A Girl's Best Friend (29 page)
I see her blow her bangs up with her breath and close her eyes, shaking her head. “I’m Jenna. Come on in,” she says without any actual welcoming. “Clear yourself a path and have a seat.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Did you actually meet Kyle?”
“I did. At church. Why?”
She sighs again. She’s big on the sighing. “I can’t hire you. Sometimes my husband doesn’t pay attention to the obvious, if you know what I mean.”
I really don’t. “Why not? I can be good with kids. You haven’t even given me a chance. Look, they’ll love me, won’t you girls?”
The two little blondes study me for a while and finally the oldest nods at their mother. “Pity,” the eldest mutters. I’m assuming she means “pretty,” but I think “pity” is much more appropriate.
“It has nothing to do with you and the kids.” Jenna sits on the sofa, covered with laundry that needs folding, and the girls climb up into her lap.
“What then?” I mean, I know I’m not exactly known as being a domestic, but I can learn. “If you don’t mind telling me, I can take it. In the past day, I’ve already heard my bank accounts have been frozen and that a mother is glad her son didn’t marry me. I can take what you can dish out, really. I mean, no one will hire me, and I’d love to know why. I may not have a lot of job experience, but I’m not inept.”
“Morgan,” Jenna says gently, patting my hand. “Kyle is a pastor. I know he’s a CFO full time, but he’s still a music pastor, and as such, the church watches what we do very closely. That’s why Kyle wants a nanny in the first place.” Her eyes sweep around the room. “We’re not exactly set up to invite the masses to dinner. I’m afraid my Martha qualities are very well hidden under a loving Mary façade.”
The house is atrocious, but clearly Jenna has her hands full. “I can just come in and help you clean if you’re worried about me being seen with the girls.” I’m desperate here. As chaotic as this home appears, it feels like a home. An actual loving environment that I would just love to witness in action. There are crayon drawings on the wall, toys askew, and two very darling little girls. “Mrs. Espinoza, my father’s housemaid, taught me how to scrub a sink so there is absolutely no ring of anything anywhere. I can even speak a little Spanish because of it.”
This memory sets off a little sadness, as I realize how pitiable I was, following the maid about because she was the one person who always had a hug for me.
Mrs. Keller smiles while the girls climb up onto the back of the sofa. They’re both staring at me as though I’m some kind of zoo animal. “Morgan, I don’t how to say this. It’s not politically correct, I realize.”
“It’s the federal indictments that scare you. I’ll pay taxes on anything you give me; you won’t even have to keep track. I’ll make sure the social security gets taken out and everything. I’m very good with accounting. I’ve done a lot for my dad. Well, before . . . I mean—”
“Morgan, stop. It has nothing to do with that, though Kyle did forewarn me. It’s that you’re a six foot blonde, and you bear a striking resemblance to a young Christie Brinkley. He sort of forgot to warn me about that.”
“She’s back doing makeup ads, did you see that? Christie Brinkley, I mean.”
Mrs. Keller nods slowly. “I did. The church wives, their tongues wag. They can’t help it, but they watch their pastors closely. It’s bad enough we have money and that I need help with the two girls, but I do. I’m not one of those mothers who can instinctively get everything done. It’s shameful as it is for me, Morgan, and if they see you, it will be even worse for me. And for Kyle.”
“Then I’ll help you. You name the hours. No one has to know I’m here.”
“It’s Nannygate. It’s the whole Jude Law thing. My husband is a well-off pastor and a nanny doesn’t look right, but a nanny who looks like you is definitely out of the question. I can’t believe Kyle didn’t notice.” She laughs a little. “I guess I should be grateful.” She puts her hands through hair that clearly hasn’t been washed or styled today.
“Can I at least stay until you’ve had a shower? No charge.” In Jenna, I see my mother. I can’t help it, but when I think about how Kyle saw his wife drowning, and his desire to help her, I can’t help but want to be a part of that. It’s so completely foreign to what I know.
Seeing Jenna, I see a great lesson that I should have learned a long time ago from Lilly. People have needs, and I don’t often notice them. Yes, I did finally notice that Lilly was drowning financially, and I helped her with credit, but not before Nate and Kim came to her rescue. What does that say about me?
“I don’t want things to be this way.” She lets out a long, haggard breath. “But they are this way and I am an inept homemaker.”
“I had it!” one child screams as she jumps off the couch.
“No, me!” The other one flies off as well.
The two girls are locked in a battle with the intensity of animals, their little blue eyes turning dark and treacherous while an innocent Dancing Elmo takes the brunt of their anger.
Mrs. Keller falls back on the couch, the back of her hand resting on her forehead. “Have at it, girls. Fight to the death over Elmo.”
Seeing their mother is not involved in their fight, they both release the doll and let it tumble to the floor. Crisis averted.
“Bath. I want a bath.”
“No, I want a bath.”
“How old are they?”
Jenna beams over her daughters. “Fifteen months and almost three. Hospitality may not be my gift, but my husband and I have no problem with fertility. He seems to look at me, and I get pregnant.” She rubs her belly and nods.
“Another one? When?”
“March 18 this one is due. Kyle is hoping it’s his boy. I’m just hoping I can get through the next few months and maybe get a nap once in a while.”
“I won’t wear makeup. Will that help?” I ask.
She laughs. “I’m not asking you to be ugly, Morgan. I’m only saying that I know what we’re in for if I hire you, and it’s just one more thing I can’t handle. So you see, even if you help me at home, I’ll have to deal with it at the church.”
The girls have now climbed on top of a plastic house that would normally be in a backyard but is prominently displayed in the dining room. Seeing the girls and the way their mom looks at them, with doe eyes and a proud smile, leaves me wistful. I know I can’t go back—that for some reason this wasn’t the childhood I was meant to have—but I can see how it’s supposed to be done.
“This is a crappy job.” Jenna continues, her own blue eyes watching her girls. She walks over and easily whisks them off the plastic roof. “I mean, I love it, I wouldn’t be anywhere else than with my daughters, but raising a family in the city is a hard business, and as a pastor’s wife nearly impossible. I need help watching them on outings, and getting them dressed so we can actually have an outing once in a while.” Then she looks out the window, and I hear her silent anguish. “He’s never home. Between work and the church, it’s just constant.”
“Kyle?”
Okay, my first thought is,
Sheesh, he’s home enough to get
you pregnant,
but that’s hardly kind and completely irrelevant.
“Why would you want this job?” she asks me, and I can see she’s weakening.
Looking around at the messy house and the granite countertop I can’t see and the floors with little feet marks on them and the walls with scuff marks that are in need of those Mr. Clean erase markers that I think Mrs. Henry owns stock in, I can’t imagine why I want the job, but out of my mouth comes the truth: “I want to know what it’s like to be in a normal family. I know that’s weird. I promise I’m not like
The Hand
That Rocks the Cradle
or anything, but I really want to know what’s the glue that holds families together.”
“
Mom
is the glue. Don’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”
If that’s true, that would explain a lot. There was nothing to hold us together in our house. We were like a popsicle-stick construction.
“I can help you, Jenna. No one even has to know. You have your private shame, I have mine. We can do this together. Please.” I never thought I’d find myself begging for a job, but I stand here realizing if I have any pride left, I forgot where I left it.
“Kyle told you the pay?”
“He did,” I nod.
“That’s barely enough for weekly lattes.”
“They make me fat anyway.”
She grins. “I need a self-starter. If you’re looking for direction from me, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“I’ve watched enough maids and nannies in my lifetime. I know the drill. I’ll do my best, and you can tell me if it’s not good enough. Let’s just agree for the week if it scares you.”
“You’re hired.”
I look around the room for something that should be a priority, and I decide to clean. Jenna wouldn’t feel nearly so out of control if her house was put together. “I’ll get started in the kitchen.”
As I look at the previous night’s dinner dishes in the sink, I feel this incredible peace wash over me. For once in my life, I feel completely necessary, and for fifteen dollars an hour, that isn’t a bad deal.
A
fter a morning of joyful drudgery, I drive to the penthouse giddy yet completely ignorant as to what I’ll find in my former home. I do know I’m going to have to find a way to pay the rent on Lilly’s loft, since I imagine she’ll be moving in with her husband now. I can’t imagine what possessed her to do anything differently. Hmm . . . House in the Marina overlooking the Golden Gate with a man, or unkempt loft in Cow Hollow. Hmmm, what would I do?
I arrive at the penthouse, and pulling my Beamer into the parking garage feels like every day of my previous life. Like I’ve just come home from a luxury luncheon or a pedicure appointment. In actuality, today I scrubbed ages-old macaroni and cheese off of granite countertops and threw science experiments away from an odiferous refrigerator. No, today is the first day of my new reality, and so far, it’s disgusting, but not bad at all.
For one thing, I made a new friend. Jenna doesn’t care what kind of car I drive, nor does she care what bling my father gave me to wear today. She just wants to know her daughters are well cared for, and I was actually a help. Amber and Anne are sweet girls, but they are a major handful. They’re both extremely bright, and they seem to take pleasure in finding what trouble they can mix up while Jenna turns her back. Just my extra set of eyes was enough to ward off several impending disasters.
As I enter the garage beneath the apartments, I watch the bellman look down. Even though I pull my car up obnoxiously in front of the closet he calls an office, he promptly ignores me. I honk the horn because, well, because I’ve just spent all morning scraping food particles off of places they had no business being. This doorman isn’t going to give me any garbage.
He doesn’t look up when I honk.
This is fun. I honk again. I just took on two toddlers all morning; just try it, buddy.
Finally, I see him slap down his clipboard, giving me the satisfaction that I have indeed annoyed him to the point where he’s roused from his nest. Or perhaps lair is the better term.
“Can I help you?’ he asks with his spindly arms crossed in front of him.
“I still live here.” I shake my hair out, with my hands still gripped to the steering wheel. I’m trying to maintain a sense of authority, but I’m not feeling it. “Daddy still pays your tab, and don’t let the newspapers fool you, I am a part of this co-op.”
“For now.” He rolls his eyes. I suppose watching me being taken off by federal agents did nothing for my reputation, but we still own the deed on this extraordinarily priced house, and until our neighbors work up the gusto to force us into a sale, I expect to get my money’s worth. Watch out, world, Morgan Malliard is a doormat no more! “I wouldn’t be so certain of your stature here,” he continues, his dark eyes meeting mine in challenge.
I hone in on his nameplate, “Mark, regardless of what my neighbors think, you still work for them and me, so check yourself.” A time not so long ago, I would have been totally put out by this sniveling dork and been apologizing to ensure I didn’t offend him or the co-op board. But those days are gone. When you answer to God and the U.S. government, bellmen and snooty neighbors no longer hold power over you. We, I might remind them, still own the penthouse, and until Uncle Sam says otherwise, I can dish it out, too. I’m not my father’s daughter for nothing.
I throw my keys at the bellman. “Not a scratch, do you understand?”
He mocks me, mimicking what I’ve just said in a small, whiny voice, and I head upstairs to the penthouse. As the elevator opens, Mrs. Henry is sitting on the living room sofa with her feet on the antique French empire table, watching
All
My Children
. She scurries to remove her feet and turn the television off.
“Don’t bother. What do I care?” I ask her, dropping my purse at the foot of the table.
“You look tired. Where have you been? At the spa for a few days?”
“I took a job, actually.”
“Doing what?” she laughs.
“I’m a nanny. Do you have any idea how hard yogurt is when it dries?”
“I do. I used to know someone who ate it in the bathtub.”
“That was a long time ago,” I defend myself.
“It was still an odd thing to do. Mrs. Espinoza used to go on in Spanish forever about it.”
“How’s my father? I haven’t called him today.”
“He’s
got his voice back,” she sighs heavily.
“I heard yesterday. You would have never known anything was wrong with him.”
“He called to tell me all that had to be spit and polished before he returned. I heard from the store. They’ve heard from him, too.”
“I see you took him seriously.” I shake my head.
“He wouldn’t know clean if I rented an industrial floor polisher and gave him a sponge bath with it.”
“Why did he call then?”
“To make sure everyone he’s paying is still working.”
“I see he was effective,” I laugh. Then I slap my own forehead. “Oh that’s right. I forgot I’m supposed to pick out pieces for the Red & White Ball.”
“You’re not really going to that?”
“Why not?” I shrug. “I’ve already lost all sense of dignity. Why shouldn’t I go play with the brats in the sandbox. It’s been a long time since I had reason to dress up. And red is my color.”