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CHAPTER 1
Aspen
I can hardly contain my nervousness as the sleek black SUV drives through the expanse of country roads toward the little town, my heart pounding so loudly in my ears, I’m sure the driver can hear it. But if he can, he makes no comment. In fact, the man has said almost nothing to me the entire way from my apartment.
All the way from Atlanta, I’d questioned what I was getting myself into, what kind of arrangement the nanny agency was setting me up for. I’d had a week to think about it, to plan for it, to reconsider it, even, but suddenly, my nerves are on the fritz again.
What the hell am I doing here? Is it too late to turn around and call it a day? Will I get fired from the agency for doing that?
I don’t want to risk it, particularly when I was forewarned.
“It’s unconventional, to say the least,” Mrs. Burgess explained when presenting the file to me, sliding the manila folder over the wood of her pristine desk. “And I wouldn’t normally consider something like this, but we have properly vetted the gentlemen involved, and they are well known. I don’t question their ethics, considering the circumstances.”
Every word she spoke fueled my curiosity, and that I was looking at a paper file versus a digital one doubly intrigued me. Any other client’s information is typically emailed to me, but this—this was all very hush-hush.
Seeing the names inside the folder, however, made me understand the need for discretion.
“What is this?” I asked the agency owner, blinking in dismay as I lifted my head from the pages in front of me.
“It’s a job, Miss Palco. Are you interested, or aren’t you?”
I’m brought back to the present moment when the car I’m in takes a sharp right turn. Now, I peer at the impending town with its old-time clock tower and three cute churches lined up in a row. My doubts come flooding back in a torrent.
The vehicle slows down on the main street, giving me the opportunity to take in the adorable shops with their green and white awnings, the courtyard park in the center rife with children playing in the after-school hour.
This is a nice place to raise a kid, a family. Made even more so by the luxurious mansions on the outskirts of town, where old but gorgeous estates sit on side streets, making my eyes pop.
My head swivels this way, then that, unsure of which pretty house to look at first—the Victorian with the cupola or the Georgian with the Juliet balconies. I give myself whiplash, like an excited puppy playing ball with herself.
An unexpected shiver rushes through me, one that’s neither pleasant nor unpleasant, a sense of being overwhelmed as the mansions slide by, one greater than the next.
But there are not just massive houses on our path. A tennis and basketball court slide by, an Olympic-sized pool with a clubhouse. In the not-so-far distance, I make out a golf course before the driver takes another turn.
This place feels like a movie set.
We’re far from Atlanta; that much is clear. We’ve been driving for more than an hour and a half. The GPS shows Cypress Gardens as barely a blip on the map without a street view, telling me nothing about the little town where my job interview is about to take place.
Or maybe the man interviewing me, Flint Sterling, bought his way off the internet. That shouldn’t surprise me. Men like Flint have money to do whatever they want.
The SUV takes a turn down a windy road, and my chin juts forward as I see a maid at the end of the road, dressed in black and white, like something out of a fifties movie. I gawk at her strolling down the cobblestone among the manicured lawns. She holds up a hand and waves at the passing car. To my utter astonishment, the totally silent driver waves back! He hasn’t managed a single word to me since picking me up outside my apartment in Adair Park, but he apparently has at least one friendly bone in his body.
His chauffeur cap pivots back toward the windshield as if he realizes I’m staring at him, trying to figure him out, and I’m left to peer out at the incredible landscaping. I count three hedge animals, shaped like a dinosaur, a rabbit, and a bear—all on different properties.
Little girls are having a tea party by a Roman-style fountain in another yard as the driver makes yet another right, landing us on a cobblestone cul-de-sac where the houses are veritable castles. I am left breathless again as I see each one of the giant structures painted in a different color that contrasts against the serene blue sky beyond.
The driver pulls into the subtlest of the houses, painted a pale yellow with white lace trim along all three stories.
“We’re here, Miss Palco,” he informs me, stopping in the circular drive, directly in front of the double front doors. I almost jump at the sound of his voice now.
“Uh… thanks.” My palms sweat, and I wipe them hastily on my skirt, smoothing it out as the driver—whose name I still don’t know—walks around the car to let me out.
Instantly, I’m consumed by the succulence of the smell in the air, Georgia’s trademark peaches hinting at the summer skies but commingled with other fruits, too. Oranges? Apples? All I know for sure is that it doesn’t smell like this in Adair Park.
A small giggle attracts my attention, and I whirl around, the aroma forgotten as I catch the wide, doe-eyed expression of a little girl peeking out from behind a nearby gum tree.
My heart immediately melts to take in her long, braided hair, slightly askew in a pink ribbon that’s ill-fastened, her overalls muddy. She’s lost a shoe somewhere along the way, too.
A dozen unpleasant memories of childhood flash in my mind, being underfed and under-clothed, living with foster families who didn’t care enough about me to ensure my minimal needs were attended.
