I scrutinize my outfit in the mirror. It isn’t that bad… is it? My mom took one look and sent me right back up to my room to change. First impressions are the most important, her words ring in my ear. Even for an interview like this. Don’t you want to make a good impression so he keeps you on?
In my humble opinion, the outfit I have on isn’t bad. I have a floral peasant blouse with a high neckline, dark denim jeans, and low heeled black boots. It’s not exactly what I’d wear for an office job, but I’m not interviewing for an office job. I’m interviewing for a position where I’d be around kids, probably getting dirty and running around a lot. I bet my mom wants me to put on a suit. Well forget that.
Still… I do want this job. And it would be nice to have it for more than just a week or two. I’m not in any way trained as a nanny, but surely it can’t be all too different from babysitting, just for a longer period of time? Anyways, whatever the job throws at me, there’s nothing that Google can’t handle. And having babysat for tons of kids already, I know most of the tricks.
“Can’t hurt to put on something else though,” I admit to my reflection.
My room is small, mostly because I have at least two dressers worth of clothes in addition to the walk in closet that my dad made for me. It kind of ate up space in my room, but I needed it so I could hang more clothes. I push the racks around, digging up a cream button up blouse with the cutest black oversized bow at the neckline. Then I pull out a royal blue pencil skirt. I have a black one, but hey, if the dad wants a robot for a babysitter, then it probably won’t work out anyways. I can’t do that to children. Not only would it mean they would hate me and not listen, but if we’re hanging out together, than we should at least be friends. Friends who will definitely set down the rules, but still friends.
Finally, I pull on black tights and the black boots again. I think that’ll do. It shows that I want to make a good impression and I can have fun.
With that decided, I head back down the stairs.
“Better?” I say, spinning around for my mom.
Her lips are still pursed, but I can tell she likes this better than my previous outfit.
“At least you’ve got tights on,” she sighs. “I guess it’ll have to do.”
“Glad I got your approval,” I say drily.
“Do you have a copy of your resume?”
I pat my oversized bag.
“In here, along with a folder to keep it in,” I say. “Don’t worry, you have trained me well.”
My mom stands up and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“I just want you to succeed,” she says.
“I know.” Even though she’s giving me a hard time, I know she does it out of love.
“Good luck!”
I grab the car keys from the hook by the door and head out. I enter the address into my GPS and head out. This Mr. Morrison lives in an even better area than we do. It’s got all the old, historic homes, and big shady trees. I’ve been here once or twice when my parents’ friends host parties, although I don’t think I’ve ever been to the exact street. Still, it’s only a fifteen minute drive before I arrive. Just as I thought, the roads are shaded with trees, although there are no leaves on them yet. The houses are all set far back from the road for privacy, and more than a few have fancy electronic gates. The home I pull up to is beautiful, a kind of Craftsman style home but richer, with at least three floors. It’s kind of intimidating actually. These are probably family homes, with lots of history and stories behind it.
I turn off the car, reapply the light lip gloss I brought along more to stall time than anything, and get out of the car. The cobblestone footpath leads up to a beautiful covered porch with huge flowerpots flanking the entrance. I see a wooden swing seat with cushions and a pink bike leaning against the railing. It reminds me of the one I had when I was a kid, streamers on the handles and all.
The front door has an elegant lion knocker. To the right was a state of the art doorbell complete with a video camera. This dad takes his security seriously, I think. Carefully, I smooth my hair, then I press the bell.
“Hello. Penny right?” The voice is smooth and commanding, a voice used to being obeyed.
“That’s right. I’m here to babysit.”
“Give me a moment and I’ll be right with you. We’re having lunch.”
I figure a big house like this would take him forever to show up, but just a couple of seconds later, the door unlocks and I get my first glimpse of Mr. Morrison. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect much. Maybe someone like my dad, with rapidly thinning hair and a bit of a belly. Definitely not some kind of supermodel. He had steely blue eyes, dark blonde wavy hair pushed back, and dark stubble shading his strong jaw. His full lips were smiling, making my heart skip more than just a beat.
“Hi,” I manage to say though my surprise. “Mr. Morrison?”
He holds out a large hand, and I reach to take it. A shock passes through me, making me hyperaware of my small hand in his grip. His fingers were calloused, as though he worked with them often, and the shake he gave was firm. This was the kind of man who was confident in everything he did.
“Call me Kane,” he says warmly in that rich chocolate-y voice of his.
I just nod silently, already knowing there’s no way I could call him Kane. It seemed… intimate somehow.
He releases me, and I take a breath, not realizing I had been holding it all this time.
“Come in.” He steps back and opens the door further.
I walk into the front hall. Ornate crown molding and chair rail ran along the lengths of the wall. There was art, a lot of it, hanging, along with delicate vases and sculptures on furniture that definitely wasn’t modern. Probably all priceless antiques to go with the expensive house. French doors on the right opened into what looked like a study or library, and there was a formal sitting room on the left. To my surprise, there were hardly any toys in sight, which I’d never seen before in all my years of babysitting.
“This way,” he says, gesturing towards the study.
I walk through the double doors, and he follows after, shutting the door behind him. The space is gorgeous, with a whole wall of books along one side and a big view of the front garden that let light in. A solid oak desk faced the doors, and behind it were filing cabinets. I take one of the seats facing the desk, setting my purse onto the floor.
“So,” Mr. Morrison says as he settles into the swivel chair behind the desk. “What has Tim told you about the job?”
“Tim? Oh, mom’s friend,” I say. “Well he did mention that you had two daughters you need me to take care of. Mostly driving them around to their lessons after school and maybe some nights when you have to work late. That’s about it.”
“Are you any good at cooking dinner?” he asks.
“Sure thing, I can make mac and cheese, and spaghetti, and I’m always up for trying something new if you have something you’d like in mind.”
He nods, and leans forward in his chair. He’s got nice broad shoulders, I think absently.
“What I really need is a nanny. Now there are certain differences. Sometimes nannies will take care of light housework, or cooking meals, or errands. I have a housekeeper who comes by once a week, so there’s no worry there, but it would be nice if you wouldn’t mind swinging by the grocery store occasionally. In Amanda’s class they take turns bringing snacks, and I know Amelia has school projects that she’ll need supplies for, so you would have a credit card to use for items like that. Do you know about your pay?”
I nod quickly.
“Good. If you give me a void check, I can get that set up for you.”
There’s a brief pause, and I wonder if I’m supposed to say anything, but then he continues.
“I guess we better get down to it. The interview is pretty straightforward. I just want to know a bit about you before I hand over the most important people in my life into your care. Can you tell me a bit about yourself?”
Crap. I hate this question. I mean, I guess I understand why people have to ask it, but I never know what to say. I’m pretty sure Mr. Morrison doesn’t care to know that I love to go shopping and my favorite fruit are strawberries, but it’s babysitting. It’s not like I require a degree or anything advanced to do it.
“Well, I love kids.” He doesn’t exactly look impressed, but I forge on. “I’ve been babysitting for a long time now, since I was twelve in charge of my own brother.”
Okay, probably also not the biggest accomplishment.
“I’ve got at least ten families who would give great recommendations if you need them.”
Mr. Morrison sits back, his head tilted as if I’m some kind of puzzle.
“But is this what you want to do with yourself? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve graduated high school, you’re not in college, you don’t have a career you’re working on. Do you have a goal in mind for yourself, or are you just going to be a babysitter… forever?”
Oh. Goals. What is it with adults and goals?
“I don’t know what I’d like to do,” I say honestly. “I do know that I love to take care of children and be with them. Help them discover how amazing life is, to be there to comfort them if they’re upset, just to see them flourish. I guess what I’d really like to be is-” I broke off my thinking, because what I’d been about to say was ‘I’d really like to be is a mom. And honestly, until just this moment, I didn’t realize it. But it’s true. I would love to have a child of my own to raise and to show them everything and just be there. To nurture and help a child grow. Maybe that’s why I never minded when I had to stay in on Friday night working instead of going to parties like everyone else in high school.
Mr. Morrison’s still waiting for me to finish what I was working up to, but I feel a rush of guilt. My mom had to claw her way to success. To say out loud that I wanted to just be a mom seemed like a slap in her face. But there was really nothing else. Is that so wrong?
“I’m sorry,” I say, flustered. “I sort of lost my train of thought. I just realized more about myself than I thought.”
To his credit, he didn’t push me further. Maybe he could read my emotions all too well.
“Well you sound passionate about the job, and I can’t see anything that would make me worry as a parent, so why don’t we meet the girls, and if they like you too, we can get started.”
“Oh, okay, yes, that would be great,” I tell him, gathering up my purse.
I’m going to have a lot to think about, but I can’t focus on that now.
We walk together to the back of the house which had the kitchen proper. This space was bright and airy, with a huge farmhouse sink overlooking a window into the backyard. White cabinets go from floor to ceiling, hiding even the fridge from sight. A big stainless steel gas range is built into the huge kitchen island, which was big enough to dominate the whole space. I didn’t even know they could cut marble slabs that big. Two girls are sitting at the kitchen island, their long skinny legs swinging from the bar stools. They have empty plates dotted with crumbs in front of them, probably sandwiches from lunch. Both of them are blond like their father. The older one had her hair up in a high ponytail, while the little girl’s hair was braided.
“This is Amelia,” Mr. Morrison said gesturing to the older one, “and Amanda.”
“Hi, nice to meet you two,” I say with a smile.
“Hi. Are you our new nanny?” Amanda asks, her sunny smile making me smile too.
“Yes. I’m Penny,” I tell her.
“Like the coin? I’ve never heard anyone called that before.”
“It’s short for Penelope, dummy,” Amelia snaps. “Nobody would ever name their child after money.”
“Her hair’s pretty red,” Amanda observes. “Maybe that’s why.”
I laugh.
“My hair is red, or auburn, is what they call it. And you’re right it is kind of like a copper penny, but my mom named me after my grandmother Penelope.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you,” I say, sliding onto one of the bar stools. “Are you named after anyone?”
“Yes. My mom’s name is Andrea, so she wanted our names to start with ‘A’ too.”
We smile at each other.
“Girls, I have some work to get done, so I’m going to be in the office this afternoon, but Penny will be here to take care of you. Don’t give her trouble. You already know what the rules are.”
The younger girls looks to her dad and nods seriously, but her sister just rolls her eyes. I can already tell how it will be, but that’s ok. I’ve dealt with kids who think they’re too old for babysitters. If it really becomes an issue, I’ll deal with it then, but I’ve always managed to win them over.
“Feel free to ask me any questions you have,” he says, turning to me. “I’m not working on anything that can’t be interrupted.”
“Okay,” I say. I avoid looking at his beautiful eyes too much, hoping he doesn’t sense just how much his looks have affected me.
“Go on ahead Mr. Morrison,” I tell him. “I think we’ll be just fine.”
Their dad leaves, and Amanda turns toward me.
“Do you want to play School with us?” she asks.
“Sure thing.”
“Good. I like you better than our old nanny already,” Amanda says, tugging my arm. “Now come see our play room.”