Have to Have It (15 page)

Steven and Diane Goldhagen raced through the crowd at a dead run. Steven's face was contorted with anger and concern; Diane had tears running down her cheeks. The reggae band's lead singer was in the process of moving Esme off the stage in order to start a new song, so Esme didn't see her bosses until Steven slammed his hand down on the wooden stage with all his might.

So much for hoping that they wouldn't understand the Spanish.

“Esme, what the hell is going on here?” Steven bellowed.

“I—I—” Esme stammered.

“Where are the children?” Diane demanded, her voice rising an octave in fear.
“Where are my children?”

Her panicky voice made Esme's stomach lurch. “I don't exactly—”

“Goddammit, Esme.” Steven jumped up onto the stage to grab her by the arms. “Tell me you didn't lose the children out there in that… mess!”

Diane wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh God, oh God …”

Steven pointed at the Jamaican in the wool cap. “Call security. Now!” he bellowed.

“Esme!”

They all turned. There stood Tarshea, holding Easton's and Weston's hands.

“I'm so sorry, Esme,” Tarshea said, “I should have told you that I was taking them to another spot to finish their face painting. There was a color I wanted. You must be the most responsible nanny in history to come up here and make that announcement.”

Weston and Easton smiled, and Esme realized that they didn't understand enough of what Tarshea was saying to refute her big fat lie.

Diane rushed over and swept the girls up in her arms. “Who are you?” she asked Tarshea. “And what are you doing with my girls?”

“I think I can explain,” Esme told Diane, who looked only marginally less upset than when she'd arrived.

“I am an artist and I painted their faces,” Tarshea explained. “This is entirely my fault. There's an ice cream place and kids' play area at the other end of the field. Maybe we could go there?”

“¿Helado para los dos?”
Esme asked the twins without waiting for Steven and Diane to respond. “Ice cream?”

You could hear the twins' cheer all the way back in Los Angeles.

Ten minutes later, the twins were happily eating ice cream and playing on a merry-go-round with about a dozen Jamaican kids. They couldn't really understand one another, because the girls' English was still limited and the Jamaican children had very thick accents, but they were laughing and spinning around like crazy tops just the same.

Esme and Tarshea sat directly across from Steven and Diane at a small redwood picnic table. The Goldhagens were in a dark mood as Tarshea tried to defend Esme.

“I asked Esme to get something out of one of my makeup bags,” Tarshea invented. “Then a friend of mine came over and distracted me. I called to Esme to follow me through the crowd, but I forgot that I was speaking in patois and she couldn't understand me. So you see, it really is my fault entirely.”

“But Esme should have been watching them the whole time,” Diane pointed out to Steven. “That's her job.”

Esme didn't know what to say. Mostly, she was grateful to Tarshea for covering for her, because Diane was right. It was Esme's job to watch the children, and she shouldn't have taken her eyes off them.

Steven sighed and turned to his wife. “You know, Diane, there was no harm done. We've got our girls. They look happy. And I think Esme's done a hell of a job here, especially with Peter and Erin's kids. They've been murder on her. Tell
me you
wanted to take care of them. Look at Esme. She's exhausted!”

Thank you, God.

“Why did you make the announcment in Spanish?” Diane asked sharply. “What were you afraid of, Esme?”

Shit.
“I didn't want everyone to know the girls were missing,” Esme improvised. “I thought someone bad might find them and decide to hold them for ransom. Or something.”

“I'd say that was pretty damn smart.” Steven nodded admiringly, and then looked at Tarshea. “I want to thank you, too. For helping out. But also for taking responsibility for what you did. You don't know us. But you did it anyway.”

Esme turned to Tarshea. “I can't thank you enough.”

Hint-hint.
Esme had only twenty dollars in her pocket. She could give it to Tarshea, sure. But Steven Goldhagen could peel ten—hell, a
hundred
—times that off his money wad and never know it was missing.

Esme looked over at the girls. Weston was rubbing her eyes—a sure sign that she was tired. And why shouldn't she be tired? It had been a huge day, and they still had the big drive across the island back to Northern Look.

Diane noticed too. “Steven, I think the girls have had enough. It's probably time to drive back.”

“Definitely.” Steven stood up. So did Diane, Esme, and Tarshea.

Damn. No reward. But maybe there's something I can do.

“I couldn't have found the girls without Tarshea,” Esme said quickly. “She … got the band to stop playing so I could get up there.”

Steven smiled. “A go-getter. Maybe you have a future in Hollywood.”

Esme jumped on the comment, though not necessarily in
the way that Steven was thinking. “I totally agree with you,” she told him. “Which is why I was wondering if maybe you've got some friends who might need a nanny like Tarshea? Someone really caring and responsible, who cared about Easton and Weston when she didn't even have to.”

Steven fixed his eyes on Tarshea. “What I would ask is, is Tarshea interested?”

Tarshea nodded emphatically. “I could provide excellent references, sir. But what I really want to do is go to art school in America.”

“Well then.” Steven took out a business card, gave it to her, and then dug around for a pen. “What's your address? Phone number?”

Tarshea's face fell. “We have an address, but I don't trust the mail to get there. We don't have a telephone. We cannot afford a telephone.”

“No phone?” Diane was incredulous. “How do you
communicate?”

“We manage,” Tarshea told her, a little embarrassed. “It's different here in Jamaica.”

“Do you have someone else who the Goldhagens can contact?” Esme urged.

“How about… my minister?” Tarshea suggested. “He has a phone. I'll give you the number.” She took the pen and quickly jotted some information. “Thank you,” Tarshea told Steven. “I appreciate it very much.”

Esme looked at her closely. She was grateful that the Goldhagens had offered to help, but there was also … what was the emotion in her eyes? Skepticism. Like, not wanting to be
disappointed if these Americans went back to their country and never gave another thought to Tarshea the artist.

“They'll be in touch,” Esme declared. This kind girl had saved her ass; the least she could do was to try and return the favor.

“Dang!” Lydia exclaimed as she admired Kiley's new digs—a bungalow guesthouse beside the hillside mansion that belonged to Dirk and Beth Paulson and their daughter, Grace. Kiley had called Lydia as soon as she'd settled into her new home; after all, Lydia lived only two doors away.

“You, Kiley McCann, have hit the jackpot. Wanna trade jobs?” As she stood in the center of her guesthouse, Kiley indeed felt as though she'd hit the jackpot. The place was amazing, even nicer than the guesthouse she'd had at Platinum's. There were not one, not two, but three full bedrooms. The master bedroom was on the ground floor; it was paneled in oak, and had an oak king-sized bed, and featured an enormous picture window that looked out onto a formal garden with a koi fish-pond and a gazebo that Beth had explained was used only for meditation. Upstairs were two other bedrooms, half the size of hers, each decorated in a different theme. One was Japanese, with a futon on the floor, Japanese art on the walls, and a single perfect rose in a clear glass bud vase. The other was a bit odd, decorated like a cheap motel room—colorless rug, basic nature-themed prints on the walls, two matching no-name lamps on nightstands, and a tiny dresser. There was an upstairs bathroom with shower, while the downstairs bathroom—Kiley's main one—was black marble and enormous, and featured a Jacuzzi
big enough to hold six adults comfortably. The golden Moen fixtures probably cost more than a mortgage payment back in La Crosse.

It was two hours or so after Kiley's unpleasant ending to her experience with Evelyn Bowers. Of course, it wasn't entirely over—she realized that she would probably run into Evelyn and her charming children at the country club.

The Paulsons had been extremely nice and extremely thoughtful—just as they'd been at the country club, but even more so. They said they would treat Kiley like an adult, and treat Kiley's guesthouse as though it belonged to her. If she wanted to have friends there—even to stay over, Beth said without any embarrassment—that was up to Kiley. Of course, it couldn't interfere with her work. The only other thing that she needed to be aware of was that the family home gym was attached to the guesthouse. Both Dirk and Beth were pretty fanatical about staying in shape.

Grace had shown Kiley her room, which turned out to be an homage to the world's greatest art museums. There were posters from the Louvre, the new Museum of Modern Art in New York City, the Prado in Madrid, the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, plus some others that Kiley didn't recognize. Grace had explained her love of sculpture, and there were reproductions of works by Michelangelo and Giacometti, plus an original Alexander Calder mobile that hung from the ceiling above Grace's single bed. Grace had explained that her parents were just finishing an art studio for her at the far end of the property and that she couldn't wait for it to be done.

Kiley was so excited when she left the big house that she'd immediately called Lydia—it was so amazing that she was going
to live just houses away from one of her two best friends. Lydia somehow managed to beg a half hour off; the Paulsons lived close enough for her to walk over.

“As soon as I was coming right over, the Paulsons stocked the fridge,” Kiley told Lydia. “Sort of a welcome-to-our-house thing. You want anything?”

Lydia shook her head. “Nah. I just had a double wheatgrass-and-tofu milk shake, of which I had to drink the whole thing under the watchful eye of the Merry Matron of Moscow. Have you ever tasted that shit? I mean, seriously, it tastes like ass.”

Kiley laughed. Her cell phone rang and she trotted into the living room where she'd left it. “Hello?”

“Kiley. It's Tom.”

Kiley's legs felt weak. “Hi.”

“How are you?”

“Okay.” Lydia wandered in and watched Kiley, leaning against the wall. Kiley mouthed that it was Tom.

“So, look, I know I haven't called you,” Tom went on. “I just—I figured you didn't want me to. I mean, you made it pretty clear you want to cool things with me. So if it's friendship you want, then—”

“Wait, wait,” Kiley interrupted. “I didn't say I wanted to be
friends!”
Across the room, Lydia rolled her eyes.

“You kind of did,” Tom pointed out. “Not in so many words, maybe, but—”

“No, I …” It was now or never. “The truth is, I got scared. That's all. I definitely want more from you than friendship. I figured you never wanted to see me again—”

Tom laughed. “Man, we are two idiots, huh?”

“Well, that's a big yes on my end,” Kiley replied giddily.

“So when can I see you?”

His low, throaty voice sent shivers down her spine. Even though she'd just arrived at the Paulsons', she reminded herself that they'd insisted she wouldn't start working until the next afternoon. She was absolutely free for the evening. And the morning.

She told him to come over and gave him her new address. When she hung up the phone, she jumped up and hugged Lydia as hard as she could. “He's coming over!”

“Sex with a Supermodel
is back on?” Lydia queried.

“Yes,” Kiley affirmed. “Screw Marym. Tom Chappelle is mine!”

“That's the spirit!” Lydia glanced at her watch. “I've been here for exactly ten minutes.”

“So?” Kiley bounced onto the buttery soft gray Italian leather couch, buoyant with happiness.

“So it took me six to get here, walking downhill. I have a half hour for a break. I suck at math, but I think that leaves me fourteen minutes to slog back to the gulag.”

“Well, that sucks.” Kiley rose and hugged her friend. “Thanks for coming over to see my new digs.”

“You're welcome, even if I am terminally jealous. I'll see you at the club tomorrow?”

“I don't know yet. I have to find out what they want me to do.”

“I hope Esme gets back soon,” Lydia moaned. “I really need someone to bitch with and you're way too happy.”

They said their goodbyes and Lydia departed, after which Kiley flew around the guesthouse getting ready for Tom. Did she have time to shower? She couldn't risk it. She wet an embroidered washcloth that she found in a stack on the white
wicker shelf in the bathroom and gave herself a quick onceover. What to wear with a boy who was about to undress you? She decided on her white Gap V-neck tee that hinted at the faintest of cleavage, and her usual jeans. This was her, and, she finally believed, it was her whom Tom wanted. But… a little perfume couldn't hurt. She fished the sample vial of Clinique Happy she'd found in her bathroom at Evelyn's out of her purse and applied some to the pulse points on her wrists and neck. Happy indeed.