by Minka Kent
And I can’t live with the idea of missing another cherished moment of my beautiful Grace’s sweet little life.
Daphne meets my hand with a firm shake before calling the children’s names. They thunder down the stairs, all dressed and ready for the day, all of them staring at me with wide, curious eyes.
A giant, curly-haired dog steps across the foyer, her nails clicking as she comes to my side. I let her sniff my hand, and then she sniffs my shoes.
“She must smell my dog,” I say.
“Cocoa, go lie down.” Daphne claps her hands and Cocoa retreats into the next room. “Kids, this is your new nanny, and her name is Autumn. She’s going to be watching you during the day for the rest of the summer. Now, Autumn is in charge. I want you to listen to her and respect her, and if I hear that any of you have disobeyed, there will be consequences. Do you understand?”
The children nod, though their little gazes are still fixed on me.
Daphne spins on her heel, pulling the coat closet door open and retrieving a pair of beige Chanel ballet flats. She steps into them, brushing her glossy crimson hair from her face.
“I’m going to give you a quick tour, and then I’ve got to head out.” She takes confident, runway-model strides with her impossibly long legs, and then she motions for me to follow her into the next room. She smiles, glad to give me a tour, and her tone is warm and welcoming.
I truly feel as if I belong, as if this was all meant to be; some kind of divine intervention.
An arched doorway leads from the two-story foyer into a vaulted family room. Windows galore provide a view to the backyard pool. To my home, too. To the left of the family room is an eat-in kitchen area complete with booster seats for the smaller children and an over-the-top floral arrangement centering the table.
She doesn’t show me the formal living room, Graham’s den, or the dining room, though I could easily find them on my own.
I follow her blindly around her gourmet kitchen, and she spouts off something about organic macaroni and cheese. She laughs, but I missed the joke because I was too busy becoming completely immersed in this home.
Seeing something in a photo, and then visiting it in person, are two completely different experiences. I’m still reeling, absorbing everything all at once. Sensory overload.
The scent of freshly baked bread fills my lungs, and I imagine Daphne waking before the sun rose this morning and tiptoeing downstairs to make a fresh loaf of whole grain artisan bread for the children’s breakfast.
They are so loved, and I hope they’ll always know that. They’re the luckiest.
Nodding and trying hard to pay attention to everything she’s saying, I continue following her as she leads us to the stairs. I get a tour of each of the children’s rooms. Sebastian has some sort of nautical theme happening with shiplap walls and anchors and whales. Rose’s room is pale pink with stuffed ballerina dolls on her bed and a dollhouse in the corner. Grace’s room is blue and dark and not at all what I expected. And it’s the only room in the house that isn’t picked up and neatly organized.
No wonder Daphne hasn’t shared this room in her newsfeed before.
I try not to linger too long, and I tell myself I’ll be spending plenty of time in this house over the coming months. I can gawk later. I follow Daphne back toward the hallway. She’s still rambling on, telling me about the children’s schedule and how there’s a manual on the table in the foyer for me. It contains the children’s daily routines as well as their likes and dislikes, and a discipline guide expertly catered to each child.
The double doors leading to the master are closed tight. She doesn’t take me in there, and while I completely understand, I let myself wallow in disappointment for a few moments.
“I think that’s everything,” she says when we’re standing at the top of the stairs. The kids keep a careful distance behind Daphne, eyes still glued on me. “Oh, do you have a swimsuit? You’ll want to bring one. These three love to swim just about every day, weather permitting of course.”
“Of course.” My mouth is dry, and I’m speechless. So much is happening all at once.
I wish I could blend in with the wallpaper for a bit. Absorb everything I’ve just seen. Get my bearings. Put my head on straight.
Everything about the McMullen home is impeccable. The hardwood floors show hardly a speck of dust, and the carpet is plush and cloud-like beneath my toes. Every picture hanging from the wall is perfectly straight, and although the house is several decades old and recently remodeled, it still holds that ‘new house smell.’
“My number’s on the side of the fridge,” she says. “Call or text if you need anything. Graham’s number is written there as well, but please only bother him if you’re unable to get through to me and it’s an emergency.”
“When are you coming back, Mommy?” Rose pipes up, her voice angelic and shy.
Daphne hesitates, her eyes flicking from me to her kids and back. “I’m not sure. I’ll be running all over town today. Might not be back until dinnertime.”
“So you’re leaving us again?” Grace asks. “Like you did with Addison?”
Daphne chuckles. “Of course not. Autumn is here. Grace, I explained all of this.”
Her patience with Grace seems to be somewhat worn, though she smiles through it.
“This is their first summer with a nanny,” Daphne says to me, her tone apologetic. “They’re not used to not having me at their beck and call twenty-four seven. It’s an adjustment for all of us.”
She exhales, and I detect a hint of freedom in her eyes, though I can’t, for the life of me, understand why she wouldn’t want to spend these precious days with her babies. If they were mine, I’d never leave them with anyone. Ever.
“Anyway. Like I said,” Daphne descends the switchback staircase, smiling with her eyes, and I decide she’s a million times more amazing in person than I ever thought. “Call if you need anything.”
Within seconds, the back door clicks and a hum comes from the garage. Nothing about her screams “control-freak” like Marnie said. I don’t get that from her at all. She’s in control, but she isn’t a freak about it.
Then again, Marnie lies. She lies about me all the time.
“So.” I rest my hands on my hips and turn to the kids. “What do you guys like to do around here?”
Rose and Grace chatter over one another and Sebastian stands back, hiding behind his biggest sister. He has a finger in his mouth and his chin tucked against his chest. Crouching to his level, I reach for him and pull him close.
“Hi, buddy,” I say.
He doesn’t answer, only stares back at me with those clear blue eyes of his that match Graham’s fleck-for-fleck.
“He’s shy,” Grace says. “But I’m not.”
I laugh. “I see that.”
“I like your hair,” Grace adds, wrapping her own around her fingers. “It’s kind of like mine.”
“It is. You’re very observant.”
“I want to be a hairstylist when I grow up,” she says. “I gave Rose a haircut last week, but Mommy didn’t like it.”
My gaze switches to Rose, her hair cut into a short bob. In the last photo I was able to see of the kids, her hair was down to the middle of her back. Shiny. White blonde. Downy soft.
“We should always leave haircuts to grown ups,” I say gently. “Kids shouldn’t give other kids haircuts.”
“Can I show you my dollhouse?” Rose asks.
“Of course you can, Rose,” I say.
She takes my hand, sliding hers between my fingers, and pulls me to the big room at the left of the stairs. Her room is yards nicer than Grace’s, with a window seat and a crystal chandelier.
Rose takes a seat on the floor in front of her pink dollhouse and begins retrieving various dolls, showing them to me with an ear-to-ear grin and zero commentary. I tell her what I like about each one, and that seems to please her.
“Can I show you my room, Autumn?” Grace asks.
&
nbsp; I turn to my daughter, my sweet Grace, and rise. “Absolutely, sweetheart.”
Grace clips her chubby fingers around the crook of my arm and pulls me through a door that leads to a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. On the opposite side of the bathroom is the entrance to her room. It immediately feels darker in here. The walls are almost a grayish blue now that I study them more closely, and the furniture is some kind of dark-stained wood. Espresso maybe. It feels more like a little boy’s room.
Or a dungeon.
With as much sharing as Daphne’s done over the years, she never once shared Grace’s room, and now I can see why. It doesn’t mesh with the rest of her open, airy house. It’s dark, while the other rooms are light. This room is almost tacky in comparison.
Grace’s bedroom sticks out like a sore thumb in the McMullen house, therefore Daphne treats it like it doesn’t exist.
“Did you decorate your room, Grace?” I ask.
She nods, wearing a proud beam and upright shoulders. “Mommy let me pick out the colors. She wanted pink, but I hate pink. Pink is gross. I wanted blue.”
My jaw is tight, and I’m not sure what to say. The color is ugly, that’s for sure. But for Daphne to hide it? As if it’s some kind of shameful secret? While she clearly has no problem sharing the rest of her house?
“Daddy made Mommy paint my room blue,” she declares. I detect a bit of smug victory in her tone, and I wonder if she ever pits those two against one another. “Blue is my favorite color. It makes me so happy!”
“Then that’s all that matters, baby girl.” I ruffle her hair, and she jerks away, giving me a scowl. “Sorry.”
“You can’t touch my hair,” she snips. Her expression softens. “But it’s okay if you call me baby girl.” Grace flops onto her bed, belly first, and rests her chin in her hands. “I miss being a baby.”
Chuckling, I ask, “Do you even remember what it was like? That was a very long time ago.”
“Kind of.” She stares ahead, frowning. “I just remember my mommy used to love me more when I was her baby.”
Grace’s big brown eyes water, and my heart rips in two. I want to hold her, comfort her, but then I hear a crash coming from down the hall, and I remember Sebastian, and I have no idea how long he’s been unattended in the next room.
Shit, shit, shit.
Speeding down the hallway and careening into his room, I find him sitting amongst a pile of giant plastic blocks. There must be a thousand pieces scattered all over his otherwise picture-perfect and overly-organized room.
“Hey, buddy, I don’t think we’re going to play with these right now,” I say. “Let’s pick them up and head downstairs.”
His arms cross over his chest. “But I want to play blocks.”
“I was thinking the four of us could go downstairs and do some arts and crafts. I’ll even draw you a monster. Would you like that, Sebastian?” I ask. I need to learn his language, and I will. I just need more time. In the meantime, I recall from my days at Children’s Medical Group that little boys love silly monsters something fierce.
He gives me a single head bob and crawls on his hands and knees, shoving large plastic blocks in his clumsy little hands and tossing them in a large, nautical-striped storage bin. Rose lingers in the doorway behind me, watching in hesitation before stepping in. Without saying a word, she begins to help with clean up.
“Thank you, Rose,” I say. “It’s very sweet of you to help. Where’s Grace?”
Rose peers up at me with her pretty blue stare and points down the hall. “She’s in Mommy and Daddy’s room. And she’s not supposed to be in there.”
Shit.
Squeezing past Rose and through Sebastian’s door, I spot the double doors of the master suite at the opposite end of the hall. And they’re wide open.
“Grace?” I call from the doorway.
Looking around, nothing seems to have been touched. The bed is made with perfect precision; fluffed euro pillows, creamy duvet, and all. The top of the dresser is neatly arranged with stacked decorator books, assorted perfumes, and silver picture frames of smiling children. The lamps on the nightstands are centered, silver mercury with creamy linen shades, and the drapes on the windows are pulled open, letting in a fair amount of natural light.
Beyond that, two doors are open: one leading to a bathroom and one leading to a closet.
“Grace, are you in here?” I call again.
Walking carefully like some kind of trespasser, I move toward the closet first, peeking my head in. It’s pitch black inside, so I move to the bathroom.
At first glance, I see nothing. Then I spot the top of her brown head peeking up from inside a freestanding tub.
“Hey, sweet girl, your sister said you’re not allowed to be in here,” I crouch down beside her. “How ‘bout we head downstairs and – oh, god.”
She’s covered in makeup.
Red lipstick. Black mascara. Huge pink circles of blush on the round apples of her cheeks. Pulling in a calm breath, I react with laughter instead of anger, and her expression lights.
“You look so pretty, Grace,” I say. “But let’s get that off your face, okay? I don’t think your Daddy wants to be chasing off boys just yet. You’re still a little young for that stuff.”
“Do I look as pretty as my mommy?” She bats her lashes, which are unfortunately sparse and stumpy. It’s those Carpenter genes that will forever plague us both.
“You look even prettier. You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” I reach for her hand and help her out. “Do you know where your Mommy keeps her makeup wipes?”
Grace shrugs, and we both scan a marble vanity covered in various products: expensive creams, fancy-looking makeup brushes, organic hair products, and a spread of department store cosmetics.
“Probably somewhere over there,” Grace points to the elaborate display.
“Um, okay.” I pull in a hard breath and do some light snooping. Taking a seat at the vanity, I scan the endless arrangement of bottles for some kind of makeup remover product. A cleanser. Micellar water. Anything. The kind of makeup Daphne McMullen wears isn’t the kind that washes off with basic soap and water. It’s better quality. Higher pigmented. We need real-deal cleansing agents.
I lift a small Lucite tray, sitting it aside and lifting another, hoping to God I remember to put these things back exactly the way I found them.
“Hang on, Grace,” I say, unzipping a small, monogrammed makeup pouch. There’s a beautiful diamond lotus necklace sitting on top, and I pull it out to examine it before gently searching through the rest of the contents: nail clippers, tweezers, a highlighting pen, mascara . . .
. . . a joint.
Blinking hard, I refuse to believe this is what it looks like.
But what else would it be?
Skinny, rolled, and tapered at the ends, there’s no denying that Daphne is hiding a marijuana cigarette amongst her pricey cosmetics collection.
“Did you find it yet?” Grace hooks her hand on her hip, her head tilting impatiently. Rose and Sebastian are probably done cleaning up now, and I need to get us all downstairs. I promptly end my search for makeup remover and carefully put everything back where it was. Except the lotus necklace, which is tangled around my fingertips. “Where are we going?”
“We’ll just wash you up downstairs,” I say, and without thinking, I shove the necklace in my jeans pocket when she turns around. I’ll use dish soap if I have to. That stuff cuts through grease; it can cut through Chanel makeup.
The kids and I are quietly coloring at the kitchen table when Daphne returns. It’s a quarter ‘til four, and she’s been gone almost seven full hours without so much as a check-in.
“Hello, hello.” She waltzes in, shopping bags in hand and red hair curled into giant waves that bounce off her shoulders when she walks. Her nails are slicked in a fresh coat of mauve that wasn’t there this morning, and I can’t help but picture a lit joint pinched delicately between them.
It’s a jarring imag
e, and it doesn’t suit her at all. It’s tacky. Classless really. The epitome of everything Daphne McMullen does not represent.
It reminds me of my mother, of her dirty fingernails and the stench of stale pot smoke wafting from her and clinging to me. I never could quite wash it off completely.
Depositing the bags at her feet, she pulls off her oversized sunglasses and strides to the kitchen table.
“What are we up to?” she asks, resting a hand on Rose’s shoulder.
“I colored you a picture, Mommy.” Rose hands her a page ripped from a princess coloring book. Each of the sections are colored neatly, as she was determined to stay inside the lines.
“Me too, me too.” Grace lifts her paper so quickly it whacks Rose in the face.
“Careful, Grace.” Daphne scolds her, walking away before she can acknowledge Grace’s picture. She moves to her son, ruffling his dark hair and squeezing his cheeks. He smiles, and I’m pretty sure he has yet to say more than twenty words to me today, but he did seem to be warming up to me this past hour or so. “Autumn, would you mind hanging around another fifteen minutes with the kids while I get dinner started?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“You’re the best.” Daphne pulls a brown paper bag from the ground and hoists it onto the counter, pulling out fresh produce and an assortment of random ingredients. “I’m trying out this new recipe tonight, and it’s just so nice to not have to worry about keeping the kids entertained, you know?”
She has yet to ask about their day.
“I’ve got about twelve thousand Instaface followers eagerly waiting to hear how this turns out.” She flits about the kitchen with a hint of exhilaration, and I’m not entirely sure if she’s talking to me or to herself.
“Twelve thousand followers? Wow,” I say, feigning shock. “Are you a blogger?”
“Something like that.” She turns, two cans of organic stewed tomatoes in hand, and winks. “I don’t have a blog per se, but my posts have a lifestyle focus to them. Home design. Recipes. Family life. All my followers are one-hundred percent organic. Most of my recipes too.”