Chapter 10 Jess
Jess
Five thirty a.m. is a crime against humanity. It really is.
Especially when you’re standing in a billionaire’s bathroom holding a spray bottle and trying to remember if you’re supposed to scrunch or squeeze or maybe sacrifice a small goat to the hair goddesses.
“When your nanny duties include curl maintenance and you’re pretty sure you’re about to mess up a dead woman’s legacy.”
Ben is sitting on the closed toilet lid, clutching Frederick like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her dark corkscrew curls are a disaster. They’re the kind of tangles that would make a professional stylist weep.
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound confident instead of terrified. “First thing. Water.”
I hold up the spray bottle like it’s a magic wand. Which, given my current skill level, it might as well be.
Ben’s eyes are huge. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Not if we’re brave together.” I kneel down so we’re eye level. “Remember our rules?”
She nods. Sets Frederick on the counter facing us.
“He’s watching,” she whispers.
“Good. He needs to learn this, too.” Commitment is key. “Okay. Hand squeeze first. One, two, three.”
I take her small hand in mine and squeeze gently with each count.
“Now breathe. Smell the cocoa. Blow the steam.”
She inhales. Shaky but trying. Then exhales.
“Again. Smell. Blow.”
This time it’s smoother.
“One more. Smell. Blow.”
Her shoulders drop. Not all the way. But enough.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I guess.”
I start with the spray bottle. Light mist. Nothing aggressive. The water catches in her curls and suddenly I can see what they’re supposed to look like. Tight spirals. Gorgeous. Exactly like the photos I’ve seen of Isotta around the house.
Don’t think about that. Don’t think about the dead wife whose hair you’re trying to replicate.
Too late.
Already thinking about it.
I focus on the task.
“This is a wide-tooth comb,” I tell her, showing her the tool. “We don’t brush curls. We comb them. Gently. Starting at the bottom.”
“Why?”
“Because curls are delicate. Like Frederick’s shell. We have to be careful or they break.”
She nods solemnly. “Frederick’s shell is very delicate.”
“Exactly.”
I section her hair. Start at the ends. Work my way up slowly. Every time I hit a tangle, I pause.
“Wait,” Ben says. “I’ve dropped him a few times. How come his shell doesn’t break?”
“Because he loves you too much,” I reply. “Okay, squeeze time. Are you ready?”
She reaches for my hand. We do the one-two-three. Breathe together. Then I continue.
It takes forever. My knees are screaming from kneeling on the tile. My back is starting to protest. But I’m not rushing this. Can’t rush this.
When the combing is done, I grab the curl cream. I pump a pea-sized amount into my palm.
“Watch,” I tell Ben. “We warm it in our hands first. Rub rub rub.”
She giggles. “That sounds funny.”
“It does. Very scientific.” I show her my palms. “See? Now we scrunch. Not pull. Never pull. Just scrunch the curls up like we’re making little springs.”
I demonstrate. Her hair responds beautifully. The curls start forming these perfect ringlets.
Thank God.
I didn’t completely destroy a five-year-old’s hair.
Gold star for Jessica Riley.
I can only imagine how stressful a trip to a professional hair salon would be for the poor girl. Let alone having her hair styled by a stranger.
“Your turn,” I say, putting more cream in her hands.
She copies me. Warming it. Scrunching. Her little fingers work through the curls with surprising care. “Like this?”
“Perfect. You’re a natural.”
We finish together. I use a microfiber towel to scrunch out excess water. Then I show her the silk pillowcase I brought.
“This is for sleeping. It keeps your curls from getting all crazy overnight.”
“Mama had one,” Ben says quietly.
My chest tightens. “Yeah?”
“Daddy keeps it in his room. In his drawer.”
Oh.
That’s not emotionally complicated at all.
I clear my throat. “Well, now you have your own. We can do a pineapple before bed. Want me to show you?”
“What’s a pineapple?”
I gather her curls loosely on top of her head. “See? Like a pineapple. Keeps everything protected while you sleep.”
She reaches up to feel it. Smiles. “I like it.”
“Me too.”
She looks at herself in the mirror. Then she spins, watching the ringlets bounce.
“Like Mama’s,” she breathes.
And there it is. The thing I’ve been trying not to think about since I started this whole process.
I’m not replacing her mother. Can’t replace her mother. Wouldn’t even try.
But I’m here. Teaching her the things Isotta would have taught her if she’d lived.
When you realize you’re accidentally becoming important to a kid who already lost someone important.
“You look so beautiful,” I tell her. And mean it.
She throws her arms around my neck. The hug is sudden and fierce and completely unexpected and brings tears to my eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my shoulder.
I hug her back. Try not to cry. Fail a little bit.
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
By six thirty we’re in the kitchen. Ben is eating her conchiglie al burro like a tiny queen. Her curls are perfect. I’m exhausted and my knees hurt and I need approximately seven gallons of coffee.
Rosa appears from a side room like a fairy godmother. “You did good with her hair.”
“Thanks. I was terrified I’d mess it up.”
“You didn’t.” She sets a mug of coffee in front of me. “Isotta would have liked you.”
The words hit harder than they should. I wrap my hands around the mug and try to think of something appropriate to say.
Before I can, the front door opens.
Ethan’s voice carries through the house. “Jag? You here? I left my hoodie in your car.”
Oh no.
My brother appears in the kitchen doorway. He’s still in his paramedic uniform. Night shift. He looks tired but grins when he sees Ben.
“Hey kiddo. Nice curls.”
Ben beams. “Jess did them.”
“Did she now.” His eyes land on me. That big brother assessment look. “So the snail’s on hair duty now?”
“Frederick is multitalented,” I reply, gesturing to the plush sitting on the counter next to Ben.
Ethan crosses to the coffee maker. Pours himself a cup without asking. Because of course he does. This is his best friend’s house. He’s probably been doing this for years.
Meanwhile I’m the newbie trying not to break anything.
He leans against the counter. Studies me. “You look beat.”
“It’s six thirty in the morning and I’ve already done advanced curl maintenance. Exhaustion is earned.”
“Fair.” He takes a sip. When Rosa walks out, he leans closer and lowers his voice. “Now how’s it going? For real.”
I glance at Ben. She’s focused on her pasta. Not listening.
“Good,” I say quietly. “She’s great.”
“And Marco?”
My face goes nuclear. “What about him?”
“Has he been weird?”
Define weird.
Does nearly kissing me over a notebook count?
“He’s been professional,” I say instead.
Ethan narrows his eyes. “Professional.”
“Yep. Very professional. Super professional. The most professional.”
“You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you talk too fast when you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying. There’s nothing to lie about. Everything is fine and normal and boring.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see the suspicion in his eyes. But he doesn’t push.
Instead he finishes his coffee. Ruffles Ben’s curls on his way out. “See you around, kiddo.”
“Bye Uncle Ethan.”
Uncle Ethan. Right. Because Ethan is Marco’s best friend. Which makes him basically family.
Which makes me the outsider trying to fit into an already established ecosystem.
Cool cool.
He leaves, and I can hear him shouting for Jag and the hoodie again from down the hall.
I help Ben finish breakfast. We’re loading her bowl into the dishwasher when Ben says, “Nonna wants to FaceTime.”
I freeze. “Now?”
“Uh huh. Daddy set it up. Every Wednesday morning.”
Of course he did.
Routines. Structure. Control.
Is it Wednesday morning already? I check my phone. Yup.
Time flies when you’re having fun.
I guess.
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound normal. “Let’s call her.”
Ben grabs the iPad from the charging station. Taps the screen with practiced ease. The call connects.
A woman’s face appears. Late sixties. Elegant. The kind of bone structure that photographs well. Dark eyes that immediately zero in on Ben’s hair.
“Benedetta,” she breathes. And then she starts crying.
Oh no.
“Nonna, don’t cry,” Ben says, concerned.
“I’m sorry, tesoro. Your hair. You look just like your mother.”
The words are warm. Loving. But there’s something underneath. Something I can’t quite name.
Then Nonna’s eyes shift. Land on me. Standing slightly off-camera.
Her smile thins. Just a fraction.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
Ben turns the iPad so I’m fully visible. “Jess. My new nanny.”
“I see.” Nonna’s gaze rakes over me. Assessing. “You did her hair.”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation dressed as an observation.
“Yes,” I say, trying to sound confident. “She has beautiful curls.”
“Her mother had beautiful curls.”
Yeah. I got that memo.
Rosa walks back into the kitchen, but I barely notice.
“Jess taught me how to scrunch,” Ben offers. “And we used the wide-tooth comb. And brave breathing.”
“Brave breathing?” Nonna’s eyebrows go up.
Ben demonstrates. The hand squeeze. The slow inhale and exhale.
Nonna’s expression softens. “That’s very nice, cara.”
Then she looks at me again. “How long have you been working for Marco?”
“This is my third day.”
“Third day.” She repeats it slowly. Like she’s tasting the words. Finding them lacking. “And already you’re doing her hair.”
Is that bad?
Should I not have done hair?
Did I overstep?
My face is burning. I can feel the blush crawling up my neck.
“Ben’s hair needed care,” I say carefully. “I was happy to help.”
“Of course.” Another smile. This one doesn’t reach her eyes. “Tell me. Is this position permanent? Or temporary?”
Loaded question alert.
“We’re taking it day by day,” I hedge.
“I see.” Nonna tilts her head. Studies me through the screen. “And you know about Isotta?”
“I know she passed away. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“She was my daughter.” Nonna’s voice cracks. “Irreplaceable.”
Message received loud and clear.
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.
Ben is oblivious. She’s showing Nonna her breakfast bowl. Chattering about Frederick. About school. About the brave cocoa we made yesterday.
Nonna listens. Responds. But her judging eyes keep drifting back to me.
When the call ends, I feel like I’ve been through a deposition.
Ben hops down from her chair. “I’m going to get my backpack!”
She runs off. Leaving me alone in the kitchen with Rosa.
“She doesn’t like me,” I say flatly.
Rosa sighs. “She doesn’t like anyone who isn’t Isotta.”
“Great. That’s super comforting.”
“Give it time.” Rosa starts wiping down the counters. “She’s protective. That’s all.”
Protective. Right.
More like territorial.
I help Ben pack her bag. Make sure she has her lunch. Do the school run with Jag.
But the whole time I’m thinking about Nonna’s face. The way she looked at me.
Like I’m trying to replace someone irreplaceable.
Like I’m an interloper.
Like I have no business being here.
When I get back to the house, I head straight to Ben’s bathroom. Open the cabinet. Pull out a notecard and pen from my bag.
I write down everything. Every product we used. The techniques. The order. The wide-tooth comb. The silk pillowcase. The pineapple method.
At the bottom I add: Sulfate-free. Fragrance-light. No parabens. Ask Jess if you have questions.
Then I tape it inside the cabinet door.
Because this isn’t about me. It’s about Ben.
And if the in-laws want to hate me for being here, fine.
Let them.
But I’m going to do my job.
I’m going to take care of this kid.
Come hell or high water.
When you realize you’re not just the nanny. You’re the replacement. And everyone’s watching to see if you screw it up.
I close the cabinet. Stare at my reflection in the mirror.
“You’ve got this,” I tell myself.
I don’t quite believe it.