Page 19

Izzy

Being a nanny means you’re always on the go. It’s ten past ten in the morning, and it seems I’ve been up since sometime last year. David has been out of the house, searching the woods for Fiona. I hope there isn’t a tragic story unfolding.

I help David by keeping the kids out of the way. So far I’ve made breakfast, cleaned up from breakfast, done the dishes, folded laundry, picked up the bedrooms, and found more glitter to vacuum. Now, I’m trying to convince everyone to take a swim.

“It’s cold and wet,” Becca complains.

“Um, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be refreshing.”

Becca’s frown makes it clear my efforts are falling short.

“I don’t want to swim, either,” declares Brody, his duck lips cementing his sibling solidarity.

I sigh. I suppose there’s peace in allowing people to do what they think is right, even if said people can’t pour milk into a cup without spilling it.

Instead of a swim, the kids play with LEGOs on the living room floor, while I’m in desperate need of an energy boost. Who knew that such tiny creatures could suck the marrow straight out of your bones?

Since blood doping for nannies isn’t really a thing, I settle for high-caf tea.

David returns to the house as I’m cleaning the kitchen (again!). He looks more frustrated than fearful that Fiona didn’t return in his absence.

“Should we call someone?” I ask as I’m emptying the dishwasher, silently adding: The police, perhaps?

“She’ll turn up,” David assures me. “She does this sort of thing after we fight—plays weird games to teach me a lesson. It’s either that or she took a walk and fell asleep under a tree somewhere. Goodness knows she had plenty to sleep off.”

Or sleep walked it off, I think, reflecting on our conversation last night at the bonfire. I remember other things, too, like Fiona and Lucas locking lips, and all that dancing, the scene she had made—her endless flirting with all of the men, not just the hunky, mysterious, and very young rocker.

But what I remember most clearly is: The lake takes them…

“You’ve been working hard,” David tells me as he gets a glass of water. “And you’re really great with the kids. I can already tell they adore you. We’re lucky to have you.”

I give him a faint “Thanks.” I don’t want to linger in the kitchen because he might go shirtless again. There’s nothing wrong with his praise. It’s appropriate, and I should appreciate it. But the look he sends me, like he’s checking me up and down, makes me cringe.

He knows how to play it. So far he’s kept his little hints, subtle winks, and ambiguous gestures to just the right degree to keep me from running out the door.

And even though he seems the type to reduce women to their physical “offerings” over their actual selves, he’s maintained a friendship with Erika and Julia for decades.

Perhaps he hides this side of himself from them, because my misogynistic asshole radar won’t stop pinging.

I can’t help but wonder if he’s applying the same just-enough tactics to keep from looking suspicious about Fiona’s mysterious vanishing.

David heads out to search again, certainly acting the part of the dutiful boyfriend. Do I believe it? Let’s just say I have my doubts.

Everyone on the lake must have heard them fighting last night—I sure did. I couldn’t hear what they were arguing about, but the tone of their raised voices was distressing. David sounded aggressive and more than mildly threatening. And Fiona was combative as well, in that sloppy drunk way.

The kids don’t seem overly concerned, which I guess says something about their relationship with Fiona.

While I understand that a high-quality nanny must remain vigilant, I take advantage of the relative calm (thank you, LEGO) to crack open my laptop and do some investigating.

After what I’ve learned about the lake lore, and with another missing person in our midst, my true crime obsession has kicked into overdrive.

Since I can’t solve the Fiona mystery, I settle for the next best thing—a trip back in time, via my laptop.

I step into the mysterious, still unsolved disappearance of Anna Olsen, last seen at Lake Timmeny on June 9, 1965.

Good thing the internet is a digital time capsule.

A few keywords in a Google search bar and I’m transported to the era of Elvis and the civil rights movement, Beatlemania, and the Vietnam War.

“She was my older sister and I loved her. We were very close,” Grace Olsen told a reporter for The Boston Globe . The quote was cited in an article commemorating the tenth anniversary of Anna’s disappearance, twenty years before Susie Welch would go missing from the very same lake.

Grace also had an older brother, Tom, but she was closer with Anna, only two years her senior. “We were inseparable,” Grace told the reporter. “Nobody’s life was perfect, but ours felt as close to that as possible. We loved coming to the lake every summer.

“We would swim all morning, and then we’d go hiking in the nearby hills.

The lake and forest were our playground.

With our father’s help, we built a fort in the woods from plywood and leftover roofing shingles.

It became our magical hideout. I don’t go in there anymore, but I can’t bring myself to tear it down. ”

I suspect that the fort must be the Shack that David told me about at the bonfire.

He’d mentioned taking the kids and me there for an adventure, but I think I’d rather go exploring without him.

I file that tidbit away and go back to my research, landing on an archived article from the Rutland Herald .

According to the article, the Vermont state police investigated Anna’s disappearance.

Public Information Officer Captain Daryl Greenwood told the Herald that Anna Olsen had last been seen “sunning herself at the lakeshore, and all seemed perfectly well. No signs of physical injury or emotional distress. It was an ordinary summer day.”

Just like this one, I think with a peek out the window.

Greenwood told the reporter that they’d found various items belonging to Anna on the beach, including blankets and other personal effects, but there was no sign of the young woman.

Numerous searches had been conducted. “We combed the entire beach, dredging the lake in case of drowning, and we searched the grounds north of the bog,” Greenwood said. “All the nearby cottages were checked as well, as were the trails.” But Anna was never found.

I shut down the laptop, deciding I’ve had enough gloom for one beautiful summer day, and the children need a breath of fresh air.

“Little ones,” I say, interrupting their play, “let’s get our shoes on. We’re going for a walk.”

Neither budge. Brody actually groans, so I improvise. My Mary Poppins training kicks in like a well-honed muscle. Mary doesn’t order, she invites.

“Children,” I say, giving myself a slight British accent, “I’ve just discovered there’s a secret fort hidden somewhere in these woods, and who knows what treasures we might find within.

But first we must go outside and start looking.

So I invite you both to get your shoes on and meet me at the door.

The sooner we get there, the sooner we can have the brownies I’ve packed for our journey. ”

With that, I stuff a box of store-bought brownies into my backpack (who has time to bake with these two running around?), head for the door, and wait.

The plan works. In no time flat, two eager children greet me with shoes on (not tied, but I help Brody with that), ready to explore. I’m so amazed at my own effectiveness that I fail to notice until I’m outside that I’ve grabbed Fiona’s sun hat by mistake.

Warm sunshine and a soft breeze greet us.

I see Taylor across the way, tossing a ball to Nutmeg in the yard.

As soon as the kids notice her, they take off in her direction, their little legs running at high speed.

Nutmeg wags and barks excitedly, then rolls in the grass as she soaks up their attention.

Taylor takes out her AirPods as I approach. “Hey,” she says, with a friendly smile.

“Hi there.” I wave. “We’re off to find an old clubhouse I heard about. David said it’s off a path marked by a knotted oak tree. Any idea where we can find it?”

“Oh yeah, I know that place. I guess it was the teen hangout back in the day. There’s a path through the woods we can take. I haven’t been there for ages, but I’m sure I could help you find it if you’d like.”

“Would you?” I say, and the kids nod eagerly.

“I need to walk Nutmeg anyway, so sure, let’s go.”

Taylor clips a leash to Nutmeg’s harness, but the dog tugs so hard, she unhooks it. As soon as Nutmeg is free, the pup races ahead, but doesn’t go too far. The kids keep pace with the dog, while I keep my eyes on them.

Taylor is like a walking body lotion ad. Everything about her is pert and perky. Her Daisy Dukes and revealing white top make it hard not to notice her figure. I feel protective of her—David better keep his eyes and mitts off.

I probably shouldn’t look, either. Envy is a terrible trait, but I’d love to have long, luxurious hair like hers.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s come across a picture on Pinterest that I’ve taken to a hairdresser, had my hair cut the same way, and gotten home only to hate the way it looks.

Then I hate myself. Next, I’m wallowing in self-pity with ice cream.

And that’s such a terrible cliché that I hate myself even more.

Alas, this is my cycle of hairstyling, as unbreakable as my stiff, unyielding, wiry follicles.

Taylor undoubtedly would have ignored Frizzy Izzy if we’d gone to high school together.

I let these petty thoughts go. The bottom line is that I like Taylor and I can tell by her smile that the feeling is mutual, though my friendly expression is short-lived.