THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  "Great. I'll swing by later and see how he's doing."

  She nodded. "I fixed sandwiches."

  "You did?" He gave her a lazy grin of appreciation.

  She crossed her arms and forced a light, breezy tone that belied the butterflies in her stomach, "Don't worry, it's kind of hard to mess up PB and J."

  "Peanut butter and jelly." Brooks's expression fell, but he righted it posthaste with a cardboard grin. "Yum."

  At his valiant effort to hide his distaste, she smiled. "Kidding."

  He raised an eyebrow and set the milk on the counter. "So, what's under here?" One hip against the counter, he lifted a corner of the foil covering a large platter.

  "Meat loaf sandwiches. I used Clara's recipe."

  "Now that genuinely sounds good."

  At the reappearance of his grin, Amelia cast an anxious glance at the mudroom. "Where's the rest of the crew?"

  "They're coming. We were looking at the neighbors' puppies. Just got a litter, and we're prime for a new cow-dog. You think Timmy's old enough for a puppy?"

  "Depends. What kind of dog?"

  "Border collie."

  "Oh, what fun. Yes, they're well enough dispositioned to be good with kids." She nodded, then frowned. How could she remember insignificant trivia about missing luggage and dog breeds and not her own life?

  "It'll come back," Brooks reassured, as if he knew the direction of her thoughts. "Give it time."

  She nodded, but inside, her stomach tangled in knots.

  What if she didn't have time?

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  "I'm afraid I've done something wrong," Amelia confided to Dr. Emma Andersson the next day. The psychiatrist had a knack for putting people at ease, getting them to open up. "Something illegal. I don't know what. Maybe a hundred unpaid parking tickets. Or a gambling debt? Or … worse." She worried her hands. "Something that would give me a reason to fear the police, to want to lay low."

  "Mmm-hmm." Dr. Andersson scribbled something on her pad of paper. She looked to be around Jo's age, with straight, dark blond hair falling to her shoulders and gray-blue eyes behind stylish glasses. She wore a lavender sweater set and gray wool pants and sat on a chair beside Amelia as if they were having a casual conversation. "This is because of the policeman at the hospital?"

  "Yes. I mean, the hospital made me nervous. I was on edge from the start, but he's what pushed me over."

  More scribbling. "Tell me how you felt when you first saw him. Your very first reaction."

  "Guilt. Again, like I'd done something wrong. I knew it, and he knew it, and it was going to be ugly if I didn't get out of there. Then it sort of escalated. I panicked."

  "You were scared."

  "Yes." She gave a blow-by-blow account of her panic attack. "What does this mean, Dr. Andersson? Am I nuts?"

  "No, you aren't nuts. Quite the contrary. From what you've told me about your dreams and your panic attacks, I'd venture you're quite sane, and that your brain has shut down until it deems you're able to process some emotional trauma in your life."

  "Psychogenic amnesia."

  "You're familiar with the term."

  Amelia nodded. "Dr. Jo mentioned it as a possibility. I've been wondering… If that's what's going on, if it's not just a bump on the head, can you hypnotize me or inject me with truth serum? Something to jog my memories?"

  Dr. Andersson got up then and perched on the edge of her desk, taking off her glasses and setting them on her notepad at her side. "Medication and hypnosis have been used in cases of psychogenic amnesia, but I'd rather not go that route."

  "But how am I supposed to deal with my trauma if I can't remember it?"

  "By working with your mind's natural defenses, not against them."

  She fought her frustration. "It seems like such a lengthy process. I wish there was some shortcut."

  "Amelia, the human brain is a fascinating organ. It represses for good reason—survival. By working through the barriers, chances are you'll handle your repressed memories far better than if you force them to the surface."

  She sighed. "Dr. Jo said something like that, too. Isn't there anything I can do, so I don't feel like I'm sitting around waiting for a lightning bolt to zap me?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. To start, I'd like you to keep a journal. Record your dreams and anything else that troubles you. Provide as many details as you can. Get everything down and bring your journal to our sessions."

  "My dreams." She chewed her lip, not sure she wanted to document the direction some of her dreams had taken lately.

  "You don't have to share anything you don't want to." Dr. Andersson smiled. "The important thing is to get you in touch with your psyche."

  "Okay." She nodded. "I'll try it."

  "Until next time then."

  Amelia rose and shook hands with the doctor, thanking her for her session, then stopped at the appointment desk.

  Brooks stood when he saw her, putting down the magazine he'd been flipping through. Judging from the stack piled beside him, he must have gone through a few waiting for her.

  It was strange, but his waiting didn't bother her as she'd once expected. Rather, his presence comforted her.

  "How'd it go?" he asked, helping her with her coat.

  "Good. No earthshaking revelations, unfortunately." She tried to mask her disappointment by spending more time than necessary untucking her hair from her collar.

  Brooks slid his hand behind her neck and scooped up the rest of her hair, then turned without a word and opened the door. Nodding toward the hallway, he stared somewhere over her head.

  "Thanks." She walked out, ignoring the goose bumps on her nape where he'd touched her. "Sorry it took so long."

  "Not a problem." He didn't press her to elaborate on her session, and she was grateful for that, but the tension between them stretched taut as they walked to the truck.

  She felt badly she was taking up so much of his time, that he'd had to chauffeur her everywhere. She would have driven herself today, felt fairly certain she remembered the mechanics of it, but until she located her driver's license, she was relegated to warming the passenger seat.

  "If my ID doesn't show by Monday," she said once they were inside, "I'll go the replacement route."

  He nodded, barely sparing her a glance as he released the emergency brake, popped the clutch and shifted the truck into Reverse, probably anxious to get home and unload her.

  At the stop sign out of the parking lot, he cleared his throat. "You, ah, want to hit the mall while we're here?"

  She frowned, certain she had heard wrong. "What?"

  "The mall. Shopping. Chick stuff. There's a big one not far from here. I was planning to pay you next week, but I can swing an advance. You feeling up for it?"

  Up for it? Just the thought of strolling past window displays and mannequins dressed in the season's finery made excitement bubble inside her. She pictured the sparkle and dazzle of colors, the din of muted voices and the smells of cinnamon, tobacco and perfume from various stores.

  She turned, ready to express how much she would like to go when the admission died in her throat.

  Brooks was watching her carefully, as if her response mattered a great deal to him. For some reason, the weight of his expectation struck a chord of caution in her.

  "Is this a trick question?" she asked.

  He frowned. "How would it be a trick question?"

  She lifted her shoulder. She felt stupid saying it, but she didn't want to walk into a trap. "You could be testing me, making sure I'm not a spendthrift. I'm not," she said. "I know better than to spend money I don't have."

  His frown deepened. "No, Amelia. I'm not testing you. I don't believe in testing people. Life's got tests enough, don't you think?" He smiled then, a wry twitch of his lips, and she found herself smiling in return.

  "Yeah, you're right."

  "So, what do you say?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "
I think I like chick stuff. When you brought it up, my heart kind of did a jitterbug."

  "That's all I need to know." Brooks flicked on his turn signal and pulled onto the road.

  * * *

  It made a man feel good to know he could make a woman's heart dance. A little too good. Brooks told himself not to get used to it.

  He returned from the cash machine to find Amelia at the makeup counter of the department store where he'd left her. They'd planned to meet up again in an hour, but since he'd run into her, he could go ahead and give her the money.

  He'd suggested the mall in hopes of cheering her up. He could tell from the droop of her shoulders as they left Dr. Andersson's office the lack of progress was taking its toil on her. Jo always said when it came to cheering up, every woman responded to at least one of three things: chocolate, ice cream or shopping.

  Chocolate worked for Clara. Ice cream worked for Jo. His mother had loved to shop.

  "Champagne taste on a beer budget," the old man used to lash out in his drunken tirades. Whenever he hit the bottle earlier than usual, she'd pile them into the truck and head for town. With luck, he'd pass out before suppertime.

  Once when they were on the highway, Mitch asked her why they didn't keep going all the way to Disneyland. She told him she would if she could, but she didn't have the money that day—maybe another day. And when that day came, Mitch insisted that's where she'd gone—without them.

  Luke, he'd flat out refused to talk about her, as if she'd never existed, while Brooks and Jo had held onto the hope of running into her in the mall one day, though the possibility seemed less likely as time went by.

  To this day, malls still reminded Brooks of his mother, a woman he'd once thought the greatest in the world, a woman who could cheer up her kids better than chocolate, ice cream and shopping combined. And for a short time, he forgot all the ugliness and simply enjoyed that memory of her, a mother duck with her ducklings, parading along, like in the book he bought for Timmy, Make Way for Ducklings, the one he'd heard Amelia reading last night.

  He straightened then and took in the sight of her at the makeup counter. The overhead lights picked up golden threads in her hair. She'd clipped it back before she left the truck, but a few strands slipped free around her face. She had a natural beauty—no fuss, no muss—that made her easy on the eyes. So easy it was hard to quit looking.

  Smile, darlin'. Smile for me.

  If shopping didn't do the trick, he'd try chocolate and ice cream next. He started for the counter where she stood, applying different lipsticks to the back of her hand while a heavily made-up saleswoman in a white jacket looked on.

  "I have a sample of that color," the saleswoman said.

  Amelia peered into a mirror, tilting her head as she angled streaks of lipstick up to her face. "That's okay."

  "You sure? I know it's hard to tell on your hand."

  She appeared to reconsider. "Well, if it wouldn't be too much trouble…"

  "Not at all." The saleswoman sifted through a supply drawer and produced a tiny tube. Spotting another customer, she excused herself. "I'll check back on you in a minute."

  "Thanks." Amelia smiled, her face in profile.

  Brooks hung back, watching unobserved as she dabbed some color on her index finger and spread it across her upper lip. Slowly… Tracing the shape… Rubbing her lips together…

  His breath stilled. His stomach dropped. He swallowed hard. Oh, man…

  It wasn't like he'd never seen a woman put lipstick on. Hell, he'd grown up watching his sister do it multiple times per day. But as he'd figured out before, Amelia could wear his sister's clothes, sleep in his sister's bed and try on makeup just like his sister, but there was no way in hell Brooks could ever think of her as a sister.

  Definitely not when the sight of her pursing her lips made his mouth go dry.

  She turned the mirror for better light, and he sidestepped, so he, too, could see her face in the reflection.

  The pale pink color was perfect for her—not too faint, not too dark. It made her lips look like dew-kissed rose petals and brought a glow to her face. More than that, it brought a sparkle to her eyes.

  She liked what she saw.

  And so did he.

  Just then, she lifted her gaze, those bottomless, milk chocolate eyes locking on him. His gut pulled tight, and he tried to smile, but it probably looked like a leer. Right away, she reached for the tissue box on the counter. A few strokes, and she'd swabbed away all traces of color.

  Brooks frowned.

  Was she embarrassed he'd caught her trying on makeup? Hell, even nuns wore lipstick these days.

  His frown deepened, and he stepped closer. "Amelia?"

  "H-hi." She wadded the tissue in her fist, as if she meant to conceal it. "I didn't expect to see you so soon."

  No, not embarrassment. Not even surprise. Anxiety.

  The realization hit him square between the eyes, like a shovel plunged into the earth, turning up old, forgotten bones. Just like that, he was ten years old again…

  His parents were going to a dance that night, and his mother had just finished getting ready. She came into the kitchen wearing a long denim skirt and a white blouse with pearly snaps. They'd all turned to look at her, and in that first instant, he remembered thinking she was the prettiest mom ever. He might have even started to say so. But then their father's chair had scraped across the floor, and he'd flown across the room in a rage.

  Grabbing her face, he'd squeezed her cheeks between his fingers, so her lips puckered. "What the hell do you think you're wearing?" he had demanded, shaking her head back and forth. It was the lipstick. She'd chosen a shade of red, and he'd hurled a bunch of insults at her, accusing her of wanting to flirt with other men at the dance.

  The second he released her, she'd grabbed a damp cloth and rubbed the offensive color from her lips.

  At the memory, Brooks's blood ran cold. He didn't want to draw any parallels between now and then. He didn't want to, but…

  Was a similar memory trapped in Amelia's subconscious?

  The saleswoman chose that moment to return. "How are we doing over here?" She flashed a bright, eager smile.

  Amelia smoothed her hair and shook her head. "I'm all set. Thanks for your time." She turned from the counter.

  "Hold up." Brooks caught her elbow and returned the saleswoman's smile with a polite one of his own. "She's still deciding."

  From practice, he let her go and stepped back, so he wasn't crowding her. "Not that you asked my opinion, but I think you deserve to splurge on something. It doesn't have to he big—just some kind of special treat for yourself. A book or a magazine? A giant cookie or a chocolate doughnut? One of those hair things or maybe … oh, I don't know…" He rocked back on his boot heels. "A lipstick of your choice?"

  Amelia blinked. "A lipstick…? Of my choice…?"

  "Sure. You're the one who's going to wear it."

  She bit her lip and glanced at the tissue in her hand. "Did you see the color I tried?"

  The image flashed in his mind, and Brooks licked his lips before he could stop himself. "Yeah, I saw."

  She lifted her shoulder. "Did you think it was okay?"

  Why did it sound as if she was asking his permission? "Better than okay," he said.

  "Really?"

  "Really." He could hardly tell her that to his mind, everything looked better than okay on her lips. "The real question's if you like it." He tapped his watch. "You've got some time to think it over, though I suspect I know the answer." With a grin, he leaned down and whispered near her ear, "I was peeping over your shoulder."

  Wide, brown eyes shot to his, and her hand fluttered to her throat.

  He took said hand, deposited a wad of bills and winked. "Have fun, lollipop. See you in an hour."

  For a long moment, Amelia stared at Brooks's back, then down at the money in her hand, before her vision blurred.

  "Ma'am?" The saleswoman's brows drew together. "Are you okay?" />
  She bobbed her head. "I just … I can't believe that man sometimes. What he just did… That was so … nice."

  "Ah, tears of joy." The woman smiled and handed Amelia a tissue.

  "Thank you." She dabbed her eyes and tried to compose herself. But it was more than one incident. It was all of them. It was the uncanny way Brooks had of making her feel comfortable in her own skin. And though some of her earlier insecurities still taunted her, she pushed them aside.

  Consciously. Firmly. Proudly.

  A profound liberation engulfed her, as if she'd walked countless miles carrying bags of wet sand on her shoulders, never fully comprehending the weight until it lifted.

  "I'd like that lipstick after all," she said, not for Brooks but for herself forking over a bill from her small stash. "I've earned a reward."

  "Good for you," the saleswoman said, taking her money. "And, honey, I'd hold onto that man with both hands." She tipped her head in the direction Brooks had disappeared.

  "Oh, no. He isn't… I mean, we aren't…" Amelia shook her head. "He's seeing someone else."

  The saleswoman turned from the cash register, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Not for long, judging from the way he looked at you when you were trying on that lipstick."

  Amelia swallowed and tried to sound casual. "How long was he there?"

  "The whole time."

  "Oh." The heat of a blush crept up her neck. The saleswoman laughed, handing her a bag along with her change. "Your receipt's in the bag. Good luck."

  "Thanks." She gave a nervous smile, knowing she'd need far more than luck to fight her growing feelings for Brooks.

  * * *

  An hour later, Brooks found Amelia sitting on a bench in their designated spot. "Been waiting long?"

  She shook her head. "Just got here."

  He eyed her bag and grinned. He didn't ask what was in it. "Maybe you could bring Timmy down here a couple times a month. Bet you could both use a break from the isolation."

  "Maybe. Malls are nice, don't get me wrong, but I prefer the ranch. It doesn't feel isolated with all of you there. Plus, what you said about wide, open spaces … I'm beginning to understand. And I've barely ventured past the back porch." She smiled.