by Anthology
“Just a few more and we can be on our way,” Marvin stated, directing her attention back to the legal documents. “Again, once you sign off on the last of the papers, the whole of Joshua’s estate will revert to you as his closest living relative and executor. Barring what the court takes to cover his outstanding debts, of course.”
“I understand. I don’t expect there will be much left after everything is settled.”
“We are quite lucky the late Mr. Salant and his wife had recently relocated back to New York. It makes this much easier.”
“I can imagine.”
“For decedents who die with a will in New York, matters are pretty uncomplicated, with most wills being executed exactly as the decedent specified they should be. Just how this situation will be handled, though, is completely dependent upon the value of the estate and…other factors. In every case where there are both a will and real property in the estate, everything must be submitted to the court for probate.”
“Hold on…probate? What do you mean?”
“The probate process in New York begins with a judge reviewing the will of the deceased, ensuring that it’s accurate and legal and has all the information necessary for it to be considered valid and binding. In his will, Joshua Salant named his wife as his executor, but since his wife perished with him, the will stipulates a secondary executor. Which is you, Mrs. Trumbald. So after debts are settled, you may begin distributing the property as listed in the will to the intended beneficiaries. That makes things relatively simple for us. You are also responsible for identifying and settling any outstanding liabilities that may still be pending, all according to New York inheritance laws.” He gave her a smile as if this was all self-evident.
“Um…okay, so I just put an ad in the paper saying if anyone has a claim against the estate, they should come forward now or forever hold their peace. Or something like that. Right? Sounds simple enough. I think I can do that for my cousin’s sake.”
His smile widened, but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve provided everything you need.” He handed her a thick folder. “When you file for probate, be sure to include a copy of the will, the death certificates, the probate petition, and any other relevant documentation you may acquire in the meantime. Some counties may allow you to file online, though it’s recommended that you seek the assistance of a lawyer. It could get a little…tricky.”
Her brow wrinkled. “How do you mean, tricky?”
“Well, according to New York succession law, biological children of the decedent are given full-fledged inheritance rights to their parents’ estate. In this case, now, you would become the guardian.”
“Guardian? I don’t understand.”
Josh and his wife hadn’t had children. Right? She couldn’t remember if she’d received news of it or not. She also hadn’t realized they had moved back to New York.
Olympia opened the folder and focused on trying to read what exactly was coming her way with managing the estate. Her eyes blurred and she had a difficult time digesting the words. The table jarred with each kick of Renee’s feet.
“Sweetheart, do you think you could stop that for a minute?” she asked softly.
“She has a listening problem,” Marvin answered.
She glanced up, brows drawing together. “You mean she can’t hear?”
“Oh no, Renee can hear. She simply chooses not to pay attention.” He slid a final page toward her, and if she’d been paying attention, she would have seen the glint in his eyes. “One more.”
“All right.”
Renee’s eyes, a bit wary as they studied her, suddenly widened when she opened her mouth and said, “I feel sick.”
“Oh, I’m—” Olympia began.
“I just need your initials on this one—here—then you’re free to go.”
She scribbled something on the last paper, her attention focused on the little girl. “Marvin, correct me if I’m wrong, but your granddaughter doesn’t look good. She’s gone pale. Maybe you want to take her to the bathroom.”
He collected the papers, shoved them into his briefcase and closed it with a click. “She had nothing but candy on the plane. I’m not surprised she’s feeling the effects. And I’ve mentioned before, she’s not my daughter. Or my granddaughter. She’s your ward now. As executor of the will and fiduciary conservator, you are her guardian until she comes of age to inherit. You were selected as her legal guardian through Joshua Salant’s last will and testament.”
The reality of the situation hit home then, exploding through the haze of her mind. Olympia felt her stomach plummet into her shoes, through the hotel foundation, and straight down into the depths of the earth. “No. No sir. No, no, no sir!” she exclaimed. “You can’t just foist a child on me. No one had this conversation with me. I didn’t even know they had a child!”
“Renee is Joshua’s only child, and it’s fallen to you to become her full-time caregiver and guardian. You signed the papers. The courts have already agreed to your guardianship.” Marvin refused to meet her gaze now.
That explained the glint, the no-good son of a bitch. “Yes, but I had no idea what I was signing.” She got to her feet, hands on the table. “You rushed me. This is ridiculous.”
“You should have read the fine print, Mrs. Trumbald. It’s all signed and legal now.”
Trying frantically to divide her attention between Renee and Marvin, Olympia pushed away from the table. “You can’t just leave me here with a baby. I have no idea what to do with her. I’m not prepared for this!”
“All due respect, ma’am, but we’ve concluded our business, and I’m late for a luncheon meeting with my partners. If you have any questions please don’t hesitate to contact my secretary.”
“Marvin, you piece of—”
She whirled around at the sound of gagging. Renee opened her mouth and all that came out was pink. Bright cotton-candy-pink vomit as everything she’d eaten over the last few hours was expelled, barfed unceremoniously onto the plush hotel carpet by Olympia’s neat brown suede heels.
CHAPTER TWO
Harlan Anderson was looking forward to working again. It had been too long in between jobs. His last high-paying tutor gig was on hold for summer break and he hadn’t found a caregiving position in the last year. Wow, had it been a year already? He was losing track of his days.
It seemed there were more and more people who were uncomfortable with the idea of a manny—a male nanny. Heaven forbid anyone with facial hair apply to take care of their children. As if only women could be nannies. Only women could be good around kids and have their best interests at heart.
It wasn’t fair, although it had helped him better understand the struggles women faced in the working world. The general public was under the impression that some jobs belonged solely to women and others solely to men. The dichotomy was alive and well.
He’d sure turned a few heads when he went into child care as a full-time profession. More so when he decided to become a private manny. There was nothing he loved more than flipping a stereotype. It gave him a perverse sense of pleasure.
The old Victorian home he found himself looking up at was a sweet dedication to times past. The gables and corbels and whatever the hell they were called decorated the outside of the house, painted in vibrant shades of green and blue and pink. It was the flamingo of the neighborhood, standing out amidst its more modern and muted peers.
It was perfect.
Harlan had a feeling this job was going to be a game changer. Not because of any tangible reason. Just one of those vague gut feelings he’d learned to trust over the years. The woman who’d reached out to contact him was well respected in the community—he’d done an internet search on her name for intel—and from the sound of her voice over the phone, she needed help. A lot of it. Immediately. It wasn’t fair to say she was stressed, never having met her in person, but he had a way of telling. It was a sixth sense. And it was that sixth sense that also made him damn good with children.
&
nbsp; He drew his bag over his shoulder and took a deep, steadying breath. There was no reason to be nervous. This wasn’t his first manny gig. But it is the most important, his subconscious argued. If he did a good job here, then word of mouth around town would improve and he might be able to have a steady paycheck for once. His other jobs had been small. Out of town. The kind no one paid attention to. He craved stability and a long-term commitment.
His footsteps echoed along the flagstone path. Once he made it to the door, hand poised to knock, he noticed the muted squawks he’d thought were birds were actually coming from inside the house.
No one answered him after a few minutes of knocking, and finally Harlan tried the doorknob and found it unlocked.
The second he had the door open, sound assaulted him, a cacophonous array of tinkling baby music and voices raised in a screaming match.
Ooh boy.
He took the liberty of letting himself inside, closing the door behind him. “Hello? Mrs. Trumbald? It’s Harlan Anderson. You called me about potential caretaking for your ward?”
Once again, he was greeted not with a welcome but with a crash, something plastic flung against a wall and bouncing off.
“Hello?” he said again, making sure he covered all his bases in case someone tried to argue that he hadn’t made his presence known. Parents could be testy, especially new parents running on little sleep.
From what he understood, the child in question was only four years old. Prime tantrum age.
He followed the noises into a kitchen near the back of the house. Eyes widening, he took in the scene, the bubbling pot of macaroni and cheese on the stove top. The microwave timer beeping frantically. The screaming red-faced toddler strapped into a high chair and the woman with her back hunched despondently, hands on either side of the sink, water running and hair falling over her face.
“Mrs. Trumbald?”
If she was surprised by his entrance, she made no indication. Instead, she turned slowly and wiped a hand beneath her eyes to clear the smeared mascara away.
“Please tell me you’re here to help,” she said, her voice caught between a plea and a sigh. “Are you Mr. Anderson?”
This was a woman who’d reached the end of her rope, he thought, setting his bag on the table and holding out a hand in introduction. The little girl seemed to be okay for the moment, apart from her rosy cheeks and tears. But he’d seen it all before, and knew that once he made quick work of introductions, he could handle the situation.
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Harlan Anderson,” he offered.
“Olympia Trumbald. And I’m a widow, so you don’t need to bother with the missus bit. Olympia will do just fine.”
He noticed the tension in her shoulders. “Do you go by Oly?”
“No, never Oly.” She shuddered, took a deep breath and held it, trying to keep it together, but reached out all the same and shook his hand.
She wore no jewelry, he noticed, not even a pair of studs on her ears. Pretty enough, she needed no adornment. He kept eye contact with her for a moment before searching her face. It was a good face, strong and supple, hidden behind thick waves of chestnut-brown hair that tapered off into an angled cut well below her shoulders.
Pretty? No, she was beautiful, he thought with a start. Maybe beautiful wasn’t even the right word. Statuesque, maybe, in the way of old-time movie stars. A modern-day Catwoman with the grace and style of Julie Newmar. He took in her heart-shaped face, the gorgeous eyes only slightly marred by the destroyed mascara, prominent cheekbones highlighted by a rosy color he attributed more to stress than rouge, and full lips that quivered just a bit. He was tall, and she came up to around his shoulders. Which had to put her around five foot eight, maybe five nine.
“And this is Renee,” she said with a sigh. “Renee Salant.”
“I am not!”
The scream pierced his eardrums, but at least it was words instead of just unintelligible sounds.
Olympia turned on her heel, hands on her hips. “Yes, honey, that is your name. You are Renee.”
“I don’t like you!” the little girl screamed. Her face turned even redder with exertion. “I think you’re ugly. And stinky. Stinky like poo! I have a mother and she’s nice. She’s not mean like you.”
Harlan watched the woman’s jaw tighten as she tried not to get upset. She blinked and shook her head to clear it. In a quick movement, she took the pot off the burner and winced when the steam burned her wrist.
Renee was still screaming. “I hate you! I hate you!”
He wasn’t going to give in to Renee’s tantrum and instead kept his attention on Olympia. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Still trying to get a handle on this motherhood thing. I need help, and although you’re a man, you’re also my best option.” She said it by way of explanation, her lips twisting apologetically, as though the words would hurt him. He’d heard them too many times before to be insulted. “I had to take money out of my 401k to hire you. I wasn’t sure what else to do. Daycare is way too expensive. More than my mortgage.”
He nodded gravely and fought against the urge to grab her slightly reddened wrist and press his mouth against the burn. Kiss it and make it better. “I understand, and I appreciate you taking a chance on me. This late in the year there aren’t really a lot of options. You said she’s four?” He indicated the screaming toddler.
“Yes. Four. At least I think she’s four. I don’t remember her birthday. The lawyer told me at some point, I’m sure. Or it’s in the papers somewhere…”
Then he remembered the few details she’d given over the phone. The girl—Renee—did not belong to Olympia by birth. Something about a cousin and a tragic accident. It was some sort of guardianship deal, very sudden and unexpected. No wonder she was overwhelmed. As the nearest family member, she’d been thrust into motherhood without a chance to acclimate to the idea or have anyone help her along the way.
His decision to do all he could for this family strengthened, bolstered by an underlying desire to ease the lines of stress fanning away from her mouth.
She released a sigh that was closer to a sob. “I have a full-time job, you see, and preschools in the area have already started their school terms. Not to mention most of them have a waitlist. She isn’t old enough yet for any other type of school, and daycare around here can be positively unreasonable.”
“So I’m told.”
Olympia pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. “I…I was out of options. I can’t take any more time away from my job. I work for the art gallery in town and we have a giant fundraiser coming up in another month. I’m in charge of it, and if I don’t show up, then it’s all going to go to hell in a handbasket. Someone else will be brought in to take over if I can’t handle the new responsibilities and I’ll lose everything I’ve worked so hard for.” Her hands lifted helplessly before falling to her sides once more. Her chin trembled, her eyes closed, and a tear slipped out. “I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t know how to do this.”
“Look, I can help,” Harlan said softly, moving to his leather messenger bag and pausing to shoot Renee a smile. She screamed harder in response. He resisted the urge to cover his ears. “I have a few papers I need you to sign for me. Then, if you don’t mind, we can get out of your way, let you do whatever you need to do, and I can get acquainted with this little girl.”
Olympia watched as he pulled some documents from his bag. His face was smooth, thin and angular in a boyish way. Dark blond hair fell in untidy bits around his face, too long and too shaggy to do anything but hang over his ears. He pushed it out of the way with his fingers and tried to go for a professional I-have-everything-covered grin. His eyes, a dark clear hazel, never wavered as he turned back to stare at her expectantly, holding the papers out for her.
“You have a baby face,” she commented. “Exactly how old are you?”
Harlan glanced up from the papers, eyes wide. “I�
�m thirty-one.”
She gulped. Yikes! “Wow, yeah, you’re young.”
“Not really. I think the cut off for young is twenty-two.”
While Renee kicked and fought against the holder keeping her from tipping out of her chair, he finally broke the staring match with Olympia and glanced down at his watch, noticed that only five minutes had passed. It felt like a lifetime. He looked back at her and didn’t have time to open his mouth before she was sighing and rushing toward the baby.
“It was signing papers that threw my life into a tailspin in the first place.”
She could only mean the legal estate documents, he thought in a rush, and wondered how it would feel to be thrown to the wolves, in a manner of speaking. He’d seen enough of the house to know that this was not a woman accustomed to messes, at least not the physical kind. Kids were nothing if not a mess on two legs. The Victorian was immaculate, with antiques in every room and expensive draperies and rugs. The pieces each looked picked out particularly to go with the era of the home. Everything in its place. And valuable to boot.
Sympathy rising and mouth dry, Harlan said, “Be that as it may, if we want this to be a legitimate arrangement, I need you to sign these releasing me from any liability when it comes to Renee. It’s standard procedure to protect both myself and you if something happens—which I’m not saying it will, I just like to be prepared. Then I want you to go sit on the couch. You need to kick your feet up. Relax.”
Olympia shook her head, balking at the idea of being told what to do. “Sorry, I don’t have time to sit. I need to give Renee her dinner, clean the floor in the living room where she broke my favorite candy dish, and then do the laundry so she has something to wear. Her luggage just arrived and I haven’t had the time to wash the whole lot, let alone go out and buy anything new for her.” She raised a hand to her throat and her pulse thudding there. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I thought—I hoped—I would be able to get the hang of this but nothing feels natural. She won’t stop crying and I’m afraid I’m making it worse. I still have to finalize her adoption and…” Her voice broke and she ducked her head to hide whatever expression she didn’t want him to see. “Wow, I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”
