Nanny Returns (8 page)

“Okay, well, Mrs. X, this has been a delight,” Chester thanks me as we return to the entrance hall. “I will file my report and make my recommendations to the committee. Again, all of our applications were in some months ago—”

“I’m sure my family will take your making an exception into account when calculating their annual donation,” Grayer says pointedly, shaking his hand.

“Excellent, excellent.” Chester clicks his heels and Stilton clicks his in turn.

“I really want to go to your school. It’s all I talk about,” Stilton repeats fervently.

“I’ll file my report today, but, of course, the final decision isn’t up to me.” Chester takes his coat from Grayer, and with a smile and a wave, we shut the door. At the sound of the elevator closing I slump to the marble.

“YOUR MOTHER??!!
Are you out of your minds?!”

“You did great!” Stilton, reanimating, squats down to throw his arms around me. “You were awesome. Wasn’t she awesome, Grayer? Did I do it right? I think he really liked me. He really, really liked my room—”

“It was good, Stil. You were awesome.” Grayer tugs at his tie, his shoulders, his everything dropping.

“So.” I peer up at him, extending my hands. “What happens when you get in and parents’ weekend rolls around?”

“
I’m
parents’ weekend,” Grayer emphatically cuts off my line of questioning. “And we need your help with one more thing, then you can go.”

“Forgery?” I gamble, climbing back up along the wall. “Want to break into your trusts early? Ooh, where else can I go today as Mrs. X?”

“Believe me,” Grayer mutters, walking past as I pointlessly wipe my jeans from the dustless floor you could still eat off. “You don’t want to go anywhere right now as Mrs. X.”

“What does that mean?” I call after him as I follow the boys back to the bedroom hallway.

“Yeah, you might want to lose the jacket,” Grayer says, shrugging off his to the carpet beside the massive Chinese armoire. “I could do this myself on wood, but the rug creates bitchin’ resistance.” I still don’t get it. Not even when Grayer leans into the cabinet with his whole weight and begins to push. “Are you going to help, or what?”

I step to the other side, crouching to slip my fingers under the black lacquered base.

“Okay, fine, yeah, let’s lift,” he concedes. “On three.”

We raise it and I stagger backward a few feet, dropping it at Grayer’s grunt. I stretch up to see the unaltered doorway to their mother’s bedroom. “She’s
here? You blocked her in?
”

“Insurance,” Grayer says blithely, as if he’s Ocean’s fourteenth.

“Grayer?” I hear her voice from the other side of the door. It opens.

And there she is.

In a long men’s undershirt, her unwashed hair matted, her bare face, well preserved for her late fifties, creased. “Whatwasthatnoise?”

“It must’ve been upstairs.” Grayer tosses his bangs from his eyes. “The renovation on eleven.”

She nods, her gaze unfocused.

“Mom,” Grayer continues, his expression flat. “This is the new tutor.”

I stand before her frozen, breath held. She offers her small hand. “Nice to meesshou,” she slurs. “Please pardonmyappearance.” She pulls down the hem of the shirt, revealing more of her bony sternum. “Okay.” She shuts the door.

Grayer glances at Stilton, whose gaze is trained on him. As it has been since I arrived. And with her standing there only a second ago to complete the tableau, I place it as the same vigilant attentiveness I’ve seen in this hallway, in this apartment. Only Grayer is now the object, not the viewer. “Ready to tackle homework?”

“Yup.”

“You did good, little man.” Grayer reaches out to tousle his hair, setting Stilton grinning from ear to ear. “Eggs and soldiers for dinner?”

“Awesome!” Stilton jogs down the hall.

“Stil?”

He pivots to us, his heels arcing on the oatmeal Berber, and Grayer swipes his eyes in my direction.

“Thank you, Nan-eh!”

“I think Chester Dobson totally loved you—good luck!” I smile and wave.

“Be there in a sec,” Grayer calls as Stilton continues on. When I turn back to Grayer, he’s already strutting away from me toward the front of the apartment. I follow, trying to narrow down the question. “What happened to your mother?”

“Percocet, Darvocet, Vicodin. I’m guessing she hoarded the leftovers from every sports injury we ever had—probably suspected there’d come a day when he’d’ve had enough of her bullshit. Listen, I have to check on Stilton. Sometimes, after dealing with Mom he’ll just …and we’ve gotta keep him moving, keep his grades up. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. If you take the back elevator you can go out the side of the building, in case Chester’s still in the lobby.”

“Now I’m the help again? Grayer, can you stand still for one minute and talk me through this?”

“No.” Grayer touches his tented fingertips to the thin glass still protecting the velvet-draped table, fixing me with an intensity that takes me aback. “This
has
to work, you understand?” And I do. I may not have gotten the particulars, but like the ASPCA ads that show the puppy and the dynamite and the burlap sack and tell you to use your imagination, the particulars are irrelevant.

He leaves to tend to his brother and I reluctantly exit the foyer to the kitchen, where I find Rosa folding the mountain of laundry boys generate. “Hello, I’m Nan,” I introduce myself.

She drops a balled pair of socks and scuttles around the island. “You new tutor?”

“Sure,” I say, because in for a penny . . .

“Get paid up front.”

“Pardon?”

“Up front,” she repeats furtively, grasping her tote from the breakfast banquette and extracting a folded piece of newsprint. With a quick check of the door she unfurls it to a half-page picture of a man hunched over, getting into a limo with Carter Nelson, the forty-something onetime Oscar-winning actress. I read the caption. Oh my God.

I grab it from her and lift it to study. “Oh my God.”

Riveted, I peer at the photo of the couple leaving Da Silvano, Mr. X mostly obscured by Carter protectively holding the collar of her peacoat shut with her gloved hand, her thick auburn hair falling like a barrier around her startled face. “Are you sure he didn’t win a date with her at a charity auction? Or pay someone to Photoshop this? How could he get—”

“He packed up and left last week while she was in country visiting friends with the boys.” She pulls another folded piece of newspaper out of her purse and smoothes it on the granite counter. “Last Saturday.” It’s Page Six. The caption reads, “A new Mrs. X?”

“Carter Nelson?” Following in the footsteps of Jane Fonda and Ellen Barkin?

“They came back Sunday and Mrs. X go crazy. Pulling out boxes all over. Her office a mess. And then quiet.”

“Quiet?”

“The phone no ring. No visitors. Mrs. X usually holds lunches two, three times a week. Now nothing.”

Grayer rounds the corner and Rosa swipes the papers up as I reflexively step in front of her, my face beating in shame like we’ve been caught snorting a line. But he walks right past us and opens the back door, leaning out to press for the service elevator, dangling Grandma’s warrior purse from his other hand. With a quick look to Rosa, I take my bag from him, sliding past into the dim little vestibule with the garbage bins. I turn around and the door clicks closed.

“Grayer?!”

He swings it back open. “Oh, yeah, thanks.” He starts to reshut it before suddenly pausing to step into the wedge of light. The corners of his mouth lift as he peers down at his loafers. “‘Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall’?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

He shuts the door.

Utterly drained by this twisted jaunt down memory lane, I am fingering keys inside my bag as I trudge up the brownstone steps, deciding which of the frozen Annie’s I’ll heat up in my night table and how many
Daily Shows
I’ll watch on my laptop, when my front door whips open. A pang of fear is replaced by joy at the sight of my husband standing on the saddle, his tie askew and the collar of his T-shirt peeking from beneath his unbuttoned oxford.

“Hey!” He grins, jogging down to relieve me of the straining Key Food bag in exchange for a kiss.

“Hi,” I murmur as we’re lip to lip. He gathers me in a bear hug and Grace scuttles onto the stoop to circle us with a wagging tail. Nuzzling into Ryan’s neck, I reach down and pat in her general direction.

“The colonel got food poisoning, so the agenda was cleared for the night,” he reports into my hair. “I don’t have to be back in D.C. until ten a.m.”

“Sad for the colonel. Happy for me.” Pushing our fight completely from my mind, I slip my hand in the crook of his arm and we follow Grace into the vestibule, discovering it aglow with Botanica candles in a rainbow of colors. “Oooooh.”

“Oh, that? That’s nothing.
That’s
the appetizer.” He positions me in the center of the space and then steps to the wall by the door, where, with a sweeping flourish, he flicks the light switch. The bulb two stories above us burns to life, illuminating the stairs for the first time in a week.

My palm flies to my heart.

“And!” He steps forward and turns me to face the living room. Wiggling his eyebrows, he swipes his hand inside the entrance and the lamp on the mantel emits a yellow glow.

My other palm slaps atop the first. “Upstairs works, too?” I ask breathlessly.

He nods, bursting with pride.

“Mr. Hutchinson,” I gasp. “Take off your pants.”

“It’s official,” I say to the candlelit bedroom ceiling as Ryan traces his finger in lazy circles on my stomach. “You, plus this place, equals adventure.
You
are the essential ingredient, without which I feel like I’m being filmed by the Maysles brothers.”

“I don’t know, I think you’d look pretty cute with a skirt on your head.” He rolls on his side in the mess we’ve made of the sheets.

“If that was all I was wearing.” I nuzzle my face into the warmth of his chest.

“Yeah, your point being?” He wraps his arms around me and, rolling himself on his back, pulls me on top of him. “So, how was your day, dear?”

“This, A plus. The restored electricity, A plus plus. The rest of it …kinda weird,” I demur, not ready to package what I can’t even add up for myself. “How about we order in?” I sit up.

“Great. I vote Spanish. What do you mean your day was weird?” He lifts onto his elbows and I bend to kiss him on the forehead before climbing off.

“Remember Grayer X? The, um, you know, the boy I nannied for my senior year?” I pull on his sweater.

He gives me a wry flat-faced head tilt. “Uh, yes, I think I recall.”

“Right, so,” I continue, letting my hair drop between us as I pull up a pair of his pajama pants. “He kind of stopped by the other night and apparently is having a tough time. And I felt bad and he asked me to help him with this thing, so I did. And that was my day! Do you want the sweet plantains?”

“Whoa.” He sits up fully. “Back up. Grayer X came
here
?” He points at the floor.

“Yes.”

“How did he—”

“He found that nanny-cam video I left for his parents and he watched it and then he Googled me. He’s still a smart kid.”

“Wow. How old is he now?”

“Sixteen. And he has a seven-year-old brother.”

I realize I’m holding my breath for a verdict as I watch Ryan flip his legs to the side of the mattress and pull on his soccer pants. “And he came here?”

“Yes.”

He stands. “To ask you for help.”

“I think he came here to see who I was. That family, and I’m using the word loosely here, has been about as toxic as I feared.”

“What help did he ask for, exactly?”

“A boarding school interview for his little brother. It was no big deal, just a little stint at their apartment, providing some support while the school did their home visit.”

“You went to
their apartment
? In the building I practically had to put a gun to your head to get you to walk back inside?”

“Yes, but—”

“To help
that
woman. The scary one.”

“I wasn’t helping her. I was helping Grayer.”

“Is that . . .” He runs his hand back and forth through his hair. “Is that a good idea?”

“A good idea,” I repeat, folding my arms in the doorway.

He reaches his hand across his bare chest to roll his shoulder. “Nan . . .”

I stare at him, my heart pounding defensively as I jump from ice floe to ice floe in the current of my uncertainty. “Look, he’s a child. And I was just helping them with this one thing so I can get closure and that’s the end of it.”

He drops his shoulder and shrugs. “Okay, good. Well, I’m happy for you.”

“He showed up and the pain he was in—I just felt like I owed him. I’ve always felt like I’ve owed him, you know that.” He nods. “I just wanted to connect with him, have him forgive me, I guess.”

“And did he?”

I purse my lips. “It didn’t come up.” We stare at each other in the flickering light. Grace thumps her tail from where she lays nearby.

Ryan goes over to a box and pulls out a clean T-shirt and socks, patting her on the head on his way. “It’s only”—his head clears the shirt—“I thought we were working on getting more comfortable with the baby thing and I’m thinking, given the look on your face when we were in my old room, hanging out with your former employers, especially this one, isn’t going to help with that.”

An almost delicious wave of anger rolls over me, giving me the chance to leap to solid ground from my confusion. “More comfortable isn’t enough, Ryan.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Do you want me to order or not?” I flip on the overhead.

“Nan.”

“Sorry, but I’m starving.” I pivot to stride down the landing, Grace scampering to her feet to gallop behind me. Ryan pads after us.

“I can’t even bring this up, then,” he states more than asks from the top step.

“You’re not even
here
right now, Ryan.” I jog away from him down the two flights. “Feel free to bring it up and then fly back to the colonel.”

“Work is hectic, but it’s not always going to be like this.”

“This Jarndyce gig has the potential to introduce me to a lot of clients. My work is going to be hectic, too, you know.” On the last flight I stomp the squeaky step and hop the rest two at a time to the tile floor. All of a sudden there’s a loud crack and I spin to see the highest three steps caving with Grace teetering on top. Ryan bounds down to the second-floor landing as I scramble back up to reach out, but neither of us can get there in time. The chunk of steps implodes while Grace does a slow, sickening scamper-fall into the chasm, her hindquarters dangling into the closet beneath.