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ONE

RIVER

The trick to a good temp job was to never unpack.

And that was how I ended up in a waiting room that smelled of lavender and old money and sipping a coffee while waiting for a woman named Meara Feeney. I eyed the receptionist who’d brought my drink, which he’d pressed on me before I sat down. And he’d included a shortbread and a napkin. Perhaps that was what the agency did for every potential manny, but I suspected the guy was bored and needed to keep himself occupied.

I recognized the pattern because that was me thanks to being uprooted every couple of years when my dad swapped one hotel manager job for another with a better star rating. Being transplanted became a template for my life. I was imprinted, like a baby duck on their mama, and now everything I owned I could fit in a duffel and on the back seat of my car. Though unlike my family, I’d never dragged anyone else along with me.

My attention was drawn to the receptionist again as he swung the chair from side to side and stared out the front door. He was sipping from a paper cup, suggesting he may have taken his own mug home. A little dish on the counter that should’ve contained mints for visitors was empty. This guy had one foot out the door.

I could perhaps talk my way into their position if Meara hadn’t filled it, but I’d done reception work two months ago and I was ready for something else.

“River?”

“That’s me.” I strolled into her office holding the coffee because I hadn’t finished it and it was free.

Meara reminded me of one of my school principals. Her stare would have undone anyone unsure of themselves because it felt as if she was probing my thoughts. I grinned and held out my free hand.

“Nice to meet you, Meara.”

There was a teensie change in her expression, but she covered it up. Oops, maybe she was a Ms. Feeney instead. The Ms. Feeney part of her got straight to the point as she tapped my resumé with a nail painted red.

“Can you explain why you job-hop?”

Like her, I didn’t mince words, and I explained my upbringing and preferences. But if she’d checked my references, which a Ms. Feeney would have, my past employers had given me glowing recommendations.

I worked jobs for six weeks or three months. I’d tended bar, walked dogs, worked a hotel front desk, and done child-minding. I never stayed for long so I didn’t get bored. A hundred and eighty days were my maximum.

“What’s that saying about some friends coming into your life forever and others for a season? That was me but with jobs.”

The receptionist brought in a hot drink for Meara but spilled a little and didn’t wipe it up or apologize which cemented my earlier belief that he was looking for another position.

Without glancing at the laptop, Meara asked about my child-care experience. “Have you looked after multiples, as in twins?”

That was a very specific question, and I guessed she had a family in mind.

“Sure, I covered for a family last spring when the manny got married. But I’ve worked in summer camps, so groups of kids the same age might seem chaotic but they’re usually cool and I get along well with them.”

She scanned the computer screen and pressed her lips together as if she was about to relay bad news.

“Are you squeamish?”

My mind went to a child that was injured and needed bandages changed or regular insulin injections.

“About what?”

“Rare meat, a dad who keeps odd hours, bumps in the night, and heat.” She ticked each one off on her fingers.

It was an odd list but not much bothered me. I could sleep on a foldaway bed, and I didn’t freak at mice scampering over the floor in the middle of the night. But bumps in the night? I never craved luxury but haunted was a bridge too far.

“Nah. I’m used to the heat because we lived down south. With no air-conditioning and a small fan, nights were long and sweaty.”

“Interesting.” If she’d had a pen, I imagined her tapping her lips with it. “Sounds like you don’t rattle easily.”

“Not really.” It was a handy quality because I didn’t flap my hands and expect others to help after an accident. I was the one yelling “Call 911” while doing chest compressions.

Meara, not Ms. Feeney now, leaned back in her chair and sipped what I guessed was tea. She looked like a tea drinker.