Page 142 of Nine Week Nanny

“Hi, this is Claire Donovan with Palmetto Pediatric Therapy in Charleston. Am I speaking with Sloane Brennan?”

“Yes, this is Sloane,” I say, shifting my tote higher on my shoulder.

“Wonderful. We’ve reviewed your résumé and would like to invite you to come in for an interview.”

My step falters on the sidewalk, heat clinging to the back of my neck. “That's great.”

"Fantastic. Can you come in next week?"

“Yes. What day were you thinking? I'll make any day and time work."

"We were impressed with your background, even if you are a Clemson grad. Kidding, not kidding. Go Gamecocks."

I laugh and already like her vibe.

"Well, I'm a Wofford Terrier, so we'reGo Go T-Dogs! Clemson was grad school.”

We both chuckle, happy for the connection to thaw any awkwardness. "Would you be available to come in on Wednesday at eleven?”

I calculate fast. It's a three-hour drive for me, so I can easily leave by eight. And I have Wednesday off, so even better, I don't have to find someone to fill in for me.

“Absolutely. I’ll be there. Thank you so much. I’m really looking forward to it.”

We wrap the call, and I stop for a second at the crosswalk, hot air sticking to my skin.

The world is slowly but surely starting to look up for me. A job interview. In Charleston, of all places.

I tuck the phone back into my bag, and when I start walking again, there’s a bounce in my step, my apron swinging against my hip.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Pope

The package has been sitting on the edge of my desk since Margaret dropped it off this morning. “Something for you, Mr. Carrigan” she’d said before heading upstairs to get Lennon ready for school.

I haven't thought much of it since then. I've been at the office all day juggling conference calls, analyzing numbers, and meeting with department chiefs. Today we went through another round of board projections. Things are finally back on track, and things are looking up.

Now the house is silent. Lennon is asleep upstairs, and the only sound is the low tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. I reach for my letter opener, slit the tape in one clean line, and peel back the paper.

Inside is a small box, carefully wrapped. The precision of it makes something tighten in my chest. Like a gift. A folded notebook paper falls to the counter.

I lift the lid.

Lennon's azabache necklace.

Picking it up, the weight of the chain hangs, the black stone gleaming against the light. My throat locks.

I've spent countless hours tearing this house apart, searching couch cushions, retracing steps at the beach, trying to convince Lennon it would turn up. I told him not to worry, that it was just misplaced.

But it wasn’t just misplaced. After a while, I had to accept it and tell him that he was right. I conceded that he must have lost it in the ocean one day while swimming.

I tried to convince him that it meant his mother was keeping the ocean safe for him, that she was as big as the ocean and would always be close to protect him, no matter where he went.

He didn't buy it. And I didn't blame him.

Now it’s here, in my hand. Where has it been? Chills run up my spine as my hair stands on end.

"Jesus Christ," I whisper, the words barely audible even to myself.