Page 16

Izzy

I don’t know how long Brody’s been tugging on my arm, but it’s definitely too long for him.

He’s grown impatient and he’s practically pulling me out of bed.

OML, it’s too early for this. I roll over, eyes fluttering open, and I hear a frightened squeak that makes me bolt upright.

Becca must have crawled into bed with me at some point during the night, and I inadvertently squished her.

Without complaint, Becca grabs for her stuffed tiger and pulls the blankets over her head while I address Brody.

With a croaky voice, I ask, “Is everything okay? Is there an emergency?”

“I’m bored,” he says, as though this is a crisis that requires my immediate attention.

Becca nestles close to me. Clearly, the twins aren’t on the same page.

“Go back to bed,” I instruct.

“No,” says Brody, stomping his feet. “I won’t. I’m hungry and bored, and you’re the nanny.”

Oh, shit. I suppose he’s right. I suggest we go downstairs and do an art project.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Becca is out from under the covers. Clutching her tiger, sleepily rubbing her eyes, she says in the tiniest voice imaginable, “Me too?”

Of course, the answer is yes. These might be budding Van Goghs, and I certainly don’t want either of them to feel left out, or worse, wake Fiona with their pleading.

It’s 7:30 A.M. , I’m still in my pajamas, I’ve had no coffee, my hair has curled into a poodle’s coat, I’ve no idea what I’m doing, and I’m seriously questioning my life decisions. At least I know I picked the right college major. Early childhood education is way too early for me.

But at least I’m prepared. I put the arts and crafts box in the downstairs closet when we unpacked—no problem. I take out the construction paper, childproof scissors, glitter, and nontoxic glue. I’ve read an article on this subject, and I know it’s not just play.

The free-form process of creating with their hands while simultaneously exploring color, form, texture, and composition enhances cognition and coordination and bolsters self-awareness.

The nanny’s role is to encourage creative exploration without clouding the child’s experience with judgment or extensive instruction.

Now, go make something that comes from the heart!

Or something that looks like a glittery mountain of glue.

I’m not exactly sure what Brody has made, but he’s damn proud of it. Or at least I thought he was—right up until he balled up his masterpiece and threw it on the floor in exasperation.

Great, he’s already a temperamental artist at five years old.

I try to think of something Brody can make that might lead to less frustration. I get out more construction paper, washable markers, and a pair of googly eyes. Brody watches intently. I draw a big head around the eyes and add two misshapen ears along with a goofy grin.

“I want to do that,” Brody declares.

“Me too,” Becca chimes in.

Before long, we’re all drawing funny faces with googly eyes. There is no fighting, no complaining. It’s the sweetest moment we’ve shared yet.

Becca is pressed up against me, warming herself like I’m a blanket. Brody’s face beams as he delights in showing off his creation—a caterpillar or a lion, it’s hard to say which.

“That’s really great!” Becca is so sincere it hurts.

“This is the most fun I’ve ever had— ever, ” Brody says, beaming at me in a show of thanks. His earnest eyes flood me with emotion.

I clear my throat. “I’m glad everyone is having fun,” I say, realizing that I am, too. What’s up with that?

We create for a while until everyone gets hungry.

I get up to fix the children’s breakfast, which basically amounts to chocolate milk and sugared cereal (I know how to keep my status as the best nanny in the world).

I have my back to the little ones for no more than two minutes, but apparently, that’s all it takes.

I hear a mischievous laugh, a chair topples over, and then there’s a scream that could be playful or—

I spin around, chocolate milk sloshing out of the carton, to see Brody and Becca engaged in what can only be described as a preschool wrestling match involving glue and copious amounts of gold glitter.

What… the…

“Nooo!” I shout, not caring that I’ll wake the house. “Calm down, everyone! Brody, sit in your chair. You too, Becca. Now!”

Luckily they listen, but it’s too late. Becca’s dark brown locks are coated in glitter. Clumps of Brody’s hair are glued to the side of his head, scraps of construction paper affixed to the front of his light blue PJs.

I see Brody readying a tube of green glitter like a mortar round.

I lunge forward with a quickness that belies my lack of athletic ability.

Although I retrieve the glitter tube before any more is released, the damage has already been done.

Not only do the children look like an art canvas gone awry, but the table and floor are strewn with a sea of clingy gold flakes that are insidiously small, as if designed specifically to torment me.

Fearing Fiona might emerge in a tizzy, I usher the children into the bathroom off the kitchen.

A trail of glitter follows them like a map of my mistakes.

Thank goodness, the glue is not only nontoxic but also washable.

The sink isn’t ideal for cleaning them, but it’s effective enough.

Luckily, the laundry facilities are also in this bathroom, so I find a quick change of clothes for both kids before plopping their messy pajamas into the machine.

Crisis averted.

In a cheery voice, I suggest they sit with their breakfast and watch a show on Netflix.

While the kids are occupied, I scrub down the kitchen and bathroom, doing my best to remove the remaining evidence.

Though I’ve listened to hundreds of true crime podcasts, I’ve given little thought to how hard it is to clean up a crime scene.

If blood were glitter, it would be downright impossible.

I’m fighting a losing battle with the dustpan when Brody, of all people—the same little twerp (I mean love) who dragged me out of bed and created this mess—comes to my rescue. He sneaks up from behind, startling me with a tap on the shoulder.

“Just use Play-Doh,” he says. His voice is so soft and tender, any lingering frustration I feel melts away on the spot.

“Play-Doh?” I repeat. It’s a good thing we have a ton of it.

Soon enough, Brody, Becca, and I are crawling on our hands and knees, pressing the moldable clay onto any surface covered in the shiny stuff.

We even make up a song while we work, which we sing in whispered voices.

As luck would have it, nobody comes downstairs, and the glitter disappears.

Mostly. I spot one last clump of gold flakes on the kitchen counter, but unfortunately, we’re fresh out of Play-Doh.

No worries. I wet a paper towel and set to work. As I’m dabbing away, the front door opens and David walks in, lathered in sweat and breathing hard. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, stained dark in the front, and sweatpants as mud-spattered as his Nike sneakers.

The kids come running like Santa Claus just showed up. It’s a heartwarming scene. I try to give them a moment of privacy, but everywhere I look, I see their shiny, happy reflections in the windows. I can’t seem to adjust to all this glass. It’s like living in a weird art installation.

The kids don’t care that Dad is sweaty from what I assume was his early morning run. Good for David for taking care of his health. I run only if chased.

Soon, the magnetic pull of sugary cereal, chocolate milk, and cartoons lures the children away from their father.

Meanwhile, I try to act nonchalant, like I don’t have a care in the world.

I’m just the happy-go-lucky nanny, picking up this and that, ensuring my eager beavers are busy and well cared for.

I’m hoping I’m somewhat invisible, but David takes notice of me anyway.

He saunters over with a self-satisfied smile, maybe on a runner’s high. He makes a beeline for the fridge. Out comes a carton of orange juice. He’s mere moments from putting said carton to his lips, something my mother would have objected to sternly, when I thrust a glass in front of him.

“I’m sure you were about to ask for one,” I say with polite professionalism.

David runs a hand through his tousled wet hair, fixing me with a lopsided smile.

He approaches, his eyes stamped to my face.

A nervous pulse spikes through me. He inches closer, using a clean dish towel to dry his hair.

He strips off his shirt right before me, exposing his torso with the ease of peeling a banana.

I’m in shock, trying not to look, but it’s hard to avert your eyes when your boss is half-naked in front of you.

He’s a shirtless man who clearly likes his physique.

No big deal, right? He rubs the towel over his chest and abdomen.

A gnarly blanket of chest hair cushions a thick gold chain that belongs around the neck of a rapper. Eww.

“Great run,” David says.

Of course he doesn’t notice—or maybe even likes—my uneasiness, how I’m bouncing on my feet, trying to inch away. He leans his hand on the counter, taking long, purposeful sips from his glass of OJ.

He tosses his sodden shirt and towel into the hamper in the bathroom.

“What’s on your face?” he asks. He leans in close, giving me a strong whiff of his musky odor.

He touches my cheek. I try not to gasp. He shows me flecks of glitter on the tip of his finger, the same gold color as his chain. David surveys the counter, and I see now that my cleanup job could have been more thorough.

“What happened here?” he asks, brushing the area with his palm. Sweat makes the glitter stick to his skin.

“Oh, we had a minor mishap.” I try to laugh it off.

“Ah,” says David, his dark eyes brightening, “I bet anything that was Brody’s doing. He’s a rambunctious one.” He says this lightheartedly, with no indication of reprimand.

“I’ll get it cleaned up straightaway,” I tell him.

David’s gaze lingers on me a beat too long. “It’s no problem, I got it. Glitter patrol wasn’t in the job description.” He grabs a paper towel off the roll.

I stand there feeling pointless as he sets about the near-impossible task of cleaning up the remnants of our morning fun.

“How do you like the lake so far?” he asks. He’s totally relaxed and seems geared up for a lengthy conversation. Meanwhile, he’s standing so close I can count his chest hairs.

“It’s peaceful here. I just love it,” he adds, turning his body so that he’s either admiring the view or his reflection in the towering picture window in front of him—probably both.

Thank goodness Becca summons me from the TV room. Whatever she wants, she can have it.

“Duty calls,” I say, and slip away. I feel David’s eyes on me as I go. I turn around long enough to see him making his way up the stairs, hopefully to put on some clothes.

Is this how it begins? A toe over the line to test the waters?

A tap becomes a touch, which becomes something more.

What comes after shirtless? I shudder at the thought, but then I tell myself I’m only here for a short while.

I just have to keep my wits about me and avoid being alone with him, which I think I can do.

My roommate, Meredith, would be irate to see me giving David a pass.

But I need this job for something far more valuable than money.

The truth. And I’m too close to my objective to let some sweat-lathered seal scare me off.

I’m here to stay, and Becca would gladly second that decision.

She bats her imploring, puppy-dog eyes before requesting more chocolate milk.

“Can I have more, too?” asks Brody.

His eyes stay glued to the TV as he extends his cup toward me. He hasn’t even drunk half of what I poured.

“Finish what you have,” I say like a good nanny should, and down it goes in one hearty swallow. He thrusts the cup back at me, a chocolaty residue dripping down the sides.

I’m returning to the kitchen for refills when David reappears from upstairs.

He’s changed out of his running clothes into beige shorts and a fresh blue T-shirt (half-naked no more, thank goodness).

The shirt has some meaningless logo printed on the front.

He tosses a second T-shirt at me with no warning.

All I see is bright blue fabric streaking toward my face.

I snatch it out of the air with my free hand.

“A gift for you,” he says as I set down the cups and unfurl the shirt. The logo is for a company called NewPulse, which I’ve never heard of.

David looks at me like I should know what this is. “It’s my new company I told you about,” he says. “You mentioned being interested in entrepreneurship in your application and wanting to know more about my work.”

I did? Oh, Meredith. Right.

“Yeah, cool,” I say.

“Do you run? You can come with me next time.”

“The kids,” I say, glad to have an easy out.

“Fiona can watch them,” David says. “Speaking of, where is she? Did she go out somewhere?”

I tell him I don’t think so, that I haven’t seen her. No, there’s no way. I would have heard her leave.

“Strange,” David says, glancing about. “She’s not in the bedroom.”

He goes out back, and I watch him through the glass as he scans the lakeshore. It’s still early morning. A cool mist rises from the water, as if the lake is actually breathing.

David returns, but something has shifted. His eyes are worried. He goes to the front of the house, but he doesn’t need to open the door to see that Fiona’s Porsche is still in the driveway.

He bounds upstairs, calling Fiona’s name, and returns moments later, looking dejected.

“She’s not an early riser,” he assures me, his voice nervous. “But she must have gone for a walk.”

I nod in agreement.

“Yeah, it’s hard to sleep when the sun comes in. I probably missed her leaving when we were cleaning up the glitter.” I don’t believe it myself, and David doesn’t seem to believe me, either.