“That about describes it,” Filomena said, laughing.
Evan passed her the platter of meat. Once she’d taken some, he forked a portion onto each of his children’s plates. He also helped them with the beans and the potatoes, cutting Gracie’s potato open for her, adding a pat of butter and mashing it into the soft white center. He cut her meat into small pieces for her, too, before taking any food for himself.
Filomena watched him, wondering at his patience. Admittedly, she had little evidence to go on, but he seemed like a good father, one who took the time to prepare a nutritious meal for his children after a full day of work, one who assisted them and drank toasts to them and laughed when they teased him. They seemed like healthy, happy kids.
So why was their mother out of the picture? What kind of woman would have abandoned not just her children but Evan? The world was not exactly overrun with kind, devoted, strikingly handsome men. What terrible thing could he have done? How could he have chosen as his wife and the mother of his children the sort of woman who would walk away from all this?
Filomena wished there was a way to ask him. But really, it wasn’t her business. He wanted a baby-sitter, not a relationship. When he’d gazed at her over the rim of his wineglass, his grand message had probably been nothing more complicated than Hey, there’s another adult at the table. I don’t have to drink wine by myself.
“This meat tastes funny,” Gracie announced.
“It’s broiled flank steak,” Evan assured her.
“It tastes funny. Billy, does yours taste funny?”
“It tastes different,” he agreed.
Filomena forked a piece of meat into her mouth. “It tastes delicious,” she said. It really did.
“I marinated it,” Evan told Gracie.
She glared at him suspiciously. “What does that mean?”
“I soaked the meat in something before I broiled it.”
“Daddy broils everything,” Billy informed Filomena.
“What did you soak it in?” Gracie persisted.
“Salad dressing.”
“Eeeuw!” she shrieked.
“Gross!” Billy chimed in, although he was giggling. “Salad dressing is for salad!”
“Well, Heather told me that if you marinate a flank steak in that noncreamy French dressing, it makes the meat taste better.”
“It’s very good,” Filomena assured him.
“Heather is Daddy’s secretary,” Gracie said. “She’s beautiful. I think Daddy should marry her.”
“Heather hates me,” Billy muttered.
“She does not,” Evan said. “She hates children in general, but other than that, she doesn’t hate you.”
“I think she’s the most beautiful lady in the world,” Gracie said, a swooning lilt in her voice.
“You’re not supposed to say that in front of another lady,” Billy told her.
Filomena took a sip of wine to keep from erupting in laughter at the children’s exuberant tactlessness. But one corner of her brain toyed with the possibility that Evan agreed with his daughter about his secretary’s assets—agreed enough to have acted on them. Was he having an affair with his beautiful secretary? Was that what had driven his wife away? But if he had been having an affair, why wouldn’t his wife just kick him out and keep the children?
Maybe Heather the secretary hadn’t entered his life until after his wife had left. In any case, Heather’s existence as the most beautiful lady in the world would likely keep Evan from pursuing anything personal with Filomena. Which was exactly as it should be. She couldn’t have a relationship with him. She didn’t want one.
Billy distracted her by launching into a description of a scientific demonstration his teacher had performed in class that day, involving boiling water and a balloon. The project proved that hot air took up more space than cold air, a fact that Gracie absolutely refused to believe. “How can it take up more space? Does that mean if the house is hot the walls are gonna ’splode?”
“Walls are stronger than air,” Billy explained in a condescending tone.
“Not in a hurricane. Right, Daddy? Walls blow down in hurricanes.”
“There’s a difference between air pressure and wind,” Evan said, sending Filomena a questioning look. Did he expect her to teach his children science? She could handle basic questions, but science had never been her strong suit.
Even so, it was fun to hear the children debate the expansion of hot air. They were obviously intelligent and curious about the world.
She still had a fair amount of food in front of her when Gracie started to squirm and play with the green beans left on her plate. Billy had done a marginally better job of finishing his dinner—his potato skin was an empty shell on his plate, a single bean lying beside it. “Would you guys like to be excused?” Evan asked.
The children sprang out of their chairs, mumbling, “’Scuse me,” and rubbing their napkins across their faces. Before Filomena could speak, they were gone, their voices trailing back into the kitchen as they bickered over who was going to hold the TV’s remote control.
Evan waited until the air stopped vibrating with their echoing shouts, then refilled his and Filomena’s wineglasses and leaned back in his chair. He regarded her with a smile that was not quite gentle. Perhaps he was trying to put her at ease, but his eyes were too intense, too questioning, reminding her that she was in his house for a reason, and that reason wasn’t to sip wine with a gorgeous man.
“I like your children,” she said.
“They’re on their best behavior at the moment. They’re both grounded for the week because of last night. I think they’re trying not to do anything that might make me sentence them to hard time.”
“You didn’t take away their TV privileges,” she noted, glancing over her shoulder in the direction they’d disappeared.
“Actually, I did. But tonight I’ll let them watch because it’ll keep them out of our hair.” He took another sip and smiled again. He didn’t strike her as a true oenophile, but he clearly was enjoying the wine. Or maybe his smile meant he was enjoying her company. She would like to believe that. But she knew she shouldn’t.
She drank a bit of her wine. She had so many questions to ask him, most of them unaskable—like, how close he and Heather were, why his wife had left him, whether lots of women went all fluttery inside when he aimed his bedroom eyes at them. Whether his children had been born so wonderful, or had become wonderful because he was such a fine father. Whether he’d truly invited her over to discuss a job.
She kept her mouth shut. It was a tactic she’d learned from her mother, who had always done the exact opposite, asking too many questions, talking too much, making assumptions. Leila Albright’s forwardness had led to some of her most exciting adventures, but she’d lived profligately. Not just in her finances, but in her personal engagements; she had always spent every last scrap of herself, saving nothing. She’d declare that Filomena ought to loosen up, or lose a few pounds, or gain a few, or stop burying herself in books, or do better in school, or date more, or not date whomever she’d been dating at the moment Leila had happened to open her mouth. The good part was that Filomena had never had to doubt her mother’s honesty. But sometimes, Leila would have been better off shutting her mouth and listening.
Filled with questions, Filomena shut her mouth and listened, waiting for Evan to speak.
Eventually, he did. He took another leisurely sip of wine and said, “Here’s my situation. I run a chain of sporting-goods stores. The weeks between now and Christmas are the busiest time of the year for the stores. I’m supposed to pick Gracie up at preschool before five o’clock, but I just can’t do it at this time of year. We’ve got a big promotion revving up and all the holiday chaos. I simply can’t get to the preschool by five.”
Filomena nodded. She could easily solve his problem for him, but she exercised patience and kept listening.
“Billy is in an after-school program at the Elm Street School most days. Monday
afternoons he has Cub Scouts, and his friend Scott’s mother picks him up from the troop meeting. But the other days, he has to be picked up by five-thirty. Even that’s been a little tricky for me. And with this Tank Moody promotion, it’s going to get harder and harder.”
“Tank Moody?”
“Yeah. The football player who’s going to be appearing at our stores over the next few weeks, signing autographs and hopefully bringing in customers. I…” He hesitated, then sighed. “I did a promotion with a pro athlete once before and it was a disaster. So I’ve really got to keep a close watch on it this time. I don’t want it to blow up in my face.”
“This man’s actual name is Tank Moody?” Filomena couldn’t get past that. The only professional athletes whose names she knew were tennis players, gymnasts and icons like Babe Ruth.
Evan appeared bemused. “You’ve never heard of Tank Moody?”
Filomena shook her head.
He shrugged. “Well, so much for that promotion. I guess we won’t be luring you into the store.”
“What’s the name of your store?”
“Champion Sports. We’re on Hauser Street.”
“I remember that store! You own it?”
“I own a majority stake. I took the helm nine years ago.”
She grinned, a joyous memory washing over her. “My father bought me my first bicycle there. We went on my fifth birthday, and he was so patient. I considered every single bicycle in the store, even the big adult-size ones. I fell in love with a yellow bike with red flames painted on it. It looked so wicked. I was heartbroken when I finally outgrew that bike.”
“Did you buy your next bike at Champion?” Evan asked, grinning.
“I honestly don’t remember. Somehow, the first time you buy a bike is the most memorable.”
Filomena felt his gaze on her. She suspected he was thinking about other first times, about memorable times. “Anyway,” he said after a long moment, “I should probably do the whole child-care thing properly, hire a nanny through an agency or ask for recommendations or something. But I just got a sense about you last night…” He sighed and shook his head. “Maybe I’m nuts, but I think you’d be great with the kids. If you’re willing, of course.”
“I’m quite willing. It would work perfectly into my schedule.”
He set his glass on the table and nodded. “Can you tell me what your schedule is?”
“Cleaning the house, doing repairs, getting the place ready to sell.” She thought for a minute, then added, “Working a bit on my thesis.”
“Your thesis?”
“I’m a Ph.D. candidate in English literature at Columbia University.”
“Oh.” He seemed impressed. Maybe a bit overimpressed. “You’re going to be Dr. Albright?”
“If my thesis is accepted and I pass my orals.”
“Wow.” He reached for his glass, as if the thought of her earning a doctorate drove him to drink. “What’s your thesis on?”
“Freddy the Pig,” she said.
“What?”
“Freddy the Pig. He was a character in a series of children’s books by Walter Brooks. The stories are all allegories, commentaries on society and politics. They’re wonderful. I bet Billy would love them. He’s, what, eight years old?”
“Good guess.”
“Then he’s probably old enough for them. I’ll bring one over for him to read. Does he do much reading?”
“Not enough,” Evan complained. “He’s working his way through the Bunnicula books right now.”
“Wonderful!” Filomena cheered. “My broader research revolves around the use of anthropomorphic animals in children’s literature.”
“Anthropomorphic animals.” He seemed to be counting the syllables.
“Animals depicted as having human attributes. The Bunnicula books are full of animals with human intelligence, human neuroses and fears. The Freddy the Pig books have that same sensibility. These books help children to understand the human condition without shocking or depressing them, because everything is presented one step removed, with animals standing in for humans.” She clamped her mouth shut, afraid she sounded pedantic.
Evan didn’t seem to mind. “If you know so much about children’s books, I guess you must know something about children.”
“I guess I must.” She smiled.
“So you’ll be a good baby-sitter.”
“I should think so.”
He tapped his fingers some more. “If you’re working on a Ph.D., I’m going to have to rethink my pay scale. I mean, Dr. Filomena Albright…”
“I’m not a doctor yet,” she reminded him, then stifled herself. She had no idea what he’d been planning to pay her. But even though the subject of compensation made her uncomfortable, she shouldn’t give him the idea that he could underpay her.
“I’d been figuring about fifty dollars a week. Some days you’d be working only one hour, some days two or two and a half, so it would all balance out. But if you think that’s too little…”
She’d actually been expecting him to offer less.
“I guess sixty dollars would be fairer,” he decided, negotiating the offer upward without her having to say a word. “Cash, off the books. We’re talking about an informal arrangement here.”
“All right,” she said.
“Are you sure? Billy and Gracie can be a handful,” he warned.
She smiled slyly. “Hmm. Maybe I should ask for more money.”
“Go ahead,” he invited her. “How much do you think would be fair?”
“Sixty dollars a week is fine. Really, Evan, it’s…” Too much, she wanted to say. Too much to be paid for the pleasure of getting out of the house for a couple of hours every day, of having the chance to introduce two new children to the glories of Freddy the Pig and Stuart Little and all the other anthropomorphic animals she’d been hanging out with in graduate school. Too much to be paid for the opportunity to see Evan, to talk to him, to admire his lean physique and his beautiful eyes. “It’s fine,” she finished.
“When can you start?”
She shrugged. “Whenever you need me.”
“I needed you last week. Is tomorrow too soon?”
“No—but maybe you ought to talk to the children first. They might not like me.”
“Oh, sure.” He snorted. “I could see that right away. They really hate you. Sticking them with you will be part of their punishment for running away last night.”
“I’m not kidding, Evan—”
“You’ll start tomorrow. If they’ve got a problem with the arrangement, we’ll deal with it.” He shoved away from the table. “I’ll need your phone number. And I’ll need to write a letter you can present to Molly Saunders-Russo—she’s the director of Gracie’s preschool—and Maryanne Becker, the director of Billy’s after-school program. They’ll want something in writing stating you have my permission to pick up my kids. And you’ll have to have photo ID with you, a driver’s license or something, so they’ll know you’re who you say you are.” He rose from the table and crossed to a small desk built into one of the counters. When he returned to the table, he held a pad and pen. “If you could write your address and phone number, I’ll go run up some letters on my computer. And I’ll get you information on the kids’ pediatrician, and written permission to take them to see her if there’s a problem….” He was thinking out loud, apparently composing his letters in his mind as he set the pen and pad down before Filomena. She was impressed by his conscientiousness, and equally impressed by his graceful way of moving, his economical gestures, his lithe motions. She was impressed by the way his shirt stretched smooth over his shoulders, the way his slacks emphasized the length of his legs.
Fortunately, he wouldn’t be around when she was watching his children. Because, loath though she was to admit it, she would rather be watching him.
HE EMERGED from his study ten minutes later, carrying several letters, a printout of emergency information—his office phone number, the pediat
rician’s phone number, health-insurance policy numbers, Scott’s mother’s number—and a check for twenty-four dollars to cover payment for Thursday and Friday. The kitchen was empty, but he heard her voice mingling with Billy’s and Gracie’s in the family room.
He halted by the table and stared at the dishes, the leftovers, the two empty wine goblets. He wondered whether the wine had actually been as delicious as he’d thought, or had just tasted that good because he’d been drinking it with her.
Even though she was going to be working for him, he couldn’t shake the understanding that she had the upper hand in their dealings. Not because she was bossy or domineering, but because…
Because looking at her turned him on. Hearing her velvet-rich voice turned him on. Gazing at the long, thick tumble of her hair and imagining his fingers buried in it, imagining her eyes closing and her mouth opening for his kiss…
He had to be insane, hiring her to watch his kids. The phrase asking for trouble whispered through his brain.
But not hiring her would be asking for trouble, too. The streets of Arlington were not exactly teeming with baby-sitters who liked his children and wanted to spend a little time with them every day. If he didn’t hire Filomena—a woman who seemed to have patience, a good sense of humor and a particular expertise in children’s literature, of all things—who else was there? It might take him weeks to find someone else, and by then the holiday shopping season would be over.
If he put some serious effort into it, he could probably convince himself he was hiring Filomena with the noblest of motives. It would be best for his children. Molly at the Children’s Garden would get off his back, and so would Heather—who’d been absolutely right when she’d said picking up Gracie wasn’t a part of her job. With Filomena to bridge the gap between the end of the kids’ programs and Evan’s arrival home in the evening, he wouldn’t have to keep asking favors of people, feeling indebted to them.
Really, hiring her was the right thing to do, and her hair and her lips and her large, dark eyes had nothing to do with anything.
Even so, he couldn’t deny that he was glad she’d worn slacks tonight. Not that they revealed more than her long skirt had yesterday, but at least he could get a sense of her proportions. Her hips were trimmer than he’d thought, her bosom fuller. And he was some kind of jerk for thinking about her bosom.
’Tis the Season Page 8
