Charlie Ford Meets Secret Agent Man

by J.D. Tynan

  My father had just returned from surgery and had the same look of elation on his face that I did. He loves his job and I know he loves me, too. He just has a different way of showing it.

  "Dad," I said sternly. "We need to talk."

  He had already replaced his bluish-green scrubs with his long, white coat that makes him look like God. His dark hair was dappled with silver, but he had a regal air about him that warded off any implication that he was an old fart. Everyone loves my dad. He is just that kind of man, popular and alarmingly handsome.

  I had always loved going to the hospital as a kid and walking around with him, holding his hand and visiting his patients during rounds. For years, I thought I wanted to be just like him, and then I found out that I was allergic to the sight of blood.

  I took his hand, just as I did as a child and I led him straight over to the cafeteria before he could come up with another excuse as to why we couldn't clear the air. "Coffee?" I asked, before I went to grab a cup for myself.

  He nodded, but was still speechless, which was surprising, because in his eyes I had screwed up big time and that was usually when I got the speech. When I returned with hot coffee, he was already seated. "Look, I don't know exactly what Mr. Ludlow said to you, but I was not stoned. I do not take drugs and have not ever taken drugs in my life. Hell, Dad, I've never even smoked a joint."

  His big blue eyes actually softened and he leaned back in his chair. "Why would he say that then? He seemed upset that you were stoned and driving his kids around. Rightfully so, I would say."

  I sipped my coffee and cleared my throat. "Remember when I got fired last spring for telling the mother that her kids filled my shoes with dog crap?"

  True story.

  My father's eyes lit up and I swear he almost laughed.

  "Well, I got fired because I said, 'Your kids…' It didn't even matter what came after that. The point is that each time I got fired it had something to do with some snot-nosed brat pulling a dirty prank on me. I never learned to keep my mouth shut I guess, so when Mr. Ludlow wouldn't listen to me about how his kid threw a large rock at my head, I just blurted out that I had been stoned. That way I didn't have to start my sentence with, 'Your kid…' Do you see what happened?"

  My father did start laughing. My God, I almost wept, and I rarely weep. His smile widened and he looked absolutely relieved. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I should have listened to you. How do you get into these situations?"

  "Bad karma?" I chuckled lightly. After all, I had been murder on all my babysitters. I guess I just wanted attention because our babysitters were always ogling my perfect brothers and I swear that none of them even knew I was in the room.

  Most of my babysitters were neighborhood teenagers who had their sights on Dave and Josh. They never wanted to play with me. They just stuck me in front of the television and got on the phone, or snuck around in my brothers' bedrooms on the pretense of looking for my shoes, but I knew what they were doing and I knew that not one of them gave a damn about me.

  I hugged my father, told him all about my new job and went back to my parents' house to pack.

  When I returned home, I was still smiling when I began packing. Not that I had really unpacked; I had done some laundry, had gone through my necessities, and I tossed out what I no longer needed. Everything I owned fit perfectly into three large Army duffels and I liked it that way.

  I tucked my almost-shoulder-length dark hair behind my ears and stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring into my own brown eyes and right into my soul. This time I was going to make it work. This time I wasn't going to take any crap from anyone. After all, my life was about to move ahead as planned. I had to finish what I started; and nothing—and I mean nothing—was going to blow it for me this time.

  Then I turned to the side and realized that my muscle tone was dwindling. My thighs didn't have that nice defined edge to them anymore, my upper arms needed some toning, and I needed to do some serious squats to lift my sagging ass.

  Chapter Two

  My flight to LaGuardia took the usual five and a half hours, but then we had to wait another thirty minutes because the plane couldn't make it to the terminal from the tarmac. People were shouting and cussing because they were going to be late. I, for one, was thankful to be alive. How stupid could these people be? What if the plane had decided it couldn't make it from the sky to the runway? Heck, it could have broken down in the sky.

  "Thank you, Lord, thank you." I finished my impromptu prayer, said a couple more Hail Marys and Our Fathers and grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment.

  I was no stranger to LaGuardia International Airport. By my count, I had lost my job four times in the past two years and that meant I had visited this airport about eight times. This time, I swore would be the last.

  And if, perchance, someone fires me again, I'll just fly home via JFK. Ha! I have every base covered.

  A white man in a black suit wearing a chauffeur's cap was holding a white card with my name on it. Charlene, of course.

  "It's actually Charlie," I said when I approached the man.

  He didn't smile.

  I took my seat in the back of the limo and immediately closed my eyes. I have a thing against sleeping while in the air. I'm afraid the plane might plummet to the ground if I'm not watching. It's sort of like backseat driving from coach.

  ***

  It didn't take long to reach Greenwich, and when we pulled up to my new home my breath caught in my throat. The house was magnificent, the grounds were pristine, and I knew that this was my new home—hopefully—for the next year. I was going to make it work and this time no kid was going to ruin it for me.

  "Charlene?" a nice elderly woman asked me in, I think, a French accent.

  A twelve-year-old girl was staring at me with a venomous glare from the woman's side. "Zis is Annabelle."

  "Bella," the pre-teen sneered at the old woman who, I assumed, was her grandmother.

  "Hi," I said and followed them into the house. Bella was almost as tall as me. That doesn't say much because I'm only five-seven, and her father is, after all—a god.

  Wow! I've seen my share of fantastic homes in Greenwich, but this one is worthy of The Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

  "Is that you?" I pointed to an oil painting on the left wall of the foyer.

  Bella rolled her eyes then nodded. Clearly, we had somehow started on the wrong foot.

  "It's beautiful." I smiled. Compliments sometimes helped.

  She scowled.

  I guess not.

  The grandmother, who didn't seem to speak much English because she was just pointing to various rooms, took me out the back door, past the dog's house, through the rose garden and into my own private guest house. Heaven.

  "Zis is yours."

  Bella opened the door for me and plopped her butt down onto my bed. My bed. In my own guest quarters.

  Awwwwww.

  "Can we go to the mall?" Bella finally spoke to me.

  I looked at Grandma who had already turned around and was heading out the door.

  I shrugged. "So," I said, taking in my surroundings, opening and shutting my fridge, my oven, and my microwave. Then I opened and shut every cupboard, looked at the contents of the fridge again and grabbed a couple of Calistoga waters for me and my newest assignment. "Where's your dad?"

  "L.A." She flipped on the TV and stared at me. "Why are you here?"

  Ummmm. That was a new one. I shook my head free of cobwebs and wrinkled my eyebrows together. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean," she said snottily. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

  That made it so much clearer for me. "To. Be. Your. Nanny," I said in the same monotonous voice. "What. Is. The. Problem?" That not only cleared the air, it also cleared the room.

  Bella slammed the door behind her and ran across the vast, plush lawn as I gawked, open-mouthed, out the window. Toddlers suddenly seemed easy.

  I took some time to unpack my clothes before the phon
e rang. I picked it up. "Hello."

  "Yah."

  It was him; oh my God, I was talking to Roald Munson.

  "Charlene?"

  "Yes." I swallowed hard. "It's actually Charlie, though. I prefer to be called Charlie and thank you so much for hiring me and thanks for the nice place to stay and just thanks."

  I am such a moron.

  I heard his deep booming laughter and his accent was even thicker than in the movies. He sounded like Jean-Claude Van Damme, but looked like a cross between Fabio and Arnold. Yum.

  "Okay, Charlie." He rattled off some instructions about the press and about how I couldn't take Annabelle into town for a couple more days because of the whole break-up mess and if I wouldn't mind keeping an eye on the dogs so the housekeeper could take a few well-needed days off. Then he said that his mother was going back to Belgium, and that I should not let Annabelle out of my sight for even a minute and then he hung up.

  Busy man, I guess.

  I sighed deeply and made my way across the lawn and into the back door of the main house. It was really more like a castle. I guess he felt more comfortable in castles because, according to his E! True Hollywood Story, he mainly bounced around between southern Turkey, Hungary, and Armenia and lived in the finest of castles with his mother and his father, who was a very important diplomat.

  The kitchen was already abuzz with noise. I peeked in to see Grandma helping Bella make homemade pizza. Bella glared but I ignored it. I know a lame cry for attention when I see one. I was Queen of Evil Glares as a teenager. It was the only way that I got my father's attention. Clearly, Bella craved attention. Especially since her mother had recently left the house in a bitter split that splashed all over the television and grocery store tabloids.

  "Can I help?" I asked Bella and killed her with kindness with my perky smile. "I make a tight pizza."

  Okay, my bad. I don't really know what tight means these days. I heard it on a Sprite commercial and I figured it was fitting.

  Bella snorted at me and handed me some cheese to grate.

  "You don't have to pretend to like me," she said snottily.

  "I'm not pretending," I said. "I don't know if I like you or not. I need a few days before I can make that call." I sneered playfully at her and went to work grating the ball of mozzarella. Grandma was busy making sausage on the stove and kept her distance from the flying insults.

  "You won't last two days," Bella retorted wickedly, but never bothered to look up from her chore of spreading pizza sauce on the dough.

  I, on the other hand, dropped my jaw and gawked at her. "Wanna bet?"

  I'm so smooth sometimes. I even amaze myself.

  NOT.

  I have never gotten the concept of the great comeback. Sure, I can always think of one, but it takes me a day or two before I perfect it. I once used one on my ex-boyfriend when he called me a loser. So, you can imagine two days later, me showing up at his door, saying, "Well, at least I don't fart in my sleep," didn't quite go over as planned.

  Needless to say, we broke up. I hated that he called me a loser, but more importantly I hated that he actually thought I was a loser. He didn't know me very well.

  ***

  The pizza finished baking while Grandma finished packing. She exchanged some colorful words with Bella and although I didn't understand a word that they said, I got the feeling that Grandma was warning Bella to be nice to me. Bella turned a scary shade of white and clearly, Grandma Gemma had threatened something awful; like perhaps Bella moving to Belgium with her, or cutting her off from her inheritance. Anyway, Bella was actually nice to me for about ten minutes after the old woman left. We ate pizza in silence, but then I received another evil glare and her bedroom door slammed loudly when she bolted into her room. Ugh. This was going to be fun. Especially since we had to spend the next three days in the house…together… alone. God help me.

  ***

  It was my third day in the Munson/Squire household before I got my bearings and finally felt comfortable enough to walk around in my pajamas.

  Gregory, the housekeeper, had just come back from a long-needed three-day weekend and was giving me the rundown that I had desperately needed two days ago. Like where they kept the dog food, who delivers the fastest pizza and why Annabelle's last name was Squire.

  "King Arthur." Gregory ripped open the new bag of dog food and dumped it into its own Rubbermaid container labeled 'dog food' in the pantry. Duh. Why would they keep the dog food in the pantry with the people food when it would make so much more sense to keep it in the dog's quarters? Literally, those dogs had their own house, with running water, heat and a soft glowing nightlight.

  Absurd?

  I think so.

  I shook my head. "King Arthur?" What the heck did that mean? It was common knowledge among us, domestic technicians for the rich and famous, that most celebrities use different last names for their kids to keep them out of the spotlight. Not that it helped much.

  Gregory not so politely rolled his eyes doing a great impression of Annabelle. "Roald's third film. He played a squire. He thought it sounded like a good name. Besides, he couldn't use his own. He keeps her pretty secluded because of the press and what's happening with his father and all."

  Oh goody. The gay just can't keep secrets.

  "His father?" I ask, trying not to sound like undercover paparazzi. "I thought his father lived in Hungary or something." What I knew about Roald Munson consisted of about forty-two minutes of E! Television.

  "Actually," Gregory actually looked around at this point—as if anyone was in that fortress but us—"his father's whereabouts are unknown right now: something to do with that political coup in Armenia. He's a diplomat, you know, and I heard that he's pissed off the wrong people." He winked and put the empty Iams bag into the garbage. "Some pretty powerful people think it would be best if he never came out of hiding. It's been pretty intense around here." Gregory finished up and began clearing the dishes.

  "Don't tell anyone I told you that, okay? And don't let Annabelle out of your sight."

  I hadn't an inkling about telling anyone, because who would I tell? I rarely speak to my perfect brothers, I have no girlfriends and the last time I had a boyfriend was almost four years ago. What can I say? I live for the kids I watch and my sights are constantly on my goal: my plan; my perfect future.

  I was lonely, though.

  I nodded, and then the friendly Annabelle interrupted my thoughts.

  "What's your problem?" she asked snottily and yanked open the fridge. If she would just smile here and there, she might actually seem human.

  "You know…." I was just about to let her have it. My blood was boiling. I had PMS and there was no damn chocolate around in this god-forsaken castle. I blew out a tattered breath. "Let's go to the mall."

  If she hadn't been so happy to be getting out of the house, I swear she would have killed me with the bottle opener she was holding. The girl had daggers in her eyes for me and I hadn't a clue as to why.

  I pulled the car out of the garage slowly and, to tell you the truth, I was a bit skittish about driving a big expensive Hummer after demolishing the side of the Ludlows' BMW. It wasn't the first time I had driven a Hummer, I did it all the time in the Army, but this Hummer was nice. Really nice and really tricked out.

  I was literally shaking.

  "Any day now."

  Boy, I was sick of her mouth. At that point, I decided to change my life plan and have two boys instead of one of each. She had just altered my life-long dream of having a daughter.

  Out of nowhere, I felt very sorry for my father.

  I finally peeled my sweaty palms off the steering wheel and shifted the Hummer into drive.

  ***

  The mall in Westport was where I wanted to go because J. Crew was my style. That and Banana Republic fit me to a tee. So that's where we went. I followed Post Road down through Darien and Norwalk and relived some former good and not so good nanny moments. I sure wished one of my other
jobs had worked out, because that would've meant that I wouldn't be here, sitting next to the Prima Dona from hell. Every three minutes she was checking her lip-gloss in the mirror and teasing her bangs. If she were my daughter, I wouldn't let her out of the house looking like she did. Hell, she looked like she was eighteen.

  I removed her from my peripheral vision by turning my head to see if I could squeeze this monstrosity between the two Mercedes sedans just up ahead. Better to be safe than sorry. We parked at the far end of the lot, all alone. I turned off the ignition and opened my door.

  "Where…" In mid sentence her blond hair flipped over her shoulder in contempt, "do you think you are going?" Her eyes narrowed at me. "Just drop me off and go."

  "Yeah, like that's gonna happen." I snorted with laughter and grabbed my purse. Come hell or high water I would be buying a new outfit today.

  "You're such a bit…"

  I could hear the words trailing out of her mouth as I slammed my door shut and the old me would have strangled her in the parking lot. I took a deep breath in. I let it out slowly and repeated that procedure as I grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the big Mecca that had been calling me since my arrival back in Greenwich. The mother ship was calling me home.

  I whipped open the door at J. Crew and closed my eyes, breathing in the scents of fabulous cotton and Peruvian wool. "I'm home," I said under my breath. I didn't dare open my eyes because if she gave me her classic, 'I hate you,' eye roll one more time, I was going not only going to get fired, I was going to be incarcerated for cold-blooded murder.

  "Don't leave this store," I glared. "Understood?" And I was off.

  I had three outfits chosen in the first ten minutes and three more waiting for me at the checkout counter. I had just lifted the last pastel green tank off my head when she knocked on the door.

  "I'm going to The Gap," she said.

  And then I said, "No. You. Are. Not." T

  hen she said, "Oh yes I am."

  And then I said…again, "No. You. Are. Not." I swung open the door to my dressing room, gazing into her glare.

  "Look," I said sternly. "You will not be going anywhere without me, and as you can clearly see. I. Am. Not. Dressed."