“You remember the drill? Elevator to the twelfth floor.” He pulls open the door. As I pass, he sticks out a gloved hand. “Malcolm,” he tells me.
I shake his hand. “Sarah.”
“Nice to meet you, Sarah.”
The elevator rushes me to the penthouse and I feel the rise and fall in my stomach that comes with the fast ride up.
To my surprise, the housekeeper doesn’t answer the door this time. Instead, it’s a man who looks to be in his early thirties. “I’m Stephen Bird,” he says, ushering me in with a smile. “Welcome back.” I’ve barely stepped into the apartment when he’s asking if he can get me anything to drink. “Water? Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I say, looking around.
No signs of Mrs. Bird or the housekeeper. No Patty, either.
Stephen leads me away from the parlor toward another corridor. This one has a floor of black and white swirled marble, and my footsteps click noisily as we cross the surface.
Stephen brings me to a room that’s his personal space by the looks of it—dark walnut paneling and mahogany furniture, a small collection of books I can only imagine are first editions stacked on a shelf, a flat-screen TV taking up half the wall. On the desk is a Mac laptop and one pen; he’s tidy by nature. Beside the computer lies a single sheet of paper and I look closely—a copy of the nanny ad, perhaps? Next to that, a plate of sandwiches and pot of tea. Two ceramic cups.
“You sure you don’t want anything?” he asks, acknowledging the refreshments.
The sandwiches are cut into small triangles with the crusts removed. One of them contains what looks like jam. I politely shake my head no.
“Tea?” Before I can say anything, Stephen is busying himself pouring tea and asking if I like sugar.
Well, if he insists. I tell him one cube, please.
He grins, appearing happy to play host for the moment, reveling in the opportunity to show his hospitality skills as he hands me a cup and asks me to sit down. The black leather sofa squeaks as I lower myself into the cushion.
Stephen is dressed for a day of leisure in his gray V-neck sweater, slacks, and brown loafers. His hair is a blondish red—the red possibly coming from his father, Mr. Bird, whom I hope to meet in time. Stephen is lean, and I imagine him running miles in Central Park or playing tennis for hours in the afternoon. Isn’t that what rich people do? Or maybe he has a lifetime membership at the Health & Racquet Club. He’s at least six feet tall with the smallest amount of stubble along his chin.
Stephen watches as I take a sip.
“Thank you for coming back,” he says, sitting down. Again, the squeak and sigh of leather. “I appreciate you being so generous with your time.”
“Absolutely,” I tell him, trying to project what I imagine would be the practiced grace of a highly qualified au pair. “I’m sure you’re looking to find a nanny as soon as possible.”
“Yes, we are. My stepmother especially. It’s comforting for her to have someone here with her and Patty.”
I nod.
“Collette didn’t seem too concerned with your lack of nannying experience,” he says, and worry strikes my chest. “I think she sees potential in you, what you could be.” And I feel the tension releasing. “She liked you right off the bat.”
“I’m so happy to hear that,” I say, easing my breath. “I felt like we connected too.”
“She said time spent with you felt more like a conversation than an interview. Like two friends sitting together over coffee.” He smiles. “That’s important to her.”
Another rush of relief.
“I know my stepmother would like you to come back for a follow-up conversation, but I also like to meet with each of the candidates who make the cut. You understand that, don’t you? My father is a very busy man, you’ll hardly cross paths, and while my stepmother is the one you’ll be interacting with the most, I’m the one who takes care of most of the details, the payment schedule and such.”
“Absolutely,” I repeat.
“If you’re hired, we’d need you to be here five days a week, Monday through Friday, from nine until about three or four.” He waves his hand. “It depends on the day. Sometimes my stepmother lets the nanny go home early so she can spend quiet time with Patty.
“The pay is twelve hundred dollars a week.” My heart somersaults—I’d have to work twelve-hour shifts at Hearth every day to make anywhere close to that much. “Patty doesn’t attend preschool and my stepmother doesn’t work except for her occasional board meeting at the hospital. Collette doesn’t go out much. She gets tired easily, but she won’t want you to see that, and she’ll try to overexert herself. So we prefer she stays home and rests. She’s also very protective of Patty so Patty doesn’t go out much either, which means the nanny will stay here most of the time with Collette and the girl. You can have activities and play games in the apartment, whatever you like. There are plenty of toys and board games to keep everyone busy. Movies too.” He leans forward, giving me a wink. “It’s a pretty easy gig, to be honest.”
So we hardly leave the apartment? We’ll be mostly homebound in this multimillion-dollar fortress of an apartment with an endless supply of board games and movies? No wonder no one is that concerned about my lack of nannying experience. This is going to be a piece of cake.
It feels too good to be true, and I think about my concerns from yesterday. Maybe the little girl did suffer an illness or was in an accident and there are all sorts of reasons for keeping her out of sight and indoors. Maybe she really does have a disability and I’ll be expected to care for her in other ways.
As if reading my thoughts, Stephen says, “There’s nothing wrong with Patty. She’s very special to my stepmother. It took Collette a long time to conceive and she had multiple failed pregnancies, so she sees Patty as her miracle child. Collette is just very overprotective,” he assures me.
He sits back. “You’ll have help too. There’s the housekeeper, Pauline, who is the most amazing human being in the world.” He smiles fondly. “How she’s managed to put up with my parents all this time, I have no idea. She’ll occasionally take care of things for Collette too, appointments or ladies’ luncheons, things for my stepmother to get dressed up for, but that’s not often. And then there’s Freddie, my favorite. Our personal chef. He makes breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Snacks for Patty, too, so you won’t have to worry about preparing anything.”
I try not to raise my eyebrows with glee. The full staff, the additional help—this job keeps getting better and better.
“Everyone lives here?” I ask.
“Oh, no.” Stephen stifles a laugh. “Only the family and Pauline. She came to work for us when I was a kid. My dad asked her to move in and help out with everything and she never moved back out.” He tilts his head and smiles. “Think of her as our right-hand lady. She knows everything, takes care of everything, and helps me keep my act together too.” He laughs, and I settle in my seat, warming to this man.
“Pauline manages the household,” he continues. “I live here but I also have an apartment in Greenwich. I escape there when I want to get away.” He looks around the room, the man cave that’s far nicer than any room I’ve ever lived in. “But I still like to come here. It’s my home, where I grew up. Where Patty came home as a baby.”
I look to the door leading to the rest of the apartment. “When do you think I’ll be able to meet Patty?”
“Soon,” he says. “Say”—and his voice rises—“would you like to take a look at her playroom?” I glance up, excitedly. “Come with me.” He stands, taking my teacup and placing it on the desk behind him.
We head down another long corridor, and this time, I catch a glimpse of the kitchen: stainless-steel appliances and white marble, a large fruit bowl on the counter, dual ovens, and what looks to be a Sub-Zero fridge. Someone is working at the sink, rinsing scallion
s and placing them on a cutting board. He’s wearing an apron and whistling to himself as he keeps his head down—this must be Freddie, the personal chef.
Stephen continues walking ahead of me at a fast clip. We pass one closed door after another until we’re entering another wing. At the end of the hall, he thrusts open a door.
Pink carpet. Pink walls. Patty’s playroom. An enormous wonderland for a child this age.
The playroom is more spectacular than any room I’ve ever seen. It’s what you’d imagine a child’s room might look like if they could ask for anything, and I mean anything. A crafts table in one corner with stacks of crayons and drawing paper. A wooden rocking horse, hand-painted, with its mane tied in pink ribbons and a step stool for reaching its leather saddle. An oversize rocking chair filled with plush animals. A nearly-six-foot-tall stuffed panda bear, the kind you’d find at FAO Schwarz, sitting on the floor. The windows flanked by pink lace curtains. A dollhouse the size of an outdoor grill taking center stage with a colorful play mat spread beneath.
I spy a child’s vanity: pink bubble gum nail polish, hairbrush, and lip gloss. A small mirror for peering at her reflection. A bay window with small round cushions and a view of the building next door, gray-washed walls and a balcony. Farther down, the green lushness of the park. On a child’s table, a tea set midparty. Spoons and pretend cubes of sugar and cookies left on a plate. On the floor, a nursery rhyme book is lying open.
She’s been in here today. She’s been playing.
“It’s wonderful,” I say.
“Yes,” Stephen agrees, stepping forward. “It really is.”
I’m enraptured. If only every little girl in the world could grow up with a room like this.
Aunt Clara provided me with a loving home, there’s no question about it. I had a bedroom filled with Little Golden Books, my own Barbie lampshade, and eventually my own stereo and desk, but nothing like this. This is straight out of a fantasy.
As a child, I always knew we had limitations. There were plenty of nights when she came home tired and sank wordlessly against the couch, giving me an appreciative smile as I microwaved our dinner. And despite her long hours, money was scarce, so I learned at an early age not to ask for too much. I was grateful for the time she could give me, and believe me, she gave every minute she could. But there were days, I admit, I wished for the commotion and laughter and extra attention I might have experienced if my parents were still alive, if there was more than just me and Aunt Clara living in the house. If I could remember what it was like to sit in my mother’s lap while my father looked on.
Here, in this room, in this penthouse, I imagine an entire family doting on the little girl. Patty never wanting for anything; her parents only steps away, with a brother and household staff also looking out for her. Her experience, light-years from what I had. If she could know how lucky she is.
Stephen must see the wonderment on my face because he steps farther into the room and gestures for me to follow.
“My stepmother decorated and arranged everything herself. She has a flair for design; she’s forever mixing up furniture and patterns. My baby sister loves anything pink as you can see.” He laughs.
Transfixed, I move toward the dollhouse, wanting so much to kneel on the floor and peek into its rooms: the miniature toy furniture, the little doll family that Patty has carefully arranged on the couch, a wooden Dalmatian resting at their feet. The lights in the house are on, every room lit as if on permanent display.
Stephen says, “Go ahead, take a look. That’s everyone’s favorite thing.”
I don’t have to be told twice and drop to my knees. The dollhouse is a miniature mansion with a wide sweeping porch and staircase leading to the second floor, which boasts five bedrooms with little pillows placed on each bed. On the bottom floor, black-and-white checkered tiles for the ballroom. Tiny Tiffany lamps and crystal doorknobs. Little strips of flowered wallpaper. It’s remarkable, and it must have cost a fortune.
“I always wanted a dollhouse like this,” I tell him. “As a kid, I used to dream about having one.”
Stephen smiles. “Well if you get this job, you’ll be able to play with it whenever you want. You could come in here anytime.”
CHAPTER SIX
It’s almost ten o’clock at night. Jonathan hasn’t yet returned from covering my shift at the restaurant when my phone rings. It’s Stephen Bird.
“Sarah?” he says, and my heart bangs a steady drumbeat. “I’ve spoken with my stepmother and there’s no need for another interview. The job is yours if you’ll take it.”
I exhale.
If I’ll take it? Is he crazy? This is amazing—a shot in the dark—and yet, somehow, I’ve managed to clinch it.
A weekly pay of twelve hundred dollars would do so much for me and Jonathan, it would change everything. The fear I’ve been living with—the tightened anxiety every time the phone rings or the wrench in my stomach when I see another Past Due envelope in the mail—would finally ease up. I’d be able to breathe easier. No more avoiding the apartment door and wondering who’s hollering to collect. No more apologies to the neighbors about how I let the heavy banging on the door go on without answering. No more ignoring my neighbors’ pitying, and often annoyed looks.
“Will you take the job?” I hear Stephen ask again.
The sound of a clattering cymbal goes off inside my head. My breath catches in my throat. “Yes! I’m thrilled to accept.”
“Wonderful. We’re excited too, my stepmother especially. Can you be here tomorrow morning at nine? I’d like to go over the contract.”
Of course, a contract. I should have known they would have something that formal.
“Just a few things, nothing serious,” he says. “We’re excited to have you onboard.”
Hanging up, I’m practically skipping where I stand, a tingling shooting to my fingertips and a light-headed glee sparking across my brain. Throwing out my arms, I jump up and down and do a little dance, realizing I must look ridiculous to anyone who is standing in their kitchenette and catching me through the window. But I don’t care.
Let me shout my news from the rooftop! I beat out everyone else for the job and am about to work for one of the most glamorous families in this city. Five days a week, I’ll peek inside their world—no, scratch that, not just peek—but see. Experience. Live. And all in the presence of the magnificent Collette and her little girl.
Jonathan is barely past the apartment door when I shriek, “I got the job!”
Astonished, he slides his backpack to the floor, watching as I bounce in place. His eyes light up.
I rush toward him, my arms circling his neck in a tight embrace, my mouth landing kisses on his cheeks and forehead. “I can’t believe it! Isn’t this great?” I pull back and proceed to move about in an animated jig. Amused, he laughs too.
“Tell me everything,” he says.
“I start tomorrow. They’re going to pay me twelve hundred a week. We basically don’t have to go anywhere. The mother is some sort of intense helicopter mom who doesn’t want her daughter out on the streets so all we do is stay home. My new boss is like a queen. And there’s a housekeeper to help with everything. It’s a dream!”
Jonathan rubs his head, his hand moving through brown waves that have dried with sweat after his being in the Hearth kitchen, his fingers catching in a tangle. “Twelve hundred a week,” he breathes. “That’s incredible. We’ll finally be able to—”
“I know! It’s amazing!”
He breaks into a huge grin.
He doesn’t say it, but Jonathan is thinking about the bills as I am, the ones I can slowly start chipping away at, the ones that will finally feel less daunting. And I love him more at this moment, that despite the pressures of how much money I owe and how it’s affecting the life we’re planning together, he’s never lost faith in me. He always
figured we could work it out.
I’ve seen him go through the mail, his shoulders stiffening when he doesn’t think I’m looking, the way he’ll run his hand across his face, rubbing at the back of his neck, but stay quiet. He’s never held the amount over my head or blamed me for how much has accumulated. We’re in this together. He knew what he was getting into when he met me. It’s a team effort, is what he says.
And now, a light at the end of the tunnel. I can finally tell the bill collectors I have some funds and that should hold them off for a little bit. I can push off the dreaded bankruptcy awhile longer.
I lunge toward Jonathan and grab his face with both hands, planting a kiss on his mouth. “This is huge,” I tell him.
He wraps his arms around me. “Congratulations, sweetheart. Seriously.”
“Congratulations to us.”
He kisses me back. “Congratulations to us, indeed.”
* * *
—
I’m back on West Seventy-eighth Street before 9:00 the next morning. Never have I been this excited to rush to work and be on time—correction, early—and I laugh. If only Paul knew I was capable of being this punctual.
Malcolm lets out a hoot. “Hey, hey, I hear congrats are in order.” I cross the street, flashing him my brightest smile. “Welcome to the block. And welcome to the Bird family.” He gives a playful bow.
Upstairs, Pauline is waiting for me at the door. She looks ready to give me a hug but stops short and pats me on the arm instead. Leading me to Stephen’s study she says, “I’m so glad you took the job. You’re going to love it here.” I look over her clothes, once again casual for a New York City housekeeper: gray slacks, black sweater, and a single string of pearls at her neck.
But when we arrive outside Stephen’s office, she pauses. The slightest halt. With one finger she pops an elastic band at her wrist—it’s so quick I almost don’t see it. Smoothing the elastic band she composes herself before pushing open the door, letting a smile return to her face.
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