CHAPTER THREE
Reva
I dream about Sloan the following night. I remember as soon as I wake up, images rushing back. I feel my body heat at the fragments of illusion—the rigidly disciplined security mogul and single dad running his tongue between my legs, looking up at me with those sinfully deep blue eyes and a mischievous smile before burying his perfect face wickedly between my thighs. I shiver at the very thought but shake my head at such an impossible scenario. I get up, splash my face with cold water and check my email to see if there are any more interviews from the agency.
My phone rings, breaking the calming silence of the morning.
“Miss Sloan? This is Caroline from Carter Security. I’m calling to offer you the job that you interviewed for this week.”
“Wait, what? I mean, ahem, are you sure I’m the one you’re supposed to call?” I inquire, flabbergasted.
“I’m quite certain, ma’am. Mr. Carter was very specific in his selection. I’ll send over the paperwork via email, along with your information packet. You’ll have orientation tomorrow morning at eight thirty sharp at the address in your packet.”
“Thank you. I’m very surprised to hear from you. I look forward to meeting Lydia. Thank you, Caroline.”
Either this man was desperate for a nanny, or I made a better impression than I thought.
I excitedly text Angela the news. My email pings. I hurriedly open it and read the hefty information packet. My salary is even more generous than expected, particularly since room and board is included. There’s mention of a wardrobe allowance, which is strange, but I assume it pertains to the “Dress Code TBD” statement in the packet. My formal working hours are seven in the morning until eight at night, but I’ll technically be free from quarter to eight till noon while she’s at school. The housekeeper does cooking and laundry, including mine. She also cleans the house, including my room and private bathroom. Wait, I have a private bathroom? This delighted me but I treated it as just a bonus. I’m to also notify the housekeeper on Tuesday mornings if there are any toiletries or food items I want when she does the weekly shopping. As in my Tampax, Nutella, and Wheat Thins are in the household budget for goodness sake! I had to pinch myself and make sure I wasn’t in paradise. I take a screenshot and send it to Angela.
RU kidding me? Can u get them 2 buy me Ben & Jerry’s & black olives LOL!
I laugh as I read her text, and use my imagination to visualize her giddiness. I cannot believe my good luck. It then dawns on me that I need to decide what I’ll be wearing to this orientation. I want to make a good impression on the housekeeper. She’ll probably be showing me around. The whole dress code idea is freaking me out as if it was a decision on what to wear on my first day of middle school. There might be a uniform. I remember the gray sailor outfits the VonTrapp children wore in the movie and wonder if I’d be expected to wear something similar.
This will be fun.
I go through my entire wardrobe, and settle on black pants and a cute pink top. I’ll wear my hair down to look more relaxed, although relaxed is about the last thing I am. I spend the afternoon stress cleaning Angela’s apartment and then packing my belongings. I don’t have a lot—just clothes, a box of books and my phone charger due to previous boyfriend troubles.
I can’t help but feel excited about starting a new chapter in my life, hoping for it to relieve the financial distress I am currently dealing with. I wonder how big my room will be and if my private bathroom is a half bath or if there’s a shower. I try to imagine it, but my daydream keeps starting out like the inside of a Barbie Dream House and quickly veers into dirty territory when Ridge Carter shows up in my thoughts. Pretty soon we’re defiling a life-size Barbie canopy bed. I giggle to myself and stop to get changed and go for a run.
A driver turns up at eight in the morning and loads my stuff into the trunk of a gleaming Town Car. I ride in comfort to a huge brick house, the kind of mansion that would be called an estate if the neighbors weren’t so close by. I thank the driver and head for the door. Before I reach the sprawling flagstone steps, the door swings open.
Ridge Carter is standing in the doorway, waiting on me.
I miss a step in shock of his presence. He catches my arm so I don’t land face first on the stone porch and knock out my front teeth. My mouth is hanging open, I’m fairly sure.
“Oh, hi,” I attempt to say nonchalantly.
He frowns at me. I have no idea why my clothes feel the urge to disappear when I’m being frowned at. I guess he does have a sexy scowl. My heart flutters. I put my hand on my chest. I hope he takes that action as me being scared from nearly falling on my face. I hope he doesn’t notice that I’m freaking out because the attraction I feel for him is about to knock me over. It’s like tornado-level winds sweeping me toward him, and I’m not sure I can stay on my feet.
“Ms. Sloan,” he says coolly, his hands in his pockets.
“Mr. Carter,” I return, “Hey, I just realized that’s Jay Z’s name. You know, Sean Carter?” I smile at him expectantly. His expression quickly informs me that small talk about celebrities will not thaw him out. I laugh nervously and look down at my feet.
“Right this way,” he says, letting me in.
I walk in to a foyer that sweeps up three stories high. I nearly hurt my neck from looking up. On one side is a curving staircase. On the other is a lighted portrait of a little girl, about two or three years old, dark hair curling around her cheeks and wide dark eyes. She’s standing in a field or on a lawn, bright, green grass brushing against her chubby legs. She’s wearing an old-fashioned looking smocked cotton dress in pale blue and clutching a fistful of dandelions. Her sweet face charms me, but the firm little fist that refuses to give up the weeds she’s picked totally wins me over. It’s probably an 18x24 canvas under a brass light, I estimate. I glance at him. He’s looking at the picture, too, and his granite scowl has softened to a half smile that looks almost silly. The soppy, goofy way people can’t help looking at the things they love.
“She’s very pretty,” I admit.
“Yes,” he agrees, and walks on.
The foyer opens out into a living room with a massive sectional couch, probably custom made, in a soft blue-gray hue. There are children’s books on the ottoman that stands in for a coffee table with a huge curving TV bigger than anything I’ve seen outside a movie theater. On a long credenza below, it is a row of what appears to be Barbie movies and Peppa Pig DVDs. I smile in spite of myself. For all the icy med-lab aesthetic of his offices, this man lives in a real home. Everything is soft and welcoming. The walls are robin’s egg blue. There are signs of childhood all over.
I’m in awe as I’m shown sitting rooms and a formal dining room, the gourmet kitchen with a walk-in refrigerator the size of a van, a pantry bigger than my dorm room at school. I can’t imagine ever needing anything from the grocery store after seeing the inside of that pantry stocked with every ingredient and snack food imaginable.
“I prepared this for you in addition to the packet you received yesterday,” He says, handing me a bound document.
I flick through it while he checks his phone. It’s a list of things Lydia likes and an even longer list of things she is afraid of, dislikes or doesn’t eat. She likes olives and Goldfish crackers. She doesn’t eat hot dogs because of the choking hazard. I feel like mentioning that olives aren’t any safer, but I’m pretty sure that my opinion isn’t welcome around here. I continue reading and take note of certain things to display my attentiveness and make a good impression in the future.
“You can go over it in detail later. The main points are mostly common sense. Her schedule, that sort of thing. Come along, and I’ll show you her room.”
Before I ever see it, I know it’ll be a showplace that makes the Pottery Barn Kids catalog look plain and unimaginative. When he opens the door, I see that I’m right. I also see that this kid really likes the color blue. The walls are a soft, soothing blue with white woodwork. The white bed has a puffy blue comforter that looks like tufted silk. Mermaids are everywhere—paintings of them, sequined pillows with mermaids on them, as well as a variety of dolls. Above the bed there’s a hoop that holds yards of blue and lavender chiffon, which fall around the top of the bed like a canopy. Somehow the canopy thing looks like a jellyfish, with silver filaments in the blue. It’s breathtaking pretty and strikes a balance between looking stupidly expensive and looking comfortable.
I’m itching to raid the kid’s walk-in closet, starting to feel quite jealous of a five-year-old’s safe haven, but I feel like obvious snooping would be a mistake. Still, my eyes dart to the closet door, which has her mermaid growth chart on it.
“You won’t be responsible for buying her clothes unless she needs something suddenly, like a character shirt for a birthday party or something like that. A personal shopper sends a few pieces each month to refresh her wardrobe for the weather since she’s growing fast. Lydia is small for her age.”
I nod, not knowing what to say about a five-year-old who has a personal shopper.
“There was the matter of the dress code in your packet. I’m sure you have questions about that. While it isn’t a uniform, you’ll be expected to dress in a manner similar to the mothers of Lydia’s classmates. I don’t mean for you to impersonate her mother—please don’t be alarmed. You’ll serve on the PTO with these women and I don’t want you or Lydia to appear at a disadvantage. The fact that she is motherless is viewed with a sort of stigma, and I don’t want her to be singled out and pitied.”
Something about how he says it makes me think he’s worried, insecure. That maybe all this controlling routine is about protecting his kid from ridicule and gossip. I wait for him to tell me more—it’s a teaching technique I learned in school, just staying silent to give someone space to elaborate.
“I went to the first PTO meeting of the year myself,” he says ruefully, “and one of the mothers approached me and said something about ‘poor little Lydia’ and how she’d be happy to take Lydia under her wing since she didn’t have a woman to guide her. That was when I realized that they’d been talking about my child. That even with all the single-parent households in this country, there’s an attitude that a man can’t raise a child on his own. Or that, if I do, she must be deprived emotionally or something. It’s very—frustrating to say the least,” he rubs a hand over his face.
“I can’t believe anyone would think that a child with one loving parent was deprived of anything,” I say hotly, before realizing that I’ve sort of jumped to his defense.
“They went on, these moms, to tell me how hard it is to find a presentable nanny who speaks English and dresses the part, but I don’t want a visible distinction between you and the mothers. You’ll find links to a few of the brands popular among the St. Agnes mothers in your packet. My secretary Caroline was kind enough to determine what was usual for school drop off and what they wear for plays and programs…”
“You want to buy me rich-lady clothes?” I say, trying not to grin. He wants to protect his little girl, wants to help her fit in, but the idea of this highly intelligent and serious businessman asking his secretary to figure out what the moms are wearing these days made me want to giggle.
“Yes, if you have no objection to wearing them,” he offers.
“My teaching clothes just had to be washable. Khakis and polos mostly. I expect that won’t work for drop off at St. Agnes, although the driver drops her off,” I mention.
“Yes, but on occasion I’m sure you’ll accompany her. Some of the committees meet in the mornings, and every three weeks she has a science or social studies project due—the sort built out of toothpicks that has to be carried very carefully.”
“In kindergarten? We were doing torn paper collage in the first-grade class I taught. St. Agnes must be…rigorous,” I said, throwing out an education buzzword.
“Yes. The curriculum is challenging and the class sizes are small. The security is manageable.”
He sounds terse and decisive. There is something he’s not telling me.
“Is there a danger to Lydia?” I venture.
He narrows his eyes at me, “Not a definite one, no,” he shakes his head, “but there is a possible threat. My firm has done some government contract surveillance that made a somewhat nasty group aware of the company and our employees. By extension, our families could be at risk.” He reveals.
“I see,” I murmur, and finally I do see. “I’m not going to let her out of my sight.” I assure. I’m not sure why I said it. He seems perfectly in control of everything, but I want to comfort him.
“Good. You’ll also find her medical history in the document I gave you. A list of restricted activities. Common sense, but I feel more comfortable spelling it out. Roller skating, and trampolines are off-limits because of the high probability of broken bones, for example. Any water activities require a safety flotation device, not just water wings. No jumping off the diving board…”
“What about zip-lining? Taking her to the firing range?” I tease.
“This is no laughing matter. My daughter’s safety is of the utmost importance. Most people take absurd risks with their children, and they wind up in emergency rooms,” he says, remaining dour.
“I’ll read it. I won’t let her do anything risky.” I reassure.
“Actually, you are not to let her do anything I deem as dangerous. While I trust your judgment in her daily care, I prefer to restrict activities of the sort that require one to sign a waiver.” Anyone else would try to sound good humored or apologetic in saying that. Not this guy. Uncompromising as granite and convinced that roller skates mean a journey to death.
This guy is stressing me out. Despite him being is six feet plus of rock-hard gorgeous, which is distracting. I want him to know I’m dedicated to my job. I want to assure him that I’ll read and abide by the guidelines, but it’s difficult when he’s so sexy I can’t stop biting my lip.