Twice Upon a Blue Moon (24 page)
Patrick Hamilton was a tall, reedy sort with a strangely angular face and a patrician nose. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d sought me out for anything, but my sisterhood of fellow nannies had warned me during one of our playground chats that this sort of thing could happen. Employers—men in particular—sometimes let their imaginations run away with them. They got to thinking that just because a woman slept in their house and took care of their kids she was open and available to all sorts of things.
I didn’t blame staid porn flicks for the confusion. I blamed the men themselves.
If this was seduction, though, Mr. Hamilton couldn’t have appeared more embarrassed. “Miriam, hi. Um, am I disturbing you?” he asked, shuffling his feet like a little boy.
I shook my head and considered pointing out that I was technically at his beck and call during work hours.
I knew I was lucky that Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton didn’t mind me taking short breaks so I could freshen up or grab a coffee—or to check my emails. They were more than reasonable about that. Then again, after going through three nannies in as many months at the beginning of the year, they seemed to think their progeny were devils incarnate and anyone who managed to herd them through the day must have been part Fräulein Maria. It wasn’t the case.
“How can I help?” I asked, affecting what I hoped was a solicitous smile. Given my big, horsy teeth, it was likely touch and go.
“I’m afraid we’re entertaining tonight,” said Mr. Hamilton. “Spur of the moment kind of thing—a couple of writers and sculptors and the like. Terribly inconvenient and we didn’t plan in advance, so, um…”
“You need me to run to the store?” I was quick to pull on my denim jacket over my baggy, flower print dress and finger-comb my black hair into some semblance of form. This served me perfectly. I didn’t want to be in the house right now. The temptation to sulk was too great.
Mr. Hamilton nodded and held up a hand-scrawled shopping list. “Would you mind? I’ve run out of eggs and flour and—well, everything you see on that list.” He grinned a little sheepishly at me.
In the Hamilton household, it was Patrick—Mr. Hamilton—who usually did the cooking while I took care of the kids. Paolo cleaned up after all of us.
Mrs. Hamilton’s talents lay elsewhere, in some unidentified sphere to which I didn’t have access.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll take the munchkins along. Make an outing of it.” Although peeling Riley away from her phone was always a challenge and I’d have to bribe Phoenix somehow.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Mr. Hamilton beamed down at me like a particularly lanky cocker spaniel. He reached out to pat my shoulder and the companionable thump of his hand on my arm couldn’t have been more awkward. It took him a moment, but eventually he realized that he was touching
staff.
Poor Mr. Hamilton pulled back as if stung. It was a close thing, but he just about avoided smacking his hand against the door in his haste.
I tried not to laugh.
I appreciated the compliment—they were scarce enough—but it was my job to say yes to reasonable requests and make things happen. The Hamiltons paid me well and the job had its perks. Not having to pay rent was the biggest and by far the most attractive. No entry-level job could beat that.
Maybe that was why Penny hadn’t told me about the wedding—maybe she hadn’t wanted to rub it in that she was going places while I was stuck taking care of other people’s kids.
I made my way downstairs into the living room and found the children exactly as I’d left them—Phoenix with his Wii remote in hand, Zara pensively chewing one of her Barbie’s feet, and Riley stabbing her fingers into the smartphone touchscreen, texting God only knew whom.
“All right, troops,” I said, clapping my hands, “we’re going out for a walk.”
Phoenix was the first to complain. I could have predicted that. “Do we have to?” He was the dreaded middle child and the only boy. He had his mother’s knack for getting his way and he knew his way around a puppy-eyed pout. I often felt bad for telling him off.
“Yes,” I insisted. “Save your game. You can get back to it later.” I had tried to separate Phoenix from computer and Wii without his consent before—to no avail. The tantrums that followed just weren’t worth the effort. Sometimes the path of minimal resistance worked better. As long as Phoenix and I were on the same side, there was hope of negotiation. “You too,” I said, prodding Riley’s shoulder with a finger.
“Hmm?” At thirteen, Riley was every bit her father’s likeness. Judging by the family portraits, she had been short and boyish up until last year, when her growth spurt had put her a head above most kids her own age. She was still aloof and distracted, but now the object of that distraction was boys.
I would have liked to say I saw something of my own adolescent years in Riley, but the truth was that I’d only clued in to romance when I hit college. Then it was as if I hadn’t been able to make up for lost time fast enough.
“Phone off. We’re going out,” I repeated. I wasn’t going to budge on this. If I got the kids out of the house for an hour every day, it was a victory. They were homebodies, all of them, and despite my distrust of any so-called golden rules of parenting, I worried that they weren’t getting enough exercise.
Riley made a face at me. “But I don’t want to…”
“You sure? I think your dad’s making lemon cheesecake but he’s missing a few vital ingredients…” It was blatant manipulation. Riley’s weak spot for cheesecake had made her pliable to my requests in the past. One day she was bound to figure it out and the trick wouldn’t work anymore. I wasn’t exactly waiting for that with bated breath.
For now, though, she caved with a put-upon sigh. “
Fine
.”
We bundled Zara into the stroller, Barbie and all, and set off for the grocery store in a more or less orderly fashion. I liked four-year-old Zara best. Of my three kids, she alone didn’t complain or care if I picked her up and put her in a different chair. As long as she had her dolls, she was fine.
There was no room for my mind to wander when I was with the kids. I couldn’t be Penny’s friend and the Hamiltons’ nanny at the same time. Only one of them could steer the kids through the late afternoon bustle, get them into the store and out without incident and not lose her temper when Mr. Hamilton called to ask if I could pick up Mrs. Hamilton’s dry cleaning on the way back.
With the house already in view, the kids greeted the detour with all their usual enthusiasm.
“But I’m tired,” Phoenix complained, dragging his feet.
I was tired, too, and the shopping bags weighing down the stroller weren’t making it any easier to push up the hill. “You don’t want your mom to look nice for her guests tonight?”
“We’ve got guests?” Riley huffed out a breath, and I realized I had forgotten to relay that detail. I don’t know why I thought their father would’ve said something. Mr. Hamilton was everything but considerate. Riley caught on quickly. “Oh, so
that’s
why Dad’s in the kitchen. He wants to brag about making dinner himself. God, he’s such a loser.”
That stopped me short. “Hey, watch your language.” I agreed with her, but that wasn’t the point.
“You know I’m right,” Riley insisted, pleading with her eyes. “And I don’t care what Mom wears. She always overdoes it anyway. That’s like…her thing.” Riley folded her arms, defiant. “Plus, it’s probably just a bunch of old people coming over.”
“Probably,” I echoed. It was a fine line to walk between comforting the kids and spoiling their relationship with their parents. I didn’t want to take sides, even if I was often on theirs. It wasn’t my place to judge. “It won’t be that bad. Think of the lemon cheesecake.” When Riley didn’t budge, I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. She groaned, rolling her eyes. “At least be glad I’m not dressing you up in curtains and making you sing.”
That flew right over Riley’s head. I could see bewilderment in the frown creasing her brows. “Huh?” she asked, and I remembered that there were more than ten years between us.
I had been kind so far about making her watch old movies—until now. I didn’t expect her to catch every reference, but some classics were sacred.
“Oh, we’re marathoning musicals later—just you wait. I’ll get you singing about your favorite things if it’s the last thing I do.”
I had no illusions about her liking it, but I thought it might be fun for comparison’s sake. It didn’t matter that with my olive-dark skin and black hair I was a far cry from Andrews’ Fräulein Maria. Just about the only thing we had in common was a crazy streak that occasionally ran counter to how respectable women our age were supposed to behave.
I couldn’t help it. The long faces around me just wouldn’t do.
“Last one to the mailbox is a feather duster!” I screeched and took off running as fast as I could with a stroller in front of me and shopping bags swinging back and forth like pendulums.
From the lofty perch of their early adolescence, Riley and her brother liked to pretend they were above playing silly games with me, but their competitive streak often got in the way of their James Dean cool. I liked proving them wrong. I didn’t know how else to tell them that it was okay to be kids for a while longer.
My sandals slapped the asphalt as quickly and as fruitlessly as I’d expected. I didn’t try to lose, but pushing Zara up the unforgiving hills was a workout in and of itself. She squealed adorably as we fell behind.
Phoenix got to the blue box well before both his sisters and me. “That was stupid,” he said, but I could see him grinning, cheeks pink with exertion.
“Oh, come on. Just think of me as Bowser.” I had to stop, doubling over to catch my breath. I wasn’t sixteen and running track anymore, though chasing after the kids all the livelong day kept me in pretty good shape. I ruffled Phoenix’s sandy hair. I don’t know how Maria coped with seven children on her hands.
Hollywood magic
.
The pavement down Clay Street was all but melting under my shoes as we made our way home, armed with Mrs. Hamilton’s dry cleaning. It would’ve been easier to drive, but I didn’t have a car and asking the Hamiltons for one of theirs called for more explanations than I felt like giving. The kids didn’t complain too much, so I treated them to ice cream on the way back.
I admit I wasn’t following the letter of the law as laid down by Mrs. Hamilton, but her draconian ways would have had an angel chafing under the pressure. Sometimes I adjusted to sweeten the pill and tried to keep to the essence of her instructions. There were many, written in red pen in the diary she had presented me with on my first day—the same agenda that included the kids’ roster of activities, their report cards and an outline of Mrs. Hamilton’s expectations.
“This is between you and me, guys,” I said as I crouched down to feed Zara her pistachio and chocolate sundae. “Deal?”
“Deal,” Riley answered, licking at her cone. She was a teenage girl and secrets were right up her alley. “You think Mom will let me wear lipstick tonight?” This was a new development. I wondered, briefly, if her parents thought I was somehow to blame for their eldest growing up so fast, then put the thought out of my mind. Suspicion was a slippery slope.
“You can ask her, honey…” But I didn’t put much stock on Mrs. Hamilton giving the okay. If Mr. Hamilton was the cool dad, if slightly aloof, then his wife was the textbook disciplinarian. She was to my three kids what Christopher Plummer’s Captain von Trapp had been to generations of viewers—an icy, beautiful idol, completely untouchable—and a little scary when crossed.
Phoenix slurped a big dollop of chocolate into his mouth. “Why do girls even wear lipstick? It’s sticky and it smudges all over when someone kisses you.”
“Who’d want to kiss you?” Riley shot back, contemptuous of the three year difference between them. “God, you’re such a child!”
“Okay, okay. That’s enough ice cream,” I interjected before World War Three could break out.
About the Author
Helena Maeve has always been globe trotter with a fondness for adventure, but only recently has she started putting to paper the many stories she’s collected in her excursions. When she isn’t writing erotic romance novels, she can usually be found in an airport or on a plane, furiously penning in her trusty little notebook.
Email:
[email protected]
Helena loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.totallybound.com
.
Also by Helena Maeve
Wild Angels: Grounds for Divorce
Totally Bound Publishing
