by Linda Byler
Emma found a spot that did not interfere with other beachgoers, spread the large towels, unfolded her beach chair, and took both hopping children by the hand after serious negotiations about Charlie Brown, who Emma said had to stay on the chair. Emma told Annalise in a firm voice that elephants were not accustomed to salt water and it might melt his trunk.
Annalise looked from Emma to Charlie Brown and back again, before turning to set him on the chair with a tube of sunscreen. “Just in case he might need it,” she said seriously.
At these moments, the child could be so winsome, so endearing with her oversized imagination, that disliking her was simply not a possibility.
Through her years of teaching, she had her share of experiences with first graders such as Annalise. Adorable, and absolutely impossible, their mothers distracted or intimidated by the antics of their child, or simply undone by the amount of the daily workload, the remaining children and their needs, or other concerns more important than those of a stubborn little six-year-old.
Every family may have a different reason for producing this kind of child, but the reasons were there, no doubt. The nature handed down by either parent, perhaps difficult themselves, or neglect, even if it was unintentional, or in some cases it was too much attention that made a child act in such a way.
Emma saw Annalise as a fierce little warrior with her mother’s lawyer-like skills, coupled with a decided lack of boundaries. The boundaries she so desperately needed at this tender young age.
She was a nanny for the summer, not a psychiatrist, or a counselor, or even a child specialist. She had merely been an Amish teacher in a one-room schoolhouse for ten years.
Ten was nice round number. A goal reached. From here on out, there would be new ideas, new jobs, new attempts to find out what really fulfilled her.
At this moment, it was standing at the water’s edge with two children’s hands clutched in either one of hers, hopping ridiculously high every time a small ripple appeared, sending the waves up over their ankles.
They would never tire of it, Emma thought, so with promises of a sandcastle, she got them away from the water’s edge.
It was very warm, and she longed for a swim, but knew it was not possible with both children in her care, so she moved the towels and chair closer to the water, where the breeze from the water cooled her considerably.
They dug with plastic shovels and bright yellow buckets, tamped the sand down with the palms of their hands, and began all over again, upending the buckets to form the base of the castle. Emma was covered in sand, on her hands and knees, listening to the screech of the gulls, half hearing the chatter of the children, when a larger wave rushed up to the half built structure and washed it away. Brent stood in the sand and rushing water, his feet and ankles disappearing as he sank, and laughed out loud, his mouth open wide. Annalise, on the other hand, was knocked off her feet, landed on her bottom with a squawk of indignation, followed by a storm of weeping and wailing. She accidentally rubbed sand into her eyes, which brought a fresh torrent of outraged howls, until Emma reached her, picked her up, and took her to the water’s edge to be rinsed.
They returned to the towels and chair, unpacked the food, and drank thirstily, the children draining their juice boxes and asking for granola bars.
Emma felt the burn on her shoulders, but thought she’d be fine. Her skin was not pale, but a golden hue all year long, so there was no reason to apply the smelly stuff.
They watched hermit crabs burrow deep into holes in the sand, tried capturing a few, but let them go after too much effort was spent.
Emma fell into a half doze as she lay back in her chair, listening to the constant sounds of the incoming waves, the cry of the gulls, the distant chatter of the people surrounding her. It was both peaceful and mindboggling, this oceanside observatory, as she had already labeled her chair.
There was so much to fathom, to see, hear and understand, and no matter how she catalogued her observances, not too much of it was understandable.
What really caused those waves? Where did all the shells begin to form? What did hermit crabs eat? Could they eat anything, or was their life span so short they didn’t really need a menu to choose from? What kept the gulls from dying of food poisoning, with all the snacks and plastic wrappers they stole like hooded robbers?
She watched the children, who were mostly engrossed with shrieking and hopping over small ripples, then ate a granola bar, glancing at the wrapper. “Kind.” She wondered if they were kind, as in nice to your intestines, or if it was the German word for child. Either way, they were very good for a store-bought granola bar. Her mother made a big batch of homemade ones every week with oatmeal, Rice Krispies, coconut, wheat germ, honey, peanut butter, melted marshmallows, and a few more ingredients. They were the best thing ever.
What would she make for supper? Dinner. She’d have to get used to these new ways of speaking.
They’d better get back, if she was to have dinner on the table by six. She guessed six o’clock. No one had really spoken of the hour.
Brent did not want to go back, but after mildly protesting, he helped her pack up. Annalise was red with irritation. Wait, red? She gasped. She had forgotten to apply sunscreen after two hours. A thudding of her heart was followed by a sickening realization of her oversight.
It was too late now.
She was too sick at heart to notice any surroundings on her return, simply herded the children into the house and their bath, applied a soothing after-sun lotion, settled them in front of the ever-present cartoon shows, and had a quick shower of her own.
She was in the kitchen, reading the label on a jar of spaghetti sauce, when Kathy came tripping up the stairs, laughing back over her shoulder, followed by her husband who was out of breath.
Kathy stood quite still, looking at Emma.
“Wow,” she mouthed quietly.
Emma raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Your hair! It is so gorgeous.”
“I . . . oh, thank you.”
She stammered, remembered the proper response to a compliment. In the world of the Amish, a compliment was hard to come by, children raised in fear of a damaging pride in their own looks or accomplishments. Parents were careful to keep their offspring from becoming grosfeelich, which left Emma with genuine surprise at this worldly woman’s response to her hair freed from its restraints, the small pile of steel hairpins and thin hairnet that held the coil of hair to the back of her head. Dena had often told her she had quite the head of hair, but Dena talked all the time, with half her observances free of sincerity.
“Your hair! I had no idea!” Kathy elaborated. “Roger, go away. We’ll have you running off with the nanny.”
Roger’s face expressed good humor, and he agreed that Emma had a head full of thick wavy hair that was very unusual in its coloring, followed by a resounding, “What’s for dinner?”
“You know, Roger, we told them to come for grilled shrimp tonight.”
Kathy’s tone took on a forceful whine.
“You did.”
“I want them to come over. We don’t have much social life here. No parties, nothing. So why can’t they come over?”
Roger didn’t answer, merely walked into the living room to scoop up his son and settle himself into the soft folds of the recliner, the remote in his right hand. Brent settled himself against his father’s shoulder, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
Kathy sighed, put her balled fists on her hips and went to the recliner.
“I’m talking to you, darling, and I think I deserve an answer.”
Roger’s response was unintelligible.
“Oh, for . . .”
Kathy came stalking back to the kitchen, her eyes snapping, then made a quick decision by going into the bedroom with a door flung against its frame.
Roger brooded, his quick blue eyes clouded over, his eyelids half-closed. When Annalise tried to pull herself up, he told her to go
lie down, he wanted to watch this show. Charlie Brown was gathered into her arms, the thumb inserted and the slow dejected walk to the couch begun.
Emma breathed in, released it, and turned away.
She reminded herself she was the nanny. She could observe, but that was it.
That first night she made spaghetti and meatballs from the recipe on the generic jar of the tomato sauce from Aldi. She tore romaine lettuce, added croutons, shaved Parmesan cheese, and made her own dressing, winging it completely and hoping for the best.
Roger sat sullenly and Kathy refused to make an appearance, although the children kept up a lively chatter, especially Brent who loved the spaghetti. He told everyone about how Annalise had been upset on her bottom by the water.
The meal was very difficult, with Roger’s silence, but she got through it with respectful silence of her own. The children were told about Mommy’s headache, which seemed to satisfy them enough to play with their electronics after the food was eaten.
Emma cleared the table, put the leftovers in containers, and was ready to run the hot water when Roger came to help her with the dishwasher.
Blushing, Emma told him she was sorry to be so electric illiterate, which set him to laughing, saying that was a smart phrase, right there.
He said he supposed he was wife illiterate himself, to which Emma raised an eyebrow, and asked softly, “Why?”
He opened the dishwasher, reached under the sink for a green box of soap, measured, and poured.
“Now stack your dishes. Pots on the bottom, like this. Plates, silverware, glasses on top. There you go. Close door, press button. Now how hard is that?”
“Not hard at all,” Emma grinned.
Roger leaned against the counter, crossed his arms and threw one ankle over the other, his gaze held steadily on her face.
“Why, you ask. Women are hard to figure out, that’s what. One minute she’s head over heels for me, the next she’s like a . . . well, whatever.
“She took a shine to that Amish guy. I don’t care what she says.”
Ohhhh, Emma thought.
“So I told her. She’s . . .”
He jerked a thumb in the direction of the bedroom door.
“I assume it’s part of being married,” Emma said honestly, listening to the sound of water coming from the dishwasher.
“Yeah well, I’m getting really sick of it.”
Of what? Emma wondered, but didn’t say it.
“She’s smart, she’s wealthy, has the classic blond good looks, and most of the time, I’m okay with her flirting. I mean, I trust her. As much as a man can, I guess. We are married, so I guess that counts for something. But in today’s world, it’s about as secure as being wrapped in wet toilet tissue.”
Emma protested.
“I’m serious. Not one of the colleagues I work with has his first wife. Not one. Some of them are on the third go round.”
His earnest blue eyes touched her heart. She was surprised he was confiding in her so quickly, but she felt it her duty to listen.
“I can’t imagine.”
“Do you guys, like . . . stay married?”
“Divorce is rare, but it happens, I suppose. In isolated instances. Although, we are very normal. Marriages are not perfect, but divorce isn’t really an option. Our vows are pretty serious.”
“So were ours. Or mine were, anyway. I do love her.”
“Of course. Of course you do. You should be telling her this.”
“I can’t tell her.”
“Of course you can. And should.”
Emma turned to wipe the counter, but felt his eyes following her.
“You know you’re beautiful, don’t you?”
Emma bit her lower lip, shook her head. What was the proper procedure here? Were there rules for nanny behavior when the husband acted this way? She kept her eyes downcast.
“You are, you know. I’m not trying to come on to you, Emma. Seriously. I just can’t figure out why a girl like you isn’t taken. You’re the real deal.”
Emma gave a small laugh, a nervous sound of acknowledgment. Then she excused herself to collect the children for their nighttime ritual, leaving Roger watching her receding figure, the auburn hair with the glorious ripples like an overlay of gold.
Slowly he walked to the bedroom door, lifted his hand to knock, then lowered it and inserted it self-consciously into a pocket. He turned, poured a glass of wine and let himself out into the warm night and the sound of the pounding surf.
CHAPTER 6
KATHY MADE AN APPEARANCE THE FOLLOWING MORNING, LATER THAN usual, with a freshly washed head of hair, her makeup applied flawlessly. She wore a white pair of shorts and a blue shirt, the same striking shade of blue that played up her eyes. She was short and petite, with perfectly tanned legs, the physique of an athlete.
“Good morning, Emma.”
“Good morning.”
“Sorry about the headache last night. Look, I’m going into town. I need a day of shopping. The pressure around here has been profound, and I’m definitely not up to one of Anna’s moods, so I’m taking a day off.”
She inserted the coffee into the coffeemaker, walked to the living room window and watched the men on the lift.
“These guys are amazing.”
Emma said nothing.
“I’m starved.”
She pulled a bagel from the bag, laid it in the toaster oven, turned a dial, punched a button, and walked away, back to the window that looked out over the renovation.
Emma was washing windows with Windex and paper towels.
“Where’s Roger?”
“I haven’t seen him this morning.”
“Well, where is he?”
Kathy became quite agitated, grabbed her cell phone from the table, swiped and lifted it to her ear, shaking her hair back as she did so. The phone rang four times before she stamped a foot in irritation, held the device in both hands as her thumbs danced across the screen.
“So irritating, that guy. He never answers his phone.”
She opened the door of the toaster oven, spread low-fat cream cheese, and went to the refrigerator for a container of yogurt.
Her phone pinged.
She reached for it immediately.
“Oh my word. He’s in town. Can you imagine? He wants me to join him for breakfast.”
The bagel was tossed in the trash, followed by the almost full container of yogurt.
“Tell the kids where we are.”
She grabbed her car keys and phone.
“Oh, and I noticed Annalise was . . . her skin was red. Did you forget the sunscreen?”
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry.”
“Try to remember today. They should actually wear a T-shirt.”
She let herself out the door.
Emma sighed. Roger had evidently spent the night on the recliner in the living room, his shirt and shoes thrown beside it, a cotton blanket rumpled on the seat. Well, alrighty then, she thought. The first few days of being a nanny and here she was, plunked down in the middle of this faceless drama that hovered through the rooms like carbon monoxide, invisible but highly dangerous.
Not yet, she decided. They merely had a quarrel, a lover’s quarrel, about the . . . She knew who Roger was talking about. Likely Kathy had merely been attracted and he’d blown it all out of proportion with his petty jealousy.
He’d meant well, giving Emma that honest compliment. She simply wasn’t used to anyone noticing her looks, that all. She chalked it up to a cultural difference.
She went ahead with the window washing, her thoughts going to her own sisters and their drama, real or imagined. Married life could not be one smooth, glassy sea of constant perfect love and trust, no matter your religion or your way of life. It was two people who were thrown together by that first attraction, a friendship build over the course of a few years of dating, a wedding, and there you were. Taken away from the security of your own home and parents, to live with a person you thought you knew in
side out and upside down, only to discover he was picky with his food, had an annoying habit of leaving one shirtsleeve turned wrong side out in the laundry hamper, he didn’t brush his teeth well at all and had bad breath much of the time because of it.
And if you shakily ventured out of your “good wife” shell to tell him this, he pouted for days and days.
Your own personal Romeo, the man of your dreams, suddenly so very human.
Would she have felt the same if her life had turned out differently? If Sam King would have been her husband instead of Esther’s?
She never dated him, so how could she tell? He was the perfect man, sprouted to fantastic proportion in her mind’s eye, the first heart-stopping palpitations of a fierce love the only thing she could remember.
Marriage was a gamble, she supposed, but that gamble looked pretty appealing after ten years of teaching school and wondering if she’d ever meet a suitable partner. It would be one thing if she could know for certain that she’d be single the rest of her life. Then she could just embrace the role of old maid and make the best of it. But it was emotionally exhausting to wonder, to dabble in longing, to navigate the fragile feelings of unwelcome suitors and hope for the right man to show up.
Here were Kathy and Roger, the perfect couple, having a silly disagreement about absolutely nothing. Or at least it seemed like nothing from her perspective. Just a misunderstanding, at worst.
She was on the outside of the glass doors, wiping with paper towels that were too wet to continue, so she stepped inside to tear off another bunch of dry ones. As she stepped outside, she caught sight of . . .
Oh my.
It was him. Coming up that long flight of stairs.
She felt cornered, panicked.
On he came.
Emma turned slowly to face him, the Windex bottle in one hand, the paper towels in another. The morning light was behind him, the sun already well in the sky.
