by Janette Rallison, Heather B. Moore, Luisa Perkins, Sarah M. Eden, Annette Lyon, Lisa Mangum
Darius groaned inwardly. Being on call was the worst part about handling life with Reese, who depended on routine and consistency to cope. Darius tried to hug his older boy but got a stiff-armed rejection. He looked up at Marisol, who had just come in.
She sat next to him and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, Reese, I know you’re disappointed, but remember? When you can be flexible, I can give you extra flex points.”
Flex points? Darius raised his eyebrows at Marisol, and she made a circular, Just go with it movement with her arm.
“Not good,” answered Reese.
“I know, Reese. It’s not good that your dad has to go, but someone at the hospital needs his help. Since it’s an emergency, this is definitely worth a lot of flex points. Like, maybe fifty.”
Reese looked at her sideways and paused his shuffling. Then he glared at Darius. “Can I use flex points for more screen time?”
Darius glanced at Marisol. Her eyes were big, and she nodded very slightly.
“Absolutely,” he said, improvising, and hoping he was doing it right. “Flex points can definitely be traded for screen time.”
“So your dad needs to go now, but I’ll watch the movie with you,” Marisol said. “But before that, guess what. Something special, on top of the flex points…” she teased. “Tomorrow is Father’s Day. I thought we’d make a surprise for your dad. Can you both help me? It’s a three-person job. I especially need someone who’s good at math.”
“Reese is good at math!” his younger brother cried— and Reese favored Marisol with his full regard.
“That’s perfect, Seth,” she said. “We have a lot of math to do for this surprise. Can you handle it, Reese?”
Reese nodded. He gathered up his spoons, put them into their zipper-lock bag, and hopped off the couch.
Darius exhaled with relief. Glad to have the boys distracted from their disappointment, he backed out of the room and headed for the door. He’d have to get the details on “flex points” later. Marisol had a great way with both boys, especially Reese. They were only three weeks into it, but this summer had already been far less of a rollercoaster than last year. Part of it was that Reese was a year older and had benefited from an extra year of occupational therapy, but Darius knew that the rest of it was due to Marisol’s intuition and patient strategizing.
Of course, he suspected that Marisol’s special surprise had something to do with a sugar-laden treat, but hey. It was Father’s Day tomorrow, and it would be nice to be celebrated for once.
Marisol looked around at the mess in the kitchen. Dribbles of thick golden dulce de leche dripped off the edges of counters and down the fronts of cabinets. Powdered sugar and cornstarch coated every horizontal surface, including the tile floor. A large platter of misshapen but delicious alfajores was the fruit of their afternoon-long labor. Reese and Seth had “helped” Marisol make the South American delicacy for hours: rolling out, cutting, and baking the shortbread cookies; sandwiching them with the homemade caramel; and finally dusting them heavily with powdered sugar.
All the while, Reese had marked up Marisol’s mother’s recipe as he enthusiastically calculated conversions from the metric system to US measurements. Marisol had double-checked his math, and he’d been right every time.
The sticky boys had happily taken their baths, sure that their daddy would be impressed with his delicious surprise. They’d also eaten several samples, all in the name of scientific testing. Now they were asleep, Marisol having managed to coax them each to eat an organic hot dog during their movie so that she could honestly report they’d had a “proper” dinner. After their culinary exploits, she was worn out.
But no way could she leave the mess for the housekeeper. Edna wasn’t due back to the apartment until Monday, and Dr. Jackson liked to cook on Sundays. Usually something involving kale and quinoa and egg whites. Marisol shuddered at the memory. All the more reason to conceal the evidence of just how much sugar had been involved in today’s adventure.
Marisol set to work scrubbing and sweeping, managing to finish just as Dr. Jackson walked in the door. She hurriedly laid a clean dishtowel over the platter as he walked into the kitchen.
“You’re still up?” he said, setting down his keys and walking over to the platter.
“No peeking,” she warned. “It’s not Father’s Day yet.”
Dr. Jackson looked at the clock, which read a few minutes shy of midnight.
“Please?” he said, with a wide smile. “Whatever it is, it smells great, and I’m starving.”
“No way. Reese counted how many were left. He’ll know if you eat even one. I can make you a protein shake, if you like.”
“Not to worry. I’ll do it myself. You should have been off the clock hours ago.”
Marisol moved toward the kitchen door but stopped when Dr. Jackson caught her hand in his. He dropped it almost immediately, the skin of his neck flushing a bit darker. He looked down at the floor, and then met her eyes.
“Stay for a few minutes? I’m always wired after emergency surgeries, and I could use a bit of company.”
Marisol hesitated before shrugging. “Sure. ‘Comer solos es muy amargo,” she murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s from a poem by Pablo Neruda, the great Chilean poet…. ‘Eating alone is very bitter.’”
“Ah. True.” Dr. Jackson grinned. “I do know who Neruda was, by the way. It wasn’t all chemistry and biology in college.”
“Sorry.” Marisol sat down at the breakfast nook and idly thumbed through a medical journal while Dr. Jackson made himself a smoothie. He put the inevitable kale in his fancy blender, followed by cucumbers, celery, and some hemp protein powder. Marisol suppressed a shudder, even though Dr. Jackson had his back to her.
“I’m sorry I’m so late, but it was a complicated surgery,” he said over his shoulder.
“Successful, I hope.”
“Should be. The patient was in good shape when I left.” Dr. Jackson poured his green abominación into a tall glass and sat across from her. He took a swallow, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly.
“How is it?” Marisol nodded at the glass, her eyes dubious.
Darius did his best to keep a poker face as he gulped down another mouthful. The emulsion of this particular smoothie recipe was short-lived; he knew that from experience. He had to get the whole thing down before it separated and became undrinkable. “Healthful. Refreshing.”
Marisol let out a giggle at that— and Darius couldn’t keep from staring in appreciation. She was always pretty, but when she smiled? She looked like a movie star. She had Sofia Loren’s exotic, tilted eyes and Liv Tyler’s generous lips. And her creamy, satiny skin… Darius downed the rest of his shake, the internal equivalent of a cold shower.
“Wow. That was bitter even with you here. I can’t imagine how it would have tasted if I’d been alone,” Darius joked, and was rewarded with an outright laugh this time.
“Pobrecito,” Marisol said, still chuckling. “Here. I’ll take pity on you and give you something to take that taste out of your mouth. I’ll tell Reese I had to test one more for science’s sake.”
She went to the covered platter and brought him back something covered in powdered sugar. After handing it to him, she unconsciously licked her fingers. Darius felt his face go hot at the sight, and hurriedly took a bite of the cookie. Then he forgot everything else.
Buttery, crumbly shortbread melted on his tongue, followed by the most voluptuous caramel sauce he’d ever tasted. He chewed slowly, savoring every morsel. “Happy Father’s Day to me,” he murmured.
“You like it?”
“It’s amazing. Did you make the caramel?”
“Yes. It’s called ‘dulce de leche.’”
“It’s perfect. Not too sweet, but so rich. There’s amazing depth to the flavor. Wow.” Darius swallowed the last bit with real regret. “I never thought I’d say this, but that was better than anything Magnolia makes. You shoul
d open your own shop. Where did you learn to make those… whatever they are?”
“They’re called alfajores. It’s my mother’s recipe, and she would probably die of shame if I opened up a shop.”
“But she’s okay with you being a nanny.” It was out before he could stop it. Marisol’s face fell, and Darius mentally kicked himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching across the table to touch her forearm. “That was a stupid thing to say. I always turn into a tactless idiot when I’m sleep-deprived.”
“It’s fine.” But she avoided his gaze. “No, actually, she’s not okay with me being a servant, as she calls it. But that’s my problem, and I have my reasons for doing what I’m doing. And I take pride in my work, even if it’s menial.”
“It’s really important work, and you’re really good at it,” Darius said, but it was clear that the damage was done.
Marisol stood up. “It’s late. I should get to sleep. The boys will be up early.” She finally glanced his way. “Promise you’ll act surprised when the boys bring you some alfajores with your coffee tomorrow morning.”
“Cross my heart,” Darius said, hoping for another smile from her. He was disappointed. As she crossed the threshold into the hallway, he called her. “Hey.”
She turned, her lovely face in the shadows. “Yes?”
“I really am sorry.”
She nodded once, formally. “I know. Good night.”
Marisol didn’t mind Dr. Jackson’s erratic schedule. It meant that she worked some weekends, but as a tradeoff, she had some weekdays off in the city, which always felt like a treat. It meant that she could take care of errands when things were less busy— like today, when she’d had to register for her fall classes. On the way home from the university, she’d opted to get off the train a few stops early and walk the rest of the way downtown. It was hot, but it felt good to be out and moving.
She walked through the thick August air on the shady side of Seventh Avenue, not caring that the humidity had frizzed her hair into a halo around her face. Her last semester approached; she could hardly believe it. After years of work, it was difficult to imagine not having homework to turn in and tests to study for.
She was almost all set for September. Her class schedule was chosen and paid for. She’d found a studio to share with another student only blocks from campus in Harlem. With the help of Dr. Jackson’s lavish salary and the bit of money she’d saved while working for the Rubins, she would make it until graduation, and even a few weeks beyond. In the meantime, she’d be applying for jobs, hoping to start work in January. She knew she could go to her father for a bridge loan, but she wanted to avoid that at all costs.
But as excited as she was to be a full-time student, she’d definitely miss the Jacksons. She and Reese and Seth had developed an easy rhythm to their days. Marisol had come up with a winning formula: an unvarying routine of plenty of exercise and occupational therapy, lots of messy fun, flex points, and a fair amount of secret treats to balance out all the vegetables their father made them eat. Just that morning, Seth had thrown his arms around her legs and told her that he didn’t want to go home to Las Vegas when school started.
It had given Marisol a bit of PTSD. She didn’t ever want to incur the wrath of a jealous mother again, even if that mother was two thousand miles away. Seth was just exuberant in his affections. Yet she doubted he’d have much trouble making the transition back to life with his mom.
Reese was another matter. He’d gotten fiercely attached to her, wanting to hold her hand when they watched movies, wanting her input on his complex plastic spoon arrangements, and demanding ever longer bedtime stories featuring the three of them whenever Marisol had to put the boys to bed.
She wondered whether she should bring Reese up with Dr. Jackson. He’d gotten called in nearly every time he’d been on call, meaning that he’d worked far more than he would have liked to with his boys home. Marisol had done her best to make up for his absence. She didn’t want to seem boastful, but Reese really had connected with her in a way that had surprised his father. He’d have to agree that Reese would probably have a hard time when it was time to go back to Las Vegas. Marisol didn’t know what could be done about the situation, though. Maybe she should keep it to herself.
As for Dr. Jackson… Marisol would never admit it to her mother, but she’d probably gotten overly attached to him, as well. It was one of the reasons she insisted on calling him “Dr. Jackson” instead of “Darius,” even though he consistently begged her to call him by his first name. She had to maintain a professional distance from her employer.
He never dated; that would take time away from his children. But Marisol saw how women eyed him when the four of them were out at the park or in a restaurant. With good reason. His stunning good looks and firm but affectionate manner with his boys would make any woman look twice.
Since Father’s Day, Dr. Jackson had asked Marisol more than once to make alfajores, and she’d happily done so. She’d also had the boys “help” her make empanadas and sopaipillas, all of which everyone ate with gusto— always following some sort of giant salad.
As an employer, Darius Jackson was everything the Rubins had not been: generous, considerate, and respectful. True, once in a while he was the tiniest bit condescending, but Marisol hadn’t ever known a doctor— her brother included— who wasn’t somewhat arrogant. She could make allowances for that. Besides, he’d never, ever called her into his study for some imagined infraction. All in all, Marisol had felt as though this summer had been a healing respite after the trauma of her previous job. Was that strange? She hoped not.
A few blocks from Bleecker Street, her phone buzzed. She looked at the caller ID. Hablando del rey de Roma…
“Hello, Dr. Jackson. How are you?”
“Darius. Please, Marisol. And I’m fine, thanks.”
“What can I do for you, Dr. Jackson?”
“I’m sorry to bother you on your day off, but I was hoping we could talk. Do you have time now?”
Marisol felt a twinge of dread in the pit of her stomach. What could this possibly be about? “Sure,” she said, forcing a smile into her voice. “What’s up?”
“Are you nearby? I’d rather speak to you in person, if that’s all right.”
Marisol sighed. Had she jinxed herself by celebrating her reprimand-free summer? Had the boys ratted her out about the Mexican hot chocolate she’d made them yesterday? “Of course. I was on my way home, anyway. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Dr. Jackson met her at the door and silently ushered her into his den. Marisol gritted her teeth against the memory of the way her last job had ended and sat on an overstuffed leather chair. Dr. Jackson didn’t go around the desk, but instead sat next to her. Grabbing a sheaf of papers off the corner of the desk, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tell him what? “I’m sorry about the hot chocolate—” she started.
“What? Never mind that. I’m talking about your schooling. Why didn’t you tell me that you were in college?”
Oh. Marisol thought for a minute and then shrugged. “It never came up. I’m a private person, Dr. Jackson. My education has no bearing on my job here… and I remembered that you had a bad experience with a college student last summer, so I thought…. How did you find out?”
“The registrar at City College called a little while ago. Apparently they overcharged you by several hundred dollars when you registered for next semester, and she wanted to let you know that they’d be sending you a refund. They faxed me a statement, along with the transcript you requested.” He held out the papers.
Marisol took them. “Oh, wow. That’s good news. Thanks. I appreciate it.” She stood up to go. Why had Dr. Jackson felt the need for her to rush home so that they could discuss this in person? “Was that it, then?”
He looked up at her, his eyes hurt. “I… I suppose. I was just surprised. I thought we were friends, and that you would have mentioned your plans for the future at some point.”
Marisol was puzzled. “But you never asked,” she said gently.
Dr. Jackson looked at his hands and pressed his lips together. He nodded once. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait, Marisol. Can’t we talk about this? I’d really like to know what you’re doing in the fall. It’s clear that I’ve made certain assumptions about you. I’d love to hear the real story.”
Marisol huffed a short laugh. “Assumptions?” Dr. Jackson was kind, but his ignorance of who she really was felt like the last straw. All of the prejudice she’d encountered since she’d come to the United States flooded through her mind. “As in, your assuming that I’m a pretty, uneducated Latina with an accent, possibly not legal in this country, nannying because it’s the only honest work I can get? No ambitions other than to take care of someone else’s children and live in a corner of someone else’s house for the rest of my life?”
She sat back down, her cheeks burning. She angrily brushed her out-of-control hair away from her face. “My father is a legislator in the Chilean Congress. He has a Ph.D. in Economics from Yale. He arranged my visa, by the way, so, yes. I am here legally. My parents live in Lo Barnachea, a chic suburb of Santiago. My older brothers are both married. One is a lawyer; the other one is a pediatrician. I’m the baby of the family, and after I finished high school, everyone expected me to marry some professional man just like my father and brothers had, then settle down and have kids.
“But I wanted something else, something more. I do want a family of my own someday, but all my life, my family has defined me. I came to New York seven years ago to find out who I really am, independent of them. And I’ve done it all on my own, without any help from my parents, because their gifts always come with strings attached. It’s taken me all of this time to finish college, but I’ve done it myself. And I’ve learned a lot about who I am along the way.”
Marisol sat back. “There. How about those assumptions now, Dr. Jackson?”
