"Sounds good to me," said Robin. "And Mother, I love you."
"I love you, too," replied Gigi. "But I don't know how I ever got such a bullheaded daughter."
After her mother left, Robin rounded up her toothbrush and cosmetics, her laptop and some china figurines of dancers that she'd collected as a teenager. It was gratifying that the spirits had managed not to throw anything breakable out the window.
As usual, her mother had left the blinds in an almost shut position, casting a filtered gloom through the apartment. Robin felt suspended in a twilight time, an unrecognized period between night and day.
You could almost believe in ghosts, living here, she thought as she stripped her sheets from the bed. She collected her towels and threw the lot into a compact washing machine off the kitchen.
Standing in the tiny utility room, Robin scribbled a note reminding Gigi to put the laundry in the dryer. Then she checked her hair in the mirror and tweaked her bangs into place. An oxidized film dimmed the glass, making it hard to see clearly.
The haze seemed to deepen and swirl, as if there were something within it. Moving moved aside to avoid seeing her own reflection, Robin looked again.
The diffuse shape of a face was taking on definition in the mirror, like something from a scary movie.
Now she understood why people pinched themselves to see if they were dreaming. But she was standing square on her feet with the washing machine churning behind her, although her head did feel light.
Robin reached out and touched the hard glass. It felt solid.
Gradually, the man's face took shape. He couldn't have been older than thirty, his hair close-cropped in a style that reminded Robin of the 1950s. He stared at her with dark, pleading eyes.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He seemed to be searching for words, and then his lips moved. He repeated the same phrase over and over, until she understood.
He was saying, "Help me."
"Help you?" Robin couldn't tear herself away. "Help you how?"
The vision in the mirror faded. She put up her hand and encountered only cold glass. There was nothing before her but a flat surface marred by her handprint.
Could this be a trick of Gigi's? Robin wouldn't put it past her mother to engineer special effects. Carefully, she removed the mirror, which hung by a metal wire from a nail. The frame was thin and didn't appear to contain any inner works. There were no trick wires, and no sign of any electronics.
Had Frederick's ghost just appeared to her? If so, she'd been wrong about a lot of things.
Still undecided whether to trust her own eyes, she replaced the mirror and went to the living room to pack her few remaining possessions. Robin was about to slip the manila envelope from the clinic into her suitcase when she decided to open it. She’d only requested it because the clinic was closing and she’d lost some of the original paperwork. Someday, a doctor ask what hormones and other treatments she’d received.
It felt good to have something ordinary on which to focus. Opening the envelope, she scanned the contests.
A brief letter explained that this was in response to her request, and so on. There followed a few pages with her slim medical history and the exam results.
Another form listed the drugs she'd been given to stimulate her ovaries, and there was a notation about the minor surgery to retrieve the eggs. Reading it made Robin feel uneasy. How young and naive she had been, nearly nine years ago. She couldn't imagine submitting to such a procedure now unless it was to have children of her own.
The last page of the records surprised her. A brief handwritten note had been photocopied, apparently by some inexperienced clerk, because Robin knew as soon as she read it that had never been intended to reach her eyes.
The note said: "Successful triple implant; recipient Kathleen Harris."
Chapter Six
Robin stared at the paper in her hand, trying to understand what it meant. How many women named Harris had borne triplets in Beachside nearly eight years ago? Could Kathleen Harris be Flint's late wife?
This was all speculation, she told herself, stuffing the envelope into the suitcase. It might be a coincidence. But there were babies. Three of them.
Her mind in turmoil, Robin decided to stop at a coffee shop for breakfast. It would make her late to Flint's house, but she needed to calm down. Besides, she'd already begun to blame hunger pangs for the apparition in the mirror. In her woozy state, Gigi’s conversation about ghosts must have implanted the idea in Robin's brain.
Implanted. She didn't care to use that word, in any context.
Suitcase in hand, Robin hurried to her car. She refused to think about anything except starting the engine, pulling out of the lot and finding a place to eat.
En route, she passed the café where she used to work, its window boarded over where the car had plunged through. Had the spirits really engineered this whole business just to ensure she worked for Flint?
You're cracking up. This is nonsense.
She stopped at a restaurant, found a booth and ordered breakfast. As hot coffee trickled reassuringly down her throat, she mulled that shocking notation on her medical form.
Caitlin, Aaron and Brick might be her children. Impossible, unthinkable, out of the question. Robin liked them, but she wasn't prepared for an instant family. She certainly wasn't prepared for one that belonged to Flint. Moreover, judging by his actions and what she’d witnessed of his character, he had no idea about her connection, either.
Possible connection.
The sensible course of action would be to telephone and explain that she'd changed her mind about the job. Unfortunately, she'd signed a contract, and Flint wasn't the sort of man to let her break it.
Maybe the kids weren't hers. Maybe his wife's name hadn't been Kathleen. Maybe the birth date would prove to be too early or late. She didn't know anything for certain.
And if she did, should she tell Flint?
He'd be furious at the invasion of privacy. Worse yet, once she informed him, those smart kids would eventually ferret out the truth. It would turn their world upside-down, and when Robin left, they might feel as if they were losing their mother all over again.
She had to keep quiet.
This was a temporary job. And, whether these children had grown from her eggs or not, she’d do her best to make sure they were safe and happy. That was all.
It was especially important, she decided as she spread jam on her toast, to ensure that Flint nurtured the children's creativity. If they were hers, Robin owed them that much. And if they weren't, they needed a chance to discover their potential anyway.
She picked up her purse, noticing she was going to be half an hour late to meet Flint. Not the best start, but she’d calmed considerably.
Robin stood up, squared her shoulders and left a large tip. Waitresses worked hard, she’d learned from personal experience.
*
He should have expected her to be late.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Flint rattled the newspaper in annoyance. He'd already wasted half the morning, and the children's schedule was wrecked.
Their constant queries about when to expect Robin had nearly driven him up the wall. Finally, he'd sent them across the street to play with a boy and girl who were visiting their grandparents.
Flint tried to remember the grandparents' names. They'd lived across from him for years and often waved hello. Was it Anthony? Anderson?
His digital watch clicked to 10:36 as Robin's green compact pulled into the driveway. Flint restrained the urge to stalk out and confront her.
He opened the door as she was reaching for the bell. "I'm sorry I'm late," she said before he could speak.
"Very late." Flint let her in.
"Well, not that late." Robin wore jeans over a leotard, not the sort of outfit he expected of a nanny. But he liked it—a little too much. "I had to stop for breakfast. I wasn’t hungry earlier, and then I felt dizzy. Where are the kids?"
"A
cross the street, playing." Flint had to seize control of the conversation immediately. "Miss Lindstrom, my children are follow a schedule, which you have disrupted."
"It's Saturday." Robin carried her suitcase into the downstairs bedroom, which in earlier years had served as Flint's office.
"I'm aware of the day of the week."
"On Saturdays, children are supposed to play." She clicked open the suitcase. There was hardly anything in it, Flint noted—a manila envelope, some knickknacks and a few cosmetics.
"Are your clothes still in the trunk?" When she nodded, he said, "I'll help you bring them in. Then we'll go over the schedule."
"You weren't kidding?"
"You don't know me very well, Miss Lindstrom."
Those blue eyes shot him a look of pure impishness, worthy of Brick at his worst. "Well, Dr. Harris, why don't you educate me? And could we cut this last-name business? Since we're sharing a house, shouldn't it be Flint and Robin, or Daddy Flint and Nanny Robin?"
“Those sound like characters from a bizarre movie. The kind where people transform into monsters and eat the children.”
When Robin laughed, her face glowed and her body shook. The movement brought Flint's eyes to her throat, or rather to her necklace. It resembled the one from the demonstration, except this one featured a silver pendant of a ballerina. The charm dangled into her cleavage.
He yanked his attention away. "First names will do. But you have to change your clothing."
"Excuse me?"
"What you're wearing is inappropriate." He marched to the double-width closet. Sliding open the doors, he indicated a half-dozen dresses. "These were left by some of your predecessors."
"They left their clothes?" From Robin's incredulous expression, he gathered that she might burst into laughter. "Did they flee in that great a hurry, Dr. Harris? I mean, Flint?"
She wasn't far from the truth. Nannies had a way of beating a fast retreat from the Harris household, leaving no forwarding address to which he could send any clothes that had been overlooked in the laundry. Undergarments had gone to Goodwill, but Flint was glad now that he'd saved the dresses on the off chance one of the women might stop by.
"I can't account for the slipshod packing of my previous employees." He cleared his throat. "Find something suitable and put it on, please. I'll be back in a minute."
Flint hurried through the house and retrieved the computer-printed schedule that he'd left on his bureau. He hadn't meant to make an issue of it today, since Robin and the children needed to get acquainted. But her late arrival had underscored the importance of starting off right.
He detoured outside and found, as he suspected, that she'd left her car unlocked. Popping open the trunk, Flint fetched an armful of clothes.
From the garments wafted a trace of Robin's fragrance. As Flint headed into the house, the light floral scent brought every graceful inch of her sharply to mind.
He could hardly order her to stop wearing perfume. However, there would be no more leotards, no silver pendants dangling into cleavage and, he admitted with a pang of silent regret, probably not a lot of laughter.
In the bedroom, he dropped her clothes on the bed. "Let's review the schedule," he began before he noticed what Robin was doing.
Stripped to her leotard, she stood in front of the mirror holding up a long, shapeless dark dress. "What do you think?" She twisted her blonde hair into a semblance of a knot. "Maybe I could find one of those witch's hats they sell at Halloween."
Flint tried not to focus on the curvaceous body displayed before him. "I asked you to change your clothing, not parade around in a state of undress."
“This happens to be my bedroom.” She tossed the dress aside. "Also, I've danced in front of audiences wearing no more than this. While we’re sharing a house, I don't intend to put on a robe and a veil every time I go to the bathroom."
"You have your own bathroom, and I'm not employing you as a dancer." After a brief survey of the items on the bed, Flint handed her a blouse. "Put this on. And your jeans, of course."
Robin shrugged and took the garment. With what he could have sworn was deliberate provocation, she eased her arms into the sleeves and slowly fastened the front, leaving the top three buttons open. Then she yawned with a stretch that drew the fabric taut across her breasts.
The view made Flint yearn to rip the damn blouse off and teach this woman exactly what her seductive manner did to a red-blooded male. He decided that would be a bad idea.
"Here's the schedule." Flint thrust the printout at her. "They work on projects from nine to ten. Brick is testing worms in a maze, Caitlin is doing something or other with programming.” It was hard to keep track of his daughter’s activities. “Aaron is learning to play the keyboard. That's on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. They have alternate projects on other days. I'll give you a full week's schedule on Monday."
Robin opened her mouth as if to ask whether he was kidding, then appeared to think the better of it. "What about ten to eleven?"
"Bike riding. However, in view of last night's outing, I've allowed them to skip that today." Flint was proud of the schedule. While he didn't believe children ought to waste their summer vacation in unstructured play, he didn't want them turning into bookish nerds, either.
From eleven to twelve they did household and garden chores. At noon, they ate lunch. From one to two, he'd scheduled lessons using workbooks.
From two to three the children were to read. At three o'clock they reported for a gymnastics class at the community center next to City Hall, followed by swimming lessons. At five, they returned home and watched an educational video while Robin prepared supper.
The program was thorough, balanced and productive.
"When do they have fun?" asked his new nanny.
"In the evening, we play games," Flint said. "Jigsaw puzzles, dominoes, Monopoly. Games that help with spatial development and mathematical reasoning. My children have good minds, and I intend to see that they develop them."
"What about art?" said Robin. "Self-expression?"
Flint didn't like to concede that she had a point, but he was willing to be flexible. "If they wish to paint, they can substitute that for quiet reading a few days a week," he said. "I also allow them to play with friends instead of riding bikes once in a while, as you can see today."
"Impressive," murmured Robin.
"You know where the community center is," Flint said. "I expect them to be on time this afternoon."
"We should synchronize watches." She flashed him a smile, then turned to tuck clothes into a drawer. "Did you bring my shoes?"
"Not yet." Realizing he'd left the trunk open, Flint hurried out and finished carrying in her possessions. "I have to drive to Claremont to do some work," he said. The city was located about an hour's drive inland. "I'll be back for dinner. We eat promptly at six."
"Yes, sir." Robin's arm twitched as if she had an urge to salute.
Flint wished he felt as confident about her as he had about Nanny Strich. He decided he might come home early today, just to make sure everything was on track.
*
Robin took the printout with her as she crossed the street. She couldn't believe anyone would dream up a plan as strict as this for three seven-year-old kids on summer vacation.
Hadn't Flint ever been a little boy? Hadn't he spent hours lazing with a book or playing kickball around the neighborhood?
Children benefited from structure, but there had to be a balance. Among Robin’s students these last few years, she'd noted a trend toward over scheduling. The kids were always being whisked off to some class, tutoring session or organized sport, with little or no time left for independent play. They ended up overstressed and dependent on others to entertain them.
She glanced at the schedule. Flint had gone to a lot of work to draw this up. She supposed she could give it a. try.
When she introduced herself to the older lady who answered the door, the woman explained that she was Sarah An
drews and that she and her husband were planning to take their grandchildren to the beach.
"I'm afraid we can't go." Robin consulted the schedule. "Eleven-thirty. It's almost time for lunch."
Mrs. Andrews laughed. "Is he on that kick again? Every nanny he hires goes crazy trying to follow that thing."
Her husband, a short fellow named Marty, poked his head in the doorway. "Did I hear you say lunchtime? Why not take a picnic to the beach?"
"I'd prefer to get off on the right foot," Robin was explaining, when the triplets ran whooping into the room.
"Robin! Robin!" they called and flew into her arms.
Brick, Aaron and even Caitlin all seemed intent on hugging her simultaneously. Robin nearly collapsed beneath their combined weight. Feeling their warm little bodies snuggling against her, she experienced a pang of disbelief. These might actually be her children. They might carry in their bodies the genes that had shaped the history of her family and the same personality traits that guided her own life. She wanted very much to deserve their affection.
"Whoa!" She staggered against the door frame. "Hey, little guys. What's going on?"
"I've never seen them like this," said Sarah. "Usually when the nanny shows up, they barely acknowledge her."
"Except to put frogs in her purse, I’ll bet." Robin gave each child a light squeeze. "I'm flattered."
"You're not like the others," said Brick.
"You're special," said Aaron.
"We're going to the beach, aren't we?" added Caitlin.
Robin exchanged glances with the Andrews couple. "I get the picture. They're buttering me up."
"No, listen," Caitlin insisted. "We'll take our workbooks and our reading books. There's nothing in the rules that says we have to study at home, is there?"
Robin had to admit there wasn't.
"We could take our gym clothes," said Brick. "And we'll wear our swimsuits."
"The community center is right on our way home," noted his sister.
"Please, Robin," said Aaron.
Sarah Andrews gave her a knowing smile. "I'd say that was an offer that's hard to refuse."
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