Rich in Faith (Richness in Faith, Book 3) (2 page)

But every item of clothing reminds me of times spent with him.

“This is ugly.”

I knowingly narrow my eyes at the child.

She narrows her eyes back at me.

I’m frustrated that I don’t know which half of Team Twin I’m narrowing my eyes at.

Sighing, I dig through my make-up bag. Spying a smaller plastic bag, I pull it out and open it.

I look at the girl who told me my shirt was ugly. “Which one are you?”

“Bristol.” Her tone is defiant, while her face looks angelic.

“Hold out your hand.”

She continues to stare.

“Now.”

“Please?” Her tone is mimicking. I wonder who she’s mimicking.

“Please hold out your hand.” Oh, I’m not cut out for this job. Give me some financial plans to assess. Some figures to analyze.

Bristol holds out her hand, and I slip a black elastic pony-tail holder around her wrist.

I look at Darling. “Your turn. Please.”

Darling copies her twin, and I slip a red one on her.

“I want you to leave these on your wrists until I can learn to tell you apart. Deal?”

They look at each other and smile. “Cool. These are Granddaddy’s racing colors.” Bristol looks at me. “Did you know that?”

Cal Treyhune’s colors. Black and red. “Maybe.”

Subconsciously I’m sure I did.

I lay the bag of elastic bands on the bed. The two girls could put those bands to use with their thick black hair. I can’t imagine brushing through what looks like lots of tangles, but keeping it in a ponytail will be a huge help in taming it.

I’ll tackle their hair as soon as I’ve put my clothes away.

“Bristol. Do you know telling people their clothes are ugly is rude?”

She plays with the band on her wrist. “I’m just being honest.”

“Sometimes you need to keep your honesty to yourself. You can hurt people’s feelings.”

“Did I hurt your feelings?”

To tell the child I have no feelings because they’d been trampled upon, stomped out, and ground into the cement sidewalk seems dramatic. I simply say, “No. But it’s not polite.”

Neither is telling your friend there’s a housekeeping job open when it’s really a nanny job, but I can’t be too mad at Barb. She’s a great friend, and I know in her heart, she was doing what she thought I wanted.

And I suppose if I have to hang somewhere for three months, this mansion isn’t the worst place I could have landed.

“Ow!”

My attention focuses back on the twins where it appears Bristol has popped Darling’s elastic band. A red ring shows up against Darling’s wrist.

“Bristol. Apologize to your sister.”

She pops the elastic band again before folding her arms over her chest. She then looks at me with a rebellious stare. I’ve dealt with a lot of people in my life, but they’ve all been over four feet tall and had more than a few years on them.

Dealing with this little set of dynamite twins has me in a place I’ve never been before.

I never saw this coming.

Not at all.

I reach out and pop Bristol’s band.

“Hey, ow. What’d you do that for?”

“I wanted to show you how it feels. It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

She continues to rub her wrist. “I didn’t pop Darling’s that hard. I’m gonna tell my dad tonight. He’ll fire you.”

“Fine by me. Why don’t you two go play while I finish hanging up my clothes. This must be boring for you. I’ll be done shortly.”

Bristol sits on the floor, and Darling follows.

“Okay.” I drape a long-sleeved black shirt on a hanger. “If you want to be bored, you are allowed.”

The next few minutes is spent unpacking. Every now and then I glance at the girls, and I notice they watch with interest as I deal with my wardrobe.

“Miss Madison?”

I jump and the twins giggle as Mrs. Stratton’s voice comes over an intercom system. Bristol pops up, Darling right behind her, and they run over to the wall where the intercom box is located.

Bristol pushes a button. “Hi, Mrs. Stratton.”

“Dinner is ready.”

The girls run out of the room before I can digest what Mrs. Stratton has said. As I take in her words, I realize I now may have a few minutes to myself while the girls eat.

Arriving as emotionally exhausted as I did, and then dealing with the position mix-up, I’m ready for some blank space in my brain. But the space isn’t blank very long before Dale’s features bleed blue all over the emptiness.

Wanting nothing more than to plop on the floor like Bristol did earlier and throw a tantrum like I’m sure she’s capable of, I squelch the overflow of emotions once again, and continue to unpack, my movements almost robot-like. I feel like I’m in a trance.

A hazed trance of betrayal, loss and loneliness.

Add to that secrecy (I cannot tell my father whose house I’m in) and confusion (those twins not only look alike, but their whole presence breeds confusion), and I don’t know how I’m functioning.

A hot bath would be a temporary remedy. Maybe after the girls go to bed, I can indulge in bubbles.

Before I can fully explore how I might be relaxing later, Mrs. Stratton’s voice blares over the intercom. “Miss Madison. We are waiting for you.”

Waiting for
me
?

And who is
we
?

Instead of playing with the intercom, I walk to the kitchen. A keeping room sits adjacent to the kitchen and the back wall is nothing but glass. A sweeping view of the bay sits beyond clusters of palms. A black wrought iron fence lines the back of the property.

Mrs. Stratton walks to me. “You’ll become used to that view quickly. Until then, it’s dinnertime.”

I doubt I’ll become used to the view. Can one ever become used to such luxury and grandness?

I hadn’t seen the girls in the dining room as I passed by and there is no one sitting at the bar with its beautiful granite counter top.

“What does dinnertime have to do with me?” I am hungry, but assuming I’m on my own, I wasn’t going to think about dinner until later. I’m not used to eating until eight or nine most evenings.

“It’s part of the job requirement to eat all meals with them.”

“Even though I’ve unpacked, until I talk to Mr. Treyhune I don’t know that I am officially hired. I imagine the man would want to approve the person who will be taking care of his children.”

She chuckles. “I can safely say Mr. Treyhune will approve of you wholeheartedly. And Mr. Treyhune trusts my judgment as well. I’ve already spoken with him and you are, by all means, hired. Although he will run a background check. Since you’ve come by way of a recommendation from Mrs. Simmons, I assume you have a clean history.”

“I do.” Unless thoughts of murdering a cheating ex-boyfriend show up. Then, not so much.

“Follow me. The girls are waiting.”

Obviously still in my robotic state, I follow Mrs. Stratton through the keeping room and out the French doors that lead to the terrace.

A beautiful, modernly sleek kitchen lines the patio. A pool, hot tub, and comfy furniture also are in view. The girls are sitting at a table, their hair blowing with the wind.

Their feet kick the air, a sign of their restlessness. I walk over to them, noticing Mrs. Stratton makes her way back through the doors into the house.

They smile as I approach.

“Yay!” Bristol claps. “We can eat.”

I can’t see her face for her hair blowing in front of it. “Here, give me your elastic band.”

As I reach for her wrist, she pulls it back. “No.”

Darling takes her elbows off the table, and places her hands in her lap, safely away from my grasp, I’m thinking.

“Why? You can’t eat with that hair in your face.”

“I don’t like bands in my hair.”

I see what I can only describe as panic in her dark eyes. They are opened wide, her gaze moving rapidly from me to her wrist.

Do I want to fight this battle? They’ve been eating for years without me. Maybe I should just trust this.

But by nature I want to fix it. And I’m not sure if I can sit watching them try to put food in their mouth around all that hair.

“How about this?” I scoop Bristol’s hair and tuck it inside the back of her shirt.

She scrunches her shoulders and moves her head back and forth, but her hair isn’t in her face.

“Is that okay?” I ask.

She quits struggling. “Sure.”

I do the same for Darling before sitting down at the table.

My hair is already up in a loose bun, so I’m out of the hair issue.

Picking up my fork, the breeze pushes the aroma of the food to me. Chicken with an Alfredo-looking sauce, cut-up broccoli, pasta covered with cheese and a slice of bread cover my plate.

“Aren’t you going to say grace?” Darling asks.

It’s then I notice neither one of them have eaten anything.

Inwardly I groan. Daddy loves NASCAR and Mama loves Jesus. I’ve spent the last ten years distancing myself from both. If I never hear about another race that will be fine with me.

And as far as Jesus goes? I surprise my mother with occasional visits to her church. I’m not opposed to Jesus.

I’m just not rambunctious about Him.

“Sure.” I look at Darling. “You can say grace.”

The twins start the “God is great, God is good” prayer, which brings back memories of sitting in vacation Bible school at snack time.

As soon as the prayer is done they start eating. I notice they aren’t eating the same meal I am. They have big, fat, juicy hotdogs and French fries on their plates.

What’s up with that?

How many different meals does Mrs. Stratton cook?

I look at Bristol and Darling as they shove fries in their mouth while a few strands of their hair escape my make-shift remedy. Glancing at the beautiful surroundings, I can’t help but wonder if they take this place for granted.

Their life is different from so many others.

A bay-scented breeze blows across the patio and with it comes a revelation.

I’m now living the childhood I’d always wanted.

Only I’m not the child.

I’m the nanny.

MADHOUSE

SHEER EXHAUSTION is the only way the girls finally fall asleep.

After an hour of arguing, fighting and refusing to take a bath, I made them crawl in their bed and stood by their door.

I didn’t even attempt to brush their hair.

This can’t continue.

Mrs. Stratton is still here. She offered to stay until Mr. Treyhune comes home.

It’s ten after nine and he’s not here yet.

I’m sitting at the kitchen bar, laptop open, determined to make a schedule of sorts.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Hello. You must be the new nanny.”

Looking up I have to blink a couple of times as I’m unprepared for the magnificence of the man who must be Court Treyhune. Gulping, I remember seeing him on television from time to time years ago, decked out in his racing attire, microphone shoved in his face.

But in person, looking at Court is like being given air to breathe. Well built, his black hair and dark eyes are a perfect combination, accentuating his handsome face.

I breathe deeply once again.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

Fingers hovering above my keyboard, I nod. Sheer exhaustion has overtaken me as well.

Mrs. Stratton, who had been in the keeping room flipping through a magazine, has now walked into the kitchen.

“Good evening, Mr. Treyhune. I’d like to introduce you to Shelby Madison, your new nanny. She’s the woman Mrs. Simmons recommended.”

Court cocks his head in a questioning way. Like he’s trying to recall a conversation. Or maybe he’s trying to recall who Barb is.

“Ah, yes. Barb and Jim Simmons. From Atlanta. I’m assuming you’re from Atlanta?”

I wouldn’t call Court’s tone slow or curious. More like cautious.

“Yes. I’m from Atlanta.” That’s all the information he’s getting. He’s not getting that I grew up in a trailer park. He’s not getting that I grew up materially underprivileged but over loved. These things he would never understand.

“How long have you been a nanny?” He sets some papers on the bar countertop. His forearms look extra-strong peeping out from the rolled up dark-brown sleeves of his button-up oxford. The shirt almost matches his eyes, which are focusing on me.

Unknowingly forcing me to tell the truth. I look at my watch. “Six hours give or take.”

He doesn’t laugh, smile, or in any way acknowledge that I might be telling a funny story. “I’ll give you a week.”

I close out of the program I am working on and shut my laptop while trying to shake off the agitated feeling his statement has caused. “I wasn’t informed of any type of probationary period.”

Now his lips turn up slightly. “Oh, it’s not a probationary period. It’s how long I think you’ll last before you pack your bags.”

His remark raises many questions. “Do you have that little faith in me or that much faith in your daughters?”

As I hear Mrs. Stratton suck in a breath, I wonder if I’ll still be employed after he speaks.

Shifting eyes and a barely there frown don’t take away from his handsome factor, but they do delay his response. “I don’t have any faith. In anything. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions since my girls’ lives are in your hands for the next three…well for a little while, anyway.”

I’m nervous about what Barb told him about me. Not that I’ve done anything bad, but there are certain parts of my life I like kept quiet. I’ve shared with Barb some of my fears, angst and other information that aren’t commonly known.

I hope she didn’t feel the need to relay too much to Court.

Thank goodness I didn’t tell her about my NASCAR dislike. Of course there would be no good reason to talk to a downtown city gal like Barb about a racing sport.

But she is friends with Court.

“Now that you’re home, Mr. Treyhune, I’ll be leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.” Mrs. Stratton turns to me. “Good night, Shelby. I’ll see you in the morning as well. Hopefully.”

She says the last word so quietly, I barely hear her.

Court and I both say goodbye and Mrs. Stratton walks down the long hallway, past the girls’ rooms to the garage.

“I’m going to grab a beer. Do you want one?” Court asks.

Actually, I would love a beer, but refined ladies don’t sit around chugging beer. Not in my world. “No. Thanks for asking, though.” Polite.

After grabbing a beer from the fridge, he digs in a drawer until he comes up with a bottle opener. After popping the top, he takes a long swig. His right hand grips the counter and he tilts the bottle toward me. “Let me guess. You’re more of a Pinot Noir lady, right?”

How did he know my favorite wine I pretend to like? Did Barb tell him? Not that she knows I pretend. But certainly Barb and Court weren’t that intimate in their conversation about me. Unless he asked if I was a drinker. I would want to know if the person I was hiring to take care of my children took to the bottle too much.

Although the way he is swigging that beer, I’m wondering what too much would be to him. “I’ve been known to drink a glass of red wine.” I refuse to reveal unimportant personal information to him.

He sets the beer bottle on the counter and retrieves a bottle from the wine rack. He holds it up. “I have a 2006 Freeman Sonoma Coast.”

He has no idea how his wine knowledge is being wasted on me. The 2006 Free whatever he just spouted off means nothing to me. Again, something he doesn’t need to know. “Yes. I’d love a glass.” I watch as he goes straight to the wine glasses, makes absolutely no production out of uncorking the wine, then pours a small amount into the glass and hands it to me, as if I am at a restaurant and he is the waiter.

Hot waiter.

I start to take a sip, then remember I’m supposed to smell it first. So I back off the sip, make a show of inhaling, then wet my pallet with the wine. Which tastes like red wine.

I hold out my glass and he pours until my glass is half full.

“Join me outside?” He sets the bottle on the counter, grabs his beer, then walks to the doors opening to the terrace.

Following him I find myself holding tightly onto the wine glass. I should probably be holding the glass by the stem. I hope my tenseness doesn’t shatter the glass.

It’s a good thing I’m only here for three months.

Maybe. Court doesn’t think I’ll last the week.

We walk outside. The breeze hits me as I shut the door. Court passes the four barstools that invite you to sit at the counter of the outdoor kitchen with the amazing pizza oven. I wonder how many times that’s been used?

Maybe the girls like pizza.

As Court sits at one end of the couch, I sit as far away as possible at the other end, which isn’t as far as I would like it to be. As I sip my wine, I realize I’m probably going to have to drink the whole glass. Dale’s love of good wine led to him finishing up my wine if I didn’t.

And I usually didn’t.

I have yet to become a connoisseur of wine, but it was what people in Dale’s world drank.

And I so wanted to be in Dale’s world.

Even if it meant faking a love of wine.

It’s dark as we sit, only the lights shining from inside the house break the night. Court seems content with the atmosphere.

He looks at me, his expression tired. “Barb Simmons talked you up on the phone. She said you were a financial whiz needing a break. She didn’t tell me you were pretty, though.”

Pulling my gaze away from my wine glass that is half-way to my lips, I stare at him. “Pretty?”

Raising his eyebrows, he grins. “I sense a bigger agenda on the part of Barb.”

Looking into the wine, I wonder if he’s put something in there to make me clueless. Discovering only burgundy-looking water, I return my attention to Court. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

Sitting straighter he places his elbows on his knees, the beer bottle dangling from his fingertips. “Barb sends a pretty woman down here with absolutely no experience at being a nanny. Sounds like she’s matchmaking to me.”

My face flushes at his insinuation. I can’t even respond to his comment.

“Barb always wants everyone to be happy. That’s her nature.” He takes a long swallow of his beer.

If I don’t speak he’ll assume he’s right. If I do speak will it come out sounding like I’m defending myself? I need to say something. “Barb’s not matchmaking.”

That was uneventful and not very convincing, I’m afraid.

“A bold statement. A bold statement from someone who’s single and never been a nanny.”

Taking a sip of my wine is better than telling him about Dale and what transpired over the last couple of weeks that led to me sitting in a mansion, far away from my home, hired as a nanny for a guy that my dad would love to meet.

And he thinks Barb and I orchestrated all this?

We couldn’t have planned this fiasco.

Court doesn’t take his gaze from me. Still, Dale’s face looms before me. Our love, my whole former life with Dale, floats between Court and me.

“I prefer blondes. Barb knows that.” He sets his beer bottle on the tiled terrace next to the couch. It tilts for a moment before settling, but Court doesn’t notice.

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and hands me a small photo. I have to blink a couple of times and tilt the photo toward the light. The woman is beautiful, and her smile is amazing. She’s a blonde version of Bristol and Darling.

MaryLeigh Treyhune.

Court’s haunting.

Even though I’m looking at this picture in shadowed light, I can’t miss the fact that her face is surrounded by a mass of blonde hair. Full, thick hair like Bristol and Darling have.

They are their mother’s daughters.

“That’s MaryLeigh. I met her when I was twenty. We were married in less than two months. Love at first sight, everyone said. She died two years ago.”

Okay, so my story seems childish and immature compared to his. Getting dumped for an heiress gal doesn’t rate anywhere near death on the scope of losing love.

What do I say to this man? This handsome shell of a man who was once full of life, love and who knows what kind of dreams. Does he now simply exist day to day, minute to minute, with no faith that his life can be full again?

Because Court is clearly just existing.

How do I know?

Because I’ve been just existing for the past week.

I had no idea it could last so long.

MY FEET POUND THE pavement as sweat runs down my face. Six o’clock in the morning usually doesn’t feel like this in Atlanta. Maybe I’ll try for five tomorrow morning.

Everything feels so weird. I’m not used to running alone. Dale and I always ran together. We even had our numbers for the Peachtree Road Race this year. I wonder if he’s still going to run it.

Tears mingle with the sweat, but I don’t care. I wonder how long it will be before everything doesn’t remind me of Dale and the life we shared.

I thought this run would clear my head, not fuel the memories.

Through tear-blurred vision I see I’m almost to the cul-de-sac. As I veer to the right of the gazebo that sits in the grassy area in the middle of the street, I spot a guy running down the driveway of the house next door.

He looks up and nods, heading in the opposite direction. I start up Court’s driveway, slowing as I approach the house. I can’t wait to take a nice, cool shower.

Wiping the sweat-tear mixture off my face, I push my visor and it falls to the ground. As I bend down to pick it up, I turn and see the guy from next door has stopped and is staring at me.

He waves, then starts his run.

I half-wave back, not that keen on showing a friendly gesture to someone I don’t even know. But if he lives in one of these million-dollar mansions, I guess he’s okay.

I walk into the house, the cold air causing chill bumps the second I step through the door. Walking down the hall to the kitchen, I’m still breathing hard and know I need to cool down.

“That doesn’t look like fun at all.”

Court’s voice makes me jump. He’s standing in the kitchen, a cup in his hand. My shirt sticks to my body, I know my face is flushed, and my eyes are probably puffy from crying.

Good thing Barb isn’t matchmaking.

“Coffee?” he asks, raising his cup in the air.

“Ooh, no. I’m going to shower.”

He finishes his coffee and sets his cup in the sink. “I didn’t know you were a runner. I was about to leave. That wouldn’t have been good. Mrs. Stratton doesn’t arrive until seven.”

I glance at my watch again. Six forty-five. “Do you always leave this early?”

“I do. Actually I’m late. I usually leave at six-thirty. I try to beat my assistant, Susan, in. But if you want to run, I can adjust.”

It’s a good thing I’m used to long hours. Sounds like his assistant works long hours as well. “It’s really muggy out there. I’m going to try for five tomorrow.”