As she drove by the open door to the garage, she offered him a cheerful wave goodbye, but his face had set once again into a slight frown, so she doubted he saw her.
And that was okay. She could be patient, waiting in the background for her opportunity to strike. She was exceptionally skilled at slipping by unnoticed—sometimes for years, usually in a professional capacity, at Montgomery Manor in particular. There was something about the sixty acres of rolling Connecticut countryside and the mansion, which made its stately bow at the highest crest, that rendered her all but invisible.
She turned up the radio to drown the sounds of miniature violins striking up at her one-woman pity party and rolled down her windows, determined to enjoy the scents of bluegrass and dogwood that wafted in instead.
Those were the smells of a fresh start.
Those were the smells of home.
* * *
“No. Absolutely not. You’re not spending your afternoon off hanging out with me.” Amy’s mom squinted up from where she crouched in the dirt of her garden.
In an attempt to separate her mother from some of that dirt, Amy had recently bought her one of those garden kneeling pads with matching gloves, but the gift hadn’t taken. Her mom said she preferred there being no physical barriers between her and the earth—that the plants took the extra protection as a personal offense. As she also sang to the leafy greens in an effort to help them grow, Amy wasn’t sure how much stock to put in that particular practice.
“Go to the city and shop,” her mom commanded. “Or take a hike along the creek. Do something. I don’t need you to babysit me. You get enough of that at work.”
“That’s probably true. Though I think Evan and Lily are happier to see me than you are. Or they’re better at pretending, anyway.”
Her mom looked up and beamed—it was obvious where her real affections lay. Her love for her own child was nothing compared to how her heart swelled for the various Montgomery offspring.
Amy plopped to the ground next to her, the thick grass serving as a comfortable cushion. Her mom had been obsessed with her yard since the day she’d moved in. It was the very first patch of grass she’d ever owned, paid for with decades of hard work. The Craftsman cottage attached to it wasn’t bad either—small and functional—but the outdoor living space was her real point of pride. The spring found it awash with bright floral blooms and the fat buzzy bumblebees they attracted.
“How are the little dears doing?” her mom asked. “I had no idea I’d miss them as much as I do.”
“Oh, they’re just fine. Evan is cutting a tooth, and poor Lily feels so bad for him that she ends up doing most of the crying over it. That girl feels everything so deeply. She’s going to have a rough time of it.”
Her mom rocked back on her heels and gave up her spade. “She gets that from the Clare side of the family. None of the Montgomerys I raised would admit to having deep feelings. They’d rather cut their own hands off first.”
Amy laughed, acknowledging the truth of that statement. If there was one thing she knew in this world, it was how the Montgomerys felt. How they acted. How they lived and loved and lost.
And won. Most of the time, they won.
Some people found it odd that she’d been hired to take care of the newest members of the Montgomery clan—born of Mr. Montgomery’s painfully young second wife—after her mom stepped down a few months back. Others found it charming. Either way, most people accepted it as fate. She was practically a sister to the babies anyway. In addition to caring for the twins for the first nineteen months of their life, her mother had also served as nanny to the three older Montgomerys—now grown adults and still likely to cut off their hands before recognizing simple human emotions. Amy had been raised almost as one of the family.
Almost.
“How are the kids anyway?” her mother asked. In that context, kids referred to anything but. Monty, the eldest, was thirty-three.
“I haven’t seen much of them, to be honest.” Amy frowned and picked at the grass. “Monty and Jenna are constantly running around on business, and Jake hasn’t set foot in the place since I’ve been there. Last I heard, he was in Monaco.”
Her mother perked. Jake had always been her favorite. He was everyone’s favorite, the raspberry cream among a sea of those gross date-and-almond squares. “Oh, how nice for him. He’s always loved the warmer climates.”
“You just mean he loves anywhere the women are scantily clad.” She shrugged, hoping she looked more disinterested than she felt. Jake and his love of bikinis was no secret. Not to her, and not to anyone else who regularly visited TMZ. “I’m sure I’ll run into him eventually. At Christmastime, maybe.”
“Amy.” The warning tone in her mother’s voice was hard to miss. “Christmas is seven months from now.”
“Are you telling me to start my shopping early? Have your eye on a little something sparkly? I should probably warn you now—everyone on my list is getting a photo frame made from Popsicle sticks. All the best nannies are into arts and crafts. I read it online.”
“Amy.” The warning was still there, louder and more insistent. “You promised me this was a temporary thing, just a fill-in until they found someone to replace me on a more permanent basis. Weren’t you going to go into Hartford for an audition last week?”
“Oh, you know...” Amy waved her hand airily, hoping that by becoming vague, she could avoid having to lie.
But her mom waited. And waited. And would probably continue waiting until Amy either discovered a long-buried affinity for telling falsehoods or fossilized over.
“I didn’t go, okay?” People who had disinterested, imperceptive parents had no idea how good they had it. “I’m sorry, but getting the time off was tricky, and I don’t even know if dancing is what I want anymore—”
“You promised.”
“I’m happy where I am.”
“You promised.” Her mom sighed and ran a hand through her hair—curlier than Amy’s and starting to streak with gray, but with enough of a golden-brown hue to allow her to pass for an older, wiser, annoyingly interfering sister. “Sweetie, you know I love you, but I’m not about to sit quietly by for this. Not while you throw away almost twenty years of hard work and training so you can raise someone else’s children.”
“Why not? You did it.”
Her mom’s sharp intake of breath was a clear signal Amy had crossed a line. Retreat, though wise, was impossible, and she could feel her face forming into the deer-in-the-headlights grimace that always happened when she was pushed into a corner. Her best friend from high school always said it made her look crazed, as if she might eat off someone’s face in an attempt to escape, but it was her natural autonomic response. Fight or flight or pray that the ground would somehow gain the ability to absorb her and render her invisible.
“I’ll allow it this one time.” Her mom also recognized that look, and, whether through affection or fear for her own safety, stepped down. She lifted a finger in warning. “But I reserve the right to talk about this later. You can’t hide out at the Manor forever.”
Amy slapped a falsely bright smile on her face. If she had anything to say about it—and one would assume she had at least a little—she could hide there long enough for her mom to find something else to worry about. “Deal.”
“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” her mom said, but so quietly Amy assumed no response was required. “Well, where are you off to for the rest of the day?”
Ah. Much better. Amy could spend hours rattling off plans in an attempt to avoid more important conversations about the withered, skeletal remains of her ballet career. “I intend to indulge in an overpriced cupcake or two at that new bakery in town, and then I’m meeting some of the other staff members for dinner and drinks. Big excitement.”
Her mom ignored her sarcasm. “I’m
glad you’re making friends. Life in that house can get pretty lonely if you don’t have a support network. You should ask for more days off.”
“Oh, you mean like you used to?” Although Amy shared her childrearing duties with a night nurse who came in five times a week, her mom hadn’t been so lucky. In fact, she couldn’t remember her mom ever willingly taking days—or even half days—off. They’d once gone on a weeklong vacation to the coast while the Montgomery kids attended an elite summer camp on Martha’s Vineyard, but it got cut short when the camp sent Jenna home early with lice. Rich people had absolutely no capacity for handling catastrophes of the vermin kind. They sort of screamed and whirled and threw money, hoping the situation would resolve itself. Amy had distinct memories of large tubs of mayonnaise being combed through their hair and the lumpy stuffed animals that never quite regained their shape after a thorough washing.
“Do as I say, not as I do,” her mother said. “You’re young. You’re cute. You’re unfettered. Enjoy those things while you still can.”
An image of the Montgomery chauffeur spun dizzyingly through her mind, his sudden, saturnine appearance as welcome as it was surprising. Ryan was also young. And cute. And, as far as she could tell, unfettered. It was a shame he insisted on maintaining such a solid distance from the rest of them, never willing to cross the unspoken line toward fellowship, friendship or, God forbid, flirtation.
“You know what? You’re absolutely right.”
Her mom nodded sagely. “I usually am.”
Amy brushed off the seat of her jeans as she rose to her feet. That thing her mom said—about life at the Manor being lonely if you faced it alone—was true. There was nothing like the echoing resonance of someone else’s success to make you feel like crap. Especially if you didn’t do bars to take the edge off. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d brooded over a mai tai at another dance audition failed, another reminder that outside of Ransom Creek, she was the center of no one’s world.
And if you couldn’t drink your woes away, what was the next best thing?
Amy clapped her hands, which put her on the receiving end of a warning that her loud, inappropriate noises would counteract the soothing melodies her mother had just crooned to the begonias.
Screw the plant life. She was more concerned about human life—particularly that of her new favorite family chauffeur, and even more particularly how she could entice him out for a night on the town. As far as she could tell, there was only one thing in the world a man liked better than drowning his sorrows in a good single malt.
It involved darkness. Bodies. Copious amounts of sweat.
And lasers. Lots and lots of lasers.
Chapter Two
Ryan got home from work at the same time every day. The same time, via the same road, with the same slow scuffle to his step. You could practically set a clock to his monotony.
He didn’t used to be so predictable. Predictability had always ranked right up there with all the other—ility words he didn’t much care for. Responsibility. Respectability. Dependability. There were a lot of those words, once you started to add them up. Which, of course, he had all the time in the world to do.
“There you are.” Mrs. Grimstock, the woman who lived in the apartment directly across the hall from his, pulled open her door just enough to allow her tiny Pekingese through. “Two times around the park today, if you please. He’s in a mood. He bit the mailman.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Grimstock,” he said, even though she’d already shut the door and probably couldn’t hear him. “I’d love to walk your dog again.”
The dog whirled around him, not making any noise other than the clack of his nails on the hall floor. That wasn’t a good sign. If the creature wasn’t barking, he probably hadn’t been outside since the morning, when Mrs. Grimstock had cornered Ryan on his way out.
This was what he’d been reduced to. A man once courted by the top production companies in Hollywood, a man who’d only gone home to sleep and shave and even then rarely, a man who’d stared death in the face every day and come out on top—now he went home alone to walk a dog that didn’t belong to him. And it wasn’t even a dog after his own heart, which itched to move faster than their customary one-mile-per-hour pace. Would it have been too much to ask for Mrs. Grimstock to rescue greyhounds?
He’d gotten the plodding animal only as far as the sidewalk outside his apartment building when a bright, singsong voice called to him from the end of the block. “Can I just say that there is something about a fully grown man and a tiny dog that gets to me every time? I’m all choked up over here.”
Unable to help himself, he fell into a smile. He knew he looked ridiculous holding a rhinestone leash and carrying a plastic bag, talking irritably to a dog that would have gladly traded him for a scrap of bacon. That ridiculousness was what made him frown at everyone else who dared mock him, made him gruffer than usual if someone stopped him to chat about dog parks and sanitation codes.
But there was no way not to smile at Amy. She ordered him to stand exactly where he was so she could take a picture with her camera phone.
“Oh, don’t smile,” she said, her voice stern. “It’ll ruin the effect. This is going on my Facebook page.”
He forced his lips in a downward curl. “Am I frowning enough now?”
“Hmm.” She cocked her head. “Not quite. Quick. Close your eyes and think of the worst moment of your life.”
That was easy. Crash and burn, his dream fizzling out in the distance.
He heard the computerized click meant to simulate a camera going off and popped his eyes open to find Amy standing right in front of him. “You must have some really terrible memories stored in there.” She showed him the picture. “You look like you’re about to curb stomp the next guy who insults your puppy.”
He did look pretty grim, though he was having a hard time holding on to the sensation as Amy’s fruity scent wafted all around him. She smelled like watermelon. A few days ago, it had been peaches. Either she had a fruit basket in her shower, or his attempt at self-restraint was starting to sour.
“Oh, yeah? You know a lot about curb stomping?”
“You have no idea.” She gestured around her, toward the townhouse-lined street a block down, each door painted a different jewel tone, at the knitting shop across the street, at the convenience store with a fresh salad bar inside. “Don’t be fooled by these sweet city streets. When the sun goes down, life gets rough. I once had to fend off a pack of tourists using nothing but a freshly baked baguette.”
“Did you hit them with it?”
“No. I threw crumbs and the birds swooped down to protect me.”
That was something he could readily picture. Amy resembled nothing so much as an animated princess who could call animals at will to protect her. She was friends with the ogres, champion of the fallen.
In proof of just such a thing, she knelt and began vigorously petting the dog, who acted as though he’d never before been touched by human hands, eliciting a series of ecstatic groans as he wriggled under her touch. “Oh, he’s sweet. What’s his name?”
“Um.” Ryan had no idea. He’d been walking the dog for months and had never called it anything but Pain in My Ass. As he was reluctant to share that particular name with a woman he’d just likened to a cartoon character, he settled for saying, “He’s not mine. He belongs to the woman who lives across from me.”
“Aww. You walk your neighbor’s dog?”
“Before you start singing my virtues, I should probably tell you it’s not by choice.” He recognized the telltale dance of the dog about to release every last one of his bodily fluids and started tugging him away from Amy’s flower-smattered blouse. “If I don’t take him out, his owner encourages him to leave presents in front of my door.”
Amy’s eyes flew open in surprised laughter
. Ryan could only be grateful that her mouth didn’t fall open too, because the dog chose that moment to lift its leg and deposit a hot, streaming line of urine all over her neckline.
He swooped to pick the animal up, but it was too late. The best he could do was point the dog in the opposite direction and wait for him to finish.
“That motherfucking little bastard.”
It was his turn to be surprised. “What did you just say?”
“Your neighbor’s dog.” She stood hunched, holding her shirt away from her body. The unmistakable trail of yellow along white silk would have wrested an immediate apology from his lips, but she was laughing too hard to let him get a word in. “That little shithead did it on purpose. He was waiting for me to get close enough so he could land his mark.”
Ryan could only listen, fascinated, as Amy’s sweet pink lips continued spilling a litany of curses that would have done a construction crew proud. Damn, but that woman had a mouth on her. It pursed and beckoned and drew him in.
“I know I’ve already imposed in coming by unannounced like this,” that same mouth continued, oblivious to the sensations it produced, “but I don’t suppose you have a shirt I could borrow?”
He forced himself to blink and viewed her frame with a detachment he was far from feeling. No amount of personal avowals that he wouldn’t get sucked in to this place, wouldn’t grow attached, could change the way the sight of her affected him. She was tall for a woman, so much so that she stood on eye level with him, and slender in an athletic sort of way—evidenced by the fact that she was constantly moving, always active. Taken alone, these things endowed her with more than enough appeal to speak to Ryan’s baser parts, but either nature or the marvels of modern medicine had also seen fit to grace her with an incredible rack.
There. He admitted it. He liked the way Amy—the sweet, pee-covered nanny—filled out a shirt.
If I Stay Page 2
