The Summer Nanny

by Holly Chamberlin

  “How awful,” Leda said. “What sort of a person would act so reprehensibly?”

  “A very sad person,” Phil said. “Go home, Leda, and put it out of your mind. I’ll deal with Ms. Jones.”

  * * *

  Leda had been pacing her studio for what seemed like hours. In spite of Phil’s assurances, she couldn’t get the thought of those unraveled threads out of her mind. She knew that at times she made mistakes, but when she did she usually noticed the mistakes right away and corrected them. What if Phil was wrong about what had happened? This was the worst possible time for her to be losing her touch, what with the media having noticed her and her work about to be judged in the FAF’s competition.

  The phone rang, and Leda dove for the landline on her desk. It was Phil.

  “It was just as I thought,” he said. “Ms. Jones’s dog was responsible for the damage to the runner. I shamed her into telling me what had really happened. We shop owners should band together and agree not to let her and her ilk abuse us any longer.”

  “I’m so relieved,” Leda said. “Did she apologize?”

  “What do you think?” Phil said. “People like Sadie Jones don’t apologize, because they don’t ever feel that what they’ve done is wrong.”

  Leda sighed. “Thanks for investigating, Phil. In spite of her bad behavior I’d be happy to repair the damage.”

  “I wouldn’t bother,” Phil told her. “She wouldn’t pay you and she wouldn’t be grateful for your generosity.”

  Phil was right, Leda realized. She would be wasting her precious time catering to someone like Sadie Jones. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll let it go.” After thanking Phil again, Leda ended the call and sank onto the love seat. In spite of the happy ending the incident had really shaken her.

  For so long Leda had been hiding from the larger world, emerging only far enough to make a comfortable if conservative life for herself and her daughter. But now she was venturing further abroad, and it was a fact that whenever you put yourself out into the world, in whatever form that might be, you risked being hurt or cheated or ignored. But the risk was usually worth it. At least, it was supposed to be. And yet Leda had been so quick to accept blame for a wrong she hadn’t committed, so quick to doubt her abilities. Clearly, she still had a long way to go before her pride in her work was a constant matter of fact.

  And could the same be said about love, Leda thought, glancing at the photo of Charlie taken only days before his untimely death? Was love always worth the risk of rejection or misery? Here she was urging Vera to take another chance at romance and yet she herself didn’t seem to be able to take that brave leap.

  Leda shook her head. Thoughts of romance could wait. She went to her desk and opened the file that contained the article she was writing for Needle and Thread. She was enjoying the challenge. She was learning about herself as she finally articulated her creative process as best as such a thing could be put into words. And she had never been more grateful for spell-check. Never.

  Chapter 78

  Hayley was perched on a rock at the top of Ogunquit Beach. The experience was all so familiar and yet all so wonderful. The expanse of white sand; the clusters of fabulously shaped shells; the wild call of the seagulls. The beach was a gift, one that Hayley knew she didn’t always properly value.

  Finally, Hayley saw Amy approaching along the sand. There was an air of dejection about her. Hayley wondered if this was the right time to share with Amy what Ethan had told her about Cressida Prior’s unethical business practices. She doubted Amy would believe her, but forewarned was forearmed, and if Amy was still considering moving to Atlanta to work at Prior Ascendancy . . .

  “Hey,” Amy said when she joined Hayley. Her tone was flat. “Why did you want to see me?”

  Hayley waited until Amy had perched next to her. “Look,” she began, “Ethan told me a few things about Cressida Prior I think you should know.”

  Amy frowned. “Like what?”

  Hayley related the story Ethan had told about his father’s friend’s unhappy experience. “She has a reputation as a narcissist,” she said finally. “So just be aware.”

  “There’s no way Cressida would have done something so underhanded,” Amy declared when Hayley had finished her tale. “I mean, she can be—tough—but she’s not, I don’t know, underhanded.”

  Hayley shrugged. “Why would Ethan lie? Why would his father’s friend lie?”

  “Because they’re men,” Amy said, “and men resent powerful women. Cressida told me that pretty much every man she encounters hates the fact that she’s a success. If they’re not trying to sabotage her business they’re spreading lies about her personal life. Cressida would say you’re naïve if you believe what Ethan told you.”

  “I don’t care what Cressida Prior would say about me,” Hayley said firmly. “Who made her an oracle? Seriously, you’ve known this woman for a matter of weeks and already you’re taking everything she says as gospel? You even let her change your name!”

  “She didn’t change it,” Amy argued. “She just—adjusted it. Anyway, Cressida told me a bunch of stuff about the Whitbys you should probably know.”

  “Stuff I absolutely don’t need to know, thanks.”

  “I’m going to tell you anyway,” Amy announced, and she did.

  When she was done, it was all Hayley could do to restrain a hearty laugh. “First of all,” she said, “Jon and Marisa Whitby are very happy together, and don’t ask what do I know of happy marriages. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize when two people enjoy each other’s company and treat each other with respect.”

  “But the age difference,” Amy said. “You have to admit it’s kind of huge.”

  “There’s nothing unusual in an older man marrying a younger woman, you know that, and if the age difference doesn’t bother them, why should it bother anyone else? And Marisa jealous of Cressida?” Now Hayley did laugh. “Why would she be jealous? She’s got everything, including the most important thing, a family she loves and who love her. From what you’ve told me, Cressida Prior’s marriage isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, and as for her relationship with her kids, well, all I can say is good luck to them.”

  Amy didn’t reply.

  “And as for Marisa one-upping Cressida with couture,” Hayley went on, “that’s just ridiculous. Even if she does own expensive designer clothes, she’s not the type to get involved in a petty rivalry.”

  “How do you know?” Amy pressed. “You don’t really know Marisa at all.”

  “Well, you don’t know Cressida, either,” Hayley pointed out.

  Amy’s face grew alarmingly flushed. “I know her better than you know Marisa.”

  Hayley sighed, weary of the ridiculous exchange. “Look,” she said, “we’re going to have to agree to disagree.”

  “We’ve never fought before,” Amy said miserably, tears springing to her eyes. “Not ever.”

  “Oh, come on,” Hayley said. “I don’t like your boss and you don’t like mine. It’s nothing to cry about. Hey, has she mentioned the Atlanta offer again?”

  Amy wiped her eyes with her fingertips. “No. She’s very busy.”

  “Are you still considering it?”

  “Of course,” Amy snapped. “Why wouldn’t I? Are you still set on getting Ethan Whitby to marry you?”

  “Of course,” Hayley snapped back, remembering the feel of his hands on her shoulders, the look in his eyes, the . . . “Why would I change my mind?”

  Amy stood abruptly. “I have to go,” she said. And then she strode off in the direction of the parking lot.

  Hayley stared out at the calm blue water lapping gently against the shore. The exchange with Amy had upset her. What was going on this summer? Neither she nor Amy seemed to be in their right minds. In fact, in some ways Hayley hardly recognized herself or her best friend. How had they gotten to this crazy place where they were each acting so wildly out of character, refusing to listen to reason, snapping at each other like middle school g
irls? None of it made any sense. If only they could . . .

  If only they could what? Abruptly, Hayley got up from her seat on the rocks and strode off to her car.

  Chapter 79

  Cressida still hadn’t given Amy a reason for her telling her not to come to work the other day. Amy wished that she had. Sometimes, Amy felt as if she didn’t know where she stood with Cressida. Did Cressida really consider her a protégé and a friend, or did she see Amy as merely . . . as merely an accessory?

  Like today. Cressida hadn’t told Amy they were driving up to Portland. If she had given Amy some notice, Amy would have worn something nicer, like maybe her new brushed cotton skirt. It had cost kind of a lot, but it was such a pretty shade of pink Amy hadn’t been able to resist.

  Now, entering the city, Amy said a silent prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. Cressida had driven way beyond the speed limit the entire way. For the duration of the forty-minute ride Amy had gripped the edge of the passenger seat with her right hand, hoping Cressida couldn’t see the sign of her anxiety. Cressida probably despised people who experienced anxiety.

  Once within the city limits, Cressida parked the car in a garage, complaining loudly though there was no one but Amy to hear that the prices were outrageous. Then she led them with her rapid pace down to Commercial Street and to a boutique called The Stellar Woman. Amy didn’t often get to Portland, and when she did she mostly window-shopped. When she did have some money to spend it wasn’t enough for stores like The Stellar Woman. Not even on the salary Cressida was paying her. The least expensive item Amy had seen so far was thirty-five dollars, and that was a tiny hair clip.

  “This is gorgeous,” Cressida announced.

  Amy turned to see Cressida fingering the sleeve of a lightweight bomber-style jacket in a buttery yellow leather. While Amy wasn’t sure the color would complement Cressida’s complexion, the jacket itself was really beautiful. And it was locked to the rack.

  “Excuse me,” Cressida called across the store to the middle-aged saleswoman who was assisting another customer. “I’d like to see this jacket.”

  The saleswoman smiled. “As soon as I’ve finished helping this lady I’ll be right over,” she said.

  Before the saleswoman could turn away, Cressida raised her voice. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded. “I am Cressida Prior, and I am entitled to good service.”

  “Every customer is entitled to good service, ma’am,” the saleswoman said in a remarkably calm voice. “I will be with you as soon as possible.”

  “Too bad,” Cressida spat. “You just lost a very valuable customer.”

  Shamefaced, Amy followed Cressida from the shop. An image of Cressida’s hand making sharp contact with her husband’s cheek hovered in her mind. She was terrified of speaking but somehow courageous enough to do it anyway. “The saleswoman was all alone,” she said, striding along next to her mentor. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “Well, she did insult me,” Cressida snapped. “I should call the owner of that shop and get her fired.”

  Amy cringed. She so hoped she hadn’t made the situation worse by voicing her opinion. If that saleswoman got fired because of her... “Where are we going now?” she asked.

  “We’re going to lunch,” Cressida said. “I’m simply starved.”

  * * *

  Amy lay stretched on her bed, her old plush panda in her arms. She was utterly exhausted from the day she had spent with Cressida in Portland, and the ride back to Yorktide had been a nightmare. Cressida had driven even faster than she had on the way north, weaving in and out of traffic until Amy actually prayed for a police car to stop them. When Amy had stepped out of the car her legs had almost buckled under her, so dizzy had she felt. Dizzy and relieved that she was in one piece.

  Things had gone from bad to worse that afternoon. After the debacle at The Stellar Woman, they had gone for lunch at a restaurant called Luna’s. There was a pasta special Amy really wanted to order, but she knew that Cressida would disapprove so she ordered a house salad instead. It was what Cressida ordered. The dressing, Cressida told the waiter, should come on the side, and they would not need any bread. Cressida left half of her undressed salad on her plate. She informed the waiter that the arugula was wilted and had given him no tip.

  But that wasn’t the worst. When they were leaving the restaurant, a teenaged boy wearing what was recognizably a feminine outfit was passing by. Amy was impressed. Here was a young person on the verge of discovering his style, daring to appear in public in clothing that proclaimed a gender fluidity. It must take an awful lot of courage, Amy had thought, for someone who didn’t fit the norm to stand up and be seen for who he was. She smiled kindly at the boy, and he gave the ghost of a smile in return.

  And then Cressida had burst out laughing. “What on earth is that?” she cried. “How ridiculous!”

  The boy had blushed furiously and hurried on.

  Amy was stunned. This was much worse than what Cressida had done to the saleswoman earlier. Amazingly, once again she found the nerve to speak. “You embarrassed him,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “So?” Cressida shrugged. “If he’s going to walk around in that sort of ridiculous getup he’s going to have to learn how to take criticism.”

  But it wasn’t criticism that Cressida had offered, Amy thought as she followed miserably in Cressida’s wake. It was mockery.

  Amy rubbed her eyes. She so needed to reconcile the good parts of Cressida with the bad parts but was finding it increasingly difficult to do so. Could she really have been so wrong about her employer’s character? God knew she had been spectacularly wrong before. There were even a few incidents she had never told her mother because it embarrassed her to be so foolish in her judgment. Like the time she had given a scruffy young guy ten dollars because he told her his car had been stolen and he needed money to get home to Falmouth. She had believed his sad tale, and the memory of his drawn face and hollow eyes had haunted her all afternoon. That is until she came across him again sitting with a group of other scruffy young men and women at a café, drinking beer and laughing. She had felt like such an idiot. When Hayley had told her about her mother’s falling for that broken vase scheme Amy had practically squirmed with discomfort. It was exactly the sort of scheme she knew she would fall for.

  Amy squeezed her old panda for comfort. She remembered what Ethan had told Hayley about Cressida’s unethical business practices. She remembered the article her mother had found about the lawsuit against Cressida by her employees. She remembered the sight of Cressida slapping Will’s face. How could she seriously consider moving to Atlanta with someone who could treat people so carelessly and cruelly and not be bothered by guilt and self-recrimination? Or maybe, Amy thought, Cressida’s conscience did nag her late at night. Maybe Cressida would spend this very night wide awake, rebuking herself for her bad behavior. But even if she did, how did that remorse help the people she had abused?

  Amy rolled onto her side and curled into the fetal position. Cressida Prior, her relationship with Cressida Prior . . . it was all so difficult to comprehend, and at that moment, in the safety and security of the bedroom she had slept in almost every night of her entire life, Amy didn’t think she was properly up to the task.

  Chapter 80

  The cats were at their bowls, loudly crunching their breakfast and slurping the fresh water Leda had put out for them. Leda had devoured a bowl of cereal and two pieces of toast and was halfway through her first large cup of coffee. Amy, however, had barely touched her high-fiber, no-sugar-added cereal, a recommendation from Cressida, and had taken only a sip of her coffee.

  Since dawn Leda had been reading and rereading her article for Needle and Thread. It had come together far more quickly than she had imagined it would, but that didn’t mean it was any good.

  “May I read you the most recent draft of my piece?” Leda asked, looking up from her papers. “I think reading it aloud might help me to hear any aw
kward lines or transitions.”

  Amy shrugged. “Sure,” she said.

  Leda cleared her throat and began to read. Twice she glanced at Amy to find that she was staring at her cup of coffee with a sort of dull expression, her mind clearly miles away.

  “So?” Leda asked when she had finished reading the draft. “What do you think?”

  “It was fine,” Amy said.

  Leda thought her daughter had looked ill or unhappy ever since she had returned from Portland late yesterday afternoon. “Are you coming down with something?” she asked.

  “No,” Amy said flatly. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Leda pressed. “Is there something on your mind you want to talk about?”

  Amy roughly pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “No,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Amy left the kitchen without a farewell, and a few moments later Leda heard her car leave the driveway. Leda sighed. She shouldn’t have pushed Amy to talk about what was on her mind. It was a good bet whatever it was had to do with Cressida, but Amy’s thoughts and feelings belonged to her. She had a right to keep them to herself.

  It was a scenario that had never occurred to Leda when she had worried about her daughter being abused by an employer. The fact was that women could be just as unscrupulous as men. They could wield power just as dangerously, with little if any regard for the damage they inflicted on those in a position of weakness or subordination. Look at how that supposed new friend of Amy’s back in freshman year of college had treated her. Look at Regan Stirling, wife of the man who had seduced Leda’s seventeen-year-old self.

  With a bit of a struggle Leda put thoughts of Amy aside and read through the article yet again, pencil in hand. This time, she was satisfied. She would send it that afternoon. Leda folded the papers and slipped them into the pocket of her bathrobe. As she was on her way to the stairs she heard something coming through the mail slot in the front door and went to see what had been delivered. Along with a few bills there was the latest issue of the Journal of Craftwork. Eagerly Leda retrieved the magazine and searched the table of contents for her interview. She flipped to page 15, and there in black and white were her very own words.