The Summer Nanny

by Holly Chamberlin

  Amy sighed. “Okay, let’s say he does find you attractive, and he probably will. Everyone does. Even so he’ll never marry you. He’ll think you’re not good enough for him, in spite of the fact that you’re way more intelligent and kind than most people. Except when you’re trying to trap some poor, unsuspecting guy into marriage! Look, I’m just trying to save you from an embarrassing disaster.”

  An embarrassing disaster. Is that what her so-called plan would come to in the end? Hayley sighed. “I don’t care if he doesn’t love me. I want him to marry me. That’s all.”

  Amy shook her head. “Who are you? I’ve never heard you talk like this. You sound so . . . so cold.”

  “It’s the new me,” Hayley declared. “I’m tired of waiting around for something significant to happen. I’m going to make something significant happen.”

  Amy eyed her shrewdly. “Did something bad happen at home?”

  “Something bad is always happening at home.”

  “You know what I mean,” Amy pressed. “Something really bad. Something other than your father being a jerk and your mother letting him get away with it.”

  “No,” Hayley said. “More of the same. But something changed the other night. I thought, Why not take from the world instead of always giving?”

  Amy leaned forward. “Hayley, I know you must feel that everything is always against you, but what you’re planning is so unbelievably self-serving. You can’t use people for your own ends.”

  “Why not?” Hayley countered. “Plenty of people do just that and they live perfectly happy lives.” Did they? Hayley wondered. Or were they haunted by the fact of their immoral and unethical behavior?

  “You’d have to sign a prenup, you know,” Amy pointed out, “and that would be humiliating. I’m sure the Whitbys’ lawyers know all about protecting their clients from gold diggers.”

  Stupidly, Hayley hadn’t thought about the possibility that the Whitby family would want to protect its assets from a lowly person like her. But Amy didn’t need to know that. “Look,” Hayley said, “don’t say anything to your mom about this, okay? I mean it. Nothing.”

  “All right,” Amy said after a moment. “But you know she’d tell you the same thing I’m telling you. That it’s insane. You’re better than this, Hayley.”

  Am I? Hayley asked herself. “How’s it going with Cressida?”

  “Fantastic,” Amy said, her expression brightening.

  And as Amy launched into a paean in praise of the illustrious head of Prior Ascendancy, Hayley found herself wishing that she had never applied for a position as nanny this summer. She would never have been tempted to pursue such a crazy scheme as conning someone into marriage if she had simply found another job scrubbing food stains off other people’s backsplashes.

  * * *

  “What is this crap always cluttering up the place?”

  “This crap as you call it is a book,” Hayley shot back, snatching the volume from her father before he could ruin it. “Or aren’t you familiar with books other than to destroy them?”

  Eddie Franklin laughed nastily “All that stuff you read, history and politics. What does any of it have to do with you? You’re just Hayley Franklin. You’re not important. I know what you think. You think you’re better than your own father, but you’re not.”

  Yes, Hayley thought. I am better than you. But she chose not to argue. Her father wouldn’t pay attention to the content of her argument; he would only hear sounds that would infuriate him because he wanted an excuse to be angry with the daughter who shamed him by her intelligence. And the consequence of that anger would very likely be retaliation against Nora, his blameless wife, someone Eddie knew would never resist his blows. True, Eddie Franklin didn’t always resort to physical violence, but when he did things got ugly and fast.

  No, let her father think—if he ever really used his brain—that his daughter was an ungrateful bitch who gave herself airs. It was of no consequence to Hayley, not now. Amy’s protestations had had the desired effect after all. Hayley felt more determined than ever to pursue her plan.

  “I’ll be at the Axe and Grind,” her father muttered, stalking toward the door of the apartment and letting it slam behind him.

  Only then did Hayley’s mother emerge from the bathroom, where, Hayley suspected, she had been hiding from her husband. “Was that your father leaving?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Hayley said.

  “I suppose he’s going to the Axe and Grind.”

  Hayley was about to make a snide remark about Eddie Franklin and the local pubs, but the look of exhaustion on her mother’s face made her hold her tongue. “Forget about him, Mom,” she said. “You look worn-out. Tough day at work?”

  “Well, yes,” Nora said, “now that you mention it. Three customers complained about the way I packed their groceries. One made me take everything out of her bag and start over again. She was very rude.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Hayley said, reaching out and placing a hand gently on her mother’s shoulder.

  “Hayley? You won’t leave me, will you, now that you’re working for those rich people?” her mother asked. “You won’t let them turn your head and decide to go away from me?”

  No, Hayley thought. She would not allow her head to be turned. She was not naïve like Amy. She was manipulative and self-seeking. She was setting out to snare a decent man into a marriage with a woman who wanted him only for his money and his status. A twinge of severe embarrassment ran through her. What would Nora Franklin think if she knew what her daughter was planning for the sake of them both?

  “No, Mom,” Hayley said firmly. “I won’t abandon you.”

  Nora Franklin smiled feebly. “You’re all I’ve got,” she said.

  “I know, Mom,” Hayley said. “I know.”

  Chapter 52

  For the past thirty minutes Cressida had been working on her computer at her desk, a frown of concentration adding additional lines to her already lined forehead. Amy, sitting idly across from her employer, had nothing else to do but to observe Cressida’s flying fingers and to wonder why Cressida was wearing a sleeveless top. Sleeveless was not a great way to go for someone whose arms were so thin. But no doubt Cressida had a very good reason for wearing a sleeveless top, and it was no business of Amy’s to criticize. Especially since she still hadn’t been able to lose the pounds Cressida had suggested she lose. Amy didn’t know why. She had cut way back on lots of foods, but the weight refused to go away.

  “I want you to listen in on a very important phone call I’ll be making,” Cressida announced suddenly, closing her laptop with a click.

  “Okay,” Amy said. She felt relieved. At least there was something on today’s agenda. So far Cressida hadn’t assigned her any tasks, and with Will and the children out of the house yet again, Amy had been feeling pretty useless.

  “I’ll be terminating someone,” Cressida went on, “and it will do you good to hear how such things are done. On no account are you to say anything. You’re just to listen to him and me, understood?”

  Amy nodded, though what she really wanted to do was to emphatically say no. To be a witness to someone losing his job seemed very wrong, especially given the fact that she didn’t work for Cressida’s company. It was more than wrong. It was—what was the word? Callous? Cruel?

  But this was the world of big business. This was the world of successful people, not people like Amy’s mother, who were content to spend their lives toiling away in near anonymity. Then again, Amy remembered, her mother had decided to enter that competition. Amy supposed that was something, but it didn’t have anything to do with real power, not the kind that Cressida wielded.

  “I’ll make the call at one o’clock sharp,” Cressida announced. “Until then go through that box of back issues and throw out anything older than three months.”

  “Yes,” Amy said, though she doubted performing such a simple task as tossing old issues of Forbes and the Atlantic would help take her mind off
the impending phone call.

  Cressida smiled. “You’re a dream, Aimee. I’m going for a run.”

  As the morning became early afternoon, Amy’s discomfort grew until she felt as if she might be sick to her stomach. Even if Cressida’s employee deserved to lose his job he was a person with feelings. He had the right to be treated fairly and with dignity. There was no doubt in Amy’s mind that if he knew someone was listening in on his dismissal he would be miserable. But what could she do? Saying no to Cressida just wasn’t possible.

  At precisely three minutes to one o’clock Cressida appeared in the doorway of the office. Amy’s heart began to pound in her chest.

  “I changed my mind about making that call,” Cressida announced. “I’m going to fire him in person when I next see him.”

  Without further explanation Cressida turned and walked off. Amy literally sagged with relief. And then she scolded herself for being so naïve. Maybe Cressida’s asking her to witness the firing wasn’t in fact cruel. Maybe it was meant to be a lesson from mentor to protégé. Maybe feelings had to be ignored in order to get important things done. That must be it.

  From the office window Amy could see three other massive houses along the coast, each more beautiful than the other. She thought of Hayley wanting to enter a world of money and influence. What if she succeeded in joining that world, whether by marrying Ethan Whitby or through some other way Amy couldn’t even imagine? Would it radically and fundamentally change her? It was almost impossible to imagine Hayley doing or saying some of the things Cressida did or said. Hayley was strong but she wasn’t . . . Amy frowned. Hayley wasn’t like Cressida. Take, for instance, the light in which Hayley viewed her mother’s victimhood. Though it might annoy her, she never ignored her mother’s plight. Cressida, Amy thought, wouldn’t be so . . . Cressida couldn’t afford to be so kind because . . .

  Amy glanced at her watch. She wished it were four o’clock, the time Cressida usually dismissed her. Suddenly, there was no place more she wanted to be than in her bedroom—messy though it still was—with one or both of the cats—furry as they were—on her lap. Things always seemed more certain when she was home. Things always seemed . . .

  Chapter 53

  Amy had gone off to the Priors’ house after breakfast, during which she had regaled her mother with tales of the great Cressida Prior’s past and present accomplishments. Leda had exercised a good deal of patience over her coffee and toast but had almost lost hold of that patience when Amy revealed that Cressida had fired the pool maintenance service because she thought one of the crew had sneered at her. “You can’t have that sort of insubordination in an employee,” Amy had pronounced sententiously.

  Now, Leda was settled in her studio, Harry and Winston asleep on the old love seat in the corner. She had just cleared her mind of all else but the work she had planned to do that morning when her cell phone rang. Leda didn’t recognize the number but answered the call nonetheless.

  “Leda Latimer?” a woman asked. “My name is Diane Freeman and I’m calling from the Journal of Craftwork. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

  “Of course,” Leda said. “I have a subscription.”

  “Good,” the woman went on. “I’m one of the new staff writers and I’m putting together next month’s Artists to Watch column. I’d like to feature you in the piece as someone who’s yet to gain real media coverage. Would this be a convenient time for you to answer a few questions?”

  For a moment, Leda didn’t know how to answer. A magazine wanted to feature her in a profile? “Yes,” she said finally. “I guess so. But how did you get my name?”

  Diane Freeman laughed lightly. “A good reporter never reveals her sources, but in this case I think I can make an exception. A great fan of your work suggested you to our editorial department. Cora Flowers. You do know her?”

  “Yes,” Leda said. “I do.” Cora Flowers had been one of her earliest supporters; indeed, she had been a fan of Leda’s mother’s work as well. Leda wondered why Cora hadn’t told her that she planned on approaching the Journal of Craftwork; maybe Cora thought Leda would protest, given her well-known aversion to publicity.

  The reporter went on to ask Leda a few basic questions: How old had she been when she first got involved with fiber arts? Was crafting a family tradition? Did she prefer working on her own, or was she a member of a crafting circle? Leda answered as clearly as she could, all the while half doubting the interview was actually taking place.

  When the interview was over and Diane Freeman had thanked Leda for her time, Leda sat for a moment in stunned silence. It seemed her reputation had been growing without her being aware of it. She felt thankful and more than a little proud, and she wondered how Amy would react when she learned that a major crafting publication had reached out to her mother.

  But then Leda frowned. She doubted that Amy would care in the least.

  Chapter 54

  Hayley had welcomed any chance at research while in college. Even in high school she had gone out of her way to scour sources when writing papers for history, English, and sociology classes. And she hadn’t limited her research to online sources, helpful as they might be. No, she had hunted down magazines, journals, and real books, the kind with worn covers and crinkly old pages, when seeking information and opinion.

  So, when it came to setting out to more fully understand the world that Ethan Whitby inhabited, Hayley had planned carefully. First step, investigate Whitby Wealth Management. Using her ancient laptop she had logged onto the company’s website, where she learned that WWM provided financial and investment advice, accounting and tax services, and retirement and estate planning. Clients worked with a single wealth manager to ensure their assets were well looked after. A further search told Hayley that Jon Whitby’s personal philanthropic efforts were significant. He regularly contributed to no fewer than four charitable organizations and sat on the board of two of them. On paper at least, he was a man of integrity and energy and focus.

  Second step, find out how the upper half lived, and that involved reading through copies of magazines such as Town & Country, W, and Vanity Fair. Magazines like these weren’t sources of hard fact, but they could give a glimpse, if a slightly distorted one, of how a segment of society saw and presented itself. For obvious reasons, Hayley hadn’t wanted anyone to recognize her poring over the glossies, so she had chosen to visit the library in South Berwick.

  She had already paged through two issues of Town & Country when she heard her name being spoken. Hayley looked up almost guiltily. So much for researching incognito. “Yes,” she said. The woman was wearing a gold chain around her neck with matching gold disc earrings. She didn’t look like someone Hayley knew from her usual rounds in Yorktide, certainly not someone she would run into at the Laundromat down the street from her family’s apartment.

  “Barbara Ross,” the woman went on. “We met at Hannah Fox’s house. Remember?”

  “Yes,” Hayley said with as bright a smile as she could muster. “I remember.” She did, sort of. Usually when she was at work scrubbing someone’s floors or rinsing out their shower stalls she didn’t pay much attention to anyone who might come and go. You could hardly shake hands with someone while wearing rubber gloves covered in ammonia-based cleaning fluid. But now that she thought about it, she did remember Ms. Fox introducing her to her friend. It had seemed odd at the time, not to say awkward. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Barbara peered down at the magazine open on the table before Hayley and laughed. “Town and Country. That’s a bit of an unusual choice for you.”

  Hayley bristled. “It’s for a project,” she said. “It’s about the ethical issues behind expendable income in the upper classes,” she said.

  Barbara looked momentarily puzzled. Then she smiled vaguely and moved on. Hayley felt annoyed. Why shouldn’t she be reading Town & Country? Just because she was the daughter of unspectacular parents didn’t mean she wasn’t allowed to learn about those who were . .
. No. Not better than Hayley Franklin. Just . . . different.

  After forty minutes of perusing the stack of magazines she had gathered, the fruit of Hayley’s efforts was a handful of fairly useless observations. First, the publications seemed pretty obsessed by the British and European royal families. And heiresses, debutantes, and socialites.

  Jewelry was important to the readers of these magazines, too. Hayley had come across a photograph of a pink, oval-shaped diamond that stretched all the way from the base of the model’s finger to beyond her knuckle. Then there was a necklace coming to auction at one of the big houses; it was expected to sell for $12 million. The sum had made Hayley feel slightly ill. She had looked at the woven bracelet that Mrs. Latimer had made for her and wondered if she would be able to wear such a piece if she were to succeed in inserting herself into a world like the one described on the pages of these magazines. Or would she be required to wear only what one article referred to as “important jewelry”? Important, of course, meaning outrageously expensive.

  Another observation Hayley made was that seriously wealthy people seemed to attend events almost every day of the week, whether it be a charity ball or a party on a yacht the size of a football field. And you couldn’t just show up to certain events wearing any old thing. If a man expected to be allowed in the Royal Enclosure at Royal Ascot he had better be sporting a black or gray top hat. And if a woman wanted to be at his side she had better not be wearing a dress with spaghetti straps.

  Of course, travel was a vital part in the lives of the seriously wealthy. In Marrakech, you could book a villa for a sum that amounted to a little more than Hayley’s yearly salary, and that was a salary in a good year. In Ireland, you could hire a luxury train. Destination spas were popular.

  And, Hayley had learned, seriously wealthy people were subject to the changing whims of home decorating ideas. It seemed that in 2017 separate master bedrooms were a “thing.” Hayley wondered how that worked. Did a husband and wife have to agree on separate bedrooms? She could foresee a fair amount of divorces resulting from hurt feelings and misunderstandings unless separate bedrooms stopped being a “thing” by next season.