by Janette Rallison, Heather B. Moore, Luisa Perkins, Sarah M. Eden, Annette Lyon, Lisa Mangum
She stared at him, her furious eyes welling with tears, her loose, wavy hair making her look like a medieval madonna. Darius had never felt so ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You’re right. Please forgive me.” He tried to smile. “But admit it: you had assumptions of your own about me on the first day we met. I saw how surprised you were when I answered the door. You couldn’t believe you were at the right apartment. You hadn’t ever met a black doctor before, had you?”
Marisol stared at him. “It wasn’t that. I was surprised because I heard Edna’s voice on the intercom downstairs. And you looked so… young,” she finished lamely.
Darius briefly wondered why she was blushing, then sighed. “Aha. So I’m the only racist in the room. All right; I own it. Some enlightened, twenty-first century feminist I am. My mother, God rest her soul, would’ve had a fit if she’d witnessed this scene.”
Marisol crossed herself. “Maybe she’s looking down on you from Heaven right now, shaking her finger at you.” Her lips twitched until she pressed them together.
Darius seized his opening, barely daring to hope that she might be able to forget his bigoted idiocy. “I want us to be friends. Let me make it up to you. I’ll cook you dinner tonight after I’ve put the boys to bed, and you can tell me everything. Your plans, your hopes, how far you’ve come. I’ll ask lots of questions. Please? Can we be friends?”
Her smile made his heart rate increase by at least ten percent. “On one condition, Dr. Jackson.”
“Anything.”
“No kale.”
Darius guffawed. “Done.”
Darius’s BMW sat in weekend traffic on the Long Island Expressway. The drive out to the Hamptons was long under the best of circumstances, but the Friday before a long holiday weekend was the worst possible time to make the trip.
Fortunately, the boys were happily engaged with a game on Darius’s iPad. He hoped that would last, because they were still at least an hour away from his boss’s weekend house in Sag Harbor.
“Sorry,” he said to Marisol. “I know this is probably not the way you wanted to spend your Labor Day weekend.”
Reese had thrown a fit when Darius had told him about Steve Bradshaw’s invitation. He’d thought both boys would be thrilled about spending three days at the beach before heading back to the endless desert of Las Vegas. But Reese had shocked him with his vehement refusal. “We’re leaving on Tuesday, and I’ll never see Marisol again in my whole life!” he’d shouted. “I’m not going.”
Fortunately, Marisol had taken pity on all of them and agreed to come along. “Classes don’t start until next week. I’ll have plenty of time to get settled. I’ve never been to the Hamptons. It’ll be fun.”
Now she shrugged and smiled. “You’re paying me, and I’m glad for some extra time with… the boys.” She turned her head sharply and looked out the window.
Darius stared back out at the endless line of cars ahead. “Me, too.”
Ninety minutes later, he buzzed the intercom box outside the gates of the Bradshaws’ estate. “We’re here, finally.”
“Wonderful! We’ll meet you on the porch. Come on up.”
The massive wrought-iron gates swung open, and Darius drove up the winding drive. He’d been here once before, but the opulence still stunned him. He’d made a very comfortable life for himself, but this was another reality entirely. Steve’s wife, Jane, was a Van Doren, and this house had been in her family for decades; no modern doctor, however prosperous, could afford a place like this.
Three figures stood on the wide, columned porch. After he parked on the circular gravel drive, Darius looked into the back seat and eyed Reese and Seth’s sweet, sleeping faces apprehensively. The boys didn’t move a muscle once the engine stopped. Darius mentally crossed his fingers. Reese would do so much better if he could sleep through this transition and wake up in the morning fresh.
He glanced at Marisol. “I’ll introduce you to Steve and Jane, and then if you can help me get Reese and Seth to their room without too much drama, I’d be grateful.”
“Of course.”
They slid out of the car, shut the doors as quietly as possible, and went up the steps. “Steve, Jane, this is our nanny, Marisol. Marisol, this is my boss, Dr. Stephen Bradshaw and his wife, Jane.”
Marisol extended her hand graciously to each of them and inclined her head. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Thank you for including me in your invitation.”
Steve shook her hand a little too enthusiastically. “Our pleasure. Whatever makes life easier for Darius is great by us.” He winked at her and turned to Darius. “We have someone we want you to meet too.” He beckoned the third figure forward out of the shadow of a fluted column. “This is Beth Thomas. She’s a partner at Weiss Scarpa, and she acts as outside counsel for St. Vincent’s.”
Beth smiled at Darius, and he nodded back. “Nice to meet you.” He glanced back at the car and saw Reese stirring. “Can we talk in just a bit? Everything will go better if we can get these boys into bed while they’re still unconscious.”
Steve chuckled. “You’re the anesthesiologist; you know best. I’ll lead the way if you want to grab your rug rats and follow me.”
“You get Seth, I’ll get Reese,” Darius said to Marisol as they walked back to the car.
She shook her head. “I’ll get Reese,” she offered. “That way, if he wakes up, I can whisper one of my stories to him to help keep him under.” She glanced up at the huge house, her eyes nervous. “That is, if the bedroom isn’t too far away.”
From what Darius remembered of his last visit, that wasn’t likely. Reese was almost as big as the petite Marisol, but she did have an excellent point. “Deal,” he said, mentally making a note to give her an even bigger bonus as combat pay.
True to his suspicions, the boys’ assigned bedroom was in a remote wing of the mansion. They got them into bed without incident, stopping only to pull off their shoes before tucking them in. He’d come a long way as a dad this summer, giving in to abundant sugar, adopting Marisol’s genius flex-point method of negotiation, letting them sleep in their clothes. What was next for his boys? he wondered wryly.
He watched as Marisol tenderly tucked Reese’s ubiquitous bag of spoons in next to him and kissed his forehead. Reese responded by smiling in his sleep, burrowing into his covers, and turning over with a sigh. Marisol was a miracle worker.
In the hallway, Steve gestured to the room next door. “We’ve put you in there, Maria,” he said.
Darius opened his mouth to correct Steve, but then thought better of it. He’d find a more tactful time to remind his boss of Marisol’s name.
Steve continued, apparently unaware of his mistake. “José will be round with your bag in a minute or two. Please ring for the housekeeper if you need anything at all, from extra towels to a midnight snack.”
He smiled and turned to Darius. “How about you, my good sir? Jane’s sent a nosh platter and drinks into the billiards room. Are you up for a game? It’ll help you unwind after that hellish drive. Beth keeps claiming she breaks a mean rack, and I believe her.” He walked away, obviously expecting Darius to follow.
Darius looked at Marisol helplessly. They’d been living in a bit of a bubble for the past few weeks, the four of them. Now, being with her around other people, he suddenly realized that he’d stopped thinking of Marisol as just an employee quite some time ago. But in the context of the rest of society… their relationship was definitely unique. He hadn’t counted on how complicated his feelings for his nanny had gotten.
Marisol smiled tightly and patted his arm. “I’ve been dismissed,” she whispered with false cheer. “Don’t worry about me. Schmooze with your boss. That’s one of the reasons why we’re here, isn’t it? The kids are asleep, and I’ll be here if they have any trouble. That’s why you paid me to come, remember. I’ll do my job. You go do yours.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, covering her hand with his own for just a moment. So warm
and soft. He dropped his arm to his side and sighed. “Thanks again. I’ll see you tomorrow.” It seemed like all he’d done lately was apologize. He turned away abruptly and followed his boss down the labyrinthine hall.
Marisol watched him go, still stinging from Dr. Bradshaw’s blithely getting her name wrong and treating her like a second-class citizen. Then again, why wouldn’t he? She was just the nanny, and Marisol had witnessed nannies treated this way for years. She should be used to it, able to let it roll off her back by now.
She went to her doorway and flipped on her bedroom light. As spacious and comfortable as Dr. Jackson’s apartment was, his living room would probably fit in this room with square meters to spare. She went to the window and peered out the sheers. A huge expanse of lawn ran down to the ocean, where wave after gentle wave broke on the wide, smooth beach. The water glittered under the light of a full moon.
Snobby hosts or not, this place was heavenly. She hadn’t been to the beach in years; she needed to put her petty hurt feelings aside and make the most of this weekend. Because after that…
Tears filled her eyes, and she turned away from the window as a knock came at the door. “Miss?” A man peeked around the door. “I have your bag.” His English was heavily accented.
Marisol crossed the room. “Thank you!” She smiled at the short man and took her suitcase from him. “Muchas gracias,” she added.
He bowed his head in a courtly gesture. “De nada, señorita.” He continued in Spanish. “I’m José. If you need anything, the intercom is next to the light switch. Do you want any food or drink?”
“No, thank you. You’re very kind.” She made a guess as to his accent. “Are you from Ecuador?”
He nodded, clearly delighted. “Yes, very good. I’m from Quito. And you, miss?”
“Santiago de Chile.”
“Ah. It’s beautiful there. Well, good night, miss.”
“Good night. Thanks again.” Marisol closed her door.
She got ready for bed in the luxurious en suite bathroom, forcing herself to count her blessings all the while. She’d spent a lovely summer with nice people and fulfilling, lucrative work. She had enough money saved to get her through the fall and winter. She would be a full-time student with plenty of free hours to study and prepare for classes. She had her health and no debt and a bright future.
Then why, she asked herself as she lay in bed, gazing at the moonbeams filtering through the curtains, why was she so miserable? As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer.
She’d known the Jackson family for three short months, but already they felt like family to her. This is the flip side of having a kind employer, she thought sourly, impatiently brushing away the tears that threatened to trickle down the sides of her temples and into her ears. She’d gotten too attached the boys… and, if she was honest, to their father.
Since their kale-free make-up dinner a few weeks ago, they really had become friends: debating everything from politics to music, joking, even cooking together. He’d relaxed his vegetable regimen; she’d experimented with making sopaipillas with whole wheat flour. And as they’d talked and eaten and laughed and taken care of the boys, she’d even dared to dream about him asking her to stay once the summer was over.
But if anything could impress upon her the impossibility of a future with Darius Jackson, tonight’s events had. No matter how egalitarian American society considered itself to be, the class system was still going strong. She was the help, and nothing more. Never mind that at home in Santiago, she’d gone to the most exclusive all-girls’ private school, and that her parents moved in the highest social circles. In the United States, she was a Hispanic woman with an accent, and that would always be held against her.
She lay awake, thinking about her employer and injustice and irony and bad timing, until the incessant waves outside lulled her into a troubled sleep.
Darius sat under a beach cabana with his boss, sipping homemade lemonade and watching Marisol and the boys dig in the sand at the water’s edge. Marisol wore a black, one-piece bathing suit— modest, but perfectly highlighting her gorgeous, lithe figure. After months of seeing her dressed in baggy shirts and jeans, the sight of her now was breathtaking.
Steve echoed his thoughts, after a fashion. Eyeing Marisol appreciatively, he said, “I have to hand it to you, Darius. You sure know how to pick ’em. She is quite the specimen.”
That rankled. “I had no idea, Steve,” he said, a little too sharply. “You should see how she dresses most of the time; you’d think she was Amish. And I hired her because she had experience with special needs kids. You can see how amazing she is with the boys.”
“I can certainly see how amazing she is,” Steve answered absently, fortunately not noticing Darius’s cranky tone. But then, looking beyond Darius up the beach, he sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. Darius turned and followed his gaze. Jane and that lawyer, Beth, were walking toward them from the estate’s tennis court. Beth was tall and blonde and lean, her pleated tennis skirt setting off her tanned, muscular legs.
Despite her classic American good looks, Beth had a hungry look about her; in fact, last night, as they’d played pool, she had reminded Darius a bit of his ex-wife, Phoebe. Their coloring was completely different, true. But there was something underneath, something almost predatory. He’d found Phoebe’s aggressive nature appealing when they’d been in medical school together, but it had turned out to be… difficult to live with. He shuddered slightly at the memory. Steve and Jane might have invited Beth out this weekend with the idea of setting him up with her, but if so, they’d gotten his taste— at least, his current taste— exactly wrong.
Jane and Beth sat down in the empty beach chairs under the cabana and helped themselves to lemonade.
“Good match?” Steve asked.
“Great match,” Beth answered. “Jane beat me in straight sets. It’s good for me to play someone better than I am. Do you play tennis, Darius?”
Looking into her avid, blue eyes, Darius decided to play to stereotype. “I’m afraid not,” he drawled. “Basketball’s always been my game.”
That actually was true; he’d grown up playing on the ragged asphalt courts of the Hamilton Heights housing projects just north of Harlem. His street skills had landed him a spot on the team at Horace Mann, one of Manhattan’s most prestigious private high schools; from there, he’d gone on to Duke, and then to Harvard Medical School.
But Jane noticed his coy retreat and wouldn’t let him get away with it. “Beth went to law school at Harvard,” she said. “You might even have been there at the same time.”
Darius opened his mouth, automatically about to start the inevitable Harvard “do you know” game. He’d played it for years at cocktail parties and conferences and other gatherings; the world of Manhattan professionals who also attended Ivy League graduate schools turned out to be boringly tiny. That wasn’t what he wanted anymore, he realized. What he wanted was right in front of him, down by the water. He shut his mouth again and grinned. “Harvard, yeah? Seems like ages ago, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he got up to go join his boys and Marisol.
“Daddy!”
Marisol looked up at Seth’s happy shout. Dr. Jackson stood smiling down at them just a few feet away.
“Hey, boys. How’s it going?”
“Great! Come help us build the palacio, Daddy!”
Dr. Jackson obeyed his son, sitting cross-legged in the sand next to them. He was careful not to disturb the plastic spoon forest Reese was constructing with geometric precision.
“A palacio, huh?” Dr. Jackson smiled at Marisol. “Why not a regular old sand castle?”
Seth kept working in the damp sand, sculpting and smoothing a corner tower. “Mari lived in a palacio when she was my age. She can’t take us to visit it, but she said we could build it.”
Seth handed Dr. Jackson a tiny plastic shovel. “You work on the courtyard,” he directed. “I’m going to get more shells for
the roof.” He got up and marched down the beach a few steps, scanning the shoreline as he went.
Marisol turned to Reese. It had taken a lot of work to get the poor kid up, fed, and out of doors this morning. Pulled out of his routine, waking up in a strange place, knowing that he’d be leaving for Las Vegas in a couple of days… Reese had done remarkably well so far today, considering all the triggers he was dealing with. The sensory input of a long, barefoot walk the three of them had taken along the beach had helped soothe him, and Marisol could tell that his intricate spoon work was also a key part of his coping strategy.
She touched his arm gently but firmly, and waited until she sensed that his attention had shifted to her. “Reese, are you okay?”
He just nodded, which was enough for now. Marisol looked up to see Dr. Jackson looking at them, a half smile on his face.
“What is it? What’s on your mind?” she asked, smiling back.
“I was just thinking. You come from a faraway palacio, and now, at least for two more days, you’re a nanny. The best nanny in the history of nannies, by the way. I came from the uptown projects, and now I’m a doctor who lives downtown. We’ve turned our worlds upside down. Neither of us is who or where other people expect us to be, are we?”
“I guess not.” Marisol looked out at the horizon, a lump in her throat. She wished her boss would go back up to the cabana with his friends and that skinny lawyer and leave her alone— not sit down next to her and make her want to cry for no reason at all.
“Which gives me pause,” he went on after a moment. “I wonder… do you think maybe there’s a chance that, precisely because we’re both so different… maybe we belong together?”
Marisol whipped her head back toward him, her mouth open in shock. Had he just really voiced the midnight aching of her heart from hours before?
He swallowed, then smiled his devastating smile at her again. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, though. Marisol sensed anxiety there.
