Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Or like she has a stick clenched tight between her ass cheeks…
Stanley isn’t much taller and still squinting like it’s his first day on the planet. He looks confused, irritated, and maybe a little scared. Marta looks determined, also irritated, and exasperated.
My inner alarm bells start blaring instantly. My gut insists this isn’t what we signed up for—this level of uptight isn’t close to our vibe—but I shush it and force a smile as I wave them over.
It doesn’t matter what my gut says. These are my new bosses, and I’m counting on this job to get me through until I’m strong enough to wait tables again. I’ll put on a brave face, suck it up, and make this work, even if Marta and Stanley are a handful.
And maybe they’re not always like this. Maybe they’re just stressed from the cross-country move and settling into a new routine. Maybe, once they’ve decompressed, they’ll be delightful.
Hope flutters inside me as Marta’s lips curve into a tight, but friendly smile. She grips a handful of Stanley’s jacket, dragging him my way.
“Hello there,” she says, her voice more nasal than I remember. “Clover! So good to finally meet you in person.”
“So good.” Stanley exhales a puff of air, then sucks it up again with a snort so loud, it’s jarring.
I cover my flinch by rising to my feet and extending a hand. “Good to meet you both, too.” I shake first Marta’s hand, then Stanley’s colder, damper one before reaching for my cane to leverage myself back into my chair. “How are things at the new house? Are you all settling in okay?”
Marta blinks at my cane, a small, but noticeable shift in her tone as she reaches for her chair. “Yes, yes, just fine.” She laughs as she sits. “I mean, the ceiling is leaking in the garage, and the carpet in the rec room has to be replaced, but at least the pod arrived before the snow started coming down.”
“We didn’t think it snowed in Louisiana.” Stanley sinks down beside his wife, his squint intensifying as he asks, “Should I get coffees at the counter, or will they come to the table?”
“The counter,” I tell him, inspiring another snort from the back of his throat.
I’m still trying to decide whether it’s a laugh or a sound of disapproval when Marta says, “That’s fine. Get us the usual, Stan, and I’ll fill Clover in on Gus’s schedule. I’ll have a bottled water, too, with bubbles.”
“Got it.” Stanley rises with a grunt. “Two decaf oat milk lattes, coming right up.”
Decaf.
They’re decaf people.
I try not to take that as another bad sign—but seriously, who can survive a day in the nonstop grind of modern society without caffeine, I ask you!—and fix my attention on Marta as she rattles off the details of all things Gus.
On non-school days, she prefers he eat breakfast no later than seven-thirty, and be directed toward “vigorous exercise” no later than nine. Jogging on the treadmill or rowing on his kid-sized rowing machine are suggested as possible options for this vigorous activity. Before I can ask if playing at the park—you know, like a kid—is an option, she’s moved on to a list of acceptable snacks to pack in my “diaper bag” when we leave the house.
“Diaper bag?” I cut in, confused.
Surely, Gus is potty-trained. He’s almost six years old…
“Yes.” Marta gives a tight-lipped nod. “Gus has a nervous bladder, especially when his routine is disrupted. In a new city, with a new school and new enrichment activities, the chances of an accident are higher than usual. You’ll need to be prepared. I’ll prepack the diaper bag for the first few days, but come next week, you’ll take that on as one of your duties. That’s something you can manage, right?”
I nod. “Yes, of course.”
And I can, but it would have been nice to know about this sooner. I’m not afraid of a little mess—kids are messy, I know that—but it’s been a while since I changed a diaper. And I’ve never had to do that for an older child. It introduces a level of intimacy I want to be careful about, so that Gus feels safe.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the best way to do that, when Marta adds, “And you’ll need to be at the school by no later than eleven for pick-up. Classes dismiss at noon, but we’ve promised Gus you’ll be at the front of the line. To ensure that, you should arrive an hour early, perhaps more if you notice that other caregivers are lining up before then.”
My brows shoot up. “Lining up more than an hour early? Is that a possibility?”
Marta’s brows mirror mine. “Well, yes. Of course. At our old school in D.C., some of the nannies never left. They’d do drop off, then pull back around to get in line for pick-up. But we don’t expect that to be the case here. The school has assured us that they keep the pick-up line closed until eleven and that a number of the children are picked up on foot. It’s a very walkable neighborhood.”