by Bella Grant
“I don’t deserve all those words,” she murmured.
“Yes, you do, and more. I don’t hesitate to commend my employees when they do an excellent job, and you have been entrusted with the most precious task. Educating my daughters.”
“Today is my last day,” she blurted.
“What?” I wasn’t sure if she was joking, but her anxious and guilty expression said otherwise.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Simpson, I don’t think I’m the right person for your daughters,” Mrs. Bishops explained, pacing in a small circle. “I’m sure they are delightful children, but I just don’t know because I’m not reaching them.”
“I don’t understand,” I retorted, perplexed. “I thought they were doing fine.”
Her face turned a bright crimson. “I thought they were shy at first and would catch on, but they aren’t interested in learning.”
“But it’s your job to make them interested,” I returned in alarm. I couldn’t get over her saying she was leaving.
“Nothing I’ve tried works,” she said defensively. “And I’ve employed all the tricks I’ve learned, and then some. I think the help your daughters need isn’t a teacher’s help at all.”
I stiffened at her subliminal message. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Bishops. I wish you all the best in your future endeavors.”
She turned to leave before pausing. “Mr. Simpson, I know it’s not my place to say, but I think your girls would benefit from seeing a child psychologist.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Bishops,” I told her in a final tone. She nodded and hurried from the office.
I rested my elbows on the table and my head wearily in my palms. I wasn’t angry because she had spoken her mind. She’d made a true assessment, one I’d never thought if. Another reason I needed a female’s ready intuition. How remiss of me, but I’d thought bringing them there, to a life where they’d want for nothing, would be all they needed. I’d thought all they needed was some time to get accustomed to their new life.
I hadn’t needed a psychologist to work out my issues. I’d worked them out all on my own. Yes, by burying them inside. Now look at you. Living all alone at thirty with enough wealth to take care of ten wives with expensive tastes and not having to marry a single one. Did I really want my children to be as emotionally cut off from the world as I was?
Leaving the office, I trudged along the hall. No laughter, giggling, or horse-play directed me to the girls’ whereabouts. I assumed they were in their playroom where I usually found them, although the room was underutilized. I opened the door quietly. They both sat on a couch, reading.
While they weren’t aware of my presence, I observed them from my position at the door. Both Anabelle and Isabelle were beautiful. When I’d acquired their birth certificates before I met them and saw my last name printed on the paper, I’d been doubtful. All trace of uncertainty had vanished the first time I saw them, although initially, I hadn’t believed their mother.
Their mother had been a redhead with green eyes. Annabelle and Isabelle looked like me with long black hair and piercing blue eyes. Sad blue eyes. Eyes I tried to avoid at all costs because I was filled with guilt. Their gazes struck me as accusatory. I usually found myself wanting to explain myself to them. Why I wasn’t in their lives from the beginning. The simple “I didn’t know” that I’d told them didn’t seem to reach them. Still, I couldn’t confess that what their mother and I had was the tumultuous affair of two emotionally disturbed individuals, both seeking sexual satisfaction to drive away our personal demons.
They were beautiful girls, and I wanted to see them happy. I wanted to be able to yell at them for breaking stuff, to have to chide them about running in the house instead of walking. I’d not learned about their existence until recently, but I loved them already.
The rooms I had converted into a playroom were actually two rooms combined into one. It consisted of a playroom and a sitting room where they could alternate from playing to watching TV. Everything was there for their comfort. They had shelves of books, their individual dollhouses, too many dolls and bears to count, puzzles and games, their own stations side by side with laptops and tablets. The sitting area had comfortable couches with a Samsung 65” 4k television, the best on the market. But I’d never seen them use any of it.
They read. A lot.
I hesitated to interrupt them and their reading. Usually, kids who read so much did well academically, but they had no interest in doing work. Unless they were whispering to each other, and had very little to say to anyone else.
As I observed them unnoticed, I sighed. Mrs. Bishops was right. The girls needed to see a professional about their traumatic lives. The day had started off with me hopeful about finding a caregiver for them. Now I needed a caregiver, a private teacher, and a child psychologist.
Chapter 3
Laurel
I woke with a groan as the sunlight hit my pupils as I’d forgotten to draw the blinds before going to bed. Back in San Antonio, I had no need to draw blinds. Despite being in Taylor for a week, I still forgot. I no longer lived with Scott. I no longer had a job. I no longer paid my share of an apartment. I was home where it all began and hopefully, not where it all would end.
I kept my eyes closed so the tears burning behind my eyelids didn’t fall. I felt like a failure. I was only twenty-four, but so many people my age had already settled down into a job and some even had families of their own. I was back home, living with my mother, and while she was the sweetest woman, I would rather live on my own. Without a job, though, I couldn’t make rent.
My mother hadn’t judged me when I’d arrived at her house late one evening. She hadn’t pried. It must have been a shock for her to see me on the porch, ringing the doorbell at eight that night, but she hadn’t shown it. She had opened the door and smiled as if it was natural for me to be there. Over hot chocolate with marshmallows in the kitchen, I’d confided in her about losing my job and Scott’s cheating.
Throwing back the covers, I rolled out of bed and barefooted, slinked to the bathroom. I’d not fallen asleep until late as I tried to figure out what to do with my life. I had sent out application letters randomly but felt my hands were tied. I was too qualified for those jobs and the salaries offered were pitiful, but at the same time, I was underqualified without a degree to hold another administrative position such as the one I’d been assigned at Foxx Co. Mr. Foxx wouldn’t be forthcoming with a letter of recommendation, and even if he was, I wouldn’t trust him to be honest about my work.
In the bathroom, I took care of my morning ritual, brushing my teeth, washing my face and peeing, not necessarily in that order. My hair was a bit tangled because I hadn’t seen the need to brush it. I took the time this morning, though, to run the wide-toothed comb through the long, tangled hair. Maybe I should cut it as a symbol of my new beginning.
When I was finished, I returned to my bedroom to change out of my nightshirt and dressed in a pair of shorts and tank top. If I’d not been fired, I would already be on my way to work, I thought with a sigh. I needed to stop thinking about that job. The fault was entirely mine for not making it clear I lacked one year to complete my degree. I hadn’t intended to lie, but when Mr. Foxx had assumed I had my degree, I’d simply gone along with it. I’d known even then I couldn’t hide it forever, but I had hoped to gain a reputation for myself before they realized. Then, my reputation would have impressed him enough to see me as an asset to his company.
He’d seen my assets all right. Perky boobs and a nice round ass he never failed to admire when I was in his vicinity. Maybe it was a good thing I no longer worked for such a sexist pig. What audacity to think I would lower my standards and sleep with him to keep my job. I didn’t care that he was a millionaire. He wasn’t my type and him wanting to objectify me was intolerable. Though he’d made me uncomfortable with his stares, it was fine for him to look as long as that was the only thing he did. As much as the way he looked at me weirded me out, I had been able to put up with it
if he was at a distance.
But we’d entered the elevator together once, me sailing through the doors before it closed. The elevator had been packed, and I’d found myself standing right in front of him. I’d felt his crotch push up against my ass, but he’d stepped back and apologized. It hadn’t quite reached his eyes, though, as he’d smirked at me.
I checked the kitchen for my mother, but she wasn’t there. I poured fresh water into the electronic kettle and set it to boil before starting on breakfast. The time on the microwave sported eight thirty. As I gathered eggs and bacon from the fridge and the organic bread my mother liked to buy, I realized we were almost out of groceries. My heart sank as I mentally calculated how much money I had saved to tide me over until someone hired me. Enough to last a few more weeks, but after that…
“Why the heavy sigh, dear?” Mom asked as she walked into the kitchen. I smiled at her before frowning when I saw her dirt-caked hands and the sun hat she wore. She also had dirt marks on her cheek.
At fifty years old, my mother, Jane, was a jovial person and my best friend. We had always been close but became more so when my father, who was in the military, died when I was nine. She had feared him being in the army and returning to us in a pine box, but we’d have never guessed he would be the victim of a hit and run, killing him on impact. The only justice was that his killer had been caught.
With only the two of us left in the family, we grew to be more than simply mother and daughter. We were friends. I could talk to her about everything. When I disappointed her, such as the way I’d lost my virginity in high school, she scolded me and talked to me about it, but she’d also spoken to me woman to woman. I was blessed to have her for a mother because I was aware as a child that my mother was different from many other mothers. She had expectations of me, but she never entertained the ridiculous notion that I had to be perfect and not make mistakes. She stood by me in those moments of crisis.
For that reason, the thought of losing her to this heart condition was painful. We didn’t have the money to get her the heart surgery she needed, and she was running out of time.
I took in her petite frame, much like mine. She was five feet flat, and my father had been close to six feet. I was a little taller at five-four, but the rest of her features were mostly identical to mine—the heart-shaped face, strawberry blonde hair, striking green eyes, and the dimpled chin.
“Mom, you were not in the garden working again, were you?” I asked her, taking on the role of mother as I had to do sometimes. She wanted to do everything, but she was restricted from strenuous activities. “The doctor told you to take it easy. I told you I’d tend to the gardens today.”
“Bah!” She waved her hand at me and dropped the rolled-up newspaper onto the table. “If I followed that doctor, I’d be in bed twenty-four seven. I’m not going to let this heart condition turn me into an invalid.”
“It’s a preventative measure.”
“You’ve got to learn to let go, child,” she replied. Her tone softened. “Dying is as much a part of life as living.”
Tears stung my eyes at her words. “Mom, don’t start with that again. I told you I don’t want to hear that kind of talk.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’m about done with breakfast,” I told her, scooping the scrambled eggs onto two plates. “Go wash up and we’ll eat. I’ll make herbal tea. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine, dear, and thanks for getting breakfast today.”
When she returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, the table was already laid with breakfast. She ignored the eggs and toast and reached for the newspaper, thumbing through until she found what she was looking for. I allowed her to read whatever she found so interesting and munched on my breakfast. I could remember helping her in the kitchen from a very young age.
“Aha, this is perfect!” she exclaimed in triumph.
Curiosity got the best of me. “What’s so interesting, Mom?”
“A job,” she replied.
My eyes widened. “You know you’re not allowed to work.”
“Not for me, dear,” she clarified. “You need to find yourself something to do so you can’t nag me about my habits every day.”
Her tone was teasing, so I didn’t take offense. “You need someone around to remind you about the things you should not be doing,” I pointed out. “Maybe I should consider working from home so I can keep an eye on you.”
“There’s no need to. I think I’ve found the perfect job for you.”
“You have?” I asked curiously. “What’s it about?”
“Caregiver for two children.”
I shook my head before she finished speaking. “Two children? I doubt I could even take care of one. That’s way too much.”
“Wait, you’ve not heard the salary yet.”
She quoted the salary range advertised, and I spluttered eggs onto the table. The job offered more than what I’d made as an administrative assistant. How was that even possible? Just what kind of work would be involved taking care of two children for the parents to be willing to pay that amount of money?
“What are the duties?” I asked. “Actually, let me see that.”
I took the newspaper from her and scanned the vacancy page. The advertisement she had mentioned couldn’t be missed. It was a central post, the biggest on the sheet of paper. I quickly scanned the content, feeling that some information was lacking. All it basically advertised was for a live-in caregiver to take care of two children under the age of ten. The individual was responsible for full-time nanny duties, to help the children with their homework, and take them to activities.
“Wow, this is a lot of money to take care of two kids,” I said in awe. The ad said kids under ten. What if it involved taking care of kids who were too young to express what they wanted? How would I even know what to do?
“Check the address,” Mom added. “That’s one of the richest neighborhoods in Dallas.”
I read the vague address, which didn’t pinpoint exactly the location of the house, merely the name of the neighborhood, Greenway Park, an affluent neighborhood filled with “old money.”
“They’re probably spoiled brats who’ve already chased off a dozen nannies,” I speculated, but damn, to make that kind of money would be awesome. A live-in job like this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Except… “I don’t have any experience with kids,” I groaned.
“So?” my mother countered.
“Didn’t you read it? It says, ‘must have experience taking care of young children.’”
“Well, there was that one time you volunteered at the church for the children’s summer program,” she pointed out.
“Moooom,” I groaned again. “You know that doesn’t count. They want real life experience. Raising kids daily is extremely different than being a PA.”
“Laurel, some people have experience raising children, and they’re still not worth squat!” she declared with conviction, then smiled at me. “You have a good heart. You’re kind, gentle, and patient, and you genuinely care about people. You’re generally responsible. There’s nothing stopping you from getting that job.”
“Hmm, maybe.”
“The least you can do is apply,” she insisted. “There’s no harm in that. This would be perfect for you to get out of here so you can live your own life.”
“But you need me—”
“I’m sorry to be frank with you, Laurel, but even if something did happen to me while you were here, there’s nothing you could do for me.”
Her truth sank in, a bitter pill to swallow. I nodded sadly, and she put away the paper and started on her breakfast. After her comment, I wasn’t so hungry anymore and washed the dishes I’d used to prepare the meal.
“By the way, Scott called,” she announced, making no attempt to mask her disapproval.
“He did?” I asked in shock. That was new. Usually, I called him, eager to make up. I’d not even been tempted this time. He was truly history.
I shook my head with conviction. “I’m over Scott. I was trying to push something that would never work out. I was afraid to admit defeat, but I should have thrown in the towel a long time ago.”
“Well, you did the right thing.”
After washing up, I went to my room and retrieved my computer so I could sit on the porch where it was cooler than inside. I must have typed my application letter a dozen times before I submitted it. Then I realized I hadn’t attached my CV. I quickly sent the amended version which stated my recent employment history and apologized for not attaching the CV to the first application. What a way to leave a first impression. I didn’t believe I would get this job, but at least my mother would be appeased that I’d made an effort.
I sent out a few more applications, spending the day job hunting, but all jobs required me to relocate outside the small neighborhood of Taylor. At least for the nanny position, I wouldn’t have to pay rent. I gave up around noon and joined my mother in the living room where she was knitting and watching a movie on the television. Last year, I’d convinced her to donate the old one and bought her an HD television.
Close to the end of the movie, I fell asleep and was awakened by a message alert on my phone. An email. Glancing at the time, I noticed I’d slept on the sofa for a couple hours and from the aroma wafting through the house, my mother had started cooking.
I perked up when the email penetrated my sleepy brain. I noticed it was the same address for the caregiver job I’d sent the application to. Normally, prospective employers didn’t respond to candidates who hadn’t secured an interview spot.
Excited, I unlocked the phone and my email couldn’t open fast enough. I selected the message, ignoring the junk which had slipped through the spam folder.
