Tainted Love (14 page)

“Did you hear sing?”

“I did,” Esme said. Easton was making a real effort in English, even if the execution sometimes left something to be desired. “It was great.”

“I sing, too!” Weston popped to her feet.

“I know, sweetie. You were both great.” Esme swung her eyes to Tarshea, who was dressed simply in a pair of jeans and T-shirt. “Wow, you must have been up early. It's not even eight o'clock.”

“Oh, it's nothing. I wasn't sleepy. I found this guitar in the home theater. I hope it's all right to play.”

“It's Jonathan's,” Esme explained. Jonathan had told her that when he was in ninth grade, he'd decided he was going to be the next Kurt Cobain. His dad had bought him this Martin beauty. The problem was, six months of daily lessons with the former lead guitarist for the Eagles left him no better than
when he'd started. In the musical talent department, he'd been granted a zero. “He doesn't play anymore.”

“We sing again! You too!” Easton dragged Esme toward the guitar, which Tarshea had propped against the couch.

Esme didn't resist. “Tarshea, tell me this: when did you have time to teach them?”

“Oh, just now. They are quick learners. Lovely voices, don't you think?”

“You fed them too?”

Easton answered for her. “Egg hats! We eated egg hats!”

“We ate egg hats,” Esme corrected. Whatever the grammar, the meal sounded impossible, since the twins hated eggs in every possible way, shape, and form. Their breakfast was inevitably Honey Nut Cheerios.

“Oh, it's nothing. I toast a slice of bread and cut a circle out of the middle with the bottom of a glass,” Tarshea explained. “Then I make a sunny-side-up egg and put it in the hole in the toast, and top it off with the toast circle. Egg hats. They are very big in St. Catherine parish in Jamaica, where I live.”

“But—but the girls never eat eggs,” Esme sputtered.

Tarshea shrugged. “I'm sure it's just that they like the cute little hats,” she explained in her lilting accent. “It's how we got my little brothers to eat eggs, so I thought I'd give it a try.”

“My beautiful babies!”

Diane Goldhagen appeared in the archway of the room and held her arms out wide to her two adopted daughters. Though the hour was early, she was already dressed and made up for the day in a white jacket adorned with a print of orange tree branches over a white cotton scoop-neck top and new skinny-legged jeans. All her old jeans—meaning, those purchased
before the end of June—had just been donated to the Second Coming, a vintage store in the San Fernando Valley whose proceeds went to help HIV-positive women find gainful employment.

Neither daughter moved toward her. Instead, Easton stood by Esme, and Weston put her cheek against Tarshea's hand.

It was a sad moment. Esme could see in Diane's eyes how much her adopted daughters’ reluctance hurt her. She was just about to tell them quietly to go and hug their mother, but Tarshea beat her to the punch.

“¡Si ustedes abrazan su mamá y la dicen que ustedes la aman, las daré un presente grande inesperado!”

Instantly, both girls bolted across the room and embraced their mother, babbling “I love you” in both English and Spanish.

Diane was overcome with joy. “What did you say to them, Tarshea?”

“Oh, just that they knew how happy they were to see their mama,” Tarshea explained sweetly. “So there was no reason for them to hold back.”

Esme was dumbstruck. That wasn't at all what Tarshea had said. Instead, she'd practically bribed them to hug Diane, promising them a big surprise present if they did. Diane couldn't understand a word of it, but Tarshea must have known that Esme would know. It was either an incredibly gutsy or incredibly foolish move. Esme wasn't sure.

“Mama, we sing with Miss Tee.” Easton pointed to the guitar.

Tarshea grinned. “They made up a nickname for me. Miss Tee. I kind of like it.”

“That's so darling!” Diane hugged the girls again. “Can you sing for me? I don't have much time, though. I have a meeting for a fund-raiser for the Spencer Jon Helfen Fine Arts gallery.”

“Don't forget your spa appointment,” Esme reminded her. “It's at noon.”

Diane smiled. “Thanks for watching out for me, Esme.”

“How about if we sing for your mother, girls?” Without waiting for a response, Tarshea got the guitar; counted off
uno, dos, tres, cuatro;
and then started to play. Instantly, the girls belted out the melody again.

Diane beamed and applauded. “That's so wonderful! I love Bob Marley.”

“You sing too, Mama!” Easton instructed.

“All right.” Diane walked over to her daughters, plopped onto the floor by them, and joined in. As she did, she helped the twins clap in time to the beat. All the while, Tarshea either sang along or grinned encouragingly.

Esme just stood there watching the warm family scene, feeling utterly and totally superfluous. Then, something else struck her: the shirt Tarshea was wearing, a red-and-white-striped V-neck. It was
hers
. By the designer Tocca, she'd bought it at Girl/Boy/Girl on an outing with Lydia.

Hoo boy. Tarshea had awakened the kids in Esme's charge, given them breakfast and gotten them to eat eggs, taught them
a Jamaican song, and figured out a way to get them to tell their mother that they loved her. And she'd done it all while wearing Esme's shirt.

“Amazing,” Tarshea murmured. “Simply amazing.”

It was three hours later, and the four of them—the twins, Tarshea, and Esme—were spending the afternoon at the country club. Though they were stretched out on a couple of chaise lounges while the twins splashed in the shallow end of the pool, Tarshea's head swung around like a bobble-head toy on a bumpy road, taking in the rich, the famous, and the infamous.

Esme tried to see this environment through Tarshea's inexperienced eyes. When she did, the opulence became overwhelming. The men were all gym-buff and perfectly tan in surfer Jams; the women were all white and aggressively thin. They wore designer bikinis by Eres, Norma Kamali, or Armani Collezioni. No one appeared to have more on their mind than what they would order for lunch from the club's outstanding restaurant. Many were by their equally well-outfitted children, who themselves were almost always trailed by a nanny. Sometimes there were two nannies.

Although Jamaica was a resort island, Tarshea had confessed that she had forgotten to bring a swimsuit to America and couldn't afford a new one. Esme had been about to loan Tarshea her navy blue Nautica one-piece with white piping and crisscross white straps—she couldn't think about coming down on such a poor girl for borrowing a few items of her clothes without asking—but then just gave it to her outright. The gift had thrilled her.

“Dear Lord in heaven!” Tarshea grabbed Esme's arm. “
Coo yah!
Look there! Is that Tobey Maguire across the pool? My little sissy Margarita would die. They showed
Spider-Man
at our church.”

Esme couldn't blame Tarshea for gawking. She'd wanted to gawk too, her first time at the club. But empathy could wait. In fifteen minutes, Weston and Easton had their swimming lesson. That was fine. That was better than fine. It would leave an hour for Esme and Tarshea to be alone, which meant that Esme could arrange for Tarshea to be alone, which meant that there would be time for Tarshea to be poached. As in, nanny-poached. As in, find the girl a job quickly. It was nice having Tarshea around, but sometimes she was too efficient.

“Miss Tee! Swim! Swim!” the twins called out as they splashed up and down in the shallow end of the pool.

Great. Esme couldn't help but notice that the girls were calling out for Tarshea and not for her. All the more reason to get Tarshea poached.

Fortunately, the twins’ swimming instructor—a powerful young blond woman named Cally who spoke four languages—showed up early to spirit the girls away to the swim-instruction lane of the pool.

“We've got a half hour,” Esme told Tarshea. “Let's get you poached.”

“I still don't understand.”

“Just follow my lead. We stand in the breezeway over there between the family pool and the adult pool, and wait for someone to approach. After you get hired, remember that.”

“Remember what?”

“Remember that if your job isn't making you happy, you can always go to the breezeway,” Esme explained.

Tarshea raised her eyebrows. “In Jamaica that kind of behavior means you are a drug dealer peddling ganja or you are a hooker peddling yourself. Dat is not me. I no smoke, I no drink, I no smoke ganja. I am a Christian girl.”

“Not to worry, Tarshea.” Esme was sympathetic. “It's just a job.”

Tarshea hugged Esme. “You are a most wonderful friend.” Bullshit. She was not a most wonderful friend. She was a girl looking out for her own self-interest.

“Come on,” Esme told her, and led Tarshea to the shady breezeway, where the club had recently ordered some redwood park benches. They sat together.

“Now what?” Tarshea asked.

“We wait.”

They didn't have to wait long. Esme was looking down the breezeway toward the adults-only pool when she heard a familiar voice behind her. A nastily familiar voice. “Diane Gold-hagen throw you out on your ass?”

Teetering toward her on five-inch mint green embellished satin wedges was Evelyn Bowers, the bony, high-strung publicist for the tobacco industry who was also known as the butcher of all nannies. She wore a yellow polka-dot bikini under a gossamer yellow tunic embroidered with beads. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses so large they made her head look pin-sized.

Kiley had actually worked for Evelyn briefly. Very briefly. Then, she'd come right back to this very breezeway to find another employer.

“Nope. I'm trying to help out my friend here.”

“Really?” Evelyn moved closer and lifted her sunglasses above her eyes. “I happen to be looking.”

Of course she was looking. She was always looking, because no one on planet Earth could stand working for her.

“I know you, and I know the nanny. I don't think it would be a very good match,” Esme opined. Tarshea raised her eyes questioningly; Esme put a reassuring hand on her forearm.

“What, I'm not important enough? Is that it?”

“No, not at all—”

“And why can't your friend speak for herself?” Evelyn challenged.

“I can,” Tarshea said simply. “If she assure me that it would be a bad romp for me to work wit’ you, then it will not happen. I trust Esme.”

Evelyn glared at Tarshea. “Well, when your next job turns out to be a disaster, don't come running to me, island girl. Remember that.”

She wobbled off on her too-high heels back toward the family pool. As Esme watched her depart, she wondered if she'd just done the right thing and decided that she had. Much as she wanted Tarshea employed, she couldn't turn the poor girl over to Evelyn Bowers and look at herself in the mirror in the morning.

“Excuse me.”

Someone sidled up to the bench. When Esme and Tarshea saw who it was, they could barely speak. It was Paula Abdul, her curvy body clad in a red raw-silk tank top and khaki shorts. Esme loved her on
American Idol
. She'd even thought
about how much fun it would be to introduce the twins to it when the next season began.

Standing with Abdul was another tall and skinny Evelyn Bowers type, only with better hair and makeup. Her flowy white gauze dress fell from her bare shoulders and swooped gracefully toward the brick-inlaid path.

“I—I'm Esme. And I love your show,” Esme said, feeling rather shy—which was a rare feeling for her. “I'm sure you hear that all the time.”

“And I'm Tarshea. You're … the best!”

Paula smiled, and nodded to her friend to start talking.

“My name is Ann Marie Wolfenbarger, but I'm known as Ann Marie professionally,” the woman said in a voice that was gentle and sonorous. “I design clothes. I'm not a member here, I belong to Riviera. Please just tell me to shut up if I'm being presumptuous. But Paula told me that if a nanny is looking for a new job, she comes right to where you two are sitting. Is that why you're here?”

Esme nodded. “That's true. But it's not for me. This is Tarshea. She's with me now at Diane Goldhagen's, watching Diane's children.”

“The two girls from Colombia?” Ann Marie grinned. “I met them at FAB! Tarshea, do you think they would give you a good reference?”

“I think so, yes,” Tarshea said softly.

“I know they will,” Esme chimed in.

Ann Marie nodded. “Cool. Paula, do you have a pen?”

Paula extracted a yellow lollipop pen from her oversized cherry-print straw bag and gave it to Ann Marie. The designer scribbled down a phone number on the back of a business
card and handed it to Tarshea. “Call me on my private cell this evening. Okay?”

Tarshea was so stunned and pleased that Esme had to answer for her. “Okay,” Esme said, committing the number to memory.

The sooner, the better.

Anya and Kat stood by the kitchen counter and nodded with approval as they watched Martina hoist a heaping serving of broiled tofu and grilled vegetables onto her plate. Meanwhile, Jimmy stared aghast at his sister.