you take her side!” Estella exploded, turning hurt eyes on me. “I was right! She’s not my mom and she doesn’t have the right to try and push me into one career or another.”

  I felt my own face fall.

  “Baby…”

  “I’m not a baby,” she said quietly. The angriet she got, the quieter her voice went. By now it was a whisper, hurt and vicious. “That’s why I’m so angry. Can’t you see that?”

  “I know you’re not a baby,” I said gently.

  She was not about to be persuaded by my gentle tone now. She stood, pushing in her chair.

  “I’ll go out for dinner,” she said loftily. “Goodnight.”

  “Estella, please…” I said. My voice was also a whisper now. I stood, feeling helpless, as my teenaged daughter glared at me from the doorway.

  “I can see my company isn’t wanted here,” she said in a small voice. “After all, I’m just a baby who doesn’t know anything about career choice and shouldn’t be included with the adults.”

  She turned and walked silently out.

  I sat back in my chair, drew a weary hand over my face.

  “That’s brilliant,” I sighed.

  Hayley was sitting opposite me. I sat with my eyes covered and then turned to look at her.

  “Beckett, I…”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I said wearily. “It’s not your fault. I should have told you. She’s touchy at the moment.”

  “She’s being silly,” Hayley began, probably fairly.

  “No, Hayley,” I interrupted. “She’s got a point. This is her home. She feels angry enough to have someone else in her mother’s place. See it from her viewpoint. It was the last straw for her. Don’t be unfair.”

  I saw Hayley’s face change from hurt to offended, her mouth tightening in a firm line. I closed my eyes.

  “I really don’t need this,” I sighed. “I’m tired.”

  It was a cop-out and I knew it. I should have apologized to Hayley, gone upstairs to try to comfort Estella; tell her that her mother was irreplaceable and that I could love many people in many ways. But I didn’t.<
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  At that moment, all I could think about was that I was exhausted and drained and hungry and now my chances of dinner in a restful surrounding were gone. I was, in my defense, too tired to do anything more complex than eat dinner, check mail and go to bed. But I didn’t even say that.

  “I’m going to work,” I said. I pushed in my chair and walked to the door.

  “Beckett…” Hayley murmured.

  “I won’t go out,” I demurred. “I’m going up to my office. I need to check reports and conference with my accountant. I’ll have dinner there.”

  “Oh, Beckett,” Hayley sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said firmly. I went upstairs.

  I collapsed on my bed for a few moments and then sat up and did what I said I was going to do. I went through to my office and sat at my desk. I switched on my laptop and checked the reports from my executives in Thailand and Malaysia. Then I called my accountant, Mr. Weissman, and chatted with him for about half an hour.

  “Boss,” Theo Weissman said after a long moment. He sounded concerned.

  “What?” I asked, running a tired hand down my face.

  “All respect, Mr. Sand, but you looked finished. It’s late. We can do this sometime tomorrow instead.”

  I blinked. I hadn’t considered what I might look like. I nodded.

  “Thanks Theo,” I agreed. “I’ll do that. You’re right,” I added. “I am tired. It was a long day. One tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sand,” he agreed quietly. “See you at one.”

  I hung up and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. I felt drained. There were few situations that left me feeling like I was in a gun-fight armed with a Pepsi, but this was one of them. When it came to matters of interpersonal relations, I realized, I had left myself monstrously unequipped.

  All I know how to do—all I ever learned to do—was hide myself away from feeling in my work.

  I was starting to understand why Lacey had wanted that divorce.

  If all I ever did, instead of address things, was hide away here, no wonder she thought it wasn’t worth talking about stuff.

  The more I thought about it, the more my mistakes became clear to me. I had never opened up to Lacey. I never discussed things with her. And if she raised a difficult topic, my first response had been, “I’m tired. We’ll talk later.”

  That “Later” had stretched into tomorrow; had become next week. Then it had disappeared altogether. We had lived in parallel worlds under the same roof, I realized, with neither of us ever knowing what was going on in the others’ life, or in their heart.

  If I had opened up to her, just once, I wouldn’t have had any of this trouble. I could have trusted her enough to tell her the truth.

  Instead, I had turned my back on her, refused to discuss anything and lost myself in my work, filling my days with more and more tasks; enough work to build a dam between us that, in the end, neither of us could have ever hoped to ford.

  I heard footsteps in the hallway and guessed that Hayley was going upstairs to her room. I sighed. I hadn’t eaten dinner yet. No wonder I was so shaky.

  I rang the bell and asked for dinner to be brought up to my room. When Mrs. Delange appeared minutes later, carrying a plate on a tray, she looked oddly subdued.

  “Thanks,” I murmured. I looked up from my work, meeting her solemn, dark-eyed gaze.

  “Sir, things only get worse if you leave them,” she murmured back.

  She might have been talking about the dinner, which would spoil if it was left in the oven for too long, as she always said. But I didn’t think so.

  Sighing, I lifted the tray to be on the desk in front of me and finished my dinner in silence, broken only by the click of my solitary cutlery on the plate and tray.

  Then I dabbed the sauce off my lips with my napkin, checked myself in the window, and headed off down the hallway toward Hayley’s room. I needed to breach this wall of silence before it became a mountain between us. Mrs. Delange was right. Things only got worse if you left them, and I intended, this time, to put things right. Life was too short to turn away from the people you loved. I had finally, it seemed, learned that lesson.

  I knocked on Hayley’s door. There was no answer.

  “Hayley?”

  I knocked again, feeling the first waves of panic.

  “Come on, Beckett,” I whispered to myself. “She’s in there. She’s just cross. Hayley?” I called, louder this time.

  No answer.

  I knocked again and then, defeated, walked away. I waited ten minutes, pacing in my bedroom, trying to read back-copies of Business magazine and sighing.

  I went back and knocked. Called her name. No answer.

  When I was finally feeling desperate, I turned the handle. It was open.

  I went in and looked around.

  “Hayley?”

  She was not in the bedroom. She wasn’t in the bathroom, or in the shower. When I opened the door, the dressing-room was empty, scented just a little with the trace of her perfume. She was not there.

  She had gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – HAYLEY

  I thanked the driver and got out of the car.

  “Are you sure that’ll be all, Mrs. Sand?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Yes. Thank you,” I nodded, giving the man a smile. Poor guy—he looked confused. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure,” he said, twisting uncomfortably where he stood on the sidewalk across from me. “You have my number if you need any help, yeah?”

  I nodded, smiling at him. After the worries of the day, and how bad I felt about myself at that moment, his care soothed me. I knew in my heart what I was doing seemed excessive. But it wasn’t. Everything would be better without me. And I could no longer live the life he was forcing on me.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Thank you. If I need you, I’ll call. I will.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Sand,” he said, still worried. “I just don’t want you to be unsafe.”

  “I’m fine,” I said softly. “It’s still light,” I added. Well, it was almost light: It was eight o’ clock and the summery dusk was gray-mauve and warm yet.

  “Okay,” he said uncomfortably. “If you’re sure you’ll be fine, I’ll go.”

  “Thank you,” I smiled.

  Still frowning, he got into his car and drove away.

  He’s a nice man, I thought about the driver as I waited, standing on the sidewalk. I hope things work out alright for him.

  I still felt a bit unreal. The world was fluid around me, as if I floated in it; not quite present in the space and time I occupied. Half of me was back at the Sand Castle, half of me on the sidewalk in Los Angeles with the dusk warm around me and the scent of diesel and cigarettes in my nose.

  I need to get a taxi; take myself home once again.

  I sighed. I was here in town, at the hotel where the driver had first picked me up. My car was at home in the garage. I had taken a taxi into town, so I could leave it there. The taxi had cost more than I liked to think about, and I wished now that I was here again, that I had thought to ask Beckett Sand to pay for it.

  The least I could have done is get something out of all that.

  I laughed at myself, feeling sad. It was a small thought and one I wouldn’t have been proud of earlier. Except that now getting one over him, even something silly like the fare for a cut-price taxi firm, was a way to restore my sense of pride in myself once more.

  The dream with Beckett was drifting away like mist in the morning, leaving me on the street, at night, with my bank-card in my wallet and nothing else but my identity.

  I sighed. I was a strong person. I had come through worse; faced tougher things from nastier people. I would face this.

  “I need a taxi to Montrose.”

  The driver I got was an affable and quiet man, for which I was grateful. I had no energy for chatting about anything. I was, I realized, as I sat down in the seat beside him and shut the door, monstrously tired. I closed my ey
es and let myself drift in the realm that narrowly skirts sleep.

  I could hear the radio, the swish of the tires on the tar, and the hiss of wind as we rattled and jolted out of town and up toward my home.

  I had, I thought wryly, got used to cars with more comfortable seats than this one.

  My last thought, as I drifted into the realms of sleep, was for Beckett and how he would take my absence.

  He’ll get over it.

  I woke again as the driver pulled in up the hill toward my house. It was darker than it had been when we left the city proper, and my eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. There it was, my little cottage, sitting where I had left it. In the midst of all the other little cottages in the orange beam of the streetlamp. I was home.

  Grateful that the driver took payment by card, I paid him and went slowly up the drive to my front door. I fumbled in my bag for the keys and let myself in. The scent of stale air drifted past me, mixed with the spicy, warm familiarity of home and the vague whiff of floral Air-Wick scent dispensers from the bathroom.

  The familiarity of it all was too much for me just then. I collapsed into a ball on the couch and sobbed and sobbed.

  I didn’t even really know what I cried for: too many things had hurt me in this. I cried for the loss of a friendship that had become extremely precious to me, in the short time I had it. I cried for myself, for the loss and sadness I felt. I cried for my having been fooled and the fact that I had at once missed an opportunity and set myself up with so many more challenges on my hands; and I cried because I was small and alone and tired and I felt so lonely and helpless.

  Then I sat up.

  “I’m going to overcome this,” I whispered to myself.

  Somewhere in me was iron. I had hit the bottom of my reserves before and found that right inside me, like the core of a star, was a hard, immovable iron mountain. I would not let this man do this to me.