by Nicole Snow
Silence. Quinn rolls her eyes, turning back to her screen. “Suit yourself. You're a nicer person than I'd be, Sadie, but I can't hold that against you. Why don't you take five or ten and go see what else the idiot did? I've got the sample.”
“Fine.” A break is actually what I need.
I don't realize I'm holding my breath, hoping the asshole is really gone, until I'm next to June. She's next to the table in the waiting area, plucking a pile of torn white paper scraps off a business magazine, muttering to herself. “Nanny, my sweet tush. You're the one who needs the babysitter, you big, pissed off, stupid lug of a –“
“What'd he do now?”
June turns, startled by my appearance. I smile an apology and hold out my hand while she pushes the mess of papers into my palm. “I told him this isn't the place to leave his junk lying around. Of course, he can't be bothered to even have a professional looking card made.”
I flick my fingers over the torn scraps. They all have the same four words written on them with a phone number in his blocky, crabbed script. Even his handwriting is threatening.
NANNY WANTED.
CALL MARSHAL.
There's a phone number underneath.
“Take them to the trash, will you? Before the doctor comes in to debrief. I can't have him seeing this. Last time Ms. Myers left a couple papers about her bake sale, I never heard the end of it.”
I nod, crumpling the dozen or so uneven white scraps in my palm. I leave June alone at her desk and step into the hall. I'm just in time to flatten myself against the wall before a frowning Cartwright passes, without so much as a good morning.
The figure turning down the hall, heading out to the reception area and then to the parking lot, is the reason why.
Against my better instinct, I follow, stopping just around the bend, staring out the frosted glass.
It's absurd, really. But maybe I'm worried for the little girl, or part of me just wants to know what turns a man into an antisocial buffalo.
The Castoff stands there with his daughter, kneeling down, fixing her coat. He double-checks her mittens and then plants another kiss on her forehead through the hoodie, giving the clinic behind him the stink eye one last time.
Our eyes meet.
I look away.
Seething blood crashes against my ears, drowning out this weird, mysterious piece of the world I can't quite make sense of. The Castoff, Papa Bear, Marshal the Crass-hole is gone the next time I find the courage to look through the glass. I catch a flash of his SUV rolling by, big and black and loud, cleaner than it should be for a man who lives off the grid, deep in the woods by the bluffs.
Supposedly.
Rumors, rumors, and what are they worth? None of them explain how he can be so sweet to his own flesh and blood, while he's a total brute to the rest of us.
I hate rumors. And I hate it even more that I want the bitter truth about Marshal.
Hasn't he given me plenty?
My head keeps spinning with three hard lessons from this morning.
Yes, he's as outrageous, short-fused, and brutally sexy as his reputation says.
Yes, he needs a nanny.
And yes, I think his cocky bluster is making me insane.
Because the longer I stare at those two words – NANNY WANTED – the bigger an insufferable prick I see. I also see my own tiny reflection, fists balled and jaw clenched. Ready to prove someone wrong.
I'm trembling, defiant, and oh-so-ready to put Marshal Howard in his rightful place.
What a day.
I worry, doubt, and second guess the madness I'm considering the whole drive home. Thankfully, the rest of my shift is smoother than this morning. There are only ten more other patients before I'm off several hours later. Each with more tact and kindness than the Castoff has in his thumb.
A saner Sadie would've tossed all his sloppy nanny ads like June wanted. But this stupid, desperate new me kept one in my purse.
Actually, it's even worse. His number might already be in my contacts.
There's no calm at my parents' place. I'm still living in the same cramped upstairs bedroom I've had since I was a girl. The only place I've ever felt comfortable in this house since family business brought me home months ago.
“How's she doing today?” I ask dad, laying my keys on the counter. It's always the first question as soon as I'm through the door. He barely glances up from his newspaper, sipping his evening Earl Grey. “Okay, so wrong question. How are you?”
“I'm fine. Your mom's the same as always, babe. She's resting right now. Tried to keep her off the canvas this morning, knowing how upsets she gets when her muse doesn't flow.” He sets his tea down and looks away. “You know how that goes.”
Oh, yes. I know.
The pit in my stomach becomes a chasm.
I think I've seen my own mother meltdown like a toddler more than a dozen times since summer.
But it isn't her fault. She's sick.
It started not long after dad retired, after her paintings and sculptures stopped bringing in a healthy side income. The drugs barely help on the rare days she'll actually take them. The shrinks never do.
She's lost her muse, and I think a piece of her soul went with it.
However messed up the rest of her mind is, mother's pride remains intact. I'm glad that's the case for one of us.
“Should I check in?” I give him another look, grabbing an iced mocha from the fridge, my go-to evening treat. “Maybe bring her one of these? She's in a better mood sometimes after caffeine.”
“No. The woman blew through a whole pot of coffee this morning. Mostly decaff. I never mix in more of the real stuff than I need to.” He stands, brushes past me, and clinks his cup in the sink. “Besides, dinner should be ready in an hour or two. Company, too. Jackson and Ginger are coming over.”
My jaw tenses mid-sip, evening coffee bliss ruined hearing my brother's name. My sister-in-law, I don't mind. Too bad she's married to the horse's ass who brought me back to this miserable town.
“That's okay, isn't it? Sorry, I should've told you this morning.” Dad smiles sheepishly, running water for the dishes. His familiar crooked smile looks more beat up than ever under this thick black frames.
It can't be easy being the only one trying to keep this family together, without the tensions, having to deal with mother constantly. I try to help him.
Isn't that the reason I came home? To help? I can't stand seeing this ruin his retirement.
That's what really brought me home. Not Jackson's stupid guilt trip. Dad deserves better. Both my parents do.
“Sadie?” He says my name while my eyes are still closed.
Then they're wide open. “It's fine. I'll manage, I'm sure. If they're coming soon, we'd better get her ready.”
He nods, turning back to the sink, leaving me to trundle upstairs to their bedroom.
I don't know how I'll break the news about the nanny job. It would've been a difficult conversation under any circumstances, but with tonight's company? I can't ignore the bad blood with Marshal and my brother.
For now, I try to forget it.
“Mom? It's me.” I knock gently at the door and wait. A second or two later, I hear her footsteps pad over. She whips the door open, old hinges groaning.
“Good day, sweetie?” Even under her frizzy bedhead, she's the same no nonsense green-eyed woman who raised me.
“Lovely. Dad says dinner's coming up. Apparently, we're having Jackson tonight, too.”
Her tired smile grows. “Wonderful! Then I'll have a few hours to work before they come –“
“Mom, no!” I reach out, grabbing her hand before she's able to turn around and close the door in my face. I sigh, hating how hard this always is. “You've been at it all day, I heard. I really think you need some time to rest, clean up, re-charge. Maybe help us with the meal prep before they're here? I know dad could use a hand.”
She frowns, looking over her shoulder. It's a complete mess behind her. How
dad sleeps with her in a space that's more like a messy artist's loft than a real bedroom, I'll never understand.
“I really shouldn't. I'm so behind, Sadie. Why don't you run along and tell your father I'll be down soon? Only an hour, okay?” Her eyes are pleading.
I'm looking right through her. Staring at the white canvass splotched with random black smears, the places where she missed on the floor, the holes she knocked in the wall during a really bad episode a couple weeks ago. Jesus.
I can't believe it's our lives sometimes.
It was never like this before the breakdown.
“Oh, come. If it really means this much to you, then I suppose one little night off won't hurt.” She smiles sweetly like she's done me a huge favor. My eyes must have really looked like hell to break through her obsession.
“Thanks, mom. See you downstairs soon.” I wait in the laundry room around the corner until she finishes her shower, and I hear her coming. It wouldn't be the first time she's changed her mind.
My fingers keep tugging at the scrap of paper tucked in my pocket.
NANNY WANTED.
I've been unpaid help for the last six months. The good, faithful, dedicated daughter. The girl who put her life on hold to bail out a family crisis – what choice did I have after Jackson twisted my arm?
I don't mind helping out. Really. Even though I'm totally unprepared and undereducated after dropping out of college, I do what I have to, ignoring how my patience is bleeding out one day at a time.
But I'm not an angel. I'm not selfless. I haven't given up on life.
I need money. I need hope. I need a future.
NANNY WANTED.
I'll have to talk to Jackson first. He's harder because he always has dad's ear, even though our father likes to pretend he's his own man.
I'm laughing, shaking my head when I stand, already disgusted at the absurd thought of having to ask big brother for his holy permission to take a side job.
If I can deal with this family, though, I think I'm up for anything.
Including a frigid, arrogant, rude beast of a man I want signing my paychecks. I want to prove him wrong even more.
“Damn good gravy tonight. Your cooking, ma?” Jackson stuffs another big uneven bite into his mouth, smacking his lips loudly until Ginger elbows him. They've been married for over a year, and she's still trying to teach my older brother some manners.
Mom looks up from picking at her food and doesn't answer. Dad smiles, placing his hand over hers, a low chuckle escaping his throat. “I'm the chef tonight, but it's her recipe. I'm just glad I've done it justice. Oh, and your sister helped with chopping. Thanks again, Sadie.”
“So good,” Ginger whispers, popping a bite of ham in her mouth. She's trying hard to keep the peace before another Kelley dinner turns into a train wreck, and she's forced to ask herself why she ever married into this family.
“I'm not made of glass,” mom says, her eyes pinpricks. “You did wonderful, Peter. I should've been down to help you sooner...”
“Nonsense, Steph!” Dad's nervous smile grows. He squeezes her hand, his knuckles going white. “You needed your rest. You were at it for, what? Eight, nine hours today?”
“Eleven. I tracked them like always. Producing nothing but complete and utter dog shit.” The last word is like a sudden gust of wind ripping through the house.
Jackson coughs. Ginger looks down at her plate. I try to keep eating because damn it, it's been a long day, and I'm hungry. Dad does his best to comfort her, but it's like pushing the pin back into a hand grenade that's already been triggered.
It physically hurts to see this happening. Again.
For my first twenty-one years of life, it was a rarity to see my mother cry, much less swear like a sailor. Now, it happens almost daily. The tears are already in her eyes.
“What about you, Sadie? Having fun sticking people with needles all day?”
I glare, scratching my fork on the plate a couple times. “It's a blast. Good training and interesting work. I'll be ready to find a job as soon as I'm licensed.”
“You'd better. Think dad chopped down the money tree out back last year when we were cleaning up brush.” My big, dumb brother grins like a fool at my mother, hoping she enjoys his joke.
It's tempting to lay into him. He always thinks I'm the one with my hand out because I went to college while he went into the service. Too bad he's trying to relieve my mother's tension in his own sadistic way, and if it saves her from a meltdown, then sure, I'll put on a brave face.
“Cheer up, ma. You'll find your groove soon,” he says, wiping his mouth. He's testing the waters, trying to see if she's calmed down. “I've got the sunshine tonight. Originally thought we'd save this for dessert, but since the mood in here needs some serious lightening up...honey, you want to do the honors, or should I?”
Ginger's big blue eyes shift to him, and then us. Whatever it is, she can't believe the timing.
“Um, sure, Jackson if you think they're ready...” She trails off. He gives her the nod that says there's no backing out.
The knot in my stomach tells me what's coming before her timid little lips open, and I hear the two most terrifying words in forever. “I'm expecting. Peter, Stephanie, you're going to be grandparents!”
I try to smile. It's hard.
Dad bursts into a flurry of happy questions, congratulations, before he notices how quiet mom is. “Honey? What's wrong?”
“Me. This should be a wonderful day for our family. Instead I feel...nothing. I'm numb. My only son is bringing a child into this world and they'll be born knowing their grandmother is just a psycho has-been.”
“Mom!” Jackson's fork clatters against his plate. Great, he's about to add to the chaos, but a quick squeeze of Ginger's hands on his shoulders restrains his inner beast.
“She can't help it, remember?” she whispers, turning to me, smiling sweetly. “At least you're excited, right?”
“Well, yeah. I get to be a kickass aunt.” And I'll need to be with a baby growing up under Jackson's roof. All the more reason to take the nanny job, too, and get re-acquainted with kids.
“Ginger, we're thrilled. Truly. All of us.” Dad's eyes ooze the apology he won't say out loud because it's sure to make this worse. He turns to my mother. “Steph, you can't be so hard on yourself. There's more reason than ever for us to set a good example. You're an artist, and a damn good one. You'll get through this.”
“Whatever, Peter. Here, take my hand again like a dog on its leash.”
I'm cringing. So does Ginger. Jackson drains his wine glass, the only thing he can do not to explode.
“Remember last week?” Dad's still trying, rubbing the back of her hand with his fingers. “The doctor gave you that book to read about Van Gogh –“
“Van Gogh, Van Gogh, I'm sick and fucking tired of hearing about Van Gogh!” She snatches her hand out of dad's and both palms hit the table. “He was a genius. We're not even in the same universe. I can't produce another damn birch tree painting, much less something brilliant and immortal. I get it. I'm sick. There's something wrong with me. It stopped being stupid and demeaning a long time ago. Now, it's just exhausting, and I'm so, so tired...”
It's over. Night ruined. My appetite with it. It doesn't bother me knowing we probably won't have the heart to break into the French silk pie waiting in the fridge.
“Sadie?” Jackson looks at me, an evil glint in the green eyes we Kelleys share.
I shrug, angrily, never knowing what to do. Yet, it's always my responsibility.
My feet push the chair out reluctantly, ready to lead her upstairs. But before I'm able, dad takes her arm, helping her up. “I've got this. Keep your big brother company while I help her to bed.”
Mom goes slowly, hand covering her face, hiding her tears. Jackson reaches for the wine bottle once they're out of sight. He fills his glass to the rim.
“Jesus Christ. Here I thought it'd give her something to smile about for once.” He's sco
wling, unfazed by his very patient wife rubbing his shoulder.
“I'm sure she feels guilty, somewhere in there. Give her a break.” I look him square in the face. It's inviting trouble, mentioning guilt to my perfect brother, but tonight I don't care.
“A break? She just spat in our faces after we announced our first kid. This isn't getting better.”
“Yeah, I know. I was there,” I remind him, pushing the last few bites of food on my plate away in disgust. “She isn't in her right mind, Jackson, and you know it. You can't hold it against –“
“You're right. It just gets to me, sometimes. How the fuck do we ever have a normal family again as long as this continues?”
Ginger looks at me, a strained smile on her lips. “How's your training coming along, Sadie? You're – what? – just a few weeks away from finishing?”
“A couple more weeks for the hands-on stuff. Then I'll be doing it all the time, as soon as I'm able to find a job.” I don't know what century that will be. The clinic's openings for new hires are rare, and Davenport is far for work. “Enough about me, though. I'm excited for you guys. Seriously.”
I reach for Ginger's hand. We trade smiles, and then I try to hold it, eyes shifting to Jackson. He gives me the same disdain he's had since he went to boot camp when I was just thirteen. “Thanks. I see what you're doing, and believe it or not, I appreciate it. At least one person at this table other than dad pretends to give a shit.”
Praise. It's rare. I haven't gotten so much as a thank you since he screamed his version of common sense into me over the phone while I was still in my Des Moines dorm room.
I did the family a huge favor putting my life on hold to come back. As much as I don't mind helping dad, it can't go on forever. I need a life.
It's now or never. “Actually, guys, there's something I wanted to run by you...I've got my hands busy looking after mom between training. Turns out, I'm getting really short on savings, and it'd sure be nice to have a full gas tank this winter without begging dad for change.”
Jackson flops back in his chair, his ghost of a smile disappearing. “Oh, here it comes. Just spit it out, sis. What are you hinting at?”
