by Alix Nichols
At the marketplace, Uma buys a homemade soap and a fragrant sachet of dried lavender. To my surprise, she picks the most expensive one on display without even trying to haggle.
“It’s because of this,” she explains, pointing to the embroidered bouquet on one side of the sachet. “See the tiny buds? The technique is called ‘French knot.’ You cluster them on either side of a stitched stem, and you get a spring of lavender. Simple and impactful. I want to practice it before the school starts.”
We grab a late lunch on a sidewalk terrace. I pick a table in the shade of an oak tree with the light being too sharp now and the heat too intense to sit in the sun.
For dessert, I order lavender sorbet.
“If you’re trying to make me sick of lavender,” Uma says, licking her spoon, “It’s not working.”
“Please,” I protest. “All I want is for you to get the full experience.”
Her expression grows serious. “Zach, I hope you know how grateful I am for today’s ‘experience.’ How on earth am I going to repay your kindness?”
Five or six creative ways flash in my mind.
I give her a tight smile and turn away, disgusted with myself.
Three hours later, Uma, Sam, and I board the TGV back to Paris along with most of my teammates.
Noah’s already in Paris, having left right after the game. He had to fill in for someone at work today. He might’ve stayed if I’d invited him on the lavender trip. But I hadn’t. In fact, I hadn’t even mentioned it.
As I lean back into my seat across from Uma and Sam, a wave of shame washes over me while I think of that “oversight.” My teammates joke and laugh a few rows behind us, but I don’t have the heart to join in the fun. Pulling out my laptop, I open my Excel spreadsheet and try to get some work done while Sam plays a game on his tablet.
Uma looks out the window at the cloudless sky and sublime landscapes, her expression dreamy. I force myself to stop staring at her, and—for the first time in weeks—admit the truth.
I’m lusting after the most off-limits woman I could possibly find. It must stop. Like, soon before I lose control and do something I’ll regret bitterly.
The irony of the situation is that I have a remedy at the tip of my fingers. It’s time I used it. Tonight, as soon as I’m alone, I’ll call Sophie—quite possibly the hottest woman both sides of the Atlantic—and ask her out.
SIX
Uma
I’m building a Lego garage that will stand next to Sam’s Lego house. Sam is eager to complete the whole project by the time Zach comes home so he can prove his engineering acumen to his dad. And the reason he’s so eager is that he was unable to fix his helicopter after it finally died a few days ago. Neither could I. Or Zach.
After I finish my task and pick up my embroidery frame to practice French knots, I am reminded of the weekend in Provence.
Again.
Just the fact that I saw those coveted lavender fields was amazing, but Zach’s being there with me made the trip magical. He was so sweet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he were courting me. More than once I caught him staring. He’d quickly look away or say something funny. The first few times I thought it had just been my wishful thinking.
But then he held me longer than was necessary to help me onto the trike. When he finally let go, he didn’t just take his strong hands off me—he trailed them up over my ribs, “accidentally” brushing the sides of my breasts.
My toes curled with the pleasure of that touch.
And in Sault, he kept looking at my mouth while I ate, and his hazel eyes darkened. They became black when I savored the lavender ice cream he’d ordered, licking it off my spoon.
On the ride back to his parents’ house—parents who’d been wonderfully kind to me—Zach kept pointing at the fields to our left and right. I looked at them, but I no longer saw them. All I could think was, Zach is attracted to me.
But then…
We boarded the train back to Paris, and he said something that hit me in the pit of my stomach like a sucker punch. God, it hurt. It shouldn’t have, but it did, so much so that I had to go to the restroom and do some slow breathing to compose myself.
“That’s it,” Zach had said. “I’m asking Sophie out. I’m calling her tonight.”
But he didn’t. He texted her instead.
That’s what he told me when he came down to breakfast the next day. She’d texted back that she’d love to see him again, as a friend.
How crazy is that?
I can see only two circumstances in which a single woman would say no to a man like Zach. One, she’s not right in her head. Two, she’s in love with someone else.
Either one is OK by me.
As he related Sophie’s response, Zach didn’t sound particularly upset. In fact, he sounded almost relieved that he wasn’t going to date her.
Great news, right?
Let’s get the pom-poms out and celebrate!
Only, despite Sophie’s response, Zach didn’t go back to his “Lavender Sunday” ways. He became more reserved with me—even distant—spending more time in his office upstairs. In fact, all of his time at home, unless he’s reading to or playing with Sam.
When he and I are in the same room, I still catch him looking at me. Those stolen glances are filled with the same dark intensity as before. They make my heart stop and start again. The high they give me is so powerful, it almost kicks the ground from under my feet.
Noah has never looked at me like that.
Nobody has.
But the moment my eyes meet Zach’s, he looks away. In fact, he turns his whole body away from me and finds an excuse to leave the room.
He’s been like that for two weeks now.
Freja—my new Swedish friend—got in touch, and I did a fair amount of sightseeing with her gang. She’s the kind of person who spends three weeks in a new city and becomes the leader of a funky group made up of expats and locals. Which means that, suddenly, I know a bunch of people in Paris I would’ve never met on my own.
Lucky me.
When I lie in bed at night, and all kinds of unwanted thoughts rush into my head, I can’t help wondering about Zach. Was his flirting with me two weeks ago some weird anomaly? Did I imagine it? Or was it real, until he reminded himself I’m his son’s nanny? Does he wonder about the connection between Noah and me?
Is there a connection?
Marguerite keeps telling me there is, but I doubt it. Even more than Noah’s feelings, I doubt mine. If I were in love with him, why would I wish he looked more like Zach, sounded more like Zach, moved more like Zach? I have no prior experience with romantic love, but I think I’d want the object of my affection to remain exactly the way he is, and not morph into his friend’s clone.
The doorbell rings.
Sam looks up from his Lego house. “Colette?”
He never calls her “mom.” Until recently, when she began to show a little more interest in him, he didn’t even know she was his mother.
I nod.
We go to the door, where I lift Sam so he can check the identity of the visitor through the peephole.
“It’s her,” he confirms as I lower him to his feet and open the door.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to take part in our charade,” I say, as we head to the dining table.
She smiles. “Not a problem.”
Colette is the kind of person whose smile comes out so wrong she’d be better off not doing it at all.
I point at a chair. “Do you mind sitting next to me?”
“Not at all.”
On the table, I’ve laid out everything we need for this video call. A plate with a pile of sel roti doughnuts on it is set next to another one with momo dumplings. Next to the plates is my smartphone.
“Ready to play your part?” I ask Sam, who’s gone back to his Lego bricks.
His part consists in saying hello when I turn the phone so my parents can see him. Zach and I aren’t eager to have him talk wi
th them, so he won’t give me away. My parents believe I work for and live with a couple—Noah’s friend Zach and his wife, Colette. I hate lying to them, but it was the only way to reassure them about my safety.
Sam is engrossed building the roof of his house. I don’t think he heard me.
“Hey, kid,” I say, louder than last time. “You ready?”
“Aye, aye, captain,” he says.
He watched a Star Trek movie with Zach last Saturday and has been aye-aye-captaining both of us since then.
I explain this to Colette.
“Isn’t he too young for Star Trek?” she asks.
“I thought so, too, but his attention hardly wandered from beginning to end. I think it’s partly because he loves the weekly TV dinner time with Zach. It’s huge fun in itself, more than the actual—”
“That’s not what I meant,” Colette cuts in. “I’m sure Star Trek is too violent for him. It isn’t meant for children.”
“It isn’t violent,” Sam protests. “Uma, tell her!”
“It’s PG-13,” I say.
What I really want to say is since when do you care? But I don’t. First, it’s not my place. Second, she’s here to do me a favor.
So, I pick up my phone and open the Skype app.
Aama and Baba answer my call all dressed up. They exchange pleasantries with Colette, and she tells them how conscientious a nanny I am, and how pleased she is with my work. Aama and Baba nod appreciatively. When Colette has done her part, I turn the phone to show them the Nepali foods I made. They look pleased. I feel like a cheat, remembering I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve made these dishes—or any dish—since I left Nepal. Zach does our cooking. He also pays a specialized caterer to prep some of Sam’s low-GI dishes.
Despite my protests, he’s been adamant—making food is not part of my job.
After zooming in on the dumplings, I turn the phone toward Sam. “Will you say hi to my parents?”
He smiles and waves as per our drills. “Namaste.”
“Aw.” Aama grins.
“Will you come to France to visit Uma?” Sam asks.
They can’t afford the trip, not to mention the visa hassle, buddy.
“I’m scared of flying,” Aama says.
“Are you afraid you’ll fall out of the plane?” Sam asks her.
My parents laugh.
“Something like that,” Aama says.
Baba grins. “You’re a very sweet boy, Sam.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Colette mutters, studying her son. “You’d almost think he’s nor—”
“The good news is,” I butt in, turning the phone toward me, “Sam’s doing really great on his new meds and diet.”
“I’m happy to hear it,” Aama says.
Suddenly, they both turn around, and Baba goes to the door.
“We have a surprise for you, nanu,” Aama says. “Look who’s come over to say hello.”
Baba reenters the room with a younger man.
It’s Giriraj, my Brahmin suitor.
Aama bows and hands him the phone.
“Hi, Uma,” he says, smiling. “You look beautiful as always.”
“You’re too kind.”
Colette stands up and goes over to Sam, while Giriraj and I make awkward small talk. After I hang up, I thank Colette again for her help.
“Anytime,” she says, heading to the foyer. “Where’s Zach, by the way?”
“In Paris, meeting with a potential supplier.”
She halts in the doorway, a pensive expression on her face. “He’s done pretty well for himself, considering.”
I nod.
“Tell him I said hi.”
“I will.”
She hesitates. “And tell him, if he’d like to come over for dinner… Oh, never mind. I’ll call him myself later.”
I give her a canned smile and close the door behind her.
He won’t accept your invitation.
He won’t rekindle the relationship after what she’s done. No way.
I appreciate her helping me, I really do, but I can’t bring myself to overlook the way she let Sam down. This woman turned her back on her sick baby in a country where everyone has health insurance and help available to those who need it. Still, it had been too much of a burden, so she let Zach look after Sam alone for five years.
And now that things are easier, she’s decided she wants to be part of their lives.
She can’t do that!
Except, it isn’t my place to judge her.
To Sam, I’m just a live-in nanny—not a stepmom.
To Zach, I’m nobody.
SEVEN
Zach
Lucas blows his whistle and yells, “Out of the pool, boys! There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Every time he calls us “boys,” I fight the urge to smile. While it’s true that some of our players are in their early twenties, others are closer to thirty. I’m thirty-two, and that’s only four years younger than Lucas.
Then again, I’m a relatively old athlete, having returned to swimming and water polo after a four-year hiatus when Sam was born. Lucas, on the other hand, is a young coach. He founded the club less than two years ago, after disappearing from athletics—and meaningful life—for years while he was in a coma and then full-time assisted care.
As I pad around the pool’s edge toward Lucas, I take a better look at the guy he’s about to introduce to us. Slick and suited up, the man is either a lawyer or a publicist.
“Martin is number one on my short list for the publicist job I’d advertised,” Lucas says when the last player joins the debrief circle.
I hold out my hand. “Zach.”
Martin shakes it.
“Zach is the squad’s center forward and team captain,” Lucas says.
Jean-Michel extends his hand. “Also known as ‘hole-set’ or simply ‘the hole.’ ”
Lucas points to him. “Jean-Michel is the substitute hole.”
Martin and Jean-Michel exchange a handshake.
“The hole-set is a special position,” Lucas explains to Martin. “He doesn’t switch between offense and defense like the field players. His job is to shoot. Period.”
“Got it.” Martin scribbles in his thick notebook.
OK, so he’s not familiar with the basics of water polo. If he’s hired, he’d better be a quick study. Then again, Lucas isn’t recruiting him for his knowledge of the game. It’s his PR skills that the club needs.
Next, Lucas points to Noah and his substitute. “The other single-task player is the goalkeeper. He stays close to the cage, and his performance there can make or break a game.”
“Noah’s always makes it,” Phil, the young substitute goalie, comments, eyeing Noah reverently.
“That’s correct,” I say. “Last year, his saves got us to the finals of the French Pro A league championship.”
Noah turns to Martin. “We’re aiming for gold this season.”
“We are getting the gold this season,” Lucas says in a quiet voice.
Martin gives him a thumbs-up, grinning. “You’ll make my job a lot easier if you do.”
No one smiles back.
Not because we’re antisocial, but because the steel in Lucas’s calmness doesn’t escape anyone’s notice. It reminds us of his determination, but also of the commitment each of us has made. There’ll be no goofing around this season. If a player fails to give it all he’s got, no matter the reason, Lucas will kick him out first, and ask questions later.
That’s the new deal.
Martin turns to Lucas. “I didn’t get a chance to say it during the interview, but I find your personal story singular enough to invest some promotional effort into. You were France’s best scorer, played for Europe’s top clubs, made heaps of money on commercials, and—”
Lucas interrupts him, “Which is how I know we can get the funding we need if you get us on TV and radio. And why not advertise shaving creams and such?”
“I will,�
� Martin says. “And I’ll get you decent press coverage, too. Mark my words.”
Martin has a point—Lucas’s story is singular, not just because of what he’d achieved before his coma, but—more importantly—because of how he picked up the pieces afterward. When he woke up, Lucas didn’t know who he was. He does now, but only because people told him. His parents, friends and former teammates showed him pictures and recounted anecdotes from his life.
Every year of his life.
Lucas and I played on the same team for three years. He knows it, but he doesn’t remember it. His body and mind lost countless skills, which he had to relearn, not to mention the rules of the game, of the competitions, leagues, and federations, and the general functioning of the water polo world.
Next time Noah tells me he admires me for my discipline and how together I am, I’ll suggest he admire Lucas instead. The man gives the word “discipline” a whole new meaning. As for me… I’m too weak to even make myself stop craving Uma.
What I deserve is contempt.
“I hope that by promoting the club,” Lucas says to Martin, “you’ll help promote water polo in general. People don’t know as much about it as they do football or basketball, but this game is a lot tougher.”
Martin raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Have you tried to dribble without touching the ball?” Jean-Michel asks.
Martin shakes his head. “How is that even possible?”
“As you swim forward, you create waves with your strokes,” I say. “With practice, you get those waves to propel the ball in front of you. You sort of shepherd it in the same direction you’re headed.”
Martin’s eyes widen. “Wow.”
“What about jumping high up without touching the ground?” Valentin, one of our newer players, asks.
Martin smiles. “You’re going to tell me that’s possible, too, right?”
“With sufficient strength training, yes,” Valentin says not without pride.
“The players can only swim or tread water while they’re in the pool,” Lucas explains. “They aren’t allowed to stand or even touch the bottom or a wall.”
