by J. Kenner
As far as nannies go, I’m convinced that Bree is as good as it gets. We lucked into her, and I dread the day when she leaves. A sad day that’s fast approaching. Exciting for her, as she’s going back to school. But it sucks for me. Bree’s not only brilliant with the kids, she also helps out around the house. Most important, she’s become a friend.
I have no idea how I’m going to replace her, and I’ve been procrastinating in my search. Probably because I’m neck-deep into denial.
“So what exactly are you doing?” I ask, mostly to distract me from my thoughts.
She’d been adjusting a line of tape, and now her head snaps up. “I’m not—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “Sorry. The floor. Right.”
I frown. Bree’s always at the top of her game, and yet today she seems off. I almost stay quiet—after all, everyone has bad days—but I hear myself saying, “Listen, are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely.” The words sound a little too perky. “I’m just frazzled.” Her eyes dart to Lara, and as I watch, Bree seems to forcibly gather herself. “Our leading lady is getting ready for her grand debut after dinner. Apparently, I’m the stage manager. And my boss is running me ragged,” she adds with a teasing smile
“Miss Bree!” Lara’s voice rises. “It’s a secret.”
“Oops. Sorry.” She blushes, and I frown. She’s been with us since before Anne was born, and in two years I’ve never once see her overstep the rules of any game she’s playing with the kids.
“Mama! Don’t listen.” Lara claps her hands over her ears.
“Listen to what? I didn’t hear anything.” I aim a huge smile at my little girl, but my thoughts are still on Bree. I tell myself it’s silly to worry. Of course she’s frazzled. I only have to find a replacement nanny; she has to uproot her entire life, move across country, and dive into the unfamiliar waters of academia. Who wouldn’t be a little off?
Certain I’ve found the explanation, I push my concern away and focus on Lara. “Don’t I get a clue about what you three are up to?”
Lara shakes her head regally, her chocolate-smeared lips pressed tight together as she clutches the rest of her cookie. Anne, on the other hand, claps and squeals, her blonde ringlets bouncing. “Dancing! We dancing!”
Lara rolls big brown eyes, her expression so exasperated that I have to keep my head down and my focus on my shoes to keep from laughing.
When I’m sure I can hold it together, I lift my head and smile at my oldest daughter. “I just came for hugs before I get back to work. Come give Mommy a kiss.” I kneel down, and they both scamper toward me. I gather them close and cover them with kisses and tickles until both my girls are squealing and giggling.
They’re so different in appearance and personality, with fair-haired, fair-skinned Anne tending toward quiet and calm, with only the occasional moment of toddler mania mixed in to keep us on our toes. I can imagine her all grown up, maybe running a laboratory and shouldering great responsibility while exercising both concentration and patience.
In contrast, Lara has the dark hair and yellow-brown skin that reflects her Chinese heritage. More outgoing than Anne, I imagine Lara will grow up to be an actress. Or a politician. Somebody who’s out there in front of the world, confident and strong, and completely comfortable with all that attention.
Right now, my girls get along great, presumably because they complement each other. And Damien and I are crossing our fingers that this congeniality never lets up.
I lean back so that I can look at both their sweet faces. “Okay, my princesses. Who’s going to be good for Miss Bree today?”
They both raise their hands, and I give them high-fives, then grin at Bree, who no longer looks rattled. “You need anything before I head out?”
“Nope. We’re doing great. Aren’t we girls?”
Lara nods, then throws her hands up and executes a wobbly pirouette. She stops, takes a bow, then grabs Anne’s hands and drags her to the play mat, where they fall into a wriggling, squirming, giggling heap.
Bree’s smiling eyes look into mine. “Wish me luck. The chocolate might have been a mistake.”
“Could be.” I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice. “And good luck with the insanity.” I sigh fondly at the sight of my kids. “I’d take over, but I’ve got that interview. Plus, I haven’t seen Jamie in ages, and she swears that she had to bribe someone to get a reservation at this new place in Santa Monica.”
“Are you going to Surf’s Up? It’s supposed to be amazing. I’m so jealous.”
“Are you?” My hopes for the lunch increase. Not that you can tell by the PB&J lunch, but Bree is both a foodie and a damn good cook. And if she says a restaurant is good, that means something. “In that case, I’ll bring you back a full report. And I’ll be home before Damien, I’m sure.”
“No problem. But are you guys staying in tonight? Because I was thinking I might, you know, go out to a club or something with a friend tonight.” A blush tints her cheeks.
I pause in the act of rummaging in my purse for my car keys. “For goodness sakes, are you really asking permission to go out after dinner on a Friday night. You know you’re free unless we’ve specifically wrangled you into babysitting.”
“I know. It’s just…” She trails off with a shrug. “I guess I’m feeling guilty. I mean, since I’m leaving so soon,” she adds hurriedly.
I shake my head firmly. “No guilt allowed for following your dream.” She’s been accepted into journalism school, and she’s hoping to start a career reviewing restaurants and covering all things food-related. “You know how proud Damien and I are of you.”
Her face tightens, and her shoulders rise and fall as she twists her hands together.
I frown, the hairs on the back of my neck starting to prickle with concern. “Bree?”
Her already huge eyes widen. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m going to miss you all so much.”
“Us, too,” I say honestly. “But New York is only a short flight away, and the good news is that you know someone who happens to own a plane.”
As I hoped, she smiles. “I may have to take someone up on that.”
I stand, and the girls scamper over to the toys as I cross to the stage that Bree’s marked out. “So about this friend? Do I get a hint?” I recall the way she’d blushed earlier. “It’s not Kari you’re going out with tonight, is it?”
“Not Kari,” she admits, referring to her best friend, one of the managers at Upper Crust, my favorite Malibu bakery, where I’m headed now for my interview. “But she introduced me to him,” she adds with a sideways grin. “Rory Claymore. Isn’t that the best name?”
“Sounds like something out of a Scottish romance novel.”
Her grin widens. “So far I’ll say that’s accurate.”
“Brianna Bernstein. I’m shocked.”
“No, you’re not,” she counters, and we both laugh as I pick up Anne—who’s come back to cling to the hem of my make-shift sarong. “How long have you two been going out?”
“Not long. This will only be our third date. But we’ve been texting. You know.”
I think about all of the delicious, naughty texts that Damien sends me and bite back a knowing smile. “How does Kari know him? What’s he do?” I force back a groan, realizing I’ve slid into full-on mommy mode.
“He’s an account manager for one of the financial companies downtown. I can’t remember which one. And he’s a regular. Been coming to Upper Crust for a while, and they got to chatting. You know how it is.”
“And so she fixed you up?”
“After he dropped a dozen or so hints. According to Kari, he had his eye on me for a while before he finally hit her up for an introduction.”
“Well, I couldn’t be happier for you.”
Her smile turns shy. “It’s still new between us. But I’m hoping.” A cloud crosses her face. “I’m not sure why, though. I’m about to move halfway across the country.”
“Bree—�
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“I know,” she interrupts. “I’ll worry about that when we get to it. And right now,” she adds, scooping up Anne as she scurries by, “I know two little girls who have a show to rehearse. And you need to change and get to Upper Crust.”
I glance at the clock. “Yes, I do.” The interview is with a local reporter, Mary Lee, whose editor called my office a few weeks ago. Apparently, she wants to interview me for a magazine about Southern California moms who are also business owners.
“Be good for Miss Bree.” I kneel and hold out my arms for Lara.
“Be good, Mommy!” she says, then gives me a sloppy kiss.
I hug her tight, then scoop up Anne, who Bree has just released, and dance butterfly kisses over her cheeks before turning her loose in the playroom.
I know I need to hurry, but I stand slowly, soaking in the joy that fills this cluttered playroom that’s one of the hearts of this extraordinary house. I smile as my girls, still sticky-faced with smears of chocolate, look up at me, the love in their eyes making my heart swell even as tears prick my eyes. Because I never had this. Never had a mother who looked at me with genuine affection. Who did anything other than try to use me for her own gain, her perfect little trophy daughter who elevated Elizabeth Fairchild’s status with each victory crown and pageant win.
Never.
The word cuts through me, dark and brutal, but I push the anger back, forcing myself back to center.
My mother’s been out of our lives since before we left for China to get Lara. She’s never seen her grandchildren, and I have no regrets. For the most part, I never even think of her, and that’s a huge relief.
But ever since this interview was scheduled, Elizabeth Fairchild has crept into my thoughts. I look at Anne’s blonde curls and see myself at that age, forced at two to learn to walk with a book on my head, my playtime filled with toddler pageants and every lesson imaginable so that my “talent” could be discovered. Had to get ahead of the competition, after all.
I’m certain that Ms. Lee is going to ask about my children and my mother. But while she can ask, I don’t have to tell, and I’ve already decided I won’t. I’m not going to spew neutral platitudes about my childhood or lie and say that it was sunny and bright.
And I’m certainly not going to tell the truth. There’s a limit on my willingness to be open with the press.
If she wants to cover my relationship with my mother, she can seek it out on her own. The paparazzi have picked at bits and pieces of that in the past, and I have no way to erase those articles and social media blasts. But I’m certainly not hand-feeding her a story.
Damien and I decided a long time ago that where our kids are concerned, we’re starting fresh. No Jeremiah Stark. No Elizabeth Fairchild. We’re washing away their manipulation. Banning their games.
There’s me and Damien and the girls. We’re a unit. A family.
And the only direction we’re moving is forward.
3
While our house is truly spectacular, I think the best thing about living in Malibu is the proximity to Upper Crust, a beachfront bakery and coffee shop that ranks pretty close to heaven as far as I’m concerned.
A converted house, the bakery sits on a rock outcropping just off the Pacific Coast Highway. I turn into the parking lot and have to remind myself not to steer Coop, my cherry-red convertible Mini Cooper, over to the drive-through window for a coffee and a muffin. Instead, I grab one of the coveted parking places, slide out of the car, and head for the door.
The bell tingles as I push inside, and I pause on the threshold, breathing in the scent of yeast and coffee. The Upper Crust is known for its variety of baked-daily bread and muffins as well as its proprietary blend of aromatic coffees.
Like I said—heaven.
Because I’m not the only one who thinks so, the line is seven people deep, and I scroll through my emails as I wait my turn. I’m ten minutes early for the interview, and as I’m about to text Ms. Lee and ask what I can get for her, I realize that I haven’t actually communicated with her directly. Her editor has always been a go-between.
Frowning, I scope out the line, wondering if one of my fellow customers is the reporter. But nobody’s carrying a tiny tape recorder or a narrow, spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. More to the point, no one is looking around as if they’re trying to find me.
And surely she knows what I look like.
She still hasn’t made contact when I reach the counter, so I take a chance and order two nonfat lattes and two blueberry muffins. Worst case, I end up doubly caffeinated and have a bonus muffin to go.
I wait my turn with the rest of the flock, then take the drinks and muffins out the back door to the wooden patio. Built on the same rocks that secure the bakery, the patio extends out over the beach, with a wooden staircase leading down to the dry, loose sand, and, further on, to the wet, packed beach being rubbed smooth by a steady, relentless surf.
Maybe it’s because I grew up landlocked in Dallas, but I never tire of watching the waves or the surfers who flock to Malibu to ride them. Now, I’m watching as a kid who looks about sixteen paddles out, then rises expertly onto the board. I hold my breath, always fearful they’ll fall, then exhale with a yelp when someone pulls out the seat next to me.
“Mrs. Stark?”
The speaker is a slender woman, probably five years older than me, with a bland expression, equally dull gray eyes and a smile that’s so tight I’m certain she practiced it in the mirror for hours.
Nerves, I decide. Then wonder why someone who doesn’t like chatting with strangers would possibly go into journalism.
Not a question I can answer, though, so I simply concentrate on keeping my own smile cheery and welcoming as I gesture to the chair opposite me. “Please call me Nikki. And you must be Mary. It’s so nice to meet you.”
She sits, looking a little more comfortable, then even grateful when I point out the coffee and muffin I grabbed for her.
“How long have you been a reporter?”
It’s the right question. She tells me about how it had always been her dream. How she’d worked on all her school newspapers up until college. “But I didn’t pursue it then. And later, when I realized how much I regretted it, I started trying to sell freelance articles.” She lifts a shoulder in a modest little shrug. “Now I get regular assignments.”
“That’s so great.” I mean it, too. I’m genuinely impressed by anyone who works hard for their dream.
“Hmm.” She twists in her seat, looking behind her and up the coast. “I thought we might be able to see your house from here, but it’s blocked by the hills.”
“It’s a bit of a drive with the twisty roads, but it’s only a short walk down the beach. Damien and I walk here with the girls sometimes on the weekends.”
“I didn’t realize your house was so close. I’d love to see it. For the article, of course.”
“Oh.” I consider that. “We prefer not to have the press in the house. But we can walk to the bungalow. It’s been my office for the past two years, and there’s plenty of kid paraphernalia strewn everywhere to prove that I’m a working mom.”
Since she thinks that sounds like a great plan, we leave the ceramic mugs and plates on the table along with a tip, then head toward the stairs.
We take off our shoes and carry them by our fingertips as we slog through the thick sand, then walk easier once we reach the surf. I’ve changed into a wrap-style skirt, and I’m glad I didn’t wear slacks, as the cuffs would be soaked from the waves that keep crashing around my ankles, repeatedly trying to topple me into the surf.
Even walking leisurely, it still only takes ten minutes to reach the bungalow. It’s bordered on the south by a narrow concrete access road that the city utilizes for the bungalow’s trash pickup and also as emergency beach access. The road runs from the beach to the main road on which the house sits, and it’s bordered by an iron fence that’s repainted monthly to keep the rust at bay.
Though the bu
ngalow originally had no parking, when I started using it for work, we removed a section of the fence and expanded it inward in the form of an open-ended rectangle, creating a fenced parking area just off the road that’s big enough to hold four cars. Access to the house requires the gate code, after which it’s a short jaunt down the sidewalk to the front door. Either that, or the visitor can walk down to the beach, hook a right, then shuffle through the sand to the wooden steps that lead up to the second floor, which is the bungalow’s main level.
That’s the entrance to which Mary and I go. It’s fully accessible from the beach, though the multitude of security cameras makes it certain that no one is climbing those stairs without being seen. As for actually entering the bungalow…well, that’s an even trickier proposition, requiring an entry code and a separate code to disengage the yowling security alarms that would otherwise begin to blare in less than sixty seconds.
As soon as I hit the final button to disarm the system, the heavy metal shutters that block all the windows recede into their recessed pockets, allowing light to flood the combination living and dining space.
“Oh, my. This is lovely.” Mary steps in behind me. “So homey and bright.”
“It’s one of my favorite places,” I admit. “Let me give you the grand tour, and then we can talk on the rooftop patio.”
I lead her through the place, letting her snap pictures with her smart phone of the kitchen and the bedroom that doubles as a play area for the girls.
“And your office?”
“There are filing cabinets hidden inside the kitchen island’s woodwork”, I tell her. “And I use the kitchen table as a workspace when my team comes in. Right now, it’s a team of four, so we fit easily around it. Have a seat while I make us some coffee to take upstairs.” I start to turn toward the coffee maker, then dive for the squeaky toy that is revealed when she pulls one of the chairs out to sit. “Like I said—working mom.”
