Page 4 of Make You Mine

Amerie

Twenty-four hours.

That’s all it takes for the job applications to come flooding in.

My phone pings each time I receive a new email, another submission from a potential hire. Willow’s eyes light up at the sound.

“Mommy, you have a message,” she says over her berry yogurt.

“I know, Lo. It must be another application.”

“For the maid?”

I pause as I move about the kitchen, trying to pack her lunchbox. “I’m not sure we’re calling her a maid. That seems kind of… dated. She’ll do more than cleaning. She’ll hang out with you and Emmett too.”

“Nanny?” she squeaks, tilting her head to the side.

“Nanny is another option.”

“Option for what?” Declan asks, appearing in the kitchen. He’s in the middle of fixing his tie, glancing between me and Willow.

“Mommy was telling me about the new nanny!” Willow says right away.

Declan raises a brow at me. “Were you now, love? More excited than you let on?”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “I was telling her about all the applications we’re receiving. We’re at thirty.”

“Good. Means we’ll have plenty of options to choose from.

” He leans close to kiss my cheek, then turns to the breakfast table where Willow sits with her yogurt and drops a kiss on top of her curly head.

She has my curls but a blend of our hair colors: a rich brown shade with subtle undertones of red.

Both our children are a perfect mix of us. From Willow’s reddish brown hair to the fact that Emmett looks just like Declan as a baby, except dipped in caramel.

“It seems like it,” I say. “But we should have a cut off. We’ll be reaching triple digits before we know it.”

“Friday afternoon. I’ll come home early. We’ll do interviews.” He kisses me a second time, this one on the lips and then makes us promise to behave ourselves. “Especially you, Widget,” he says to Willow, stroking her curls on his way out.

She giggles mischievously. “Yes, Daddy!”

Once breakfast is over, I load Emmett into the stroller and walk Willow to school.

Rosethorne is a quaint village tucked into the Hampshire countryside. The roads are narrow and winding, bordered by low stone walls and dense hedgerows. Most of the houses are older but well-maintained Georgian homes with steep slate roofs, stone facades, iron fences, and garden trellises.

Willow enjoys skipping along with her backpack and lunchbox, pointing out all the pretty details, like the roses in the hedges and the ragdoll cat in one of the windows.

The townspeople are polite but distant. They’re what Declan has called posh, considering most who live in Rosethorne are upper middle class. That includes us now.

Soon we’ll even have a nanny…

I scoff and shake my head at the thought. I’ve never seen myself as the type to hire help—especially not a stranger in my home, around my kids—but Declan is worried about me. He says I’m stretched too thin.

He’s not exactly wrong.

I’ve just been too stubborn to admit it. If we have any hope of really starting over, and for me to get my writing career back on track, I need a helping hand.

At least for a little while.

Friday afternoon comes before we know it.

Declan comes home early from work. We send Willow outside to play in the garden with her jelly ball. Emmett’s upstairs in the nursery taking his second nap of the day. I have the baby monitor at our side as we sit down in the living room with the first applicant.

“Your name’s… Poppy?” I read off the application we’ve printed out.

The woman seated in the armchair across from us gives an excitable nod. “That’s right!” she chirps. “Like the flower! Or the seed, I suppose. Though I’ve always thought of myself as more of a flower than a bagel topping.”

Declan and I share a look as she laughs—the sound loud and shrill—and claps her hands together before smoothing them over her polka dot skirt.

“I’m just so thrilled to be here. Honestly, this house is darling. Do you rent it, or is it yours? Because if it is yours...” she whistles as if impressed. “You’ve done wonders with the space. That paint color. Divine.”

“Why don’t we circle back to discussing details about the position?” I interject gently, but she plows on.

“I bought my own puppets, by the way,” she says loudly.

“I always keep a set on hand in case I need to break the ice with the littlies. Kids can be so nervous, can’t they?

Oh, and I don’t suppose you’d be okay with me bringing my parrot to work sometimes?

He’s quite well-mannered. Says ‘good morning’ and ‘bugger off’ depending on the mood. ”

Poppy’s interview doesn’t last much longer. She’s shown the door and we usher in the next applicant.

Enid Cattermole is a squat-built woman in her late sixties with a pinched mouth and gray hair pinned into a low bun at the back of her head. Declan offers his hand in greeting when she enters, but she merely gives a terse nod as hello.

I scan the paper in front of me. “So, Enid?—”

“Mrs. Cattermole, if you please,” she cuts in sharply.

I blink. “Um… right. Mrs. Cattermole, you have over forty years of experience. That’s very impressive. Do you mind telling us more?”

It’s just the start of what turns into an awkward, tense interview. Mrs. Cattermole is so stern and objectionable at every turn that I start to feel like a child myself, being scolded by a schoolteacher.

Declan clears his throat and decides to put us both out of our misery.

“Well, Mrs. Cattermole, we’ll reach out if we’re interested in hearing more.”

“Ring between the hours of nine a.m. and two p.m. only. I won’t answer otherwise.” She gathers her handbag and marches out of the room.

I wait until I hear the front door snap shut behind her.

“Was it me or did that feel like we were hiring a nanny for ourselves?”

“Let’s just say I haven’t felt that scolded since Sister Mary Constance caught me nicking biscuits in Year Four.”

The next few applicants aren’t any better.

We go through a couple nervous college-aged students who seem overwhelmed even just by the interview, and then a bored housewife that lets it slip she only wants this job for a couple weeks while she searches for something better.

By the eleventh applicant, a thirty-something woman named Imogen, I’m ready to give up.

“So tell us a little about yourself.”

She inhales sharply. “Well, I trained in childcare, but—” she pauses at the sound of the jelly ball bouncing against the wall. Willow is still outside playing. “I’m sorry, how old did you say they are?”

“Willow is five, almost six. And Emmett is six months.”

“Oh…” She swallows, her pallid complexion almost sickly. “That’s quite a bit to handle. I’m sorry it’s just… my last post… the children were feral.”

Declan cocks a brow. “Feral?”

“They locked me in the utility room! Little monsters.”

There’s a long pause where no one says a word, then her eyes well up and she bursts into tears.

“I’m so sorry!” she chokes out. “I thought I was ready to jump back in, but I’m not. The truth is… I hate children! I hate them!”

We’re left speechless as she pops to her feet and rushes out of the room.

I look over at Declan. “This was a terrible idea.”

“Amerie, we still have applicants on the list?—”

“It’s a waste of time. We haven’t even found one halfway decent?—”

“Erm, hello?”

The soft voice comes from the doorway. We both look up to find a woman standing where Imogen had just fled through.

Except this one hasn’t knocked or waited to be called in. She’s entered on her own, holding her coat neatly folded over her arm.

She’s average height, a little on the slim side, with shoulder-length mousy-brown hair that’s parted down the middle and tucked behind large ears. Her glasses are large too, framing blue eyes. Her cardigan is long and woolly, paired with ankle boots and leggings.

If I had to guess an age, I’d say mid to late twenties.

“And who are you?” I ask. It comes out cold and accusatorially, making the girl flinch and take half a step back.

“Oh… I’m sorry…” she stammers. “I thought it was okay to come in. I saw Imogen was done and I figured I was next. I’ll show myself out.”

She half turns as I glance down at the interview list.

“Chelsea Hughes?”

“That’d be me, yes,” she says, putting on a half-smile.

I exhale slowly, then gesture to the seat Imogen abandoned. “Well, you’re already here. We can get started.”

“That’d be great! It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Keating.” Chelsea steps forward to shake my hand first, then moves to do the same with Declan. “Mr. Keating,” she says, bowing her head politely.

“First names are fine,” he says. “If you think you’re in a posh household, you’re not.”

She laughs brightly, taking the armchair. “Oh, but it is lovely. Your home has such a warm feel. You’ve got an eye for details. It’s like a magazine spread but lived-in, you know?”

“That would be Amerie,” Declan says proudly, gripping my knee and casting me a sidelong grin. “She’s made the place a home.”

My cheeks warm at his words, and I’m almost distracted by them. I would be if we weren’t in the middle of conducting an interview.

Chelsea seems just as endeared by the exchange. Her smile has gone nowhere as she looks between the two of us and says, “I always think kids do best in homes like this. Not just beautiful, but full of affection. You can tell it’s a happy household.”

“Yeah… it is.” I clear my throat and glance down at her résumé, refocusing on the task at hand. “Alright, Chelsea. Let’s discuss a few of your past positions…”

Over the next half hour, Declan and I proceed to interview Chelsea, poring over her résumé like we’ve done the others, and asking her pointed questions she provides detailed answers to. She remains calm, composed, and charming every step of the way.

Almost frustratingly so.

At one point, she even goes into detail about how, at one of her last positions, she’d saved the life of one of the children she’d cared for.

“Thankfully, I carried extra of George’s epileptic medication, so it didn’t matter that his mum forgot,” she explains.

She leans forward to offer a separate sheet of paper she’s withdrawn from her satchel purse.

“I brought you additional references in case you’d like to reach out to some other families I’ve cared for. ”

“Oh… that’s… very, um, well-prepared of you. Thank you.”

Before I can even glance at the sheet, Willow comes rushing into the room in tears.

“Mommy! Daddy!” she cries. “I… I was bouncing the ball… t-then it bounced an-and hit me in the fa-face and I… I fell… and… l-look!”

Our five-year-old holds up her elbow with a quivering lip, tears shining on her cheeks. She has a nasty scrape on her elbow from where she collided with the cement floor.

“Widget, love, c’mere,” Declan says, pulling her into a hug.

“Willow, you have to be more careful. You bounce that ball and get so excited you don’t pay attention. I’ll grab a towel and wet it under some water,” I sigh, getting up. “We haven’t bought a first aid kit, have we?”

Declan shakes his head. “Don’t think so.”

“Erm, I have Band-Aids,” pipes up Chelsea suddenly. “Kid-friendly ones. Dinosaurs and butterflies. That sort of thing. Would you like to see, Willow? If… that’s alright with you, Amerie and Declan, of course.”

Declan and I exchange a quick look.

His says he’s mildly impressed. Mine… is a lot more thrown by the convenience of it all.

“Yeah, sure,” I say finally. “That would be great, thank you. I’ll grab the towel so we can clean it up a little.”

I’m only gone for a minute, but in that short span of time, the emotional storm I left behind has vanished. Willow’s still sniffling, but she’s calmed down considerably, picking out a Band-Aid with Chelsea like she’s choosing a candy.

Declan seems to have settled on watching the two of them together for curiosity’s sake, and I do too, hovering in the doorway.

“How about this one?” Chelsea asks gently, showing Willow a hot pink Band-Aid with gold stars. “Nice and flashy. That’s the winner, what do you reckon?”

Willow nods her head up and down, then asks if she can have the Band-Aid with the purple butterflies too.

Chelsea laughs. “Why not? You’ve earned it for your troubles. Doctor Chelsea’s orders.”

Willow joins her with a soft giggle.

“Hopefully you don’t bill us like most doctor’s offices.” Declan checks the time on his wristwatch. “Well, Chelsea, it’s been a pleasure having you. We’ll reach out if we’d like to move forward.”

Chelsea beams, slowly rising to her feet. “I’m really grateful for the chance to meet you and your little one. Thanks for making me feel so welcome. Hope to hear from you soon.”

I’m focused on patching up Willow while Declan escorts Chelsea to the door. He returns only a moment later, running a hand through his auburn hair and releasing a deep breath before he drops back down to the sofa.

“So?” he asks. “What’s the verdict, love? Is she a contender or are we back to square one?”

I carefully apply the pink-and-gold-starred Band-Aid to Willow’s elbow and give a shrug. “Honestly? Not sure. Wasn’t she a little too… perfect?”

He chuckles throatily. “Perfect? For our maid slash nanny? Is there such a thing?”

“You know what I mean. She was a little over prepared, don’t you think?”

“The second page of references was overkill,” he admits. “But who else was there?”

No one.

Absolutely no one.

I sigh, placing a motherly kiss on Willow’s arm. “All better?”

She nods and says softly, “Yes, Mommy.”

“You promise to be more careful?”

She nods again, then pauses a second before asking, “Will Chelsea be coming back?”

I glance at Declan from over my shoulder. He cocks a brow at me.

I know the look. It says ‘ See, I told you so .’

He’s made his opinion clear. Willow seems to have too, without even realizing it.

I’m outnumbered, and though I’ve tried nitpicking for reasons to veto their votes, none of them hold up.

Chelsea Hughes is the clear and obvious pick for the job.

“Yes, Lo,” I answer finally. “She’ll be coming back.”