“Good morning!” Nanny’s tone was chipper. Even Brenna smiled her way. After the game of Jenga the night before, they’d become friends.
Greta sidled up to the counter, still clutching the envelope to her chest. “I’m not so sure it is a good morning,” she said. “Did you know that Katrina and Vance left last night?”
Nanny’s brow furrowed. “Left? For where?” Brenna stopped eating her cereal and looked at Greta quizzically.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think they’re coming back anytime soon.” Greta leaned against the counter and gave them the quick version of the story, being careful not to mention the contract. It was a fair bet that Nanny knew Vance and Katrina were friends for pay, but it was unlikely that Brenna did. Like Cece, she probably just thought they were the regular kind of friends, the kind who hung around with you because they enjoyed being in your company. Nothing legally binding.
When she finished speaking, Brenna blurted out, “I’m glad they’re gone. They were mean to Cece.”
“How were they mean to Cece?” Greta asked.
Brenna looked up at her, her big brown eyes wide and expressive. “They always made her do things she didn’t want to do. One time they made her cry.”
Nanny said, “They weren’t trying to be mean, Brenna. Cece has chores she has to do for her business, and they were just helping her get things done.”
“Now Cece doesn’t have to do it anymore.” Brenna stirred the milk in her bowl. “She can stay home and play with me.”
A nice thought, but not that practical. Greta directed her next question to Nanny. “They sort of left me in charge, but I just got here, and I don’t know too much about any of this. Can we call Mr. and Mrs. Vanderhaven? If they hear what happened, they’ll cut their trip short and come home, right?”
Nanny sighed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
“They won’t?”
“Not a chance.”
Okay . . . “Doesn’t Cece have a manager or assistant or something? There has to be someone who can do this better than me.”
Nanny said, “Brenna, you seem to be finished with that cereal. Why don’t you clean up your place and go on upstairs to get dressed? If you want, you can peek in on Cece. If she’s awake, tell her to come down, and I’ll make her an omelet.”
“Okay.” She slid off her stool and carried her bowl, the spoon still in it, over to the sink, then half walked, half skipped out of the room.
When she was gone, Greta said, “I take it you wanted to talk without Brenna here.”
“That’s exactly right.” Nanny walked around to the other side of the counter, grabbed a dishcloth, and wiped up the spot where Brenna had been sitting. “Mr. and Mrs. Vanderhaven won’t come back for something like this. And Cece doesn’t have a manager or an assistant. Vance and Katrina handled everything—and with good reason. The fewer people who know that Cece’s personality doesn’t match what’s on the screen, the better, as far as the Vanderhavens are concerned.” She folded the cloth and laid it across the sink divider.
“So you’re saying I’m on my own.”
“Not entirely. I’ll help however I can, and of course the crew, the hair and makeup people, and the security detail will be the same. You’ll be working off the schedule that was already set up. Cece really seems to like you. I think you’ll do fine.”
Why did everyone say that to her? “What if Cece takes a break until her parents come back? I can make some calls and cancel her events, say she has the flu . . . ”
Nanny shook her head. “That would be a bad idea anytime, but especially now. They’ve been building up to the reality show deal for a long time, and it’s just short of being finalized.” It seemed to Greta that everyone knew about the pending reality show except for Cece, the one who mattered most. “If that doesn’t go through, Mr. Vanderhaven is going to be livid.”
“What happens then? He’s going to kill me?” Greta tried to say it in jest, but it didn’t come out that way.
Nanny gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay, Greta.” She came around the counter and gave her a hug. “Just breathe. You’ll get through this. Follow the schedule, and take it as it goes. The important thing is to act like you’re having fun, because that’s the best way to keep Cece on board.”
“Doesn’t it seem like Cece should have some say in all of this?” Greta said. “If she hates doing it, why do her parents force it on her?”
“I’ve wondered that very thing many times myself. Unfortunately, it’s not up to either of us.”
When Cece came down for breakfast, Greta was reading over the information Vance and Katrina had left one more time, looking for a way out, searching for the name of a grown-up who could take charge, but there was no one. Still in her bathrobe, Cece floated into the kitchen as gracefully as a swan crossing a pond. She had some indefinable something, a sweetness and grace that shone from within. That part of the public persona was true, anyway.
Without makeup and with her hair slightly mussed, she looked seventeen, maybe eighteen at the most, and much less glamorous. Still really pretty, but not head-turning. Amazing what a difference it made to look beneath the ornamentation. Like cake without the icing.
She gave Nanny and Greta each a good morning hug and enthusiastically said yes to Nanny’s offer of an omelet before taking a stool at the counter. Before Greta could say anything, Cece said, “Brenna said Katrina and Vance are gone, and you’re in charge now.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault,” Cece said, patting her arm.
Greta said, “I’m going to try my hardest, but I don’t know what I’m doing, so I hope you’ll be patient with me.”
Cece said, “You’re going to be wonderful. I just know it.” She tossed her head. “If you want to know the truth, I was tired of Vance and Katrina and their endless schedule. ‘Do this, Cece. Do that. No, you can’t stay home. Get in the car. Wave. Smile.’ I couldn’t even get out of the car without them telling me how to do it. I had to swing my legs out first, very slowly.” Her eyes got wide. “And then slowly get out. Like a sloth, Vance always said. Do it like a sloth. And then I always had to turn my head and wink and wave. I got so tired of it, I wanted to scream.”
“It sounds exhausting,” Greta said, sympathizing.
“You would never treat me that way, would you, Greta?”
She reached over to squeeze Greta’s hand and smiled. A second earlier, Greta had intended to explain that there were going to be some things they had to do whether they wanted to or not. That there was a schedule, an itinerary of events, places where Cece was expected to be—but it would be fine. They’d get through it. It had to be done, like it or not.
But seeing the trust in her eyes, Greta just couldn’t force the words out. If Vance and Katrina felt like they’d been freed from prison, why not Cece? “Of course not,” she said. “We’ll only do what you want to do.” She made a silent wish to the universe that Cece would want to do all the things listed on the itinerary, but even if she didn’t, so what? Did her parents expect Greta to force Cece to do something against her will? Doing that went against her very nature. The Hansens were efficient, but they were not cruel people. Her mother said it was always better to be kind.
“We’re going to have so much fun!” Cece said, her spirits lifted. As she ate the omelet Nanny made for her, she chattered on about all the places in New York she wanted Greta to see. She ate so slowly that eventually Nanny and Brenna left to shop for a new swimsuit for Brenna, promising they’d be back in a few hours. Greta had a moment of panic when Nanny told her this, feeling like the babysitter who hadn’t been properly briefed, but they exchanged phone numbers, which helped.
As Cece ate her second piece of jelly toast, Greta decided to jump in and go over the day’s events. She pulled out the sheet of paper with information about the Forgotten Man Ball, along with the four tickets, which she spread out in front of the
m. “We have the day free to do whatever we want!” Greta said, trying to make her voice sound gleeful. “And then tonight . . . ” She paused for dramatic effect. “We get to get dressed up and go to this dinner-and-dance thing called the Forgotten Man Ball with Michael, your driver. He’s going to be your forgotten man.”
“Not doing it,” Cece said between chews. “Not with Michael.”
Greta tried again. “But the hair and makeup people are coming at four, and the security detail is scheduled for the drive there. Everyone is expecting you.” Even to her ears, the words sounded hollow. She kept going. “Leah Ann Miller is hosting it. It’s a fund-raiser for”—she looked at the sheet—“the Museum of Modern Art. Very cool, right?”
“I like the Museum of Modern Art,” Cece conceded. “But I don’t know that name. Leah . . . what was the rest?”
“Leah Ann Miller. She was a debutante the year you came out. One of the forty-six debutantes that were at the Waldorf Astoria. Remember?”
Cece shrugged. So much for making valuable connections. Greta had to admit forty-six was a lot of debutantes. Cece couldn’t be expected to know all those young women. And years had passed since the event had taken place.
Greta took a deep breath and came out with it. “Look, Cece, I know you’d rather not go to this dinner thing tonight, and I totally get it. Honest, I do. But Katrina and Vance left me in charge, and I’ll get in a lot of trouble with your dad if you don’t go. Could you just go to this one thing, just for me?” If she could get her to go even to one thing, she wouldn’t be a complete failure.
The corners of Cece’s mouth turned down, and she looked glum. “Why does it have to be Michael?”
Greta mulled this over and decided if her main objection was Michael, she could work with that. “Trust me, I didn’t pick Michael; someone else did. The fund-raiser is called the Forgotten Man Ball because the young women are supposed to invite a man who doesn’t normally get to go to black-tie events.” Greta glanced down at the four tickets on the counter. They were printed on cream-colored card stock and embossed in black and gold. A black-tie event. Totally glam. The tickets were fancier than most wedding invitations. Turning them over, she saw a scan code. “Just kind of brainstorming here, but how about you and I go without him? We could mix it up a bit. I could go as your date instead and be the forgotten woman. You can tell everyone that I’m your cousin from Wisconsin, and I was dying to go. How’s that? Believe me, I never go to black-tie events, so that fulfills one of the requirements.”
“But there are four tickets,” she said, pointing. “That means they’ll be expecting four people.”
“Oh.” It was hard to negate that one, and here Greta had thought she’d come up with a solution. Apparently not. “Okay, then. How about we take Nanny and Brenna? Then we’d have four people.”
“Kids can’t go,” Cece said. “And it’s called the Forgotten Man Ball, Greta. Man.” She repeated it for emphasis. “They’ll expect me to bring a man.”
“That’s kind of sexist, don’t you think?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t the one who set it up that way. No one asked my opinion.”
No one had asked Greta’s opinion either, but now it was her problem. She’d been in New York for two nights, and already her internship wasn’t a real internship and nothing about Cece and her friends was the way she’d imagined. If that weren’t enough, this morning she’d suddenly been promoted against her will. And now she had to find two dates for tonight’s event or she would fail her very first challenge.
The upside? New York was full of men. How hard could it be?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dalton didn’t sleep very deeply, aware of the constant drone of voices off in the distance and a slight shuffling noise nearby. He wasn’t sure if it was animals or people. Was he dreaming? He didn’t think so. Toward morning he got a whiff of smoke and woke up thinking something was on fire. He opened his eyes to see a scrawny middle-aged guy sitting eight feet away, a cigarette dangling off his lips.
When he sat up, the guy glanced his way. “Morning, princess,” he said. “Sleep well?”
“Not so much.” Dalton rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Early.” He took a drag and then exhaled a puff of smoke.
“Yeah, I got that much on my own.” Dalton squinted. The sun had already risen over the horizon. It couldn’t be that early. He did a quick inventory of his pockets and backpack and found everything accounted for. To the smoker, he said, “Have a good day,” and then he was off to find a bathroom.
Washing his face, he thought about something his father used to say: “When you’re young, you have time but not enough money, and when you’re older, you have money but not enough time.” Dalton always found that saying puzzling. His father’s family was wealthy, so he’d always had money. From the time he was born, he’d never had to worry about anything. Schooling, medical bills, vacations, dinners at the nicest restaurants—Dalton and his family never thought twice about doing anything. Now that he gave it some thought, he found it impressive that his dad was never content to coast on his family’s accomplishments. He wanted his own success, and he wanted that for Dalton and his brother too. His worst fear was having a son who was a leech, one who lived a life of luxury and not one of substance. He didn’t understand that Dalton’s refusal to follow the family path wasn’t due to laziness or feeling privileged. Dalton just had different ideas of what a purposeful life looked like.
Brushing his teeth in the men’s bathroom, Dalton thought about his dad’s quote and how true it was for him. He now had all the time in the world but not nearly enough money. Dad had been right, after all.
Dalton had only one pressing item on his agenda today: a visit to a hot dog vendor.
It didn’t take long to find her. The cart was in the same spot as before, and he recognized her right away. She looked the same—green baseball cap and apron. It was early in the day for hot dogs, closer to breakfast than lunch, but it was summertime in Central Park, so she already had a customer, an older woman holding a leash with a tiny white poodle at the end of it. Dalton watched them chat until the woman walked away with the bottle of water she’d just purchased. He was starting to realize that even though Manhattan was surrounded by water, getting it in its purest form in clear plastic bottles was big business.
He approached the cart armed with his biggest smile. He’d done a pretty good job cleaning himself up that morning, washing from top to bottom when the restroom had been empty. His hair was clean, although still slightly damp, and he thought he’d taken care of the body odor problem. “Are you Trisha?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
“Yes?”
He could tell he’d started off on the wrong foot. His use of her name weirded her out and put her on guard. “I’m Dalton Bishop. I’m a friend of Matt Gower’s?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow.” He was standing so near, he could see she was closer to forty than he’d thought. She was skinny with a ponytail sticking out of the back of her baseball cap. From a distance, she could have been mistaken for a teenager.
“The other evening, you gave him a hot dog when you were closing down for the night. Matt Gower? Brown hair, about this tall?” Dalton held his hand at eye level. “He’s a veteran who served in Afghanistan.”
“Oh, that Matt,” she said, realization dawning. “I don’t know him well. A guy was giving me problems one day and got super pushy and mean. He said I gave him the wrong change, but he hadn’t actually bought anything, just walked up and started ranting. He got right in my face, swearing and waving his arms. I’m not embarrassed to say that I was afraid. Very afraid. Matt came to my rescue, told the guy to back off, and it worked. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t shown up. He saved me.”
“Sounds like Matt.” Dalton didn’t know Matt well, but everything he’d learned about him made him think he was a good guy, the kind who’d look out for someone in trouble. “I’m trying to track Ma
tt down. His family and friends are worried about him. Do you see him on a regular basis?”
She shook her head. “Just here and there.”
“If you see him again, can you tell him it’s very important that he call Ellie?”
“Call Ellie.”
“Yeah, she really misses him and wants him back. Can you remember that, or should I write it down?”
Trisha said, “No need to write it down. I’ve got it all up here.” She pointed to the side of her head. “Tell Matt to call Ellie. She misses him and wants him back.”
“Thanks—it’s important.”
“True love is always important.” She picked up her metal tongs and snapped them together playfully. “Tell you what, I’ll even let Matt use my phone if he doesn’t have one.”
“He might not want to call. I think he’s a little embarrassed.”
“Don’t worry. I can be very persuasive.”
They chatted then for a few minutes, and Dalton told her how he’d met Matt and been able to tell right away he was a good guy. She nodded sympathetically when he mentioned Matt’s PTSD, said she knew a woman who’d gone for counseling for that. “So many people have such problems,” Trisha said. “The older I get, the more I realize no one gets a free pass. Sooner or later, all of us have to take a turn carrying the load.”
When a couple with a baby stopped at the cart, Dalton said goodbye and slipped away. Behind him, he heard Trisha making a fuss over the baby while getting their food ready. He felt good about their conversation, sure she’d remember to give Matt the message the next time she saw him. Would he call? Dalton hoped so. He’d neglected to tell Ellie about the hot dog vendor. Not on purpose—he’d just forgotten. Giving Trisha a message for Matt was his way of making up for it.
That done, he headed to Times Square to get something to eat. A breakfast sandwich at McDonald’s would fill the gnawing spot in his stomach just fine. After that, he had the whole day free to entertain tourists with his two-song harmonica medley. If he could get enough money to put food in his belly, he’d consider the day a success.
Good Man, Dalton Page 13