For the first time I’m aware of him as more than a shadow shouting in the rain, as more than my new employer. I become aware of him as a man. And he’s aware of me as a woman. There’s a form of power in that mutual understanding.
There are years between us. How old is he? Some number greater than thirty, for sure. The hard planes of his face are strong, mature. His eyes are world weary. I would almost expect there to be gray in his hair for how jaded he appears, but instead there’s a lush black.
Too many years for a potential relationship, even if he were interested in rain-soaked nannies and I were interested in cold-blooded men. But the spark runs between us anyway, our bodies giving way to chemistry when our minds should know better.
I need to end this awareness, this mutual interest, the physicality of standing here while both of us are cold and shivering, our clothes clinging to our skin. “Good night,” I say, but the word comes out low and smoke-filled, as if I meant it to be tempting.
I’ve never meant to be tempting in my life.
He does not answer me with words. Instead he closes the door in my face.
CHAPTER THREE
I wake up at six a.m. to an overcast day and texts from Noah. His face appears next to his words, that lazy grin, his dirty blond hair. The kitten stretches beside me and mews, clearly interested in finding more milk for the day.
How was the flight? Did you meet the family?
Shana covered your shift yesterday. Pissed off a bunch of your regulars.
Are you ready to come home yet?
At least my waterlogged cell phone continues to work.
Noah was placed in my last foster home before me. He took me under his wing. Taught me the unspoken rules. Snuck food from the kitchen when I was punished and made to go without dinner. He’s my best friend in the world, and I hate disappointing him.
Met the uncle, I swipe into my phone. Seems kinda strict.
We know all about strict. The foster home we shared was built on ever-shifting rules that we would inevitably fail. It was cold and uncomfortable and filled with fleas—but it was a roof over our heads and questionable food on a plate each evening.
He texts back right away. Miss you already.
Guilt sits heavy in my stomach. He didn’t want me to sign this contract, but I couldn’t keep working shifts at the diner and the grocery store forever. I barely earned enough to cover my share of the rent, much less what it would take to go to college.
Only three percent of kids who age out of the foster care system ever get a college degree. I’m going to be in that three percent even if it kills me.
I’m going to trade in this one year for a new future.
This job will change my life.
Assuming I keep it. That seems uncertain based on the way Beau Rochester spoke last night.
Leaving the kitten in bed, I shower quickly and step out of the room with my hair still wet. I don’t have to count the doors to know which one belongs to the child. Paige. That’s her name. Paige Rochester. The door is open, and there’s an argument in progress.
“It’s twenty degrees outside,” says a low voice I recognize as Beau. “You can’t walk around in a T-shirt from Reading Rainbow and a goddamn tutu.”
A small but furious voice. “It’s Reading Railroad, and it costs two hundred dollars.”
“I don’t care what it costs. If it’s not long sleeves and pants and socks and a sweater, it’s not going to fucking—I mean, it’s not going to fly.”
When I reach the doorway, I’m confronted with the view of a man, six foot something, built with lean muscles and a hard expression, facing off with a mutinous little girl wearing a red shirt with a black railway engine on it and a black tutu.
Both man and little girl look extremely stubborn and severe about the issue. It would be almost comical, how alike they look despite their differences, if I didn’t worry I was about to be caught in the middle of this dispute.
“Good morning,” I say brightly.
Mr. Rochester glances back at me. “Thank God you’re here. Surely dressing a child in the morning is part of your job description.”
“Yes,” I say, drawing the word out. This is heading for a disaster if I’m thrown into her life this way, as some kind of enforcer. Yes, I’ll have to impose rules on her but she also needs to see me as a caregiver. As a kind person in her life. “But we haven’t been introduced.”
He gets a sardonic glint in his eye. “This is Paige Marie Rochester. The reason for your new paycheck. Paige, this is Jane… what was your last name again?”
“Mendoza. Jane Mendoza.” I give the girl a tentative smile. “I hope you’ll call me Jane.”
Her mutinous expression doesn’t change.
I take a step into her bedroom, shivering at the chill that pervades the air.
Unlike my room it’s bursting with color. It’s painted pink with posters of unicorns and dragons pinned up. Her bedspread sports pink-red roses. Despite the profusion of girly pink, it’s clear where this girl’s true passion lies. A Monopoly board dominates the center of the room, pieces spread across, real estate cards in disarray. Crinkled money peeks out from the bottom of the dresser and from inside drawers.
I sit down on the bed, trying to act casual, as if I attempt to befriend grieving six-year-olds every day. “I’d love to get to know you better, Paige. What kind of things do you like? I already know you like Monopoly. I’ve played that game, but I’m not very good at it. I bet you are.”
She doesn’t answer.
Mr. Rochester lists things like he’s cataloging some strange species of animal. “Her favorite hobbies are ignoring the things I ask her to do, throwing things on the ground. And saying that she wishes I was dead. Oh, and she demands Pop-Tarts for dinner.”
In that short statement, I see how the last few months have unfolded between them. I knew that her parents had died in a tragic accident, relatively recently. But somehow I assumed that her uncle, like any caring family member, would treat her gently. He’d put up pictures of the people she lost. Since he has money, he’d probably get her therapy, too.
They would be a unit. A sad but loving unit.
That whole image goes up in flames. They’ve clearly been locked in a battle for a lot longer than this morning. I knew I’d have to work hard at this job, but now it feels dangerously close to impossible. Except I need this to work.
“Well,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I suppose the first thing to do is figure out what to wear.” Her T-shirt is not much proof against the cold. She’s got bare feet beneath a black tulle skirt. I agree with Mr. Rochester in theory. But if I demand long sleeves and pants and socks and a sweater, we’re never going to leave this room. I might as well insist she turn lead into gold while I’m at it. Instead I head over to the dresser where I find a bunch of colorful clothes all jumbled together as if they came in a trash bag and were dumped out. No attempt at folding or organizing has been made. I suppose it’s good that they seem clean.
I dig around and find a thin Gucci hoodie. “How about this, as a compromise? You can keep what you’re wearing, add this, and then be comfortable around the house?”
“You smell bad,” she says to me.
Great.