I hum to myself as I stroll the path that leads from the bungalow back to the main house. It’s almost eleven, so I’m going to have to change and put on makeup in a hurry if I have any chance of making it to my interview on time. But I can’t head out until I see the girls. So instead of taking the outdoor stairs all the way up to our third-floor bedroom, I enter the house on the first floor from the pool deck.

I circle around the floating marble staircase that is the focal point of our home’s entrance hall, then make my way to the second of the three guest suites located on this floor. Damien and I have already talked about letting both girls move into their own suite when they hit their teenage years. By that time, I figure we’ll appreciate having a little space between us and our teens.

Right now, though, the kids are coming on two and four respectively, and we’re content to have them share the bedroom located behind our master on the third floor. Originally intended as the smallest of our home’s four guest suites—five, if you count the actual guest house located beyond the tennis courts—it shares a wall with the master closet and is plenty big enough to house two little girls. Even little girls as rambunctious as ours.

In a nod toward keeping their room tidy—and because Damien has a habit of buying them sizable gifts—we decided to dedicate one of the first floor suites as a playroom, which better holds the walk-on keyboard, tumbling mat, and five foot tall plush elephant that Damien swears he couldn’t resist.

I’ve repeatedly told him he’s going to spoil the girls rotten, but he doesn’t seem too concerned. They’re his little princesses and spoiling them is a daddy’s job. Or so he tells me.

I hear them before I see them. Or, I hear Lara, anyway. Her drama-filled voice announcing, “No, no, Anne. I’ll show you.” And Anne’s soft giggles suggesting that she’ll eagerly do whatever her big sister orders.

Our nanny, Bree, flashes me a quick grin as I step into the room, then turns her attention back to the lunch she’s setting out on the low toddler table. Lara is oblivious to the PB&J sandwiches, apple slices, cookies, and milk. She perches her hands on her hips, then pulls her mouth into a pouting moue as she focuses on her blonde imp of a sister who stands wide-eyed beside a squat plastic table covered with crayons and half-finished drawings.

“You watch me, okay? Eyes on me,” Lara adds, mimicking one of my mommy-phrases in a tone so like my own that I almost lose it.

“See?” Her silky black hair is pulled into a pony tail that hits below her shoulder blades, and it bounces as she puts her hands over her head, then turns a wobbly circle on tippy-toes, her feet encased in tiny pink ballet slippers. Just seeing that brings tears to my eyes, because it wasn’t that long ago that she was post-surgery and forbidden to be on her feet at all, much less on tiptoes.

Lara was born with polydactylism, a condition we were aware of when we found her picture on the website of a Chinese adoption agency and started the process to bring her home. We adopted her at twenty months, and she still had the extra two toes, one on each foot, when we arrived in LA after the long trip back from China. Since the extra toes were large and positioned in such a way to prevent her from wearing shoes, one of our first challenges was the removal surgery.

We didn’t want her first memories of her new life with us to be shrouded in pain and fear, so we waited a few months before scheduling the procedure even though she was already past the recommended age for removal, as most kids with the anomaly have the extra digit removed before they start to walk.

We don’t regret waiting, but kids grow fast, and that meant she was older and more active right about the time the doctor insisted she be sedate. Hard enough for an adult, but a nightmare for an active toddler. Things were stressful for a while, what with balancing Lara’s post-op toddler tantrums with Anne’s baby needs.

Now Lara is fully recovered, Anne is an active toddler, and the exuberant chaos that fills this room never fails to put a smile on my face.

“Mama!” Anne calls, something else that always tugs at my heart. She’s wearing a fairy princess outfit and now she lifts her hands like Lara and twirls. “I dancing! I dancing!”

“Good, Anne!” Lara says seriously. “That’s real good.” She turns to me, her smile both wide and smug. “I taught her!”

“You did great,” I say, squatting down and opening up my arms to embrace my two little angels. “Both of you.”

“Missed you, Mama!” Anne clutches my leg, almost throwing me off-balance. I compensate by grabbing her around the waist and letting her hang upside down as I rise.

“Can we play Memory?” Lara begs. “Please, Mommy.” The card-matching memorization game is her current favorite. “Pretty please.”

“I can’t right now, precious,” I say, giving her my free hand as I flip Anne down so that her feet hit solid ground. I walk the rest of the way with both girls trotting alongside me. “I wanted to come in and see my girls, but now I have to go do a work thing and then meet Aunt Jamie for lunch.”

“Jamie!” Anne claps her hands.

“You’ll see her soon, precious,” I promise. “In the meantime, I bet Miss Bree would play Memory after your lunch. It looks yummy. I’m jealous.” I really am, too. About the chocolate chip cookies, anyway. Since I’ve gotten more serious about working out, I’ve also been eating better. I’ve only dipped into my stash of frozen Milky Ways once this month. And that was when I was missing Damien.

“Memory?” Bree says absently from where she’s crouched on the floor. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“Bree?”

With the meal set out, she’d moved on to laying blue painter’s tape on the floor. Now the colorful line forms part of the perimeter of a rectangle that extends out about five feet from the wall, and I can’t help but wonder if this project—whatever it is—is what’s distracting her. Because she definitely seems distracted.

“Sorry,” she says, her familiar sweetness returning. “Mind wandering. And of course Miss Bree’s happy to provide lunch for all of the Stark women. Or just cookies for the adult Starks,” she adds with a grin for me.

“Tempting,” I admit. “But no.”

“Cookies!” Lara says, clapping wildly. Which, of course, encourages Anne to do exactly the same.

I get them settled at the table with stern instructions to eat the meal before the cookies, and they both dig in as Bree peels herself up off the floor, then shoves a lock of long dark hair out of her eyes. The daughter of a Cherokee mother and a Jewish father, Brianna Bernstein is stunning, with olive skin, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes that seem to reach back into infinity. Even on a day like today, when she’s smeared with colored chalk and has been crawling around on the floor, she looks put together and on top of things.

As far as nannies go, I’m convinced that Bree is as good as it gets. We lucked into her, and I dread the day when she leaves. A sad day that’s fast approaching. Exciting for her, as she’s going back to school. But it sucks for me. Bree’s not only brilliant with the kids, she also helps out around the house. Most important, she’s become a friend.

I have no idea how I’m going to replace her, and I’ve been procrastinating in my search. Probably because I’m neck-deep into denial.

“So what exactly are you doing?” I ask, mostly to distract me from my thoughts.

She’d been adjusting a line of tape, and now her head snaps up. “I’m not—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “Sorry. The floor. Right.”

I frown. Bree’s always at the top of her game, and yet today she seems off. I almost stay quiet—after all, everyone has bad days—but I hear myself saying, “Listen, are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely.” The words sound a little too perky. “I’m just frazzled.” Her eyes dart to Lara, and as I watch, Bree seems to forcibly gather herself. “Our leading lady is getting ready for her grand debut after dinner. Apparently, I’m the stage manager. And my boss is running me ragged,” she adds with a teasing smile

“Miss Bree!” Lara’s voice rises. “It’s a secret.”

“Oops. Sorry.” She blushes, and I frown. She’s been with us since before Anne was born, and in two years I’ve never once see her overstep the rules of any game she’s playing with the kids.

“Mama! Don’t listen.” Lara claps her hands over her ears.

“Listen to what? I didn’t hear anything.” I aim a huge smile at my little girl, but my thoughts are still on Bree. I tell myself it’s silly to worry. Of course she’s frazzled. I only have to find a replacement nanny; she has to uproot her entire life, move across country, and dive into the unfamiliar waters of academia. Who wouldn’t be a little off?

Certain I’ve found the explanation, I push my concern away and focus on Lara. “Don’t I get a clue about what you three are up to?”

Lara shakes her head regally, her chocolate-smeared lips pressed tight together as she clutches the rest of her cookie. Anne, on the other hand, claps and squeals, her blonde ringlets bouncing. “Dancing! We dancing!”

Lara rolls big brown eyes, her expression so exasperated that I have to keep my head down and my focus on my shoes to keep from laughing.

When I’m sure I can hold it together, I lift my head and smile at my oldest daughter. “I just came for hugs before I get back to work. Come give Mommy a kiss.” I kneel down, and they both scamper toward me. I gather them close and cover them with kisses and tickles until both my girls are squealing and giggling.

They’re so different in appearance and personality, with fair-haired, fair-skinned Anne tending toward quiet and calm, with only the occasional moment of toddler mania mixed in to keep us on our toes. I can imagine her all grown up, maybe running a laboratory and shouldering great responsibility while exercising both concentration and patience.

In contrast, Lara has the dark hair and yellow-brown skin that reflects her Chinese heritage. More outgoing than Anne, I imagine Lara will grow up to be an actress. Or a politician. Somebody who’s out there in front of the world, confident and strong, and completely comfortable with all that attention.

Right now, my girls get along great, presumably because they complement each other. And Damien and I are crossing our fingers that this congeniality never lets up.

I lean back so that I can look at both their sweet faces. “Okay, my princesses. Who’s going to be good for Miss Bree today?”

They both raise their hands, and I give them high-fives, then grin at Bree, who no longer looks rattled. “You need anything before I head out?”

“Nope. We’re doing great. Aren’t we girls?”

Lara nods, then throws her hands up and executes a wobbly pirouette. She stops, takes a bow, then grabs Anne’s hands and drags her to the play mat, where they fall into a wriggling, squirming, giggling heap.

Bree’s smiling eyes look into mine. “Wish me luck. The chocolate might have been a mistake.”

“Could be.” I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice. “And good luck with the insanity.” I sigh fondly at the sight of my kids. “I’d take over, but I’ve got that interview. Plus, I haven’t seen Jamie in ages, and she swears that she had to bribe someone to get a reservation at this new place in Santa Monica.”

“Are you going to Surf’s Up? It’s supposed to be amazing. I’m so jealous.”

“Are you?” My hopes for the lunch increase. Not that you can tell by the PB&J lunch, but Bree is both a foodie and a damn good cook. And if she says a restaurant is good, that means something. “In that case, I’ll bring you back a full report. And I’ll be home before Damien, I’m sure.”

“No problem. But are you guys staying in tonight? Because I was thinking I might, you know, go out to a club or something with a friend tonight.” A blush tints her cheeks.

I pause in the act of rummaging in my purse for my car keys. “For goodness sakes, are you really asking permission to go out after dinner on a Friday night. You know you’re free unless we’ve specifically wrangled you into babysitting.”

“I know. It’s just…” She trails off with a shrug. “I guess I’m feeling guilty. I mean, since I’m leaving so soon,” she adds hurriedly.

I shake my head firmly. “No guilt allowed for following your dream.” She’s been accepted into journalism school, and she’s hoping to start a career reviewing restaurants and covering all things food-related. “You know how proud Damien and I are of you.”

Her face tightens, and her shoulders rise and fall as she twists her hands together.

I frown, the hairs on the back of my neck starting to prickle with concern. “Bree?”

Her already huge eyes widen. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m going to miss you all so much.”

“Us, too,” I say honestly. “But New York is only a short flight away, and the good news is that you know someone who happens to own a plane.”

As I hoped, she smiles. “I may have to take someone up on that.”

I stand, and the girls scamper over to the toys as I cross to the stage that Bree’s marked out. “So about this friend? Do I get a hint?” I recall the way she’d blushed earlier. “It’s not Kari you’re going out with tonight, is it?”

“Not Kari,” she admits, referring to her best friend, one of the managers at Upper Crust, my favorite Malibu bakery, where I’m headed now for my interview. “But she introduced me to him,” she adds with a sideways grin. “Rory Claymore. Isn’t that the best name?”

“Sounds like something out of a Scottish romance novel.”

Her grin widens. “So far I’ll say that’s accurate.”

“Brianna Bernstein. I’m shocked.”

“No, you’re not,” she counters, and we both laugh as I pick up Anne—who’s come back to cling to the hem of my make-shift sarong. “How long have you two been going out?”

“Not long. This will only be our third date. But we’ve been texting. You know.”

I think about all of the delicious, naughty texts that Damien sends me and bite back a knowing smile. “How does Kari know him? What’s he do?” I force back a groan, realizing I’ve slid into full-on mommy mode.

“He’s an account manager for one of the financial companies downtown. I can’t remember which one. And he’s a regular. Been coming to Upper Crust for a while, and they got to chatting. You know how it is.”

“And so she fixed you up?”

“After he dropped a dozen or so hints. According to Kari, he had his eye on me for a while before he finally hit her up for an introduction.”

“Well, I couldn’t be happier for you.”

Her smile turns shy. “It’s still new between us. But I’m hoping.” A cloud crosses her face. “I’m not sure why, though. I’m about to move halfway across the country.”

“Bree—”

“I know,” she interrupts. “I’ll worry about that when we get to it. And right now,” she adds, scooping up Anne as she scurries by, “I know two little girls who have a show to rehearse. And you need to change and get to Upper Crust.”

I glance at the clock. “Yes, I do.” The interview is with a local reporter, Mary Lee, whose editor called my office a few weeks ago. Apparently, she wants to interview me for a magazine about Southern California moms who are also business owners.

“Be good for Miss Bree.” I kneel and hold out my arms for Lara.

“Be good, Mommy!” she says, then gives me a sloppy kiss.

I hug her tight, then scoop up Anne, who Bree has just released, and dance butterfly kisses over her cheeks before turning her loose in the playroom.

I know I need to hurry, but I stand slowly, soaking in the joy that fills this cluttered playroom that’s one of the hearts of this extraordinary house. I smile as my girls, still sticky-faced with smears of chocolate, look up at me, the love in their eyes making my heart swell even as tears prick my eyes. Because I never had this. Never had a mother who looked at me with genuine affection. Who did anything other than try to use me for her own gain, her perfect little trophy daughter who elevated Elizabeth Fairchild’s status with each victory crown and pageant win.

Never.

The word cuts through me, dark and brutal, but I push the anger back, forcing myself back to center.

My mother’s been out of our lives since before we left for China to get Lara. She’s never seen her grandchildren, and I have no regrets. For the most part, I never even think of her, and that’s a huge relief.

But ever since this interview was scheduled, Elizabeth Fairchild has crept into my thoughts. I look at Anne’s blonde curls and see myself at that age, forced at two to learn to walk with a book on my head, my playtime filled with toddler pageants and every lesson imaginable so that my “talent” could be discovered. Had to get ahead of the competition, after all.

I’m certain that Ms. Lee is going to ask about my children and my mother. But while she can ask, I don’t have to tell, and I’ve already decided I won’t. I’m not going to spew neutral platitudes about my childhood or lie and say that it was sunny and bright.

And I’m certainly not going to tell the truth. There’s a limit on my willingness to be open with the press.

If she wants to cover my relationship with my mother, she can seek it out on her own. The paparazzi have picked at bits and pieces of that in the past, and I have no way to erase those articles and social media blasts. But I’m certainly not hand-feeding her a story.

Damien and I decided a long time ago that where our kids are concerned, we’re starting fresh. No Jeremiah Stark. No Elizabeth Fairchild. We’re washing away their manipulation. Banning their games.

There’s me and Damien and the girls. We’re a unit. A family.

And the only direction we’re moving is forward.