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“Jodi, for God’s sake,” a male voice interrupted, his words hurtling down the stairs. “Can you do something, please? I’m trying to work.”
“My husband,” I explained to Elyse. “He’s a writer.”
“How lovely. Would I be familiar with any of his work?”
I shrugged. “Possibly. He wrote a book calledComes the Dreamer.”
“I don’t think I know it.”
“Well, it was a while back.”
“Mom!” Sam cried.
“Mommy!” Daphne echoed.
“Jodi!”
“Okay, kids, that’s enough. Get down here. Now.” Within seconds, my children scrambled down the stairs and into view, Sam a skinny flagpole of a boy, Daphne a pudgy little bundle of energy, both with my somewhat unruly brown hair and their father’s inquisitive blue eyes.
“Who are you?” Sam asked Elyse, eyeing her suspiciously.
“This is Mrs. Woodley,” I said.
“Elyse, please,” she corrected. “What beautiful children. Such a handsome young man,” she said to Sam. “And you,” she said, turning her attention to Daphne. “You’re just a little cupcake of cuteness, aren’t you?”
Both children beamed.
“When I grow up, I’m going to live in New York,” Sam announced, something he’d never mentioned before.
“WhenIgrow up,” Daphne followed, “I’mgoing to live in New York. I’m going to work in a crayon factory,” she added for good measure.
I wasn’t sure whether to be amused or appalled.A crayon factory?I thought.
“What a lovely idea,” Elyse said. “Then you could make your own crayons and color all day long.”
Daphne nodded enthusiastically.
“I’m hungry,” Sam said.
Elyse promptly rose to her feet. For a second, I thought she was about to go into the kitchen and start preparing dinner. Instead she reached into her purse and brought out a lavender piece of paper. “My references,” she said, handing the paper over to me. “Why don’t you check them out and get back to me once you’ve finished your interviews. And, of course, if you have any further questions, feel free to call me anytime.”
“But we haven’t even discussed salary or vacations,” I began, reluctant to let her leave.
“I’m sure that what you have in mind will be more than fair,” she said, holding out her hand toward Sam. “So nice meeting you, Sam,” she said as he latched onto her fingers. “And you, Daphne. I hope to see you both again very soon. And I’m going to go right out and buy your husband’s book,” she said as we reached the front door.
I watched her disappear down the tree-lined street, fighting the urge to run after her and tackle her into the nearest clump of spring flowers, tell her that the job was hers, that there was no need to check her references or interview anyone else, and that we would gladly pay her anything she asked, give her as many holidays as she desired.
There had to be a catch, I remember thinking. Nobody was that perfect. But the unpleasant thought was quickly drowned out by my children’s voices.
“I’m hungry,” Sam wailed behind me.
“I’m a cupcake of cuteness,” his sister said.
