Or a violation of decency. Or both. Or something.
Whatever it is, it feels wrong and a little…icky.
Even if she weren’t planning on moving into the apartment—an assumption that would be incorrect, judging by the large suitcase perched on the sidewalk beside my front gate—this wouldn’t work. I can’t be Clover’s boss; she can’t become emmeshed in my family, not even for a month. I’ve been hoping,if the chemistry between the part-time nanny and the girls was solid, that the part-time nanny would become thefull-timenanny, giving my daughters some much-needed stability and continuity of care.
But the chemistry between Clover and me makes that an impossibility.
I can’t afford for her to set a single foot in my home. I can’t afford to let anyone get attached. I can’t afford for my mother to decidethisCummings might have the sense to flush a toilet and be a good fit for the girls.
Oh, but she would be, a voice whispers in my head.Shewouldbe good for the girls. She would begreat. Exactly what they need. A young, energetic, sweet, smart, upbeat, thoughtful, fun, fantastic nanny to help keep their mind off all the hard things they’ve been through in the past year. And you’re going to ruin it for them because you didn’t have the sense to leave McLeary’s the second Clover told you she was twenty-four years old.
I drag a hand through my now even more unruly hair, silently cursing my gift for getting myself into impossible situations.
Before I can think of the kindest way to inform Clover this isn’t going to work, my mother asks, “How about a cup of coffee, honey? You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
“Yes, please,” Clover says. “I can always use a cup of coffee.”
“A girl after my own heart. Cream? Sugar?”
“Sugar, please, no cream,” Clover says, glancing back to me as she adds, “I mean, if that’s okay with you, Mr. Kate.”
Mr. Kate.
I don’t know what to say tothat.
I only know I don’t like it. Not even a little bit.
I like it even less when my mother cheers, “Just how I like mine! Come on in, take your shoes off, get comfortable. We’ll getyou caffeinated and introduce you to the girls before we go. Grab her bags, Dean. I assume you have bags, Clover?”
“Just one suitcase,” Clover says. “But I can get it. It’s not that heavy.”
“I’ll get it,” I grit through clenched teeth. “It’s not a problem.”
But itisa problem, a big problem, one I’m not sure how to head off at the pass with Clover already climbing my porch with a bounce in her step and a few jaunty thrusts of her cane.
Thrusts…
Vowing not to think about thrusts—anykind of thrusts—I collect her suitcase and head inside, figuring this latest mess can wait until after I’ve dropped Mom at the airport.
But as soon as I get back…
Well, Clover and I are going to have to talk.
A long, serious, sober talk.
Eight
CLOVER
I wave from the porch—Bellaon my hip, and Ava bouncing beside me as she shouts, “Bye, Grammy! Bye, I love you so much! See you soon!”—like a person whose lifeisn’tin a rapid downward spiral.
Nothing to see here, folks.
Just your average, professional childcare provider who absolutely didnothave another kinky sex dream about her boss last night.
Her boss, who apparently had no idea he was about tobeher boss. And who is probably going to fire her as soon as he gets back from taking his mother to the airport.
What fun!
