One Season of Sunshine

by Julia London

  “Jonathan,” Jane had said, and winced. “He was okay with it until I told him I was going to move there.”

  “Move there?” Nicole had cried, looking up. Sage had grabbed for the spoon, smearing more strained carrots on her tray. “Why do you have to move there?”

  “Because I don’t think it is something I can do in a couple of days. What if I find her, Nicole? I want to spend at least a few days talking to her.”

  “But what about your job?”

  “I talked to Marilee,” Jane had said, referring to their principal. “I’m taking an unpaid leave of absence for the rest of this term.”

  Nicole had gasped again. Sage had begun to wail for the food Nicole had been neglecting to feed her while she’d gaped at Jane.

  Jane had calmly taken the spoon from Nicole and dipped it into the jar. “Here you go, sweetie,” she’d said, giving Sage another spoonful. Delighted, Sage had slapped her palms onto her tray top.

  “Wow,” Nicole had said, incredulous, staring at Jane with wide hazel eyes.

  “I don’t know how long this is going to take. And you’ll be happy to know that I plan to finish my thesis while I’m there so they don’t kick me out of grad school. I should be back in Houston in the fall. . . .” Jane had shrugged. She really didn’t know what she’d do after that. She couldn’t think past this summer, past this quest.

  “Do you have enough money to live?”

  Jane had laughed. “You’re a teacher. What do you think?”

  “I think no. So are you going to get a job?”

  “Yep,” Jane had said. She’d smiled at Nicole.

  But Nicole had shaken her head. “Now you have me worried. I mean, you have a great job here, and you have friends and family and Jonathan, who adores you. And you’re moving?” She’d said it as if Jane had suggested moving to Siberia. “I can’t believe it.” Nicole had taken the spoon from Jane to finish feeding Sage. She’d shaken her head again, as if she’d been trying to make sense of it.

  But Jane had methodically continued on. She’d arranged to sublet her apartment. She’d put things in storage. She and Jonathan had agreed that as soon as she found a place, he’d bring some of the larger things she couldn’t carry in her Honda. The time to go had come.

  Yesterday afternoon, Jane’s mom and dad had skipped the family meal and come to see Jane. Standing in her half-empty apartment, Dad had stood with his hands in his pockets, looking around. “You have a flashlight and jumper cables in your car?” he’d asked, his gaze on some boxes.

  “Yes,” Jane had said.

  “What about oil? Have you checked the oil lately? I better check the oil,” he’d said and gone outside.

  Jane’s mother had closed up one box and run her hand over it. “Looks like you’ve thought of everything!” she’d said. “I can come over and finish up whatever you don’t finish tonight,” she’d offered.

  “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that. Jonathan is going to pick up whatever I leave and bring it to Cedar Springs.”

  Her mother had nodded; her father had stepped back into Jane’s apartment. “Honda’s good to go. Now you be careful driving out there, Janey. There are speed traps around Brenham, you know.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she’d promised.

  He’d shifted his gaze to the floor. “Well. Guess we better get, Terri,” he’d said, and glanced up at Jane. He’d smiled a little. “Come here, pumpkin,” he’d said, opening his arms to Jane. She’d walked into his embrace, held him close, the scent of his aftershave bringing back memories of many Christmas mornings. Her father had kissed the top of her head. “You go do what you need to do, Janey. But you get on home as soon as you can.”

  “I will. I promise.” She’d reluctantly stepped back. “Hopefully it will all go quick.”

  “Jim, go warm up the car,” her mother had said, forgetting that it was humid and eighty-five degrees outside.

  Jane’s father had winked at Jane and sauntered out. As soon as he’d gone, Terri had grabbed Jane in a big hug, squeezing her tightly to her. After a moment she’d let go and reached into her purse, withdrawing an envelope. “Here,” she’d said. “Here’s a little money to help you get set up.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Jane had said, her voice breaking a little. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to,” her mother had insisted, and pushed it into Jane’s hand. Her mother had cupped her face with her palm and smiled. “Janey, my love, I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for. That’s my prayer, that you find it and then come home where you belong. I want my girl to be happy.”

  Jane had smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “But you guard your heart,” she’d added, tapping Jane’s chest. “It is the wellspring of life, you know. You guard it with all that you’ve got.”

  So it had all come down to this, Jane thought as she pulled away from McDonald’s with an enormous Coke and an order of fries. It was odd, really—there was such randomness to life, to her being given up, here but for the grace of God and all of that. For whatever reason, of all the babies born that day, Jane’s mother had given her away. For all Jane knew, she was out there somewhere wondering if her baby was okay.

  Or maybe she was out there not wondering at all. Whatever the truth was, Jane was determined not to leave Cedar Springs until she had it.

  4

  The house was huge, like something you’d see showcased on House and Garden TV. It sat up on a hill, on its own natural pedestal, separated from the other houses just down the road in the swank Arbolago Hills subdivision. The entrance to the house was marked by tall iron gates with cursive Ps emblazoned in the ironwork. The house, which was so big that it had a name—Summer’s End—was styled like a Tuscan villa with a red tile roof, a fountain in the middle of the circular drive, azaleas and roses flanking the entrance, and bougainvillea in flower boxes beneath the windows.

  One would never guess tragedy shadowed the people who lived here.

  Jane knew only because the woman from the placement agency who had sent her here for the interview had told her what had happened to Asher Price, the owner. He’d lost his wife in a tragic car accident a little less than two years ago. In the blink of an eye, his beautiful wife, the mother of his two children, a woman in the prime of her life, was gone. Tragic, the woman had said. So tragic.

  Jane guessed there was nothing that could ever ease the pain of losing someone so quickly, so suddenly. Those poor children, losing their mother just before Christmas. No one saw the kids during the holidays. No one knows how they coped, the lady had said. Now Asher Price, a partner in a national advertising firm out of Austin, was looking for a nanny for his children.

  Jane felt very bad for Mr. Price and his children, she did, but nanny was not the sort of job she was really looking for. It was not the sort of job she would ever look for. She was a schoolteacher on summer break—that did not qualify her to be responsible for someone else’s kids. “Don’t you have something else, something like a waitress, or maybe a hostess?” she’d asked the lady, even though Jane had already hit most of the restaurants in and around town. No one was hiring.

  “I don’t have anything like that,” the lady had said. “With so many layoffs, people are taking those jobs now. Tourism is really down around here.”

  But a nanny?

  “Not a nanny per se,” the woman had cheerfully tried to sell it. “More like a babysitter.”

  “I need flexible hours,” Jane had said.

  “I am certain they’ll accommodate you,” the lady had said, and thrust the information about the interview into Jane’s hand with a smile.

  “I’m not really qualified.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “May I think about it?” Jane had asked.

  Babysitter, nanny. The only difference was in how long one had to babysit, and she really wondered if she could babysit all day, every day. She was thrilled and exhausted by the time th
e last bell rang at school, glad the kids were out of her hair for a few hours. And overnight? Jane feared she might turn out to be the sort of nanny to do something remarkably stupid on nanny-cam and then watch it go viral.

  She’d called Nicole from the parking lot of the placement agency. “What do you think about nanny?”

  There had been a long moment of silence. “Are you kidding?” Nicole had asked.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Jane, you’re a teacher. Not a nanny.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “That’s not your thing.”

  But what was her thing? “I don’t know,” Jane had said, and squeezed her eyes shut a moment. “I’m not having any luck finding a job. The economy out here sucks. I think I am going to go check it out.”

  “God, Janey, don’t do anything completely stupid,” Nicole had cautioned her. “I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

  Jane had laughed. “Give Sage a kiss for me,” she’d said, and gone back inside to tell the lady she’d go for the interview.

  Jane didn’t want to do it, yet here she was, sitting just outside the massive gates of Summer’s End. “Nanny,” she muttered under her breath and punched in the code the placement agency had given her, waited for the gates to swing open, then drove her Honda through and followed the drive up to the door, parking next to the fountain.

  She got out and looked up. That was a house. She and her mother used to watch a real estate show that featured houses just like this. What was it, ten or twelve thousand square feet? More? She knew without seeing it that it was filled with marble and granite and hand-carved moldings. She did not belong in a house like that.

  “This is so wrong,” she muttered and pushed her hair behind her ears.

  Mr. Price was undoubtedly expecting someone who had real experience in childcare, someone who was a nanny by profession. But he had the misfortune of being stuck in Cedar Springs, where, apparently, nannies did not congregate.

  Jane did a quick check of herself in the side-view mirror of her car. Her long, dark brown and perpetually curly hair was loosely knotted at her nape. She wore a black pencil skirt and sweater set and some plain black pumps. The only thing this Mary Poppins was missing was a spoonful of sugar.

  “Okay. Job. You need one,” she reminded herself. She had no idea how long she’d be here, and her savings weren’t so great that she could live on them indefinitely. So she slung her briefcase with extra resumés over her shoulder and walked determinedly to the front door. She rang the bell and waited, watching through the beveled glass as a figure moved toward her.

  Jane was expecting Mr. Price to open the door, not a pretty young woman. She had short blonde hair and very high heels, and was wearing a very chic suit that Jane was fairly certain she’d not bought at Kohl’s, where Jane had purchased her sweater set. The woman looked to be about Jane’s age, around thirty.

  “Miss Aaron?” The woman’s voice had a slight East Coast twinge to it.

  “Yes, Jane Aaron,” Jane said and extended her hand.

  “I am Tara, Mr. Price’s assistant.” She shook Jane’s hand with a feather-light touch. “Please come in.”

  Jane’s guess was right—the wide foyer was mostly marble under a soaring ceiling with elaborate crown molding. The décor was very minimalist and very white but for the pair of shadow paintings of a boy and girl on one wall.

  “Would you like some iced tea?” Tara asked, gesturing toward a sunken living area.

  And risk spilling it in this palace? “No, thank you,” Jane said, following her.

  The interior was spectacular. So spectacular that Jane was sorely tempted to text Nicole right there and tell her about it. She could smell a hint of jasmine, and she noticed candles on the carved mantel. The room looked like it had been styled for a photo in a glossy magazine. Every item was carefully placed: a sculpture of a Greek goddess, a large floral arrangement, a pair of tooled leather chairs at one end of the room, plush couches in the middle, and then another seating area arranged on an Oriental rug. The massive fireplace was on Jane’s right, and the exterior wall of the living area was made up of east-facing windows that overlooked an edgeless pool and outdoor living area, and Lake Del Lago beyond. It was a very picturesque, a very expensive, view.

  “Please have a seat,” Tara said and indicated a pair of overstuffed white chairs near the windows.

  Jane sat, but she had to shift to the edge to keep from disappearing altogether in the deep cushions. Tara did not seem to have that problem; she sat across from Jane, her long legs elegantly crossed. Above Tara’s head and the fireplace mantel was a vibrant painting of flowers in a vase, their petals falling on a polished table.

  Tara noticed Jane admiring it. “Mrs. Price painted that,” she said. “She was very talented.”

  Jane had to agree—that painting looked like it ought to have been hanging in a museum. “Will Mr. Price be joining us?” Jane asked as she removed an extra copy of her resumé from her briefcase.

  “He’ll be joining us via telephone. He’s in Munich at the moment.” She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind if I conduct the interview. I know his children and his preferences very well.”

  It seemed bizarre to Jane that Asher Price wouldn’t be here to personally interview the nanny candidates. She couldn’t imagine Nicole letting anyone near Sage without a full background check and a thorough grilling by her.

  “It was an emergency,” Tara added.

  “Oh. Nothing serious, I hope,” Jane replied.

  “No. Just business.”

  Too busy, Jane guessed. Too busy to check out the people he might stick with his kids all day long. “I have a resumé—”

  “That’s not necessary. The placement agency sent one,” Tara said, picking up a file on the table between them and opening it. “So you’re a teacher?” she asked, peering at the contents of the file.

  “Yes.” Jane resisted the urge to push a bothersome strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I’ve taught second grade for a few years now and I’ve been attending graduate school around that. But I’ve reached the point where I need to devote myself full-time to finishing my degree.” Or get kicked out of the program. “I am finishing my thesis.”

  “Do you like teaching second grade?” Tara asked, gliding right over the graduate school issue.

  “Love it,” Jane answered honestly. “Second graders are the perfect age for teaching. They aren’t babies anymore but are still innocent. And they are so eager to learn.”

  Tara nodded. “We’re a long way from Houston,” she remarked and suddenly looked up, her gaze flicking over Jane.

  “Yes, we are. I felt like I needed to be someplace where I won’t have a lot of distractions so I can finish my thesis.”

  “What sort of distractions?”

  Jane blinked. “Boyfriend,” she blurted. “Family. That sort of thing.” She held her breath, waiting.

  “I understand that all too well,” Tara murmured. “What is your thesis about?”

  That was not something Jane really wanted to talk about. Yet. “Ah . . . just how kids cope with loss.” That was a very vague interpretation of what she was actually doing. “I’m still doing research. Lots of book work,” she added, as if that explained her need to be in Cedar Springs.

  “So the boyfriend . . . is he okay with you being here? Or is he going to be popping in every weekend?”

  “Do what you need to do,” Jonathan had said to her when they’d parted. “When you get back, we’ll see where we stand.”

  “I don’t think he will,” Jane said and tried to smile. “You know how it is.”

  “I do,” Tara agreed. “I suppose the placement agency described the job to you?”

  “They said Mr. Price needed a nanny.”

  “For lack of a better term,” Tara said. “Mr. Price is a partner in GSD&P—Green, Sutcliff, Dyer and Price, the advertising firm. Have you heard of them?”

  Jane shook her head.

 
; “They are national and handle several international accounts. They landed BMW a month ago, which is huge. But there are some issues. All of that to say Mr. Price’s job is very demanding. He tries to be here as much as he can, but he is looking for someone who can keep an eye on his kids while he is working and when he is away.”

  Nanny is precisely the right term for it, Jane thought wryly.

  “If you don’t mind, I am going to call him now. He has a few questions he’d like to ask you.”

  “Sure,” Jane said.

  “Follow me?” Tara asked.

  Jane followed her down a long hall and thick carpet. The hall was lined with paintings. Jane recognized Lake Del Lago in one. Tara led her into an office with hardwood floors and a wall of built-in bookshelves that were filled with books. There was a beautiful mahogany desk and an executive chair in the office; Tara walked around and sat in the chair, gestured to one of the upholstered chairs across from her, and picked up the phone.

  Jane sat. “Hey,” Tara said into the phone a moment later, as if she were talking to a friend. “Oh, sorry.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Yes, we can make it quick.” She looked up at Jane. “Yes, everything looks good. Ah . . .” She glanced away from Jane. “The teacher. Second grade.”

  Jane shifted self-consciously, pushing her hair behind her ears again.

  “Okay,” Tara said and punched a button. “You’re on speaker.”

  “Hello, Miss Aaron,” a low male voice said. “I am sorry I can’t be there today, but you’re in good hands with Tara.”

  Even his children? Jane wondered. “Hello—”

  “I only have a few minutes to ask a few questions.”

  “Okay,” Jane said, leaning forward.

  “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “What? No, no,” Jane said quickly, hoping they hadn’t somehow learned about an unfortunate joyride when she was seventeen.

  “Do you drink or smoke?”