Page 139 of Nine Week Nanny

The excuses are pathetic even to my own ears. A child doesn't care about shareholder value or market positioning.

Lennon's eyes don't waver. "Then why can't you take me with you?"

The question hangs between us, impossibly simple and devastatingly complex.

I have no answer that makes sense. No clean, elegant solution like the ones I craft for failing hospitals. I can restructure entire healthcare systems, but I can't explain to this boy why the people who should love him keep setting conditions on their care.

I pull him close again, tighter this time, as if I could somehow press certainty into his bones.

"I don't know," I whisper. The truth spills out before I can stop it. "I don't know yet."

The waves lap at the sand a few feet away. A gull cries overhead. Lennon's breathing slows against my chest.

I close my eyes and savor the weight of him, so light and yet so heavy with trust and need. His question echoes in my mind: Why can't you take me with you?

Not "Would you?" but "Why can't you?" It's as if he's already convinced himself the answer is no, that there must be some insurmountable reason he can't stay with me.

I stroke his hair, searching for words that won't become another broken promise. Every reassurance is hollow if I don't follow it with action that matters.

He's heard them all before from Camila, from Maria, maybe even from Chris.

In the hospital, we have protocols for everything. Procedures for every crisis. Here, holding this boy who believes he's unwanted, I have nothing but my own racing heart and the terrible knowledge that I'm as afraid as he is.

His small hand finds mine in the sand, fingers gripping with surprising strength.

We sit like this, the question hanging unanswered between us, the shells scattered forgotten around our feet. I want to fill the silence with promises, but I've seen too many broken ones in his eyes already.

So I just hold him close, both of us facing the ocean, neither ready to move.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Sloane

I kneel beside the last open box, pulling out neatly folded towels and sheets that still smell like the Palm Beach ocean.

My studio apartment is barely bigger than Pope's guest bathroom, but it's mine. For now.

"I still can't believe I'm not there helping you unpack," Angela's voice comes through my phone speaker, tinny but warm. "Consider me there in spirit, alphabetizing your spices or whatever."

"Trust me, knowing you're in my corner does more for me than you know." I smooth a hand over a pillowcase, remembering how she helped me pack up when I was leaving Palm Beach. "Besides, I don't even have enough stuff now to warrant the help."

"Well, I'm proud of you. Taking steps, pulling yourself up." There's no pity in her voice, just genuine pride. "Getting out of that lavender childhood bedroom was the right move."

I laugh, retying my ponytail. "It's been good for my spirits. Even if it's just a month-to-month lease."

"And the job hunt?"

"I've got several applications out that seem promising. The waitressing gig down the street is paying bills until something in my field opens up."

"Are all your prospects in Augusta?" Angela asks.

"All within about two hours, keeping me close to home." I stack the towels on the futon. "Which is what I need right now. No more going sixteen hours away to a city that isolated me."

"Excuse me?" Angela's mock offense makes me smile. "Present company excluded, I hope!"

"Obviously. You were the only good thing about Palm Beach." I sigh, shaking out a large beach towel. That's not entirely true, but those things and people are in my past now. "I definitely bit off more than I could chew. Baby steps this time."

Something metallic clangs against the pine floor. The sound reverberates through the quiet apartment.