by Melody Mayer
Kiley was in a daze. “Wisconsin. La Crosse, Wisconsin.”
“La Crosse,” Evelyn repeated. “Well, I'm sure it's a fantastic place, and you were raised with all those salt-of-the-earth ethics that I would value so much in a nanny.”
Aside from Dad being a drunk and Mom having daily panic attacks, sure. I'm just salt of the earth through and through.
Evelyn moved closer. “Let me level with you here, Kiley I am desperate for a nanny.” She folded both bony arms over her chest. “Your friend up there whose name I won't speak broke my heart. Do you realize that?”
“Well, I know you weren't happy with the nanny she—”
Evelyn put a forefinger to her lips. “Shhh. We can't talk about it, and we definitely can't talk about her. It's just too upsetting. This will be strictly between us, if we can reach an understanding. Am I making myself clear?”
“Sure,” Kiley told her, thinking that she had nothing to lose.
As if the deal had already been struck, Evelyn stuck out her hand. Kiley had no choice but to shake it. “Okay,” Evelyn told her, grasping Kiley's hand as if they were suddenly superglued to each other. “I've got a great idea. Let's go up to the restaurant and have some iced tea. And caviar on melba toast points. Do you like Russian caviar? I adore Arabian myself. My treat. We've got a lot to talk about.”
“Come on, kid,” Oliver Sturman pleaded with Easton. “You can do it. Just do the same thing you did before. One more time. Just put the ball in the hole.”
He, Luis, and Esme were gathered around the little girl. Luis shook his head. “She doesn't speak English, she can't understand you.”
“Ball!” Easton yelled up at them, her face red.
“Good girl!” Oliver exclaimed, giving Easton a big thumbs-up. He turned back to Luis. “Evidently she does speak some English, Luis.”
“If you speak slowly, she'll understand a lot,” Esme put in. “She's a very fast learner.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Oliver agreed wryly. “Could you please tell her to just keep doing what's she doing?”
Luis traded a look with Esme. “I don't think this girl needs our advice, sir.”
Esme would have to agree with that assessment. In the twenty minutes since Kiley had departed with Evelyn, the putting competition had fallen apart completely as Easton had become the center of attention. It had taken no more than a dozen putts for everyone within sight to realize that the little girl from Colombia had a natural talent for golf. No, more than a talent. She was weirdly, freakily, and unaccountably great at it.
Word of her ability had spread around the club like a brush fire in Topanga Canyon fueled by raging Santa Ana winds. Not only had all the nannies come down off the bleachers to gather around the green, the other young putting contestants were standing in a ragged semicircle just to watch Easton do her thing. Meanwhile, once T-Mobile Sidekicks and BlackBerries had been activated, golfers had abandoned the course and sped back in their golf carts to watch the prodigy, while other club members had hustled down from the clubhouse and the pool area.
The upshot was, there were now upwards of three hundred people crowded around the green, while exactly four people stood on the putting surface—the head pro, his assistant Luis, Esme, and diminutive Easton. As for Weston, she was off to the side of the crowd, huddled in Lydia's arms, babbling away in Spanish that Lydia didn't understand.
“Tú estas lista por una otra?” Esme asked Easton.
She nodded and pointed to the ground, indicating where she wanted the head pro to place a golf ball. Dutifully, he cleaned a ball on a towel monogrammed with the country club's crest and put it on the exact spot that Easton wanted.
“Adónde?” Easton asked. “Where?”
“Número cinco,” Luis suggested, motioning to a hole at the far end of the green. There was a fearsome dip about five feet from the cup; the cup was cut into the side of that dip. “Number five.”
He leaned in toward the head pro. “That's basically an impossible putt, sir. Sixty-one feet from here, exactly. And she's got a heck of a break to the right in order to sink it.”
“O-kay,” Easton assured him in English. “Yo estoy lista.”
“She's ready,” Esme and Luis translated simultaneously.
As the gallery hushed, Easton grasped the putter just as Luis had instructed her, and leaned over the golf ball. She aimed, took two careful practice strokes behind the ball, then confidently struck it, keeping her gaze fixed on the spot where the ball had been before it rolled away instead of lifting her head to follow the ball's progress.
Everyone else watched the ball as it rolled toward the cup like a slow-speed cylindrical cruise missile locked on its target.
It was uncanny. Somehow the little girl intuitively read the break in the green perfectly and aimed well to the left of the cup; she'd taken into account the downward dip as well, and putted softly enough that the ball was barely moving when it reached the hill. At that point, gravity took over … until the golf ball dropped into the hole with a satisfying ka-pluck.
The crowd whooped and hollered in delight, and Luis smacked Esme on the back with excitement.
“Holy cow, this is amazing!” the head pro marveled as the cheering continued. Nannies with camera phones were snapping pictures of Easton, who didn't seem at all unmoored by the attention. “I've been keeping track. Inside of six feet, she hasn't missed. Six feet to twenty feet, she's hitting fifty percent. Over twenty feet, she's four out of sixteen, and all the ones she missed left easy tap-ins. I've never seen anything like it in my life.”
His eyes went to Esme. “Are you the mom or the big sister?”
“The nanny” Esme retorted, bristling a bit. Obviously this guy thought that because the children were Latina, and she was Latina, they had to be blood relatives. Wrong. “She's Steven and Diane Goldhagen's daughter. Remember? This is Nanny and Me.”
The head pro started to apologize, but was interrupted by the second twin, Weston, who squirmed out of Lydia's grip and started running toward her sister.
“Ball! Ball!” she called, as she clearly wanted to share the spotlight. But the bizarre thing was, even though the girls were identical in every apparent way, Weston's golf was pretty much what you'd expect from a reasonably coordinated kindergartner—that is to say, pretty dreadful—while Easton's skill with the putter was nothing short of phenomenal.
“Sorry, duty calls,” Lydia told the pro and Luis, hurrying after the little girl while Esme stayed with Easton.
“Me ball! Me ball!” Weston yelled. She picked the golf ball out of the cup and kept running. Finally, Lydia grabbed her and carried her back to her sister and Esme.
“En dos minutos serás tu vuelta, sweetie,” Esme told Weston. “It will be your turn.”
“No!” Weston yelled, as red-faced and angry as Esme had ever seen her. In fact, she hauled off and smacked Esme across the face with her tiny palm, to the shock of the gallery.
“Eso era una cosa muy ala a hacer,” Esme chided, struggling desperately to keep her cool, and reminding herself that the twins were under a lot of stress. “That was a very bad thing to do.”
“Te odio, doodyhead!” she yelled at Esme, which made the nannies standing by the side of the green laugh uncomfortably. They might not know that “Te odio” meant “I hate you,” but the “doodyhead” part came through loud and clear. It was funny, in a way which was why the nannies were chuckling. But they also knew that but for the grace of God, it could have been them out there, with their kid making the scene.
“Weston, no!” Lydia admonished. “Esme, how about I take her for a walk up to the pool, and you can come meet us? I have to meet Jimmy and Martina up there in ten minutes anyway.”
Before she responded, Esme couldn't help noticing the way Lydia kept looking back at Luis, the assistant golf pro. Her startling light green eyes gazed up at him from beneath her sooty lashes, and Luis seemed mesmerized. It was as if Lydia was advising Luis where he, as well as Esme, might be able
to find her.
Fine. If Lydia wanted to flirt, that was her business.
Esme picked up Weston, walked away a few feet, and whispered in Spanish in the child's ear: “Go with Lydia to get Jimmy and Martina. Easton and I will come and meet you. Then you can pick whatever kind of ice cream you want at the snack bar. With whipped cream.”
Yes. It was a bribe, using the thing that Weston loved most in the world—ice cream. She didn't like to bribe the kids. Sometimes, though, extraordinary times called for extraordinary measures.
When she came back to Easton, Lydia was introducing herself to Luis. It seemed as though Luis took an extra-long time shaking Lydia's outstretched hand.
“I'm Esme's friend,” Lydia explained. “Lydia.”
“Luis,” he replied, still gazing into her eyes.
“Real nice,” she drawled to Luis, giving him another flirty look. “To meet you, I mean.”
Esme cleared her throat as loudly as possible, as a signal to Lydia to get going with Weston. Lydia got the hint. She took Weston's hand and they walked off together. Meanwhile, the head pro, Mr. Sturman, was placing another golf ball on the green for Easton to putt, seemingly oblivious to the embarrassing incident that had just taken place.
“I'd love to teach her myself,” Sturman told Esme, “but I think the language barrier would be a problem. Why don't you suggest to Steven and Diane that Luis teach their daughter. No charge, as long as I can be one of her sponsors when she grows up? What do you say?”
Do you have any idea how rich her parents are? Esme thought. But it seemed impolite to say that.
“I don't think she'll need sponsors,” she responded coolly.
“Hell, I just want to witness the process,” Sturman marveled. “Can you imagine? It'll be like helping to make the next Michelle Wie.” He clapped Luis on the shoulder. “You ready to take this on, you lucky son of a gun?”
“Yes, sir,” Luis assured him with a broad grin. “Absolutely”
Sturman knelt by Easton's side and tried to give her a quick lesson on golf terminology—the green, the cup, the grip, the fairway, the course, and so on. As he did, Luis stood with Esme, and the crowd finally started to disperse.
“Which would you rather speak, Spanish or English?” he asked her.
“English. This is America.”
“Works for me,” the pro agreed. He barely had any accent at all. “You'll talk to her parents about lessons?”
“Definitely. But Easton won't be able to start right away. We're going to Jamaica tomorrow. How about if they call you when we get back?”
“When will that be?”
“Friday. I think.”
Luis dug a card out of his pocket and handed it to Esme. “Luis Josemaria de Castro. And no, I'm not related to Fidel.”
Esme smiled again. This guy was not just very handsome, he was very, very charming.
“Esme? Yo soy casado de golf. Yo quisiera un helado, por favor.” Easton tugged at Esme's sleeve.
“I'd suggest you get the girl an ice cream like she's asking for,” Luis joked. “And if I could make one more suggestion…”
“Yes?”
Luis leaned close. “Give my phone number to your friend Lydia,” he said, careful to keep his voice low.
“Are you planning to teach her golf, too?” Esme asked with an arched brow.
“Anything she wants to learn,” he replied. “Anything.”
“Just call the woman, Kiley. Get it over with.”
Kiley was so nervous she felt as if she could have a panic attack worse than any of her mother's. She sat with Tom in his old pickup truck, which Tom had pulled up to the valet stand at the Velvet Margarita Cantina restaurant in Hollywood. He'd picked her up at the country club gate an hour before, and she'd babbled out the story of her amazing day—Evelyn Bowers homing in on her at the country club, their walk-and-talk interview around the grounds, and the conclusion of that interview at a white-tablecloth table on the rear brick patio of the huge country club restaurant, over caviar and toast points cut into perfect isosceles triangles.
“Golden caviar,” Kiley had explained. “Evelyn said it's from the Arabian Sea and costs a mint. But she claimed that nothing was too good for the girl who was probably about to become her new nanny, because she considered the nanny a ‘real member of the Bowers family.’”
The interview had ended successfully. Evelyn had offered Kiley the job and asked her to start the next morning. Kiley had been honest—she'd have to talk to her parents about it before she and Evelyn called them together, which Evelyn had found quaint but also a point in Kiley's favor. It indicated stability of personality, unlike Kiley's “so-called friend who shall go nameless.” In fact, Evelyn had made it a condition of employment that Lydia not set foot on her property, nor telephone on the main house line, nor should Kiley speak to her on her cell phone from within the four walls of Evelyn's house. Kiley had acceded to these conditions. She really needed the job.
All of which was a dream come true, but for two things.
One, Lydia had filled her in on Evelyn and her children. They all belonged in a nuthouse. Two, there was no assurance at all that Jeanne McCann would give in. In fact, Kiley half-expected her mother to order her home—which was part of the reason they were sitting in Tom's pickup instead of heading into the restaurant. Kiley didn't know whether this would be their last meal together or something to truly celebrate.
Kiley looked down at her old Nokia cell phone. She'd already decided what she'd do if the answer was no—go back to Jorge's and spend her final night there. There had been a momentary thought about sleeping at Tom's, but Kiley had pushed it out of her mind. What if they ended up in bed together? That would confuse her too much, which was why she'd left her luggage at Jorge's.
“Okay, you're right, I just have to … do it,” Kiley agreed. “Here goes.”
She had the number at Vicki's (the diner/truck stop where her mom waitressed) on speed dial, because Jeanne McCann couldn't justify the cost of owning a cell. Remembering that made Kiley feel guilty all over again. Her mom had made so many sacrifices for her. It would make it so much easier if Kiley just went home, got a job for the rest of the summer, finished senior year at La Crosse High School, and then—
“Vicki's,” a throaty voice answered.
Kiley recognized the voice of her mom's friend Angela, who'd twice had precancerous polyps removed from her throat yet still smoked a pack and a half a day. In the background, she could hear the din of the restaurant and the Toby Keith music that the owner liked to play over and over. Vicki's served a dinner special of roast beef, baked potatoes, corn and carrots, soup, and dessert for $7.95, and it was always jammed between four and eight in the evening.
“Hi, Angela, it's Kiley.”
“Kiley, sweetheart!” Angela boomed. “Hey, I saw a thing about Platinum on the news, sweetie. We all did. She didn't force you to take drugs, did she?”
“No, Angela, nothing like that,” Kiley assured her. “Is my mom there?”
“So what happened to her kids?” Angela pressed.
“Uh, I don't know yet for sure.”
“I heard they took the kids away, Kiley. So Platinum is in rehab now? How well did you get to know her? What does she like to eat for breakfast?”
“I don't know, Angela, I never actually saw her at breakfast.” Kiley shrugged helplessly at Tom. It was amazing. Everyone was fascinated by celebrities; that Kiley had actually lived with one for a while made her fascinating to Angela. “So … my mom? Is she around?”
“Oh, sure, honey. Hey, heard you're coming home. Hollywood ain't the place for a girl like you, sweetie. Hold on.” Then Kiley heard Angela bellow, “Hey, Jeannie! It's Kiley! I'll get your tables!”
A few moments later, Kiley's mom's high-pitched voice came over the phone. “Kiley, sweetheart, are you okay? What's wrong?”
Trust her mom to assume that something was wrong.
“I'm fine, Mom.”
“Did you lose y
our plane ticket? Is that it? I'll call La Crosse Travel and have them issue another one.”
“No, Mom, I didn't lose my plane ticket, it's electronic. All I have to do is go to the airport,” she said patiently. She could feel her hand sweating on the phone and wiped her right palm on her jeans. “I just wanted to tell you that something amazing happened.”
She quickly filled her mother in on Evelyn Bowers, her quickie job interview, and the subsequent offer for a nanny job, starting the very next day. Then she spun the hell out of the situation—Evelyn Bowers was a “highly respected publicist” who “wasn't even in show business” and she'd “heard from numerous people” how “lovely” Evelyn's home was, and how “well-mannered” her kids were and couldn't she please, please, please stay and take the job?
Her mother sighed heavily. “Oh, Kiley, I don't know. Your plane ticket is nonrefundable. The whole time out there has been so aggravating for you. One thing after another after another. Maybe you just ought to cut your losses and come home.”
“Don't worry at all about the ticket. Mrs. Bowers has already given me a check for that,” Kiley said quickly. “That's how much she wants me to work for her.”
Another sigh from her mom's end as the Toby Keith song ended.
“I just don't like the idea, Kiley.”
If it called for groveling, fine. Kiley was prepared to grovel.
She tightened her grip on the phone. “Please, Mom. I want this so much. Mrs. Bowers said she'd call you herself tomorrow morning, you know, to introduce herself. I'll be on that call, too. She wants to make sure you're comfortable with this whole arrangement.”
“But… what if it doesn't work out? What will you do then?”
“It will work out, Mom. I know it will.”
“I don't know, Kiley. What if she turns out to be as weird as Platinum, or even weirder? So many things could go wrong. When I think of you all alone out there, working for some woman I've never met… I just don't know about this.”
