Chapter Two
Jennifer
I'm five minutes early. In my experience, that's four minutes too late for a job interview.
The nanny agency's waiting room smells like microwaved coffee and shoe polish, which is about right for a Tuesday morning in Millbrook Valley.
I had never heard of this town until eight days ago.
The lady from the nanny agency had assured me this is a beautiful small town, and I'll love it.
I pick at the edge of my manila folder, tap-tap-tapping the corner against my knee. My heels drum out what sounds like Morse code against the linoleum. If it spells SOS, I'm not sure anyone would notice.
My former family---the Johnsons---pulled up stakes two months ago and moved to Manhattan for a "can't-miss opportunity.
" I don't blame them. Their oldest daughter, Mallory, wrote me two postcards from the Upper West Side before she completely forgot who I am.
Even her cursive looked more sophisticated after a week.
Mrs. Johnson offered to pay for my relocation if I wanted to stay with them.
I politely told them I'm not interested in a world with more rats than trees.
Small towns fit me better. Here, I'm sure people say good morning and genuinely mean it. In the city, I'd probably wind up as a cautionary tale, one of those nannies who snaps and locks herself in the wine closet with a spiral-bound planner and a box of Wheat Thins.
The chair beneath me is vinyl and navy blue without a single crack.
Every time I shift my weight, it sounds like a balloon deflating.
I stare at the coffee table, which is crowded with parenting pamphlets that look like they've been thumbed through by a hundred anxious hands.
Some promote "nurturing emotional intelligence"; others offer dire warnings about screen time and gluten.
I try to guess how long each pamphlet has sat here by the depth of its coffee ring.
The record-holder, "Your First Baby: A Survival Guide," is practically laminated with stains.
As I glance around at the other applicants, I count three of us.
There's a woman with steel-gray hair and orthopedic shoes, and a college student in a sequined headband who's spent the last seven minutes uploading selfies with her tongue sticking out.
The agency receptionist, a woman who looks like she could have been a sitcom mom in the '80s, sits at her post, flipping through paperwork like she's shuffling a deck of tarot cards.
I wonder how she'd read my future. Is today the day I meet my "forever family?
" Or will I be making PB&Js for an emotionally stunted software developer with joint custody?
The odds are fifty-fifty. My folder holds all the usual stuff: CPR certification, background check, a few limp reference letters from families that have moved on to bigger, better nannies.
The clock on the wall clicks over to 9:00 exactly. Right on cue, the receptionist stands and clears her throat. "Jennifer Cordell?"
I rise and smooth my skirt, trying not to look like I've just spent ten minutes studying the merits of a gluten-free childhood.
My shoes squeak on the floor---a last little protest from the linoleum.
The other two applicants glance up, their expressions a mix of envy and relief.
Finding a nanny can be a competitive business.
No one wants to be here any longer than necessary.
"Right this way," the receptionist says, already turning her back.
I follow, passing a row of posters that are mostly stock images of babies wearing silly outfits.
As I walk into the boxy space of the interview room, I'm bathed in fluorescent lighting.
A faint whiff of disinfectant wafts around me.
I have my choice of two chairs as well as a faux-wood desk and a computer that still holds a floppy disk.
The wall calendar is stuck on February, but the dry-erase board beckons me with "Welcome, New Families! " in green bubble letters.
The woman behind the desk is not what I expected.
She's younger than I expected---late thirties, maybe, with sharp features and a chic haircut that must've cost at least a hundred dollars.
Her suit is almost dayglow pink, which seems inappropriate for the Midwest. Or anywhere except a gaudy big city.
"Jennifer!" the woman practically shouts, rising to shake my hand with almost manic fervor. "I'm Dana Wells. Thanks for coming in."
I take the seat she gestures toward. "Thanks for the opportunity. Honestly, I never imagined I might wind up in Nebraska. But I love what I've seen of Millbrook Valley so far.
Dana opens a folder---the agency copy of my application, no doubt---and runs a finger down the page. "You're an Arkansas girl?"
"Born and raised."
"Most of our candidates are transplants, or...well, passing through." She tilts her head. "What brought you here?"
That's the question I always dread. My mind jumps to the usual answers: a change of pace, a desire for a simpler life.
Instead, I go with the line I'd practiced in the car.
"I like knowing my neighbors, the way I did back in Hot Springs.
Plus, I enjoy walking to the bakery and having them remember my order. "
Dana grins and laughs. "A woman after my own heart."
She spends the next ten minutes running through the basics---experience, certifications, whether I'm allergic to cats or gluten, and do I enjoy watching sports. I give all the right answers because I've done this dance before.
Then she hits me with The Question. "I have to ask, because it's not in your file. Why didn't you go to New York with your last family?"
I shrug. "Too much noise, and people rarely look you in the eye. I don't think I'm at my best when I'm somewhere I'd rather not be."
She sits there without moving or speaking for a moment, and I can see her respect for honesty warring with her suspicion that I might be too attached to small-town life.
"Fair enough," she finally says. "Would you be willing to consider positions outside Millbrook Valley?"
I shrug. "Depends on how far away it might be."
Dana grins. "Don't worry, no one's sending you to Seattle. Most of our placements remain right here in the Valley." She closes the folder. "You're a strong candidate, Jennifer. I have a few families in mind that might be a good fit."
I rise from my chair, still holding my neutral expression. But inside, a flicker of hope ignites. Or maybe it's the caffeine kicking in.
"One more thing," Dana says. "Are you open to...unusual arrangements?"
I pause, my hand clutching my folder. "Define unusual."
She leans in, almost whispering. "There's a family looking for a nanny who's...a bit more involved. Not just for the kids, but to help the whole household run. It's a bigger commitment than most nannies would want."
Something about her description of the situation makes me think of cults or reality shows. Or maybe just families who have lost their last three nannies to nervous breakdowns.
"I'm open to hearing more," I confirm, because I need a job and can't afford to be picky.
Dana smiles again. "I thought you might be."
"Um, do I have the job?"
"Not quite. First, a few explanations are in order.
" She sets her fingertips on the desk, leaning forward slightly.
"This is a single-father situation. My ex-wife abandoned the family several years ago, which left Dad with four kids between the ages of eight and fifteen.
They're a wonderful family...with issues. "
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. "Um, I see."
Dana comes around to my side of the desk and squeezes my shoulder lightly. "Think about it, Jennifer. Then let me know by Wednesday."
"I'll do that."
When I move to leave, Dana stops me again. "I think you could be the perfect nanny for this family. But don't let me talk you into it. Decide for yourself."
"Got it."
On my way out, I stop at the coffee table, pick up "Your First Baby," and flip to the back cover. The text offers an outdated 800 number and a quote from Dr. Spock. I leave the book face-down, like a playing card I'm hoping won't come up again.
As I push open the glass door to the parking lot, the receptionist gives me a little wave.
The air outside is temperate and clean, and for a second, I imagine I can hear the sound of a tire swing creaking somewhere in the distance.
While I walk back to my rental car, I do what Dana suggested.
I think hard about whether I want to join a troubled family.
She wouldn't send me to a nightmare house, of that I'm. But I'm not so na?ve that I think any family with four kids and no mother is going to be a walk in the park.
The Honda Civic I'm renting smells like vanilla air freshener. I sit behind the wheel for a moment, watching a woman in yoga pants chase a toddler across the parking lot. The kid's shrieking with laughter, arms pumping like he's training for the Olympics.
Four kids. Ages eight to fifteen.
Maybe this time I'll find my forever family. Or else I'll merely survive another season.
Either way, it beats Manhattan.