by Callie Hart
“How old are the children again?” Margie asked. My arm got a squeeze this time.
“I’m not sure. I think the file said five and seven.”
Margie pulled an impressed face. “So young. And you say you don’t have any children of your own yet?” I got the impression that she thought I was ill equipped to deal with the challenge of dealing with a five and a seven-year-old.
“No, I don’t actually want children,” I said. “I love taking care of the kids at school, but I don’t plan on having my own.”
“Oh, goodness, sweetie, why on earth not? Being a mother…it’s the most miraculous thing. My life just wouldn’t be the same without those boys of mine.”
Over time, I’d learned that telling people I couldn’t have children always made them uncomfortable. It was always better to lie. To make something up. My lifestyle’s too hectic for dependents. I’m just not a maternal person. Anything was easier than explaining that I was married once, for a grand total of eighteen months, before I found out it was unlikely I was ever going to be able to conceive. My son of a bitch ex hadn’t taken the news well. He had taken the cash sitting in our joint savings account—thank god it wasn’t everything—and he had taken off with my best friend. Last I’d heard, they’d just had their first kid together, a little girl, and they were living up in San Francisco.
I smiled blankly at Margie, shrugging my shoulders. “I’m sure motherhood’s wonderful. It’s just not for me.”
Margie’s brow creased, as if she couldn’t comprehend what could possibly be mentally wrong with me. “That’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “You’ll probably change your mind, you know. One day you’ll just wake up and all of a sudden—” She jostled into me as the plane’s wheels touched down. Somewhere at the back of the plane, a lone person started clapping. Margie looked momentarily side tracked, while I did my best to wrestle my heart back into its rightful spot in my chest, out from where it had lodged itself high in my throat.
“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Margie asked. She seemed to have forgotten all about the sentence she was halfway through just now. I was glad for it, too. I’d heard the whole, you’ll wake up one morning and just need to have a baby. The it’ll hit you like a wrecking ball, and you won’t be able to deny your body bit. The problem was that I’d already woken up and felt it, that call deep in my bones, but my body had denied me, and I’d been having to deal with that sorrowful reality ever since.
“Attention all passengers. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until the pilot has turned off the seatbelt sign. When opening overhead lockers, please proceed with caution, as items may have moved during the flight and are at risk of falling.” Over the tinny loudspeakers, a pre-recorded message continued to loop, warning the passengers on the oversized Airbus A380—barely a quarter full—that increased security measures within the airport might mean extended waiting time for disembarkation and baggage collection. I was barely listening. I already felt too crowded, my throat swelling a little, tiny beads of sweat bursting through the pores of my skin, sending cold chills dancing over my stomach and down my arms.
“Do they still have a monument?” I asked abruptly. “You know, where the World Trade Center used to be.”
Margie stopped rooting in her cracked black leather purse and looked at me sharply. She was somewhere between feeling intensely sorry for me and a little wary of me all of a sudden. “Why, of course they do, honey. Why on earth wouldn’t they?”
I looked out of the window, away from her, not wanting to trade in strange expressions. “I don’t know. It seems like such a long time ago now. People…they forget.”
“Oh, no. No, that’s not likely to ever happen. New York doesn’t forget. We’ll remember those poor people for generations. Until the city falls into the sea. Probably longer.”
An hour and a half later, I was swearing under my breath, sweating, cursing myself out for not giving myself longer to get from the airport to the Fletcher building. West 23rd and 6th was a long old way from JFK, and I only had twelve minutes to spare as I hopped out of the cab and dashed inside the imposing, tall, spear-like glass structure that seemed to rocket up out of the sidewalk.
The lobby of the Fletcher building was modest and simple but spoke of money. The floors were cool, polished marble, and the seating area set back to the right was comprised of beautiful gray leather armchairs that looked like they cost more than my car back in L.A. I hurried to the reception desk, frantically patting down my hair, hoping against hope that I didn’t look completely frazzled, which I undoubtedly did. The woman behind the desk glanced up at me and smiled.
“How may I help you?” she asked. Her voice was smooth and cool, but not unfriendly. Her bright blonde hair was swept back into a perfectly styled coiffeur that made me want to weep with jealousy.
“My name is Ophelia Lang. I have a four o’clock appointment with Mr. Fletcher.”
“Ahh, yes. Miss Lang. One moment, please.” She rolled back in her chair and opened a drawer at her side, from which she produced a small laminated name badge with my photograph on it. She slid the laminate across the counter toward me, smiling. “It’s a good picture,” she informed me. “Most of the time they look awful.”
I glanced down at the photo and grimaced. It was more of a mug shot than an identification picture. I looked startled. My eyes, usually green, were tinged with red somehow, so I looked fairly demonic. The contrast on the image was way off, too, so that my long, light brown hair seemed almost black. My tan was non-existent, and my lips looked blood red. Basically, I looked like a vampire.
I gave the receptionist a polite, awkward smile anyway. “Thanks.”
She leaned forward and placed a hand on my forearm, speaking very softly. “Don’t look so worried. Mr. Fletcher can be a bit of a cold fish sometimes, but he’s a decent guy. He’s fair, and he’s a good boss. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I had no idea why she felt the need to reassure me, but her words actually slowed my pulse from racing quite as fast, and that was something.
“You’d better head on up to the penthouse office now, though, Miss Lang.” She pointed at a bank of elevators on the other side of the lobby. “While he may be a good boss, he also really does hate when people are late.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Offer
A stern looking security guard escorted me up in the elevator to Fletcher’s office.
I hadn’t travelled much. A weekend in Arizona here. A trip to Vegas there. I’d only been out of the States once, when Dad stumped up for a ten-day trip to Canada for the family—a graduation present, back when the restaurant was doing much better and money was nowhere near as tight. As I stepped into Ronan Fletcher’s private offices on the thirty-first floor, which also just so happened to be the very highest floor of the Fletcher Corporation building, I was accosted by the strangest, most wonderful sights, from countries I doubted I’d ever get to visit: African tribal face masks made out of intricately carved wood. Japanese silk fans, beautifully painted, perched on the walls like rare butterflies. Russian Faberge eggs the size of my fist, seated in gilded golden stands on walnut sideboards. A glass case ran along the entire length of the right-hand wall, where an array of golden necklaces and hammered copper earrings were arranged with delicate precision on top of rich, ruby red velvets. It looked more like a museum exhibition than an office. If it weren’t for the huge, imposing desk, complete with a ginormous iMac that sat directly in front of the wall of floor to ceiling glass windows, overlooking the city, then I’d have thought I’d stepped into the Natural History Museum and not someone’s place of work.
“Mr. Fletcher will be with you in a moment,” the guard told me. “Have a seat. And don’t touch anything.”
I wouldn’t have touched anything anyway—everything looked like it cost more than my life was worth. I sat myself down on the other side of the desk and tried not to fidget. I checked my watch: Three fifty-nine. Four o’clock. Four oh-one
. Four oh-two. Ronan Fletcher was officially late. Unbelievable, really, given what the receptionist had just told me. Two further minutes passed, and I began to think that maybe Fletcher had already left to attend to his children, but then a door to the right opened and in walked the man himself, pulling on the white cuffs of his sleeves as he hurried into the room.
I watched him, dumbstruck, as he seated himself opposite me. Not what I had been expecting at all. Ronan Fletcher wasn’t some stuffy, overweight trader with an extended gut from too many late night, fat-loaded meals and beers at his desk. He was tall, over six feet; he would have dwarfed my five-foot-eight frame if we were to stand side-by-side. Dark hair, and dark eyes; he could easily have been of Italian descent by his coloring, but his skin was pale. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular, straining at the expensive looking material of his button-down shirt. He didn’t look up at me until he had himself settled into his chair.
When he lifted his head and finally pinned me in his gaze, I was stunned by the harsh angles and lines of his face. They were magnificent—a rough sketch in charcoal, torn out of Michelangelo’s notebook, all sweeping, bold strokes. Strong jawline. High cheek bones. Perfectly straight nose. His bottom lip was fuller than the top, formed into a perfect Cupid’s bow. There was no denying it: the man was a work of art, as rare and exquisite as any of the artifacts mounted on his walls.
“Hello, Miss Lang,” he said coolly. “Thank you for taking the time to come out to New York. I know what an inconvenience it must have been.” His voice was lilting, a subtle melody teasing at the cadence of his words. Such a strange accent. One I couldn’t place.
“Not at all.” From my breezy tone, it sounded like I really meant it, that the journey really wasn’t a huge thing for me and I hadn’t minded it at all. Fletcher’s dark eyebrows dipped ever so slightly as he frowned.
“Some people don’t enjoy flying,” he said. “I’m glad to hear everything went smoothly for you, though, Miss Lang. Apologies that we couldn’t meet in Los Angeles, however my schedule has been rather punishing recently. There have been a lot of loose ends that needed tying up.”
I nod. “Of course. It’s wasn’t a problem.”
“Well, thank you regardless. Your punctuality and professional appearance in the face of such a long journey is very impressive. Professionalism is paramount to me, Ophelia. May I call you Ophelia?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. You’ll call me Ronan, too. Especially if we’re in front of the children.” I didn’t expect him to say that. I’d thought I would need to call him Mr. Fletcher or Sir or something. Addressing him by his first name seemed like an alien concept. Far too personal. Ronan must have seen the surprise flicker across my face. “The children don’t need another strict, formal nanny, Ophelia. They don’t need another of my ass-kissing employees hovering around them twenty-four seven. They need a friend. That’s what I’m looking for in the successful candidate for this role.”
“I see. I can do that,” I said.
“Good. Now. Why don’t we begin by you telling me about yourself and your experience as a teacher?”
I had always hated this part of interviews. Ronan must have already read my resume at length—he would never have paid to fly me out to New York if he hadn’t read my credentials—so it was frustrating that companies and individuals alike always went through the tired process of having you run down your skill sets and capabilities. It seemed like such a waste of time. I could hardly tell him that, though, so I obliged him.
Degree in social sciences and photography. Master’s in English literature and language. A diploma in statistical mathematics that I really only did for fun a couple of years ago. I explained about my time at Saint Augustus’s, detailing the extra roles I took on within the school, providing tutoring after hours for students who wanted or needed it.
“And the children at your school were all well adjusted? Did you have to work with any…problem children?”
Oh, boy. That seemed like a leading question. Were his kids little terrors, disruptive, incapable of behaving themselves? If they were, it wasn’t a big deal. I’d had to deal with plenty of spoiled shits back home, over privileged and entitled, who thought you were their servants, at their beck and call whenever the mood took them. “I’ve dealt with a number of kids who had difficulties, yes.”
“Speak plainly, Ophelia. There’s no room for political correctness here. When you say difficulties, what do you mean?” His voice had little to no inflection as he spoke. Everything about him was calm and devoid of emotion, though his dark eyes sparked with an intelligence that was more than a little intimidating.
“Problem” was always a dirty word at St. Augustus’s. We were never allowed to make a student feel any less than anyone else in class, so we’d have to use words like challenged, or high energy. It seemed as though Ronan Fletcher wanted to get down to brass tacks, though. “Problems with authority. Issues with violence, and with aggression. Some of the kids refused to cooperate on any level. Some could be unresponsive. Physically and verbally abusive at times.”
“Were you ever tempted to respond in kind? When you were attacked physically or verbally?” His words were said with complete and utter detachment, which was at odds with the reaction they inspired inside me. Rage fluttered in the pit of my belly, burning quickly outwards, flushing through my body.
“No! Absolutely not. Even if teachers were allowed to manhandle children, which we’re obviously not, I would never physically discipline a student. It’s not our place. And children can be hurtful to the people surrounding them at the best of times. If they’re feeling vulnerable or threatened in any way by the situation they find themselves in, they lash out. It’s my job to make them feel safe and comfortable, so they don’t need to curse and swear, or say horrible things. It would be counterproductive for me to respond in any way to that kind of behavior.” I knew he was testing me; he had to make sure I was a suitable role model to care for his children, but asking such a blatant, awful question was borderline offensive. Ronan remained impassive, hands stacked in his lap, leaning back in his chair, watching me.
“Okay. Let’s discuss your availability. The agency I hired to fill this position said you weren’t working at the moment. Why is that?”
“The school closed down. I wasn’t fired, if that’s what you’re implying. All the staff at St. Augustus’s were made redundant.” I could feel myself growing pricklier by the second, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. There was something infuriating about the way he was asking his questions that made me feel inferior and unqualified to essentially babysit his children. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit.
“I see.” In that small statement, Ronan Fletcher made me feel as though it were my fault that St. Augustus’s had gone under. My fault that the funds couldn’t be raised to keep the school going; My fault that the other faculty members had lost their jobs, too. In my head, I was reeling, all kinds of excuses and explanations dancing on the tip of my tongue, begging to be unleashed. I didn’t utter a word, though. I just sat there, hollowed out and miserable, as Ronan seemed to consider his next move.
“So you would be available to start immediately?” he said finally.
“I would.” I was surprised he was even bothering to check this information, given how clear it was that he didn’t think me fit for the job.
“And do you get sea sick?
“I’m sorry?”
“Sea sick. There’s a considerable amount of boat travel involved in this job.”
I just stared at him blankly. “I would have to cross the river a lot?”
“Not the Hudson, no. I need someone to care for my children in my hometown, which just so happens to be on a remote island off the coast of Maine. There is a six-mile ferry journey between the mainland and The Causeway, and sometimes the waters can be pretty rough. The position is a six-month contract, as I’m sure the agency explained to you. You will have two days off a week, and the
children’s aunt will also be on hand to assist in their care. Ideally, the successful candidate for this role will take care of the children during the day, making them breakfast, taking them to school after the new year, once they’re enrolled at the local elementary. Collecting them and helping them with any homework, playing with them in the evenings etc. Before they are able to go to the local school, both Connor and Amie would need to be home schooled.
“Rose, their aunt, will take care of them two days of the week, as well as some evenings, which she can work out with the successful candidate once they have arrived on The Causeway.” He said “The Causeway” like it was difficult for him to form the words in his mouth.
“An island?” He wanted me to leave the mainland? He wanted me to travel to some remote speck of land out in the ocean with him and his children? I couldn’t quite manage to make the information sink in. I’d been devastated by the idea of being a six hour flight away on the other side of the country, but Mom had talked me down. She’d reminded me how easy it would be to jump on a plane in New York and get back to L.A. whenever I wanted, and cheap enough too, if I was earning decent money, but an island? Off the coast of Maine? That was not a simple hop, skip and a jump away. That was far more complicated indeed.
Ronan seemed unsettled as he continued, which didn’t reassure me at all. “I was born on The Causeway,” he explained. “I haven’t been home in some time. If you were selected for the role, you would need to commit to traveling to the island and staying for a full six-month period.”
