“The funeral is the day after tomorrow. We’ll stay at the bed and breakfast till then. Salima will want to go. I need to be off tomorrow and the day after, and then I’ll come back to work.”
“That’s fine. Don’t worry about it. You’re entitled to three days off.” Not with Susie Quentin on deck, Blaise thought to herself, and competing with her, with the management guys snowed by her. The timing was terrible on this. And now Salima would be at home for two or three months, and Blaise would be pulled in all directions with a male caretaker for her, who would be more of a headache than a help. “Stay in touch,” Charlie told her, “and let me know if I can do anything to help.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” Blaise said, and hung up. She put on her nightgown after that and slipped into bed with Salima, who was sound asleep.
Salima started crying again the next morning as soon as she woke up. Blaise made her breakfast, which she wouldn’t eat, and then went to shower and dress. And she was at Eric’s office at nine o’clock, to meet Simon, and left Salima at the cottage with Lara. She hadn’t told Salima yet that Simon was coming to New York. And as soon as Blaise saw him, her heart sank. Simon Ward looked proper and respectable and was wearing a blazer and jeans. His hair was trimmed, and he was wearing a clean well-ironed shirt, but he was tall and well built and good looking, and was about thirty-five years old, with dark hair and eyes. Everything about him said male, and all she needed was for him to fall for Salima, who was a beautiful girl. This was a headache she just didn’t need, especially now. Eric invited them all to sit down in his office, and Simon looked a lot more relaxed than Blaise. He was deeply sympathetic to her loss and said he knew how attached Salima had been to Abby, and he was prepared to do everything he could to help both mother and daughter at this trying time.
“I don’t think this will work,” Blaise said honestly to Simon. “We’re just not set up to have a man in the house. And who will dress her? I leave for work at six A.M., and I travel most of the time.”
“If I lay out her clothes for her, she can dress herself,” he said calmly. He didn’t add that at nineteen she should have been doing that herself for years. But he knew Abby had babied her and did everything for her. He and Abby had argued about it at staff meetings, when they discussed their caseloads and theories about them. He had said that she wasn’t doing Salima any favors by treating her like a child. “I think we’ll do fine,” he said in a gentle voice. But Blaise wasn’t convinced. She could think of a thousand things that could go wrong. She looked deeply worried. “We’ll do the best we can. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?” he asked Blaise, looking her in the eye.
“How long have you been doing this kind of work?” she asked, but it didn’t make a difference. She didn’t want a man.
“For eight years, since I left graduate school. I’m thirty-two. I graduated from Harvard. My master’s degrees are in special ed and psych. And my brother went blind at eighteen. He was a downhill racer, training for the Olympics. He got a head injury and lost his sight. He gave up on everything at first. He’s two years older than I am, and I just wouldn’t let him give up. I hounded him till he went back to school and got back on track, so I’ve been doing this kind of work for a long time,” he said with a small smile.
“And where is your brother now?” Blaise asked, curious about him. Simon was at least well spoken and seemed like a nice man. He would have been fine at a dinner party, but not to take care of her daughter. What would he do when she needed to take a bath, and there was no one to help?
“My brother teaches French literature at Harvard. My father is the head of the physics department, and kind of a mad scientist and inventor. My brother is much more down to earth. He’s married and has four kids. So I guess the badgering worked.” Simon smiled, and Blaise didn’t.
“And your mother?” It was an irrelevant question, but Blaise’s interest was piqued by his history, and the brother he had helped, and the mad scientist father. They sounded like an intriguing group.
“My mother is a poet. She’s French. She publishes every five or ten years with obscure publishers who do poetry that no one wants to read. She’s from Bordeaux, and she was a student of my father’s. He’s twenty-two years older than she is. He was a confirmed bachelor when they met and fell in love. They married a year later, and they’re very happy together. They’re both fairly eccentric, but it seems to work. Or at least it has for the past thirty-five years. So that’s my background. What do you think, Miss McCarthy? Would you like me to come to New York? I think I can be helpful to you and Salima while the school is closed. And I’m a fairly decent cook.” In fact, he had studied at Cordon Bleu in Paris and spent two college summers as a sous chef, but he didn’t tell her that. “I’ll do my very best.”