by Melody Mayer
Ha. If he only knew.
“But here's the thing,” he went on. “Esme is my best friend. And she's one of your best friends. And the whole thing … it feels complicated, you know? Like maybe Esme could be stuck in the middle.”
Kiley wasn't sure she followed this logic. Unless …
“Do you … want to be with Esme?”
Jorge moved his arm. “Nah.”
Kiley studied him. He denied it, but the truth was written on his face. “She's a wonderful girl, Jorge.”
“I know that. And I know all about her and Jonathan, just like I knew all about her and Junior. That's just Esme doing what Esme always does. Smart girl, bad judgment.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, are we good, Kiley?” Jorge's eyes searched her. She could see that he was as concerned about hurting her or losing her friendship as she had been about him.
“We're good,” she assured him.
As they shared a warm hug, she mused on how life was just so ironic. He loved Esme, and she loved the ocean. Why did it happen so often that people loved the one thing they couldn't have?
Tarshea looked dubiously at the steering wheel. “I don't think I should be drivin', Lydia.”
“Aw, come on,” Lydia urged. “You only die once. Live a little dangerously!”
“But I've never driven anything before.”
Lydia patted Tarshea's slender arm. “Tarshea, sweet pea. Take a deep breath. It's just a harmless little ol’ golf cart.”
It was an hour later. The girls had arrived after their stint with the psychologist, and Esme had taken them to the activities center in the main clubhouse to watch Dora the Explorer. It was still their favorite show. Kiley was still up at the pool with Jorge. Lydia wasn't sure what was going on with them but made a mental note to call Kiley later and find out.
When Tarshea expressed an interest in seeing the golf course, Lydia volunteered to take her down, not even caring if she ran into Luis. They'd gone through the clubhouse, toured the practice range, and finished up at the double line of golf carts by the clubhouse. Rich people, Lydia had explained to Tarshea, did not walk the course unless they were fitness fanatics.
Lydia eyed the carts and thought how much fun it would be to drive one. She missed that piece-of-crap car that Luis had loaned her. Now that she was carless, even a golf cart looked good to her.
Once Lydia got an idea in her head, she was like a harpy eagle that had just dug its claws into a lame monkey—she just couldn't let go. So she excused herself to go chat up a clubhouse attendant, threw in some serious flirting, and got his permission to take one of the golf carts out for a jaunt around the course. It would be a three-and-a-half-mile scenic drive if they stayed on the designated paths.
“I thought you wanted to drive,” Tarshea reminded Lydia.
“I do. I'll drive next time. Your turn.”
Tarshea blew out a long breath and plucked nervously at the hem of the scoop-neck T-shirt that Esme had evidently loaned her. Lydia thought that Esme filled it out better, but Tarshea had such an elegant line to her body that she looked great in pretty much anything.
“Okay. Wheel to turn, pedal on the right for forward, pedal on the left for the stopping,” Tarshea murmured. “What else? How do I go in reverse?”
Lydia pointed to a red knob on the console between them. “Flip that to the other side.”
Tarshea started the golf cart's electric engine and then pulled the knob. But she must not have moved it far enough, because when she put her foot on the accelerator, the cart slammed forward. Wham! They smacked the rear end of another cart.
“That's it!” Tarshea pushed the brake to the floor and hopped out. “I'm not driving anymore.”
“Come on, Tarshea.” Lydia patted the white upholstered driver's seat. “You can't give up over one teeny tiny setback.”
Tarshea shook her head. “You got the wrong girl. I'm not driving that thing.”
For a moment, Lydia considered pressing the issue. She remembered the first time in Amazonia that she'd been permitted to paddle a dugout canoe on her own on the Rio Negro. Unknown to everyone—how could they know, since there wasn't anything resembling a local weather report on their hand-cranked shortwave radio?—violent thunderstorms fifty miles upstream had dumped seven inches of rain into the river. She'd been paddling out toward the center when the water flow suddenly swept her downstream. Her ten-year-old arms were helpless against it, her shouts for help unheard.
She managed to beach the dugout three miles downstream of their hamlet, and spent an anxious afternoon alone on the riverbank waiting for help to arrive. Finally, two Ama tribesmen on a monkey hunt spotted her. When the trio hiked back to the village, the Amas insisted that Lydia's parents put her right back in another dugout canoe. From the Ama point of view, the only way to conquer fear was to confront it. Her parents had agreed with the tribesmen. She'd screamed bloody murder and felt betrayed by her own parents, who she was sure wanted her to die.
Afterward, Lydia was glad. She'd thought about sharing the Ama philosophy with Kiley, but had decided to bide her time.
“Tell you what.” Lydia edged over to the driver's position. “I'll start us out, you can watch me, and then you can take over. How about that?”
Tarshea slid into the passenger seat, eyeing Lydia warily. “How many times have you driven one of these?”
“None.” Lydia pushed the red lever firmly into the Reverse position. “Here we go.”
The cart proved easy to maneuver. They backed out of the parking space, and Lydia saw that there was fortunately no damage to the rear end of the cart that Tarshea had smacked. Then she shifted the red lever and put her foot on the accelerator. The cart eased forward under her guidance. Dang. This was simple.
“You make it look easy,” Tarshea said. “And I appreciate the tour you gave me, too.”
“Why, thank you. Compliments will get you everywhere.” Lydia saw the sign leading to the first tee, and turned the cart in that direction. “Dang, driving this puppy really is fun. Of course, I'd rather have a Lamborghini.”
Tarshea grinned. “Cherry red, with black leather seats.”
“Oh yeah,” Lydia agreed. “You are my kind of girl.”
“Until I came to America, the only Lamborghini I ever saw was on the television. What amazes me is, in America, if you want to become rich, you have the chance to become rich. Isn't that true?”
“I suppose it is,” Lydia agreed. “Public school is free. And if you get high grades you can get a scholarship to college. And then … well, I guess you can be whatever you want to be.”
“Amazing. In Jamaica there is no opportunity. You and I, we both want to be rich. But Kiley doesn't care about money, am I right?”
“She will if she can't afford to get into Scripps. That's the college she wants to attend.” The cart passed under a canopy of leafy trees.
“You and Kiley and Esme, you are all so different from each other,” Tarshea mused as Lydia piloted the cart smoothly along. “Back home, most of my friends were all like me. Poor girls with not much future.”
“It's the nanny thing that brought us together. When you're a nanny too, you'll see how it's like …well, a common denominator, I guess.” They passed a foursome on the first fairway waiting for another foursome to clear the number one green before they hit their approach shots. “Kind of us against the world. You'll be a nanny soon. Which means you'll be one of us. Did you see the butt on that guy waiting to hit?”
Tarshea gave Lydia a mischievous look. “Yeah. But so far I haven't done much more than a lot of looking.”
“Oh, I used to be like that, too,” Lydia said airily. “You'll see that here in la-la land, temptation is everywhere. It's a beautiful thing.” They passed the first green and headed over a wooden footbridge that led to the second hole. “Check out what's in the cooler in the back, okay?”
Tarshea turned around and opened the red cooler just behind them. She reported that it was full of i
ce and stocked with Corona and Rolling Rock beer, wine spritzers, bottled water, juice, and sandwiches of various types wrapped in plastic.
“I'll take a Corona,” Lydia told her.
Tarshea twisted back around. “All of that must be for club guests! And you aren't twenty-one!”
“Tarshea, Tarshea, Tarshea.” Lydia patted her knee and continued to drive forward. “You've got a lot to learn about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Of which you are now a part.” She slowed the cart, reached back, and nabbed a Corona.
“I have a feeling you grew up a rich girl, and that's why you're so at home with all of this.”
Lydia laughed so hard she practically spilled her beer.
“What's so funny?”
“It's an epic.”
As they continued their scenic tour of the golf course, Lydia found herself telling Tarshea the whole story of how it was that she'd come to be Kat and Anya's nanny, with many choice details of her life in Amazonia. Tarshea was a wonderful and active listener, asking probing questions that were all about Lydia and not at all about herself. Her ingenuousness was charming.
Somewhere between the eighth and ninth holes, Lydia pulled off the asphalt and onto the grass. “Your turn,” she told Tarshea. “You drive.”
“No way. Next time.”
Lydia wagged a finger at her. “Your new life is gonna be chock-full of adventures. You need to just wade on in, Tarshea. You can't be a wuss and have any fun at all.”
“Me? A ‘wuss'?”
Lydia nodded and took a long pull on her beer. Tarshea gave her a determined look.
“Never a wuss, mon. I'm driving.”
Lydia hooted and switched places with Tarshea. “Now that's what I'm talkin’ about!”
There were a few jerks and stops as Tarshea figured out how much pressure to put on the accelerator and brakes, but soon she was handling the golf cart like a pro. They reached the eleventh hole, and waited for a threesome on the tee to hit before cruising past them. Lydia was psyched when Tarshea kept her speed up once they got going again. There were two golfers walking on the fairway ahead, hand in hand; their clubs were slung over their shoulders.
Tarshea pointed to the couple. “That's so sweet.”
Lydia saw the tall gentleman let go of his partner so that his right hand could make a discreet journey to her buff, shorts-clad ass. The gesture made Lydia think of Billy. She wondered if he'd ever had sex on a golf course. They'd have to do it late at night when the course was empty, but she saw no reason why she couldn't make it soon. Maybe right here, in fact.
Tarshea continued up the fairway, and Lydia snuck a look back at the couple. The guy's hand was still on her—
Holy shit. It couldn't be. Could it? Yep. No doubt.
“Fuck a duck!” she exclaimed.
“Okay, my mudda just had a heart attack at your language—what's wrong?” Tarshea demanded.
“Uh…I thought I saw a rabbit about to jump in front of the cart,” Lydia invented.
Suddenly, it all made sense. The phone sex. The Kama Sutra book Lydia had found in the moms’ closet. It hadn't belonged to Aunt Kat at all. It had belonged to Anya, whom Lydia had been sure was a by-genetic-imprint lesbian. Nope. The loving couple that had been hand in hand, and then hand on ass, was Anya and the colonel.
“You stink!” Easton kicked Weston under the breakfast table, and Weston started howling.
“¡Paren ustedes ahora mismo!” Esme snapped. Both of you stop that right now. She wasn't even aware that she'd chastised them in Spanish until the words were out of her mouth. Weston had stopped crying instantly and both girls were staring at her with huge, luminous eyes.
Esme took a deep breath, and then spoke in a soft but authoritative tone. She hated yelling at the girls. “We still have to get you both dressed and ready for your mama. She is taking you someplace very wonderful and fun. Finish up so that we can get ready.”
“No this,” Easton said, pointing to the offending bowl of cereal in front of her. “Egg with hat.”
“Egg with hat.” Weston agreed.
Egg with hat. Thank God that phase was going to end soon enough. Tarshea had her interview with Ann Marie this morning, and Esme prayed she'd get the job. She'd just about had it with Tarshea unwittingly showing her up at every turn. She got up earlier, found more fun things for the girls to do, was creative and artistic and smart and endlessly cheerful. On top of that, Tarshea's Spanish was improving on a daily basis. Time and again Esme would come upon the little girls snuggled up to Tarshea, who'd be reading Olivia or The Cat in the Hat to them. The twins didn't mind; they seemed to revel in the fact that they had two nannies.
Diane seemed to like it, too. Just that morning, she'd told Esme that Tarshea was setting a good example of how a nanny should be. She and Steven would be rewarding Tarshea for her volunteer efforts by taking her to the opening of Martin Scorsese's new film next week at the ArcLight.
Great, Esme had thought. My own boss is telling me I need to shape up, and my boyfriend doesn't return my calls. Life is grand.
Jonathan was still missing in action. The night she'd done Beverly's tattoo, she'd driven to his apartment. He hadn't been home. Some insanity made her wait an hour to see if he'd arrive. And if so, with whom. She finally gave up at three in the morning, and left a message on his cell: Call me when you get in. He hadn't.
“I done, Esme,” Easton announced, showing Esme her empty cereal bowl.
“I done, too,” Weston agreed.
“I'm done,” Esme corrected. “Good girls.” Esme checked her watch. In about a half hour, Diane would be taking the twins to a children's tea party at the Greystone Estate on Loma Vista Drive to benefit the International Children's Museum. Esme still had to help the girls brush their teeth and hair, and dress them in their two-hundred-dollar cotton ruffled pinafores from Auntie Barbara's Antiques on Beverly Drive— pink for Easton, yellow for Weston—new white tights that would stay that color for approximately fifteen minutes, and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes.
As the girls pushed back from the table, Tarshea came running in.
“Hi, hi, so sorry it took so long. Cómo están las dos princesas hermosas hoy?” How are the two beautiful princesses today?
“ Bueno,” Easton said, and both girls giggled.
“Try not to speak to them in Spanish,” Esme said, carrying the cereal bowls to the dishwasher. “If you speak Spanish, they speak Spanish. How'd it go?”
Tarshea had worn a new black BCBG suit—courtesy of Diane's personal shopper—to the interview. Esme saw how well it suited her long, slender body. “Well, I'm not sure. Ann Marie wasn't there.”
“What?”
“Her secretary interviewed me. Is that how people do it in America?”
As Esme and Tarshea got the girls upstairs and into their party outfits, Tarshea explained that she and this secretary had sat in a lavender den. She had neither met the children nor gone on a tour of the house. The assistant had said her job was just to get a feel for Tarshea and the other candidates. She would be recommending the two finalists for the nanny job to her boss. Only then would Ann Marie interview the applicants.
“Is that the way it is usually done in America?” Tarshea queried again.
Esme wrestled to stuff Easton's wriggling right foot into one black Mary Jane. No luck. Easton kicked it into the far corner of her room.
“I don't know. Sometimes, I guess. Did she say when you would know if you were a finalist?”
“No problem, I've got it.” Tarshea sang out her trademark Jamaican phrase and then trotted over to retrieve the shoe. She handed it to Esme, who reprimanded Easton, then held the girl's ankle firmly enough to stuff her foot into the Mary Jane.
“Well, did she tell you anything?” Esme pressed. “About when you'd know?”
Tarshea shook her head, bit her lip, and turned her sorrowful eyes to Esme. “I know you want your privacy again, Esme. You have done much too much for me already. If I don't get this
position, I will find another one with Steven and Diane's help. They promise me.”
“No, no, don't worry about it,” Esme found herself saying.
She handed Tarshea a brush, and they both went to work on the little girls’ hair. Why was it, Esme wondered, that whenever she had a conversation with Tarshea, she ended up apologizing?
After Diane and the girls departed, Esme went back to the guesthouse, while Tarshea worked out in the Goldhagens’ home gym. Diane had encouraged Esme to make use of the gym in her free time, but Esme had never set foot in the place. For one thing, the whole idea of exercising on machines struck Esme as absurd. Her parents toiled twelve hours a day sometimes, doing physical labor. People who came from that didn't need a gym.
Instead, she sat on the swing under the orange trees and ruminated. Jonathan had still not called. What could it possibly mean? He hadn't come home at all? He'd come home but he'd been with that bitch Mackenzie? Either way, he would still pick up the phone messages on his cell. He was an actor, for God's sake. They always picked up their messages.
She went inside for a glass of water and found the kitchen sink dripping again— drip, drip, drip. Well, it gave her an excuse to do something. Her father had taught her to be a practical girl, so she thought nothing of getting the tool kit out from underneath the sink and going to work on the faucet. She unscrewed the handle, the sink bumping up against the hip pocket that held her cell phone. The one that refused to ring.
Suddenly, she knew whom she had to call. Not Lydia. Not Kiley. And definitely not Jonathan.
Jorge. He was the best listener in the world. Plus, he understood Esme and the world she came from, because it was his world, too. She still wondered what he and Kiley had talked about at the club when they'd gone off together. They'd both been quiet and even a little distant when they returned.
Esme quickly replaced the cracked washer, then got out her cell and pressed in Jorge's number.
“Hola,” he answered.