Gold Digger In Stealth
Chapter One –
Sandra Vaughn picked up the bowl of ramen, slurping up a forkful of limp noodles and bland, lukewarm broth, tasting vaguely of shrimp. She made a face, setting the cracked bowl on the table, turning towards the numerous open windows on her laptop, all a variety of some obscure social forum. After about two weeks of insufferable job hunting, she was on the verge of exhausting all her other options, turning to the plethora of ambiguously titled, sometimes frightening advertisements, a new one surfacing every half hour.
Sandra plucked a pearl copper strand of hair from her eyes, tucking it neatly under one of the countless bobby pins holding up the lace-braided bun nestled on her head. She hovered the cursor over the link of a post with no applicants, despite garnering thousands of views. She hesitated, twisting her lips skeptically, smashing the button of her mouse. She leaned towards the screen, her nose wrinkling, her expression growing progressively repulsed, mouthing the bold-faced words silently to herself in disbelief.
“No, no, no,” muttered Sandra, ramming the faulty backspace button on her keyboard as she frantically tried to exit the page, “Not that desperate, thank you.”
Sandra reached for the bowl of ramen, her elbows knocking off the bundle of schoolbooks and loose-leaf sheets stacked up on the edge of her desk, grunting in irritation. She nudged the books towards the foot of her bed, resolving to deal with the mess later. She continued to scroll down the simplistic forum, her eyes dimming as her expectations began to wither. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing, opening up a new tab to an advertisement seeking voluptuous women as “escorts”. She left the tab unattended and available as she browsed for other posts.
Sandra cocked an eyebrow as an unusually ordinary, inexplicit headline caught her attention. She clicked the link, her forehead wrinkling at the concise post. It read:
“Seeking part-time nanny for 10-year-old girl, no experience required, must be good with kids, must be patient. Must have flexible hours. No cooking or cleaning required – keeping the child company will be your only responsibility. Please include short description about yourself and photograph if interested.”
Sandra heaved a thwarting sigh. The “job” seemed profoundly out of place in the suspicious forum, and the anonymous poster's seeming lack of concern for their child's prospective caretaker triggered a ringing of alarm bells, the impending social worker inside her emerging. On the other hand, she yearned for a home-cooked meal – or simply, a taste of fresh leafy greens, or the savory, juicy flavor of a genuine hunk of meat. For several months now, she had been surviving on canned vegetables, processed cheese and frozen meals, fueling the lapse of her deteriorating taste buds.
Sandra shrugged off her dissonant thoughts, prattling away on the keyboard as she formulated a quick reply. She hit “Send” and proceeded back to the main page. She exhaled through her nose, the page refusing to load, and fiddled with her internet settings. She muttered under her breath petulantly, “Come on, 3B, I need your wi-fi, don't do this to me...”
“Crap,” grumbled Sandra, conceding. She slammed her laptop shut, stashing her beaten, whirring laptop into her backpack, the once vibrant paisley print faded with age. She whirled her backpack over her shoulder and headed out the front door.
Sandra walked into the public library, approaching the front desk, the familiar face of the slender man with a dark-Cesar cut, prompting a wide, affectionate grin on her jewel-red, rouged lips. She capered towards the young man, rapping her knuckles against the hickory wood of the desk.
“Keep it down, Vaughn,” said the man, not looking up from the unfolded newspaper across the desk, the ink of the intricate tiger tattoo on his arm flexing as he flipped the page.
“Hi Louie! What's with the newspaper? Ever heard of the internet?”
Louie glanced up from his paper, raising a thick, steeply arched brow, “So I like to keep it traditional, is that a crime?”
“No – speaking of the internet, my damn neighbor must've changed his wi-fi password – I can't get through –”
“Now that's a crime,” said Louie, his dimples indenting, “Ay, you know we're closing for the –”
“Pretty please,” Sandra's voice was smoky, her head tilted, “I really need to get this job search –”
“Fine,” Louie agreed grudgingly, shaking his head, “You have twenty minutes.”
“And that's why you're my absolute favorite –”
“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Louie, waving her away flippantly, “Nineteen minutes and thirty seconds.”
Sandra pulled up the nearest chair, plunking down on the lumpy, fraying cushion, and drew the laptop out of her backpack. She cringed, the obnoxious billboard topper trumpeting out of her jeans pocket. She reached for her phone and muted the ringtone, cupping her hand next to her mouth as she called out to Louie, “That's mine, sorry!”
“Obviously.”
Sandra rose from the chair and scurried out towards the door, hastening to answer the call, her forehead creasing as the words “Unknown Caller” blinked across her screen. She stumbled out into the crisp evening breeze, the sidewalk beneath her feet barely visible under the pallidly dim glow of the streetlamps.
Sandra took a calming breath, shielding the receiver from the noisy gusts of wind with her palm, “Hello?”
“Good evening, I was wondering if I could get a hold of Sandra Vaughn?” The man had a smooth, husky tone to his voice, speaking softly with a slight texan flair.
Slightly taken aback by the stranger's manners, she gulped, her voice wavering, “Speaking.”
“Great, you responded to my ad for the nanny position – I was wondering if you were still interested in the job?”
“Oh, right – yes, definitely, when would –”
“Wonderful. Come by tomorrow at three in the afternoon. The address is 287, West Valley Heights.”
“Great, I'd love to –”
Sandra's mouth fell open as the line went dead, buzzing in her ears.
Chapter Two –
The pointed heels of Sandra's argyle ankle-straps clicked softly against the crushed stone of the puzzle-patterned sidewalk. She paused in her unremitting stride, slouching forward, fanning herself with her hand. She squinted at the address, beautifully scripted across the spotless, champagne painted mailbox perched on the curbside.
“187 West Valley Heights,” Sandra muttered to herself, gritting her teeth resentfully as she peered at the neat rows of extravagant, remarkably structured houses and impeccably manicured lawns. She twirled in a circle, sticking her hands to her hips, aggravated.
“Not a single friggin' bus stop? Really?,” Sandra rambled to herself as she trudged forwards, shaking her head, “Rich people.”
She flicked away the drop of sweat descending on her pulsing temples with her fingers, the pace of her steps once again slowing down as she stared, slack-jawed, approaching an exaggerated compound encompassed by a gleaming, french gothic steel gate. She lumbered towards the gate cautiously, her eyes closing in on the gold-plated sign bolted onto the drystone wall. She blinked, incredulous, buzzing the doorbell. The screen fizzled to life, a middle-aged man with a doorman's hat appearing on the picture, looking around slowly with expressionless eyes.
“Please step into the line of the camera.”
Sandra shuffled towards the small lens above the screen, clearing her throat, “Hi, my name is Sandra Vaughn, I'm –”
The gates screeched open. Sandra traipsed through the open gates, her heart pumping wildly in anticipation as she hiked up the escalating flagstone walkway, paved with dark slabs of stone. She lost control of her jaw briefly, her mouth dropping open at the grandiose 15,000-square-foot estate. She nipped forwards, her pupils swelling as she goggled at the magnificent cluster of modern, linked houses with tall, pristine, glass windows, painted a creamy, coconut white, overlooking a glittery, 30-foot-long, infinity-edge swimming pool. Her twenty-dollar heels felt almost inferior as she crossed the neatly-trimmed lawn to the looming, baroquely designed front door. She rang the doorbell, lacing her fingers around each other nervously. The door swung open, a frigid blast of chilled air gushing out the brightly lit foyer.
A glamorous woman in a silky, moccasin-white kaftan stared back at Sandra, her glossy, mandarin tinted lips scowling. Sandra blinked, slightly intimidated by the woman's hollywood features – she had round, almond-shaped, berry blue eyes, a straight, pointed nose that's obviously been tinkered with, her face caked with immaculately applied make-up. The woman tucked a lock of her bleached blonde, feathered hair behind her sparkling ears, folding her arms against her chest.
“Can I help you?”
“Oh, yes – I'm sorry, my name's Sandra Vaughn, I'm here to interview for the nanny position. Is this the –”
“Tate!” The woman shrieked up the grand, double-ended staircase, leering spitefully at Sandra behind her shoulder. She shoved the door open, sashaying off into a room.
Sandra minced through the doorway, consciously wiring her mouth shut as her wide, spellbound gaze glided over the opulence of the majestic foyer, from the the iridescent crystal chandelier hanging above her to the impressive home theater system set up in the grecian-inspired living room. She crouched, feeling the cold, smooth texture of the marbled steps with the back of her hand, her eyes falling to the mesmerizing hexagonal patterns of the lavish carpet.
“Hope it wasn't too difficult to find us.”
Sandra bounded from the floor, flattening the rumpled fabric of the flare laced dress that grazed her kneecaps. She looked up, gawking at the coltish man with a neat, french-fork beard, suavely dressed in a platinum gray, three-piece suit, standing just two steps above her. His thick, hard-angled brows rested above a thin, twinkling set of eyes twinged with flecks of juniper green. She peeled her eyes away from his intense gaze.
“No, it was fine,” squeaked Sandra, hemming softly.
Tate Donahue pored over the faltering, bell-framed silhouette of the young woman before him. His lips curled as he studied her soft, delicate features, the hairs on his arms prickling – there was something about the subtle, timid way she carried herself, as if she hadn't an inkling of how beautiful she was. His lips parted slightly, studying her heavily lidded, jade black eyes, his eyes dancing on the dainty cupid's bow of her thin, pink lips. He watched as she gathered the plait of her fishtail braid to the side of her neck, lingering on the creamy, tender beige of her flawless skin.
Tate sliced through the tension, introducing himself, “My name is Tate Donahue, we spoke on the phone.”
“Yes,” replied Sandra meekly.
“Right, if you could come with me this way, I'll show you to Coraline's room.”
Sandra followed him up the staircase quietly, rubbernecking the vibrant floral centerpieces and original pieces of priceless artwork hung up on the salt-white walls. Tate led her down the corridor, stopping at a tall, african mahogany door with typical juvenile no-entry signage, knocking three times.
“Dad? Come in.”
Coraline Donahue had every little girl's dream bedroom – the walls, gorgeous four-poster-bed with sherbet chiffon drapery, and furniture were all splashed with princess pink. The little girl was hunched over a toy chest brimming with action figures and varied sizes of bouncing balls, dressed in a baggy shirt with a print of a cartoon cat, her straight, mid-parted, flowing brown hair masking her face. Sandra smiled as Coraline turned towards them, revealing a set of round, mousse green eyes, below thick, naturally long lashes. She reminded Sandra of the eerily beautiful bisque doll her grandmother had given to her as a child.
“Who's she?” Coraline pouted, furrowing her faint eyebrows.
Sandra forced a smile onto her face, “Hi, Coraline. My name's Sandra.”
“Coraline, I'm gonna leave Sandra here for a few minutes to get acquainted, okay?”
“I guess. See ya, Dad.”
Tate nodded at Sandra, gesturing towards Coraline gently before exiting the room. Sandra approached Coraline thoughtfully, stroking her chin. Coraline retrieved a grey triceratops figurine from the toy chest, walking it across the floor with her hands.
“Hey Coraline, can I sit next to you?”
“If you want.”
Sandra sat down with her legs tucked underneath her, stroking the furry pink rug beneath her, “Coraline's a pretty name.”
“I guess so,” shrugged Coraline.
Sandra pointed at the cat on her shirt, “That's KewlCat, isn't it?”
Coraline's eyes widened, an animated smile spreading on her face, “You know who KewlCat is?”
Sandra grinned, “My little brother, Mattie – he loves that show. It's his favorite Sunday morning cartoon.”
“That's cool.”
“You've got really nice hair–”
“I hate it,” spat Coraline, scowling, “I want it short. And I hate my room, it's so pink.”
Sandra took a deep breath, her brows furrowing in concentration. She untwisted her fishtail braid, culling out the hidden bright streak of alpine green. Coraline's eyes brightened, her mouth stretching into a small “o” of amazement.
“Do you like that?”
Coraline nodded furiously, smiling toothily, “That's a cool color! It's slimy green, like boogers!” She giggled, her eyes disappearing into her glowing cheeks.
“You look like a lagoon blue,” winked Sandra, retrieving a box of hair dye, tossing it to Coraline.
“I don't think Renee would like it very much,” said Coraline, her smile faltering.
“Renee?” Sandra frowned, “Is that your stepmother?”
“No, that's –”
“Is that blue hair dye?”
Sandra rose from the floor hastily as Tate appeared behind them. She assured him hurriedly, “I'm sorry, it washes off, I –”
“Go ahead, should be fun,” said Tate, cracking a smile, “Could I talk to you outside for a minute?”
“Sure.”
Coraline waved half-heartedly at the pair of adults as they headed out her bedroom door. Sandra's heart buzzed in her ears, nibbling on her lip nervously as Tate closed the door to Coraline's room.
“I'd like to offer you the position,” said Tate bluntly.
“What? I'm so flattered Mr. Donahue, but it's a bit far –”
“We'll have a driver come pick you up everyday for work.”
“Mr. Donahue, again, sorry, I'm actually looking for more hours –”
Tate pulled out a scrap of paper and ballpoint pen and scribbled something on it quickly, shoving it in her hands, “How's that?”
Sandra's eyes bulged, repeatedly rereading the number clutched in her trembling hands.
“I'd love for you to consider, I can't remember the last time I've seen my little girl smile like that.”
“Is this a yearly –”
“That's a day's work. What do you say, Sandra?”
Sandra was at a loss for words. She nodded.