The Nannies (17 page)

35

As Esme went to the pool, Martina padded past her, dripping water all the way back to Lydia.

Lydia opened one eye when the girl got between her and the sun. “Having fun, sweetie?”

Martina nodded and wrapped a towel around her wet body, sarong-style. Lydia had taught her that maneuver, too. “A lot. But Serenity is kind of spoiled. She bosses everyone around.”

“Maybe she doesn’t get enough attention at home,” Lydia guessed. “After all, she’s only got one mom.”

Martina’s face brightened. “That’s true. Can Jimmy and I eat here, as long as we don’t get dairy or sugar or fried food?”

“Oh hell, I’d go for cheese fries and ice cream if I was you, sweet pea. By the way, I told the moms I’d have you home by one o’clock, but that gives us plenty of time. Why don’t you order a sundae with extra whipped cream.”

“For dessert?”

“Nah, life is short. Eat dessert first,” Lydia decreed. “Want me to call the waiter?”

“You’re not going to order worms, are you?” Martina joked.

“Well, aren’t you loosening up,” Lydia marveled. She leaned over and tapped Martina on the back. “Go back to the pool. I’ll order for y’all, and holler when it gets here.”

“Okay. I’m really glad you’re here, Lydia.”

Martina shyly dropped the wet towel and returned to the other kids. Lydia watched her depart, pleased with Martina’s progress. Having a protégée could be fun.

“Er, excuse me?”

Lydia turned; a thirtyish blond woman in yes-I-have-a-personal-trainer-who-comes-to-my-house-five-days-a-week shape was standing to the other side of her chaise.

“Yes?” Lydia asked.

“I couldn’t help noticing how good you were with that girl,” the woman said. “Are you her nanny?”

“Yep.”

“We had this Swiss au pair for a year. She ran off last week with my friend’s husband. What a nightmare,” the woman said. “May I?” She indicated the chaise next to Lydia.

Lydia nodded, and the woman sat down.

“Before that,” she went on, “we went the illegal alien route. Lovely woman. But we gave her a ticket to visit relatives in New York and she never came back. Before that . . . well, it doesn’t matter. I’m Evelyn Bowers.” She held out her hand.

Lydia shook it briefly. “Lydia Chandler.”

“Wherever did your boss find you, Lydia?”

“In the Amazon basin,” Lydia said.

Evelyn laughed. “And a sense of humor, too. Who do you work for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Kat Carpenter and her—”

“Kat Carpenter? I know her. I mean, I don’t know her, but doesn’t she do tennis commentary on ESPN? She’s quite good.” Evelyn leaned closer. “Do you mind if I ask what she’s paying you?”

“Yes,” Lydia said. “I do mind.”

Evelyn touched a well-manicured hand to her clavicle. “God, I’m sorry. I know how rude that must have sounded.” She reached for a Dooney & Bourke handbag that Lydia had admired on Rodeo Drive, and dug out a gold business-card holder. Then, looking both ways as if she was making a drug deal, she palmed off a card on Lydia.

“However much it is, I’ll double it,” she whispered. “Think about it and call me.” Then, in a much louder voice, “Lovely to have met you, Lydia!”

She stood, mouthed “Think about it” once more, and strode off toward the clubhouse, her Charles David sandals skittering on the poolside tile.

Lydia examined the card. It was elegant in its simplicity.
Evelyn Bowers—Publicist
and a 310 phone number in raised script on oyster-colored onionskin parchment.

Double the pay. How intriguing. But what could she do? Kat was her aunt. It was because of Kat that she was here in Los Angeles, not piloting that damn launch up and down the—

“Hey, beautiful.”

Lydia glanced up. There stood Scott the lifeguard, wearing white trunks that set off the deep tan stretched across his rippling muscles. He crouched by her chaise.

Lydia smiled at him. Well, well. It was about time.

“Been good?” he asked, and then nudged his chin toward the departing Evelyn. “She just offer you a gig?”

Lydia raised her eyebrows in surprise. “How’d you know?”

“Welcome to nanny poaching heaven,” Scott said. “This place is worse than the child care center at Yoga Booty. I know this chick from Wyoming who got three offers in thirty-five minutes, right where you’re sitting. The people she worked for ended up giving her a Lotus. Sweet ride.”

“You mean she got to drive it?” Lydia asked.

“No, babe. They bought it for her. Next time you come, bring your calculator and a legal pad, and auction yourself off to the highest bidder.” He let a tanned hand brush her thigh. “Maybe it’d be me.”

Jeez. It took him long enough to get to the point.

“Maybe. Is my phone number still on your ass?”

“A friend scrubbed it off. If you know what I mean.”

“Close friend, female variety,” Lydia translated.

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” He shrugged and splayed his fingers on Lydia’s thigh. “If you know what I mean.”

Lydia peered at the hand. And the body connected to it. “Is it my imagination, or did you get a lot more tan since the last time I saw you?”

“Spray-on,” Scott confided. “I was doing a lifeguard calendar, had to go for the glow.” He admired his own biceps, flexing the muscles. “It’s the bomb, huh?”

“Not really,” Lydia replied. “Too orange.”

His fingers edged north. “Maybe you could help wash it off.” “Did you ever have sex in the shower? What’s that like?”

“You’re a strange girl. But you’re still damn hot.”

“Good to know,” Lydia said.

“So. Lovely Lydia. You still want to hook up?”

Maybe a couple of days ago, yes. But now? Lydia sighed. “I don’t think so.”

Scott put his hands over his heart. “Don’t say that.”

“See, here’s the thing. I’ve never had sex before.”

Scott’s jaw fell open. “Don’t tell me you’re a—”

“A virgin, yes,” Lydia admitted. “I’m dying to end it, too. I thought you could be the one, because you are obviously an excellent physical specimen.”

Scott looked confused. “Yeah . . .”

“From a purely physical point of view, you’d be a good candidate. I planned to overlook the fact that the things you say are so banal and trite. But you really do talk a lot, don’t you.”

He wriggled his eyebrows. “You saying you want me to talk dirty to you in the shower?”

Lydia sighed again. He just didn’t get it. Her prince would know when to shut up.

“Scott, though it pains me to say this, our moment has come and gone.”

“Too weird for me, babe.” He stood and strutted off.

Well, he hadn’t seemed insulted. That was good. But Lydia suspected it was because he really hadn’t followed much of what she’d said. What the hell. She’d held out this long. She could last a few more days.

She retrieved Evelyn Bowers’s business card from under her chaise and regarded it again. Then she grinned. Scott Lyman might be dumber than a bag of goat hair. But something he’d said had just put a very smart idea into her head.

36

With Weston next door in her room playing with Legos, Esme sat on the patchwork-patterned love seat in Easton’s room reading
Goodnight Moon
to her. Even though the child couldn’t follow it in English, Esme translated enough into Spanish to hold her interest.

“Me book!” Easton cried in English, and took the book out of Esme’s hands. She started to invent a tale in Spanish that went along with the artwork. It didn’t have much to do with the original story, but it was very cute, and it allowed Esme’s mind to wander. To Junior. To what he’d told her on the phone the night before.

He’d seen from the living room window what Lydia had done to the two
cholos. “That was some weird-ass shit,”
he’d said. He’d dragged the boys inside; it took Victor and Freddie almost an hour to feel halfway normal.

Junior hadn’t sounded mad, that was a good thing. And he’d asked her out, to the Granada Club in Alhambra. They’d been there many times. It was elegant, Junior loved to dance, and the salsa didn’t quit until the wee hours of the morning.

Still, anxiety had gnawed at her all day. She tried to cover— especially with Kiley and Lydia—but there were moments when the weight of it nearly overwhelmed her. Junior. Jonathan. What if the Goldhagens had security cameras monitoring her place? Or what if Diane decided that Esme was competition, and bad for family bonding? This was supposed to be a two-week trial period. Diane could easily decide that the trial hadn’t worked out.

The ironic thing was, she was starting to enjoy the job. She liked the twins, and felt a certain stranger-in-a-strange-land kinship with them. It let her look at America with fresh eyes. For example, she’d taken them that afternoon from the country club to an art therapist in Mar Vista who was supposed to help them grieve for their left-behind life in Colombia. But the session was a bust: the shrink had an Xbox in her waiting room from which the girls could not be pried away.

Next on the afternoon’s schedule was a visit to the Goldhagen cousins in Pacific Palisades. The family had an estate only slightly smaller than Diane and Steve’s; there was a huge trampoline and a pool with a waterslide in their three-acre backyard. The cousins were ages eight and ten. Whatever they did, the twins wanted to do, especially Easton. So when the cousins went down the slide headfirst, Easton had followed them, though her swimming skills were rudimentary at best. Fortunately, Esme had put a life vest on her just in case.

Both girls had fallen asleep on the ride home. When she awakened them, they demanded chocolate ice cream for dinner. Esme tried to say they could have it for dessert, but Easton refused to eat anything else. Knowing that Diane would tell her to let them eat whatever they wanted to eat, Esme had served up the ice cream. Not good parenting, but Esme knew that her opinion really didn’t matter.

“Where Yon-o-tin?” Easton asked.

Esme told her in Spanish that her big brother was praying— she realized she wasn’t sure of the Spanish word for synagogue. Jonathan had gone with his parents to Sinai Temple in West-wood for a folk rock end-of-Shabbat havdalah service. Esme was glad he wasn’t home.

“Oye, Esme. Yo estoy finido con la cuenta. Tu lees ahora. Bien?”
Easton pushed the slim volume back into Esme’s hands.

“Sure, I’ll read,” Esme told her. It was her habit now to repeat everything in Spanish and English. “Five more minutes, then you both brush your teeth before bedtime. Where was I?”

She turned the page. But before she could begin to read, Easton had scrambled off the love seat. “Yon-o-tin!” she shouted.

“Yon-o-tin” was standing in the doorway, dressed for religious services. His eye was still three shades of purple.

“You’re supposed to be at temple,” Esme said.

“Yeah, I was.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “But the prayer book was weird—there was this girl’s face on every page—long dark hair, great eyes, really beautiful. You might know her.”

Esme felt as if she was melting, exactly as Lydia had described love at the country club. But she tried to keep her face impassive. “I’m working,” she reported.

“Plus,” he went on, ignoring her, “I was overcome with this primal need for ice cream. And I know the best place.”

“Ice cream!” Easton shouted, and Weston joined in. “Ice cream, ice cream!
Más
ice cream!”

“Hey, they can say it in English!” Jonathan exclaimed.

“And they had plenty for dinner,” Esme added pointedly.

But the girls kept squealing. “Ice cream, ice cream!” They started jumping up and down, and Jonathan joined in on a three-way vocal chorus. “Ice cream! Ice cream!”

It
was
funny. And she had hours before she had to meet Junior. Her smile told them that she relented.

“Okay, girls,
vámonos
!” He scooped the twins up and carried them downstairs, Esme right behind them.

“Where are we going?” she asked as Jonathan headed out the front door with the girls.

“You’ll see.”

They piled into the Audi, since it had car seats for the girls in the back. Jonathan drove. He started singing an old Beatles tune, “Hello Goodbye.” The song had very simple lyrics, and the twins began coming in on the words they recognized:
Yes.
No. High. Low. Goodbye. Hello.

“Rapid English via the Beatles?” Esme asked archly.

“Whatever works.” He gazed at the twins in his rearview mirror. “And now, little ladies, we are going to Hollywood!”

The ice cream store was called Mashti Malone’s, on La Brea Avenue, and it was jammed with beautiful people. While Jonathan held each girl by the hand, Esme read and translated the flavors scrawled on a large chalkboard. There was rose water, saffron, and orange blossom. “Do they even have chocolate?” she asked.

Jonathan pointed. “Different menu. Over there. Bitter chocolate, white chocolate, orange zest chocolate.”

“The girls will have whatever is closest to just plain chocolate,” Esme said.

Jonathan got macadamia mango. Esme went for crème brûlée. The twins got chocolate cones; they ended up wearing as much as they were eating. Esme thought it was the best ice cream she’d ever tasted.

“Es doloroso?”
Weston asked shyly, pointing to her big brother’s discolored eye.

“No,” he assured her.
“Es bueno.”

“It doesn’t look very
bueno,
” Esme said.

“Hey, I’ve been telling people it happened in a fight with Colin Farrell outside House of Blues. Everyone’s very impressed.” He waited a beat. “You’re not laughing.”

“Maybe because I know the truth.” She wiped the corner of Easton’s cone where the chocolate was dripping.

“In that case, maybe I can guilt-jerk you into finishing my tattoo.”

“Get someone else to do it.”

“You can’t let another artist finish your masterpiece. Besides . . .” He lifted the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Right now it looks like a woman’s breast.”

Esme chuckled. “One that’s very round and very fake.”

His eyes met hers. “It’s a Ferris wheel, isn’t it? What you were drawing.”

She nodded.

“Then you’re the only one who can finish it.”

His voice did the craziest things to her. Suddenly, she had a dreadful thought. “Your parents must be back from synagogue. I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t think—”

“No problem.” Jonathan flipped open his cell and called home. No one answered. He left a message. “There. We’re cool.”

Maybe. But Esme was anxious to go, just in case Diane was angry that she’d taken the girls out without permission. Easton held Jonathan’s hand, she held Weston’s, and they went out to the parking lot where they’d left the Audi.

It had a flat tire. Damn. Now they’d be even later.

“No sweat,” Jonathan assured her. “I’ll call Triple-A.”

“That’ll take forever.”

“Nah. The weather’s fine, there isn’t much traffic. They’ll be here in a flash.” He pulled out his cell.

Esme grabbed his hand before he could call AAA. “Don’t bother. I can change it.”

“Come on, seriously. Changing a tire on an Audi is a bitch.” Esme gave him a level look. “You mean, before I disable the self-leveling suspension and inflate the collapsible spare, or after?”

“Jeez. Is there anything you
can’t
do?”

“Yes. I can’t go back and leave a note for your stepmother,” Esme hissed. Why had she been so stupid as to go out with him and take the girls? This boy brought out the worst in her. When she was with him, it was like she lost her mind.

“My keen powers of observation tell me that you’re irritated,” Jonathan remarked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It
does
matter.” He took her wrist. “How you feel, how we feel . . . it’s
all
that matters.”

“In your world, maybe,” she told him and pulled her wrist away. “I’m changing the tire. Watch the girls, please.”

“Esme.” He caught her arm again. “This is silly. It’ll take forty-five minutes, easy.”

“I bet I can do it in twenty.”

“You’re on. And you’re also crazy. We’ll do it together.”

Esme spied a bench by the fence a few feet from them; she told the girls to sit there and not move. For once they obeyed without an argument. Jonathan popped the trunk and took out the jack.

“What do I get if I win the bet?”

“Whatever you want,” Esme said distractedly. The evening was fading; she dug into the trunk for a flashlight.

“Excellent,” Jonathan said, pleased. “And what do you get if you win?”

“Anything
I
want.” She jutted her chin upward and forced herself to lie. “And what I want is for you to leave me alone.”