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“Ms. Carter.”
She gives the nursery a once-over. For some reason, it makes me feel self-conscious. It’s like she’s judging me, even though I know that’s ridiculous. I didn’t make Violet’s room like this.
She returns her gaze to me. “I’ve been asked to give you a bit of a brief for the week,” she explains curtly. “Mr. Dalton is leaving this evening for an out of country training event. I’ll be accompanying him, which means you will have the house to yourself.”
“Are there any extra rules I need to follow, or…?”
“Just the obvious: you shall not invite anyone over to the house, nor should you take it upon yourself to bring Violet anywhere other than out in the rear gardens for playing.”
I frown. “There’s a park just down the road?—”
“This is precisely what Mr. Dalton wanted me to convey to you,” Paula interjects. She’s got a way of making it sound like I’m some naughty child interrupting the teacher while she’s giving an important lecture.
I get the feeling she and I aren’t exactly cut out for best friendship.
“Alright. Stay close to the house,” I concede. “Is that all?”
“You’ll also be meeting Gladys and potentially Tom today. Gladys is Mr. Dalton’s housekeeper, so you won’t need to worry about taking on extensive household chores. It’s simply asked that you don’t trash the place. I’m sure you can manage that. Tom is Mr. Dalton’s driver. On the rare occasion that you’ll need use of a car, you’ll want to be familiar with him.”
Then she pauses, as if contemplating the next part. She makes a more-sour-than-usual face as she pulls a small folder out from behind her and hands it over to me.
Inside, there’s a clean white sheet of paper, with lots of print on it. Attached to it is a credit card, shiny and brand new. I look at Paula, confused.
“It’s for you,” she drawls, like I couldn’t put two and two together.
“But why? What’s it for?”
She sighs through her nose and checks her watch. “Mr. Dalton is under the impression that you may have some unforeseen expenses or needs relating to the care of Violet. That is a credit card linked to Mr. Dalton’s personal banking account. He specifically instructed me to inform you that it has no monthly limit—though I stress that this should not encourage you to make frivolous purchases for yourself outside the scope of your job. Understand?”
I can tell she thinks this arrangement is cuckoo-bananas crazy. And honestly, she’s not wrong. I’ve been here for three days! Reese has to know how risky it is to just fork over a no-limits credit card to someone he doesn’t even know, especially given how much money is at stake. It doesn’t matter how many references I have. I could buy, like, a yacht!
I mean, I won’t. Of course I won’t.
… but I could.
However, the gears in my mind begin to twist and grind together. He’s giving me this so that I can buy things for Violet’s care. And I just added a shit ton of things to a wish list.
Money won’t replace love and attention, and Reese has a long way to go in understanding how much of those things his daughter needs. But this is a start.
I can work with that.
I smile wide at Paula. “I’ll keep that in mind. Tell Reese I said thank you. I’ll be responsible with it, I promise.”
I can’t tell if the slight twitch in her eyelid is because I called Reese by his first name, or that she doesn’t believe I could possibly be responsible with such a large amount of money, but I don’t care either way.
She nods, sniffles, and disappears from the doorway.
* * *
Say what you will about babies, but they really do sleep most of the time. Between feedings, burping, diaper changes, and naps, I set to work ordering things for Violet’s room. It’s bold to assume that Reese won’t care what I get, but I kind of want it to be a surprise. Like a grand unveiling to show him, See, look! Look at what you can do!
I want him to be excited about it. About giving his daughter a beautiful home, a beautiful world to live and grow in. Sometimes, new parents just need a little push to realize what’s possible.
It’s around noon when I’m making myself lunch that Reese starts hauling luggage down from his room into the foyer. I watch him from the kitchen, quietly curious. He says nothing to me.
Not like I expected otherwise.
Reese brings down his last bag, and right on cue, the front door opens. A middle-aged man with a wide smile and salt-and-pepper hair comes in. He’s dressed in a simple black suit. I’m guessing this is Tom, the driver. To my surprise, he claps Reese on the shoulder like an old friend, and Reese does the same to him.
