I sniffed the flowers with a big sucking sound.
“Mommy smells great,” I said. The nanny smiled at me. I got stuck in that smile for a second. It was the first time she’d smiled at me and not in spite of me.
Nicole climbed into my lap. “What are you doing?”
“Working,” Paula said, closing her script and smiling. “Cara, honey, be a peach and go swimming or something with Miss Bombshell while Daddy works.”
“Come on, Nicole.” Cara held her hand out. “Let’s go have a snack. We can put those in water.”
I tilted the yellow daisy to the side and spoke in a high-pitched voice.
“Water, please, Nicole, put me in water. I’m so thirsty.”
“Aw, poor flowermommy.” She stroked the petals. Cara smiled.
I put my fingers in Nicole’s hair. It was well brushed and smooth. I caught on a knot and gently pulled it apart. I searched for another tangle. Found one.
“Does she need a haircut?”
“No!” Nicole exclaimed. “Mommy liked it long.”
“Well, far be it from me to interrupt family time.” Paula stood up. “I’m going to use the facilities.”
“Okay, bye, Paula. Drink some water for me,” I made the flower squeak. Nicole loved it, and Cara laughed, hands folded in front of her. Paula disappeared into the house. Cara watched her go, then glanced at me.
She cast her eyes down when they met mine. It was weirdly demure. Then she tucked her hair behind her ear. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was so sharp and smart, but there was something about that pose, the tilt of her head, looking down at my daughter, fingertip barely touching her hair.
Nicole addressed the flower. “Mommy, do you think Cara’s pretty?”
I thought . . . well, no. I didn’t think. I knew. I just couldn’t say. Unless I hid behind the voice of Brenda Garcia, who I’d barely known. I felt entitled to speak my mind in that disguise.
“Very pretty,” Brenda’s voice said from the flower.
Cara’s face turned pink. Shit. What was I thinking?
“Is it okay if she’s my new mommy?”
“Peanut butter and jelly!” Cara exclaimed before I could answer. “Let’s eat lunch!”
Thank God, because I almost said yes.
“Yay!” Nicole shouted.
Cara didn’t make eye contact with me. She held her hand out and Nicole hopped off my lap. I gave her back the flowers and they trotted away. A second before they turned the corner to the house, Cara looked back at me and smiled as if she forgave me.
That felt absolutely perfect.
CHAPTER 12
CARA
I’d done a French braid on Nicole for Blueberry’s party, which should have taken three minutes, but she fussed and pulled it out. Brad commented that his daughter’s hair was a mess before I could fix it.
He was trying. I kept telling myself he was trying.
In the hours before Blueberry’s party, the Greydons came by Chez Sinclair for a playdate. They brought their six kids, four nannies, and lunch.
If Brad Sinclair was an A-list actor—and he was—Michael Greydon rose above the alphabet. The A-lister’s A-list. He was such a star he could quit to adopt six children with his wife, a notorious paparazza. I was even a little starstruck, and I was never starstruck. But when he and his wife came for a pre-party iced tea, I noted his low-wattage glow and sane approachability. It was hard not to stare.
The ride to the party pulled up promptly at two. Kids and nannies herded into a shiny black bus lined with video screens and games. Brad, Michael, and Laine went in a separate car. Apparently, our destination didn’t have a helipad.
All four Greydon nannies were from West Side, so they were fit and attractive. Pleated khakis and a white polo couldn’t hide a thing, even in my case, with a shirt that was three sizes too big and a bra that was a cup size too small. The pleats in my chinos seemed designed specifically to create dual pouches over the crotch, and the legs were so long I had to cuff them.
“It’s a thirty-day job,” I said. “Then I’m leaving. So if you hear of anything—”
“You’re leaving? Why would you leave?” Helen interrupted in French. The children were engrossed in a highly anticipated movie that was still two weeks from release. “There’s no wife to judge you all the time. It’s perfect.”
Helen had come from France to au pair five years before and stayed for the sun and easy work. She held the Greydons’ six-month-old while the other nannies entertained the children or gossiped.
“It was always temporary,” I answered in French. “The celebrity lifestyle isn’t for me.”
She tsked. “All the perks! Nice clothes, tags still on. Food from the best restaurants. All the people you meet. You can live the life without having the life. No?”
I just shook my head, but I didn’t tell her the other reason I had to run away as if my shoes were on fire.
I’d had another pool table dream. And another. It was a good thing Paula was my go-between. I was starting to blush whenever I was in the same room with Brad Sinclair and he hadn’t even touched me.
CHAPTER 13
BRAD
Michelle Novatelli held court at Blueberry’s party even though it wasn’t her house.
“Wait until you get to middle school. You’re going to want to put a bullet in your head.”
She put her pointer and her tall finger together and mimicked blowing her brains out. She was straight outta Brooklyn. Worked her way up to studio head at Overland and never looked back, unless she was doing her Bensonhurst schtick. Then her accent got thicker than a brick and she talked faster than a jackrabbit fucks.
“Five schools. Two events each. Application had essays. Dude. Essays. They know who I am. They know what I make, but I couldn’t get in without essays. Don could buy and sell these assholes, but I still had to wear heels to the interview.”
We were surrounded by money and fame, but Michelle just kept on like a middle-class Italian girl shocked at the private school system. Everyone else was amused by the act, agreeing enough to keep her going, nodding because they’d either gone through it or would soon. I should have nodded too. But I wanted to take her two fingers and blow my own brains out.
“And then after she asks a twelve-year-old what she wants to do when she graduates college, (eye roll) she asks her . . . the next question . . . is ‘What do you want to be doing in ten years?’ So my daughter says, ‘Isn’t that kind of the same thing?’ So we crossed that one off the list.”
Laughter.
My glass was empty.
Fuck. I wanted to jump off a tall building. I was supposed to care, but I’d already forgotten what school she was talking about.