Kelly McClymer-Must Love Black (7 page)

I stepped through the double doors that Havens held open, into an office as big as the entire first floor of the house I’d grown up in. The woo-woo music wasn’t playing in here, but the scent of incense was a little stronger. There was a massive and ornate desk with curved legs and carved detail that I wasn’t close enough to make out. There was no one at the desk, so I looked around.

“Welcome, Miss Munson. Philippa.” The man who had spoken was sitting on a yoga mat in front of a marble fireplace. He sat easily in the lotus position and I felt a twinge of envy. When we’d learned yoga in gym class, I’d barely been able to
do a half lotus. Of course, that had been in a gym, and this was in an office.

Mr. Pertweath gestured to a low chair near his mat. “Please sit. Let’s chat a bit about the girls and your duties.”

He wasn’t at all what I had expected. The girls had said he was busy, but where were the piles of papers? The phone ringing off the hook? I sat on the edge of the chair, my nerves strung tightly like the strings of a violin. He, unnervingly, seemed perfectly relaxed, and he even smiled. It was in direct contrast to his daughters, who didn’t seem able to relax or smile. Which was why it surprised me when he said, “We’re so happy to have you here. I think you’re just what the girls need to have fun this summer.”

When I think of dads, I think of mine—or at least the way mine used to be. You know, the kind of guy who wants his kids to do well but isn’t quite sure what the definition of “do well” is. But I don’t think it ever includes a blanket mandate to “have fun.”

So I guess I can be forgiven for blinking in dull surprise when he said, “A young person is closer to the concept of fun, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Of course I didn’t think that, not if the young person had been attracted by an ad that said “must love black.” But I wasn’t going to say so to my new boss. At least, not until I’d figured him out and had an idea of what might get me fired. I didn’t intend to run away from the job, and I certainly didn’t intend to get booted out, either. So I said cautiously, “But the twins don’t really seem that into fun.”

“Ah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “They’ve had a bad year.
Lost their mother, you know.” He pointed to the portrait hanging over the fireplace behind him. A family portrait with a woman as unsmilingly serious as her children and a man who smiled proudly as if he didn’t notice the solemn expressions of his wife and daughters. “Your job is to remind them that fun is not a four-letter word. I expect you to see to it that Rienne and Triste experience fun daily, as called for on their schedule. They take things far too seriously. A little fun is exactly what they need to get over that.”

Now, I’d met the twins. “Fun” didn’t seem to be in their vocabulary. And the portrait suggested they’d felt that way before their mother died. Shouldn’t their father already know that? I probably shouldn’t have spoken my mind, but I did: “I don’t think they can be forced to have fun if they’re not ready. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Forced?” He looked horrified at the word. “Of course not. I was thinking cajoled, enticed, maybe pushed just a little.” He grinned at me, and I realized the man did know a little bit about cajoling, for sure. But he seemed more clueless than conniving when it came to his daughters.

“Philippa, they’re children. All children want to have fun. No matter what they say.”

I knew better than to tell him what I really thought. What I knew. Happy sneaks up on you even in the worst of times. Screeching of metal on metal, crash of glass, and boom, you’re hurt. But then you see Teddy Smithers made it through unscathed and a little bubble of happiness comes from behind the headache forming at the base of a bounced-around skull. Until you notice the next bad thing—your mom
isn’t moving. Happy is like cotton candy—sweet and so full of air it disappears before you swallow.

“You’re the nanny. You know best. They’re the children. They’ll listen to you.” He stiffened when the grandfather clock behind his desk began to chime the hour.

Before he or I could say another word, a woman burst into the room. She was dressed like a cross between a Greek goddess and a space alien—in some kind of shiny, soft silver wraparound garment that wafted gracefully around her when she moved but didn’t get in the way or slow down her charge toward what she wanted. Which, at the moment, appeared to be Mr. Pertweath.

He leaped up, flushing guiltily. The Zen calm was completely gone. “Lady Buena Verde.” I realized who she was at the same moment. She didn’t look anything like the woman in the itsy bitsy headshot I’d seen in the brochure last night. The new partner. I realized I’d been wrong about the stepmother angle. She was old enough to be Mr. P’s mother and the twins’ grandmother. But I was right about her charging in like Krystal and changing everything about their lives.

She looked at him as if he were five. “Mr. Pertweath, you’re making your guest wait.”

“I’m so sorry.” He looked at her, then at me. I wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to. Maybe the universe, because he also checked out the ceiling briefly. “The new nanny, you know. Very important.”

“Of course. Important.” Lady Buena Verde glanced at me as if I was anything but important. “But rather simple to dispatch in fifteen minutes, as scheduled, yes? Now go
change. You certainly can’t meet our most important patron in yoga gear.”

I was frozen at the edge of the chair, watching for my chance to escape. No luck. Lady BV (as I was already calling her in my head) turned her energy force on me. “Welcome, child.”

I took the opportunity to stand up and take a step toward the door. Before I could move past her, she grabbed my hand in both of hers. “So glad that you’ve signed on to take the twins in hand. You know they are to remain out of the guests’ way, of course, but—” she broke off. “My goodness . . .” Lady BV turned my palm up and stared down at it with a puzzled frown.

I pulled away. “Nice to meet you,” I lied. I’d already been honest enough for one morning. Not that it had gotten me anywhere.

“Oh, my.” She raised her hands to her temples and absently massaged them as she stared at me with very sharp green eyes. “I sense sadness. Despair.”

I shoved my hand into my pocket. “I’m fine.” I looked at Mr. Pertweath, who hadn’t moved to change his clothes. Apparently he was as paralyzed by Lady Buena Verde as I was. “Ready to have fun, fun, fun.”

Mr. P smiled, unfreezing. “Excellent. I knew it wasn’t a mistake to hire someone so young. No time for life to have jaded you.” I let him hurry off through a small door in the corner of his office. No need to enlighten him about the reason I loved black. For smaller children, grown-ups are a puzzle without all the pieces, a solution that is shrouded in the
space between understanding that what is said is not always what is meant. “Eat your vegetables” may mean “Hush and let me eat in peace” or “You must be healthy and obedient or I’ll look bad.”

I wasn’t a little kid anymore; I knew Mr. Pertweath’s sentence really meant that he was glad I wasn’t old enough to argue with him.

So many meanings hide in the breaths between sentences. I’d learned a long time ago that it was better to be quiet enough to hear those breaths, and thoughtful enough to reconcile words, pauses, actions, and reality in the moment of speech. My bad habits of impatience and unwelcome honesty sometimes got in the way. I wanted to tame them. I knew way too well that being honest about what isn’t being spoken aloud is more dangerous than not noticing the gap between words and meaning.

Right. Not that I would say so.

Lady Buena Verde’s sharp gaze became unfocused as she stared at me, and her voice softened and slurred ever so slightly. “Your aura . . . so tinged with black. I can help you.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m here to provide help, not receive it.”

“But—”

“I love black. That’s why I was hired.”

She looked confused, maybe because Mr. Pertweath didn’t clue her in about the ad his daughters had written. I was saved from having to explain when Laurie popped through the double doors at the same moment that Mr. Pertweath reappeared looking like a company director instead of a
yoga instructor. Laurie tapped the Blackberry in her hand, a frown on her face. “We’re due in the private reading room. Is something the matter?” She looked at me as if I was the cause of the problem.

Mr. Pertweath smiled at me absently and took Lady Buena Verde’s arm, breaking her trance. “Laurie, please see that Philippa has whatever she needs for the children, will you? Philippa, I look forward to a full report on the progress of the fun.”

And then he and Lady Buena Verde were gone.

I shook my head, still processing the last twenty minutes. “He wants me to force the kids to have fun.”

Laurie nodded as if this was a perfectly natural request. “I believe there’s a ball in the storage room. Perhaps we could arrange some kind of game in the outer field?”

“The outer field?” How much property was there at Chrysalis Cliff ?

“Well, I suppose the tennis courts might be better, but they’re reserved for the patrons during daylight hours, and I don’t think the children should be playing tennis at night, do you? And the inner field is similarly reserved.” She looked at me, with her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised in faint horror. “You have read the schedule, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” I lied. “And Lady Buena Verde was very clear that the children are not to interfere with the guests’ enjoyment.”

“Good. That’s very important. There was a nanny who just refused to understand, and we had to let her go.” Laurie smiled. “So, should I instruct Geoff to find the ball and make
sure the outer field is clear of debris so the children can enjoy a game of dodgeball?”

Dodgeball? I guess my skepticism was written on my face, because she quickly added, “I could play too. And I know I could convince Geoff to play with us, for me. It could be Geoff and me against you and the twins.”

Lovely. She was so comfortable planning Geoff’s day that I wanted to barf. “I’ll ask the twins.” I wasn’t lying, I was just skipping some critical information. I would ask the twins—on my last day here. No way was I going to play dodgeball. Dodgeball can be war or play, depending on the nature of your heart—soft heart and the ball strikes with a mushy thump, hard heart and the ball bounces with an extra edge.

No way was I getting myself in Laurie’s crosshairs in a game where winner takes all and grinds the others into the dirt. If I had to force the girls to have Mr. Pertweath’s kind of fun, I’d at least have to identify an activity that we could get through alive.

Swimming, maybe. My year on the swim team had taught me that repetitive exercise submerged in a pool can shrivel the fingers and toes and senses—or free someone from the weight of grieving and allow the grounded to fly. The twins were definitely grounded, as I noticed when they filed back in from their music lesson and refused to talk about what they had learned, if anything.

I didn’t push it. Music could be fun, but it sounded like the twins didn’t find it enjoyable. I didn’t see how I could turn it into fun retroactively. So I concentrated on what I
could do: help them get the butterfly pictures they needed for Camp CSI. It wouldn’t count toward fun in Mr. Pertweath’s book, but it was what the twins wanted to do. And if the butterfly garden was as good for spotting gardeners as it was for spotting butterflies . . . well, then checking it out was what I wanted too.

CHAPTER SIX

Life in other people’s houses, by other people’s rules, can be quite unexceptional—until your own values charge you with one duty while the household rules bring you up short of that duty. Then, a life of sufferance is no different from a choke collar for a disobedient dog.

—Miss Adelaide Putnam to Daisy, the chambermaid,
Manor of Dark Dreams,
p. 52

Back in our domain the twins gathered their camera and tripod for our foray into the wilds of the butterfly garden. I was curious to see what it looked like. I’d never heard of such a thing, which underscored the difference between these kids and me: They lived in a world I couldn’t comprehend.

Triste grabbed two pairs of binoculars, which struck me as curious. Did you have to hunt butterflies from afar? Weren’t they just there, flitting around on the flowers?

I quickly looked at the Nanny Notes binder to make sure our butterfly expedition wouldn’t break any rules. Lady Buena Verde had been clear on the most important rule: Keep
the girls out of the way of the patrons. But the garden wasn’t explicitly off-limits, and it didn’t seem disruptive to go down and take some quick shots. We walked quietly through the wide marble hallways, past modern sculptures and exotic flower arrangements on antique tables that were scattered here and there.

We didn’t see anyone else, and as the girls led me through the maze of the house with the skill of veteran housebreakers, I started to relax. I might not know the drill, but they did.

We paused at a window in the conservatory and scoped out the butterfly garden below. The sight took my breath away, but I didn’t let on to the twins. I was the nanny, not the ninny who oohed and aahed over a garden designed to attract butterflies.