The Prince's Nanny

by Carol Grace

  She shook off her unbecoming feelings and got undressed. In bed, snuggled under a fluffy comforter, Laurie told herself now that she’d quit her job with the airline and forgotten about the handsome but married pilot who’d nearly broken her heart, she had her whole life ahead of her, that anything was possible, that all her dreams could come true. But the niggling questions remained: How, When, Where and Who?

  The next day Gretel called Steve back and told him she couldn’t leave so soon and she and Laurie and Morgan headed off to see the sights. Morgan was tucked safely in her car seat, gnawing happily on her teething ring. It was Gretel who didn’t look happy. Not the next day nor the day after that. No matter how interesting the pictures in the art museum or how dazzling the view of Ontario from the Peace Bridge, she was racked with indecision about when to leave.

  “So, Morgan,” Laurie said one afternoon as she held the little girl in her lap and fed her applesauce. “Shall we put your mother on the next plane for Seattle before she has a chance to change her mind?” Each day Laurie found herself growing more attached to her goddaughter, and Morgan was more willing to go to Laurie when her mother was tired or busy.

  Gretel gave Laurie a wry smile. “How did you know what I was thinking?” she asked.

  “Intuition,” Laurie answered. “I’ve known you a long time. Longer than Morgan here. And she and I agree that it’s time for you to cut the cord. Vamoose, skeedaddle, be on your way.”

  Reluctantly Gretel met Laurie’s gaze. “But we haven’t seen the Falls yet. I’ve been saving it for last. And a friend of Steve’s was going to give us a personal tour. A gorgeous guy. I wanted you to meet him.”

  “Morgan and I can see the Falls on our own. We don’t need a guide, no matter how gorgeous, do we, Morgan? After we drop you at the airport, we’ll go.” Laurie put Morgan

  in her high chair and reached for the phone. “I’ll make the reservation for you. You’re ready. You’ve been packed for days.”

  Gretel listened to Laurie and watched her write down the flight information. She didn’t say yes and she didn’t say no. She did call Steve, though, and gave him her flight number. She didn’t change her mind, but she came close. She hugged Morgan and said goodbye a dozen times. At the airport she walked down the long tunnel to the plane with one very wistful backward glance at Laurie and her daughter. Laurie smiled confidently and even Morgan waved to her mother before the plane took off.

  Laurie turned to Morgan in her arms just as the baby screwed up her face into a frown and began to scream.

  Chapter Two

  Once in her car seat, Morgan turned bright red and flailed her arms in anger and frustration. It could have been her teeth, but Laurie suspected she was witnessing separation anxiety the likes of which she’d never imagined. And Gretel had barely left!

  Laurie gripped the steering wheel tightly and wondered what to do. She realized, belatedly, that she didn’t know anything about babies except that she wanted one. Would Morgan prefer to go home or would she rather see Niagara Falls the way her mother had planned before she took off? Morgan didn’t say. She just cried as if her heart were broken.

  So Laurie decided on the Falls. Maybe Morgan needed a distraction. Laurie certainly did. With one hand on the steering wheel, she reached into the glove compartment with the other for the map. Gretel had marked the route and Laurie soon saw the signs for the tollway.

  Laurie kept driving and Morgan kept crying until they reached the parking lot for the viewing area of Niagara Falls. The noise of the white water was thunderous, almost loud enough to drown out Morgan’s sobs. Laurie unbuckled the baby from her seat, shoved the car keys into her pocket and grabbed Morgan’s backpack and diaper bag, all the while keeping up a line of chatter designed to soothe the child. With Morgan on her back and the diaper bag over her arm, Laurie approached the fence and gasped at the sight.

  The water cascaded to a two-hundred foot drop sending a mist back up into the air. It was stunning. It was breathtaking. But not to Morgan. Her wailing reached new heights. Other tourists stopped snapping pictures of each other and looked at the baby. A man at the edge of the crowd stared at them. Probably wondering what torture Laurie was inflicting on the poor child.

  “Please, Morgan,” Laurie begged under her breath. “Please don’t cry. Look at the Falls. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  Laurie sank down onto a wooden bench, lifted Morgan out of the backpack and onto her lap. And Morgan continued to cry. Desperate, Laurie reached into her pocket, pulled out her car keys and rattled them in front of Morgan.

  The baby stopped crying instantly, grabbed the keys out of Laurie’s hand and threw them over the fence and down into the depths of the turbulent Niagara River.

  Laurie gasped, stood and looked with disbelief into the white water. “Morgan,” she breathed, “what have you done?” A better question was, what had Laurie done, handing her keys to a baby to play with?

  Read More at:

  http://www.amazon.com/Almost-Married-ebook/dp/B005DFDJ9Q/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1311193549&sr=1-1

  For a change of pace here’s an excerpt from Andrew Culver’s coming-of-age story Yellow Days:

  One Night at Kinko’s

  I work for a man who wants to be famous. Over the months I’ve come to understand that he is totally unworthy of fame. Quite simply, “Hollywood” Syd Ross has no viable skills. Somehow, however, he is independently wealthy and has no trouble paying me a good living wage. Often I get called at strange hours and given strange tasks. I am expected to promote him, but I often have trouble selling him to comedy clubs because he is a terrible comedian.

  One night, Syd called around six. His Brooklyn accent was gruff and urgent. “Andrew, you have to come to Kinko’s. It’s the one on Sunset, do you have time?”

  ”Yeah, I guess.” I had just finished my second Miller light.

  ”Because there’s a woman here, she is gorgeous. She’s from Australia, can you come?”

  ”Well, sure.”

  ”I’m too old for her. You could date her though. She needs help with her resume. So can you come?”

  ”Yeah, okay.”

  ”The one on Sunset, west—no wait—east of Fairfax.excuse me—Derrick! What’s the cross street? The cross street here! It’s Curson—the only Kinko’s on Sunset, come quick. Okay? Come quick. She’s an actress. She’s beautiful.”

  ”Yeah, I’ll leave now.”

  ”The only one on Sunset.”

  ”Yeah.”

  ”Curson.”

  ”Okay.”

  I hung up and went to my car, wondering why I had a lunatic for a boss. I got in the Hyundai and started driving west. “Hollywood” Syd Ross was expecting me to promote him as a comedy act. But I’d seen his act, and it was terrible. He just bungled old Jewish jokes he learned from Jackie Mason. I cut over to Sunset and forgot the street I was supposed to be looking for. Eventually I got to Crescent Heights and realized I had gone way too far. It took ten minutes just to turn left to go down to Santa Monica, where I figured I would double back and find it.

  But Santa Monica was a parking lot full of morons going home from work. So I sat in traffic. I thought about telling Syd to write some of his own jokes, but I realized that his act would stink no matter what he did. After twenty minutes of frustration, traffic started moving. Finally I got to Curson and remembered to turn left.

  Then there was the mystery of how Syd had enough money to pay me a living wage in the first place. I got up the hill to the Kinko’s but I couldn’t tell if there was parking for customers or not so I had to find street parking way up the hill. Finally I got to the goddamn Kinko’s and I could see “Hollywood” Syd Ross (originally Rosenberg), through the window.

  There he was. All fifty-three years of him. He was wearing tiny yellow running shorts and a T-shirt that said “Arnold for Governor.” He was pacing frantically, his hunched frame and mass of curly grey hair unmistakable. I got in the door.

  ”Andrew! Where were
you, what took you so long? Come here, look at this!” He showed me a young bottle blonde with bright lipstick, a pink tank-top and tight ass-hugging pre-faded jeans sitting at a computer, looking confused.

  ”Isn’t she gorgeous? She’s beautiful, right?”

  ”Yes,” I lied.

  ”Tell her, tell her!” he admonished me.

  ”You’re very beautiful.”

  She was totally frustrated, trying to print some document on a Mac. Syd tried to calm her.

  ”I brought my assistant. He’ll fix everything, Jessica.”

  ”I’m Sofia,” she said. Her Australian accent was thick.

  ”I brought my assistant, Sofia. Andrew will help you. HELP HER! HELP HER!” He pushed me towards the computer. She got out of the way and I looked at the computer. She was trying to print something off a CD ROM and had obviously never used complicated machinery before. I fiddled around, trying to open the document.

  ”This was due three hours ago,” Sofia wailed. “I’m going to freak out!” She put her head in her hands. “Fix it! Can you fix it?” Syd shouted. “Calm down, Sofia! Calm down Sofia! It’ll be okay, Sofia. I promise. Andrew will fix everything.”

  ”I’m not going to get the job.”

  I was dealing with a pair of monkeys. They must have been here for 45 minutes, why hadn’t they asked the clerks to help them?

  ”Can’t you do something?” Syd asked me.

  ”I don’t know. I’m not familiar with Macs.”

  Just then her credit card popped out of the machine and her time was up. The computer screen went black. Sofia stood up violently.

  ”Oh-my-God-this-is-not-happening. I just want to print my resume. I can’t believe how FUCKING COMPLICATED THIS IS!” Heads began to turn towards us as Syd frantically tried to calm her down.

  ”Sofia, no! Sofia, it’ll be okay.”

  ”I’m freaking out, what’s wrong with my credit card?”

  ”You can use mine!” Syd ripped out his card and shoved it into the machine. Nothing happened.

  ”We need some help,” Sofia said.

  ”Help! We need help here!” Syd ran to get an employee.

  ”Someone help this woman,” he chastised the staff which consisted of several black guys. Finally a guy came over and helped her. Syd and I watched.

  ”She’s beautiful,” Syd said.

  ”Yeah.”

  ”She’s gorgeous, I mean this is ridiculous.”

  ”I know.”

  ”This is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  ”Uh-huh.”

  ”She’s completely amazing, don’t you think?”

  ”Yeah, totally.” I noticed a copy of the Time article under his arm. He had been mentioned briefly in an article about Will Ferrell.

  ”You made copies of the article?”

  ”Yes! Because I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine” he sang, dancing around while “Lucille” played over the stereo. Customers looked over with blank faces, trying not to react. Syd looked over at the black guy helping Sofia.

  ”Derrick!” he shouted, running over to them. Derrick turned around.

  ”Derrick, you need a tip.” Syd pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to Derrick.

  ”Hollywood, I can’t take that.”

  ”Take it, take it, take it, just take it, I tell you what, I tell you what: America is a racist country and guys like you work hard. You know? It’s hard enough to be black in America and I’ll bet I’m the first guy who tipped you all day.”

  ”Yeah that’s true.”

  ”Take the tip Derrick, that’s for you. Just tell ‘em it came from HOLLYWOOD SYD ROSS!” he bellowed, then began to dance again, waving the article in the air. “I’m in Time magaziiiiine, I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine.”

  Then he went over to Sofia, still in a state of aggravation, and said “Jesus Christ, Sofia! You DON’T KNOW how gorgeous you are. Can I have your number?”

  ”No.”

  ”Do you want to go out?”

  ”No.”

  ”Here. I’ll give you my card.” He gave her a card, then pulled me aside.

  ”See Andrew, she probably won’t go out with me. But it’s worth a try. You know? That’s what I’m trying to teach you. Everything is worth a shot. Even if you get discouraged. Don’t EVER give up. In life. Just don’t give up. For your acting career, too. Same advice. It applies to everything. Do you hear me?”

  ”Yeah.”

  ”Do you understand?

  ”Sure.”

  ”You get it?”

  ”Uh-huh.”

  ”Don’t EVER give up. Have you had dinner?”

  ”No.”

  ”I’ll buy you a burger. I have to get home in time for Britney Spears on Dateline. You like Britney Spears?”

  ”Yeah, she’s alright.”

  ”Can you drive me home?”

  Oh my God.

  ”Sure, Syd.”

  As we left Syd said goodbye to Sofia, who didn’t respond. As we walked, Syd had to jog to keep up with my long strides.

  ”This Time article is great. Do you know how many people read this magazine? I mean, this is the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. It’s a mitzvah. I want to be famous so fucking bad, Andrew. I’m on the verge.”

  ”Yeah, this could be it, Syd.”

  ”Sofia probably won’t call me. What a schaunder. Oh well. See if you can get the number to Rolling Stone Magazine, maybe I can get an interview. And Spin Magazine, the E! Cable Network, the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Call them and tell them about the article. I can do segments on the Daily Show. I can do anything! Tell them that. Tell them, tell them—remember this— ‘When you fly air Hollywood, you fly first class.’ It’ll be a catch phrase. Hahaha, that’s good. Air Hollywood, first class.”

  ”Yeah, that’s funny.”

  We got to the car.

  ”We can do this, Andrew. I’ll take you straight to the top. You’ll write my jokes.”

  We drove to the In-N-Out on Sunset and parked. Inside there was a huge group of USC kids in Trojan Marching Band jackets milling around waiting for burgers. Immediately Syd whipped out a copy of the article and waved it around, announcing “Hollywood Syd Ross here!! I’m in Time magaziiiiiiine!”

  The marching band kids all looked over at Syd, laughing. Relishing the attention, Syd announced, “My assistant Andrew Culver, a USC graduate! I love the Trojans!”

  I went over to order our burgers. Waiting in line, I looked over and saw Syd surrounded by a Mexican family. He was handing out copies of the article, speaking fluent Spanish.

  All I could make out was “No soy Latino, pero hablo Espanol. Tengo amor para la gente hispanica.” Pretty soon the marching band members, Mexican families, skate-boarders from Hollywood High, hoboes, and guys from some punk band were surrounding Syd and reading copies of the article. He was in heaven.

  After the burgers we started driving towards his place. As we drove he pointed out Hollywood landmarks.

  ”Marilyn Monroe used to live on this block. And there used to be a studio in this parking lot. It’s called the phantom studio, nobody knows about it. They tore it down to build a parking lot. Can you believe that? See, a lot of these bungalow apartments were built in the twenties by the studios for their stars. They came from New York. Classic Hollywood bungalows. See that Chinese restaurant Wok of Fame? Over there. No, over there. Phil Spector’s record label used to be there. You know what, Andrew? I could never leave Hollywood. I love this place. There’s magic here, Andrew. There is magic in the air!”

  ”There’s definitely something in the air, Syd.”

  I got him back to his apartment just in time for Britney Spears. He gave me my payment for the week and hurried inside. On the drive home it started to rain. And as I drove past the phantom studio I thought I understood what Syd was saying about Hollywood.

  Read more of Andrew’s adventures in LaLa Land in his book Yellow Days at:

  http://www.amazon.com/Yellow-Days-ebook/dp/B004B
SGG9G/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1312861947&sr=1-1

  Read an excerpt from Welcome to Paradise

  The day was hot, the trail was long and her suitcase was so heavy she almost regretted packing her portable espresso machine. But a summer without good coffee? Unthinkable. Especially a summer where the days are warm but the nights are cool. Chloe rested her fanny against a pine tree to catch her breath and unfolded a piece of tattered, yellowed paper that she took from her pocket.

  Paradise Hot Springs, where the Ute Indians once wintered near warm thermal waters, invites tourists to enjoy warm days and cool nights in the mountains of Colorado. Mineral waters known to cure gout, obesity, broken hearts and old gunshot wounds. Guests will be met by stagecoach. El. 7500 ft. Your genial host and proprietor: Horatio W. Hudson. Est. April 1912.

  "Where is the stagecoach?" she muttered. "And where is the genial host?" She knew the answer to that one. Great-Grandpa Horatio Hudson was dead at age ninety-seven. And Paradise Springs was hers now. If she could find it. There had been one hand-carved wooden sign that pointed the way, and then nothing. Just a narrow trail overgrown with blackberry thorns and nettles.

  Nobody told her she'd have to leave her car at the entrance. Nobody told her she'd be walking miles uphill in suede chukka boots.

  "Buy boots," they'd said. They didn't say what kind.

  "Take your camera." It was hanging around her neck like an albatross.

  "Have a great vacation." She sighed. Maybe once she got there.

  After another two hours of wading through a shallow creek, spanning fallen trees and climbing at least another thousand feet in altitude, Chloe was dripping with perspiration and gasping for breath. For two cents she would have thrown her suitcase over a cliff, coffeemaker and all.

  But then she saw it in the distance. Steam rising in the clear blue sky. With one last burst of energy she dragged herself forward to the end of the trail. And there it was: Paradise Hot Springs in all its glory.