by Minka Kent
“This is last summer,” he says. “We took a road trip to the Black Hills. My wife wasn’t the happiest. She tends to get motion sickness in cars, but I wanted to treat the kids to a good, old-fashioned family vacation, you know? No planes. Just the five of us spending quality time crammed into a rented mini van.”
Funny, Daphne didn’t share anything about this on Instaface last summer. I’d have remembered if she traded in the Mercedes for a week in a Dodge Caravan sans leather and a moon roof.
“The kids look like they’re having a good time,” I say, resisting the urge to trace my finger over Grace’s cherubic face. She’s grinning so hard the apples of her cheeks are bright pink, and her arm is hooked around Rose, practically knocking her over.
“Kids had a blast,” he says, chuckling to himself as if he’s recalling some fond memory that I’d give anything to experience right alongside of him. “Hope to take them back again soon.”
I’ve heard of families traveling with their nannies.
I wonder if the McMullens would take me along with them if they take another family trip this summer?
My heart flutters at the thought.
A beep comes over his desk phone, and the voice of his receptionist plays through the speaker. She tells him his next appointment is here, and I feel my mood evaporating into the thinnest air.
This isn’t fair.
It’s over before it even began.
He hardly asked me any questions!
How could he possibly be able to make a confident decision about my ability to care for his children when he barely scratched my surface?!
Graham rises, offering me a tight-lipped, silent apology. “I’m sorry about that. Looks like that’s all the time we have.”
“Oh?” I pretend it doesn’t bother me, tittering as if I find the situation amusing. “Well, if you’d like to talk more, you know where I live.”
We both laugh, as if I’ve just made the funniest joke, and I feel a wave of hope rushing through me. He may be interviewing a half a dozen nannies today, but none of them will make him laugh the way I did, I’m sure of it. And none of them live on Willow street. He passes Willow on his way home from work every single night, and he’ll think of me, and subconsciously, he’ll know, I’m the one for the job.
I gather my things, letting Graham follow me to the door. When he places his hand on the small of my back, an electric zing pulses through me.
We have a connection.
I feel it.
“Thanks for coming in,” he says. “We’re hoping to make our decision as soon as possible. We’ll definitely be in touch.”
He extends his hand, and I meet his shake, giving a confident squeeze and locking eyes.
“It was my pleasure, Mr. McMullen,” I say.
And I mean it.
He’d be a damn fool not to give me this job.
There’s nobody, and I mean nobody, better suited to take care of these children.
Nobody else is going to love them like they’re family.
Nobody.
Twenty-Five
Daphne
The family room TV is blaring when I walk in the door this afternoon. Dropping two filled paper grocery sacks on the island, I peek my head into the next room. Sebastian is jumping on the sofa and Addison is sitting on the floor between the girls. Coloring books and crayons are scattered all over the Baluch rug, and a flash of heat passes through my body.
Clearing my throat, I say. “Hi, guys. Coloring needs to be done at the kitchen table, okay?”
Addison whips around, her jaw slack, and I see her shove her phone under her left thigh. She was texting.
“Sure, yeah. Of course,” she says, frantically gathering the books in her arms.
“Thank you.” When I turn to leave, I spot an open bag of crackers sitting on the coffee table as well as a bag of M&Ms Addison must have brought from home. I button my mouth, hard as it is, and return to the kitchen to begin dinner prep.
This is a trade off, I remind myself. And having Addison and having someone to watch the kids is better than not having anyone at all. It’s been nearly two weeks since Graham claimed he was going to make hiring a summer nanny priority one, and so far I’ve yet to hear him mention a single applicant’s name.
I’m sure it was just another manipulative tactic.
I’m sure he figures we’re keeping Addison, and he doesn’t care that she isn’t quite good enough for the job because he assumes I’ve handled it the way I’ve always handled all matters of the home and children.
Typical Graham.
I’m not sure why I expected that leopard to change his spots.
I preheat the oven to three seventy-five and head upstairs to change into something comfortable. Before, I’d always make sure I was dressed to the nines when Graham came home from work. I’d touch up my lipstick, squeeze myself into skinny jeans, and fix my hair, reveling in anticipation because I always looked forward to seeing his face and the way his eyes took me in the second he walked through the door.
But screw that.
Changing into yoga pants and a basic T-shirt, I glance out the picture window in the master bedroom. This has always been my favorite view of our street. The weeping willows and majestic oaks and the gorgeous houses lining both sides have made living here somewhat of a fairytale.
Now I know it’s just a bubble with a false sense of security.
Ten years ago, we moved here from the next town over, when Graham decided to start his financial advising firm downtown and Grace was a newborn. This house wasn’t yet for sale, but our real estate agent had word that it was coming on the market soon, so she got us an early look.
I knew this house was going to be our home the second we stepped inside. Dark and cozy in all the right spots, light and airy where it counts. The sweeping foyer and grand staircase in the entry were fit for a Southern Belle and the in-ground pool out back was fit for a humid, New England summer. A year into living here, Graham let me lead the charge on the kitchen remodel, saying “yes” when I insisted on a Viking range and double refrigerator, a chef’s island, and honed Calcutta marble for every surface.
I used to love this house.
I used to be one hundred percent certain I’d live here forever, that I’d take my last breath in this bed, that my children’s children would visit here every Christmas, filling the house with laughter and gingerbread cookies.
I used to be certain we’d grow old together here.
Drawing in a long breath, I reach for the curtain to draw it closed, only I stop when I spot a car slowing down. It’s not one that I’ve ever seen in this neighborhood before, and I’d remember a car like that. Jet black with seductive curves and round tail lights, I instantly recognize this car as hers. It’s the other woman’s Alfa Romeo.
The car slows to a near stop in front of our house, though I can’t see though the privacy tint on her windows. It lingers for a few beats, and then it zooms away like it wasn’t there at all.
My heart is beating, wrapped in confusion.
Why the hell would she be driving past our house?
Twenty-Six
Autumn
Marnie’s car is parked in the driveway when I return from the grocery store.
Today, of all days, is not the day.
This morning marked two weeks since I interviewed with Graham.
And two weeks of inexplicable radio silence.
A group of boys fly down the sidewalk on bikes with “school’s out for summer” smiles on their ruddy faces and playing cards in their spokes.
I finally broke down and called the office around noon today, and much to my surprise they patched me through to Graham, who was immediately apologetic.
“I meant to call you,” he said. “Things have been so hectic here lately, Autumn. I’m so sorry. Anyway, we filled the position, but if it doesn’t work out, you’re on our shortlist. Number one, actually.”
I thanked him, wondering if he could hear the shake in
my voice, and when I hung up, I collapsed on the sofa, refusing to move for three straight hours.
I slam my car into reverse and back into the driveway, blocking Marnie’s fancy little sports car, the one afforded to her by one of her many suitors. From the driveway, I see Ben and Marnie sitting in the living room, I see the flicker of the TV, and I see the two of them laughing, lost in conversation.
Ben’s home early.
I hate when he does that. I hate when he shows up from work early, without a phone call or text message. He thinks he’s surprising me. He thinks I like it.
Ugh. Please.
Pulling the keys from the ignition, I pop the trunk and slam the driver’s door. If I make enough racket, there’s a tiny chance he’ll come out and help me, as he usually does, but I’m not going to put my money on it today. He’s with her. Kid sister extraordinaire.
Nine plastic sacks filled with groceries anchor my arms a moment later, but I manage to make it to the front door, jimmy my key in the lock, and kick the door open. I’m met with doe-eyed expressions and not a single offer of assistance.
“Autumn,” Ben says. “I wondered where you were.”
If he really wondered, he could’ve texted me.
Marnie won’t make eye contact. Her shoulders slouch as she exhales. I’ve interrupted their brother-sister time, and that makes me the world’s biggest bitch.
“Hi, Marn,” I say, shortening her name like we’re besties and sounding chipper as hell.
She pulls her phone from her purse, still avoiding my gaze, and mumbles back a half-hearted hello.
“What are you two up to?” I pretend to be happy, because a wise woman once posted a bombshell-esque photo on Instaface with the caption that happiness was the best revenge. And because it’s all I can do to keep from falling apart in front of the last two people on earth I’d ever want to fall apart in front of.
“Just hanging out,” Ben says, sinking into the sofa cushions and stretching his hands behind his neck. “You want to go get some beer and wings at O’Toole’s?”
I see Marnie shoot him a look, as if he should’ve known better than to invite me, and as much as I’d love to be the cog in her wheel, I’d rather sit alone, at home, and wallow in a scalding hot bath of self-pity because that’s just the kind of mood I’m in tonight.
Plus, I need to figure out my next move, and I can’t do that with Ben buzzing in my ear all night long, rambling off sports statistics and asking what I want for Christmas even though it’s six damn months away.
“Ah, thanks for the invite, guys,” I emphasis my last word. “But I’m just going to chill at home tonight, if you don’t mind.”
Ben pouts, finally coming to my aid with the grocery bags. He follows me to the kitchen, putting away the milk and standing back while I do the rest. Was he always this lazy or am I just now noticing it?
“I want you to come, babe,” he says.
My eyes flick up, and I crumple a plastic bag in my hands. “I’ve got a headache. Just going to lie down and watch TV, I think.”
“You’ve had a headache almost every day for the past two weeks,” he says. “It’s like the meds aren’t even working.”
He mutters his last sentence under his breath, as if he doesn’t want his sister to know I’m taking meds of any kind. And it makes sense if I think about it because I’m sure she’s told him time and again that I’m crazy. In fact, I know she has. I’ve heard her from the next room. The only thing I can’t understand is why she would think that. I’ve been nothing but kind and generous to her since the day we met, getting emotionally stonewalled in return.
I’ve never uttered a single unsavory word about that bitch, as much as I’d love to. At least not to Ben. Family comes first to people like the Gotliebs, and I know my place. Me trash-talking Marnie is different than Marnie trash-talking me. That’s just the way it is.
“Please?” I lift my brows and slink into his arms. “Let me stay home tonight?”
God, I sound like a pathetic, submissive little see-you-next-Tuesday, and I want to crawl out of my skin and slither away from Ben, from his wicked sister, from this house on Willow Street.
But I stay.
I always stay.
Because of them.
And now I don’t even have them.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.
“You’ve been so down lately,” he reminds me, because I guess I wasn’t aware? “A beer would cheer you up, don’t you think?”
I laugh. If he genuinely believes a beer would cheer me up, then I’ve truly hit the lottery of idiot boyfriends.
“Ben, she doesn’t want to go, don’t make her,” Marnie chimes in from the next room. Good to know she’s got her listening ears on.
“Thanks, Marn,” I call back, deadpanned.
“Welcome,” she says.
If anything, I guess we can bond over our mutual hatred of one another and our common annoyance when Ben refuses to take “no” for an answer.
Ben lets me go, and I tend to the groceries, putting away the final bag of canned goods when Marnie shows up in the doorway.
“I’m starving,” she whines, pressing her hand over her caved-in stomach. I believe her. She looks like she’s starving. Girl probably hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks. I bet her flavor-of-the-week likes her on the skinny side. “Hey, Autumn, Ben said you interviewed for a nanny position?”
I whip my attention in her direction, peering at her through my periphery. I’m ninety percent sure she’s going to make some underhanded remark about how there are hundreds of medical assisting jobs in the tri-county area and how I’m wasting my education (like she has any room to talk).
It bothers her, I’m quite sure, that I’m playing house with her brother while he foots the bills, but if she only knew this is what he wanted . . . then she wouldn’t be able to villainize me for it.
But that’s Marnie. Always making assumptions. Always thinking she knows everything. That girl thrives on drama and feeds off conflict.
It’s probably why she’s so skinny: zero carbs in gossip.
“Yeah?” I ask. “What about it?”
“The McMullens, right?” she asks.
“How’d you know?” I hook my hand on my hip, as if she has no right to know this family.
“Ben told me,” she says, her gaze grazing my shoulder and landing on her brother. “I know them.”
I swallow the hard ball in my throat, simultaneously trying to wrap my head around this.
“You know them . . . personally?” I need context, and I need it now.
She rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “I interned at McMullen and Henry my senior year of college. I worked with Graham.”
Huh.
First name basis.
I need to sit down, I think. Or I need a drink and a little yellow pill. But instead I stand, soaking in what are quite possibly the nicest words this faux-lashed wildebeest has ever uttered to me.
“They didn’t pick me.” I turn away, arranging condiments on the fridge shelf so I don’t have to look at her anymore, though I feel the weight of her stare.
“Really?” She sounds shocked. Though she’s probably being fake. I should know better than to think, for one moment, that Marnie Gotlieb is capable of being genuine about anything.
“You want to make a phone call? Put in a good word?” I ask, my words drenched in friendly sarcasm, and for the first time ever, I feel like we’re speaking the same language. “Tell them they made the biggest mistake of their life?”
Marnie chuckles. “I’m not in a position of influence with them. I’m just some intern from once upon a time. I doubt Graham even remembers me anymore.”
Her voice tapers as she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind one ear. And then she takes a step closer, as if she actually wants to engage in a conversation with me for once.
“Daphne’s really particular.” Marnie speaks like she knows her personally, and my curiosity is surrendering, clinging to eve
ry word this woman speaks. “I never officially met her, but that’s the vibe I always got. She was always telling him what to do and where to go. She can access his calendar from home. Needs to know where he is at all times. Total control freak.”
“Daphne?” I lift a brow, my belief completely suspended. I refuse to believe this.
“I mean, all of this is stuff I heard secondhand, so who knows,” she covers her tracks. “So you know her? You know Daphne then?”
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I wave my hand. “Anyway, none of this matters because they didn’t choose me, so . . .”
“Well, that sucks.” Marnie folds her arms across her chest and stares out the sliding glass doors, toward the McMullen house. Has she known all along that they lived there?
Maybe had we not been so hellbent on hating each other, we might’ve become friends years ago, and maybe I’d have been able to siphon information from her or worked my way into that circle? Maybe things would’ve been different now?
God, there’s way too much hate in this world.
And I’ll admit, right here, right now, that at times, I can be my own worst enemy.
“Marn, you ready?” Ben asks, clearly bored with our conversation. He glances up from his phone. I’m not entirely sure he caught the gist of our exchange anyway, because he sure as hell hasn’t offered his condolences on my not getting the job.
Marnie removes her gaze from the back door and saunters toward the kitchen island, rearranging the salt and pepper shakers.
“Salt on the right, Autumn,” she says. “Pepper on the left. You should know that. It’s common knowledge.”
And just like that, nothing has changed.
Twenty-Seven
Daphne
“Kindly ask your mistress if she could not drive past our house in broad daylight.” I crawl beneath the covers tonight, keeping a careful distance between myself and my husband.