3. Wrenley #3
Her matter-of-fact tone makes my heart twist. I set the whisk down and lean against the counter, facing her.
The sound of Saint’s voice carries from down the hall. His low, intense vibrato switching fluidly between English and French.
From Ivy’s grimace, I gather the conversation isn’t going well.
“I was just visiting your guesthouse for a while,” I explain, keeping my voice gentle. “I’m not actually here to be a nanny.”
“Nora said I was a monster.” Ivy picks at a spot of dried purple paint on her thumb. “Is that why you’re leaving, too?”
“Hey,” I say, moving closer and resting my elbows on the counter across from her. “You are absolutely not a monster. You’re creative and smart and honest, which are all really good things to be.”
Ivy’s green eyes study me skeptically. “Papa says I’m ‘spirited.’“
“That’s a good word for it.” I smile. “And I’m not leaving because of you. I’m leaving because that was always the plan.”
“Plans can change,” she says with a shrug, as if imparting ancient wisdom.
I rub my lips together, recognizing the dangerous waters I’m treading. The last thing I should do is give this child false hope about my sticking around, but the wounded look in her eyes makes my chest ache.
Saint’s voice rises down the hall, though the words are muffled. Whatever crisis is unfolding at his restaurant, it doesn’t sound like it’s resolving quickly .
“How about we make pancakes?” I offer instead. “Do you like chocolate chips?”
“Only when I can make faces out of them,” she says seriously.
“Well, obviously.” I rummage through drawers until I find chocolate chips. “What kind of awful person makes pancakes without faces?”
Ivy snort-laughs, a hilariously undignified sound from such a small person. I find myself laughing too, genuinely, for what feels like the first time in months.
By the time Saint returns, Ivy and I have created a small army of pancake faces with varying expressions.
There’s Happy Pancake with a chocolate chip smile; Surprised Pancake with wide strawberry eyes and an O-shaped mouth; Sleepy Pancake with half-lidded banana slices; and the pièce de résistance: what Ivy has named “Pancake From The Bad Place.”
This unholy creation features strawberry jam oozing from multiple “wounds,” chocolate syrup tears of the damned, and a grotesque mouth formed from a slice of bacon curled into a snarl. The eyes are hollowed-out centers of kiwi slices that stare with an empty, soulless gaze.
“It’s watching us,” I whisper dramatically to Ivy, who giggles with unholy glee.
“If you eat it, you get its powers,” she stage-whispers back.
“Or it possesses your soul,” I suggest, and she nods enthusiastically like I’ve confirmed a long-held theory.
Movement redirects my attention as Saint stops in the doorway, phone still in hand, staring at the spectacle before him.
The kitchen is a disaster zone of flour, eggshells, and every condiment from the fridge.
Ivy’s dinosaur pajamas now feature several new abstract designs in pancake batter and jam.
“What the hell happened to my kitchen?”
His voice is tightly leashed.
“Breakfast summoned a demon,” I say, gesturing to Pancake From The Bad Place. “But we’ve contained the threat.”
Saint stares at the creation with an expression that suggests he’s questioning every decision that led to this moment. His eyes sweep over the chaos.
“We can clean it up,” I offer, suddenly aware that I’ve essentially destroyed a professional chef’s personal kitchen. While wearing a bathrobe and no pants.
He doesn’t respond, just walks to the coffee maker and pours himself a cup with such precise movements it feels like he’s counting each drop. The silence stretches, uncomfortable.
Ivy seems oblivious to the tension.
“Try this one, Papa,” she says, stabbing a fork into our demonic creation and holding it out. “It gives you powers.”
“Or steals your soul,” I add helpfully, then immediately regret it when Saint’s glare shifts to me.
“Not now, Ivy,” he says, his voice clipped. He sets his phone on the counter, screen up. It immediately buzzes again.
“The restaurant’s sous chef quit,” he says abruptly. “That was the call.”
“Is that bad?” I ask, immediately regretting the stupid question.
He gives me a look that could curdle milk. “No, it’s fantastic news. I love scrambling to find a replacement before a VIP dinner.”
“Oh,” I say, not sure what else to add.
This isn’t my problem. I should be packing, not standing here in a borrowed robe with flour in my hair .
“Papa,” Ivy says, fixing him with an unnervingly adult stare. “Ask her.”
“Ivy,” he warns.
“Ask. Her.” She crosses her arms, a tiny mirror of his stubborn stance.
Saint’s nostrils flare slightly as he inhales. He looks at me, then away, his discomfort palpable. “My sister-in-law seems to think you’re trustworthy.”
I wait, sensing there’s more.
“And I’m...” He pauses, the words clearly difficult. “I find myself in a difficult position.”
“I noticed,” I say dryly, then, before I can rethink it, decide to rescue him. “I could watch her. Just for today, until you can figure something out.”
His head snaps up, eyes growing small with suspicion. “Why would you offer to do such a thing?”
Because your daughter sees rainbow unicorn farts and I haven’t laughed like that in months.
Because I recognize the drowning look in your eyes.
Because maybe helping someone else will stop me from picking at my own wounds for a few hours.
Because after spending three years of my life teaching strangers how to contour their noses, it feels weirdly good to do something that matters to an actual human being.
“Because I have nowhere else to be today,” I say instead. “And Ivy’s fun.”
“I am very fun,” Ivy agrees solemnly.
Saint studies me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decode a particularly difficult recipe. “You have experience with kids?”
“Camp counselor,” I remind him, sticking to my half-truth. “For kindergartners.”
His phone buzzes again. He ignores it, still watching me. I hope I’m not exuding the tingles cascading across my skin as obviously as I think I am.
“One day,” he says finally. “Just until I can make other arrangements.”
“One day,” I agree.
“Fair warning, Ivy’s ... energetic.”
That’s like describing a tornado as “a bit breezy.”
“I noticed,” I say dryly.
“And creative,” he adds, with a pointed glance at the kitchen disaster.
“Also noticed.”
He nods once, briskly, then downs the rest of his coffee. “I’ll pay you, of course.”
“That’s not?—”
“I insist.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
“Fine.”
“There’s a list of emergency numbers on the fridge. My cell is at the top.”
“Got it.”
“No paint in the house,” he adds. “No unicorn farts on any surfaces, including my car.”
So cars are off-limits, but demon pancakes are apparently fine. Noted.
Ivy bounces in her chair, vibrating with excitement. “Can we make slime? And finish our rocks? And?—”
“Ivy,” Saint cuts her off, but his voice has softened slightly. “Go get dressed first.”
She slides off her chair with a dramatic sigh that seems to come from the depths of her soul, then races from the room, her footsteps thundering on the stairs.
When she’s gone, Saint turns back to me.
“I meant to say…” he stops, seeming to struggle with the words. “Thank you. For this morning. For watching her. ”
The begrudging gratitude makes me smile. “Go save your restaurant, Chef. We’ll be fine.”
He nods again, but hesitates at the doorway, looking back at me with an unreadable expression. “Celeste trusts you.”
It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, but something about his grudging acceptance makes my shoulders relax for the first time since he stormed through the garden with pure wrath on his face. “Have a good day, Chef Toussaint.”
His eyes linger on mine for a beat longer than necessary, and I don’t look away, either. Then he’s gone, calling for Ivy to hurry up.
I stand in the kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of pancake chaos, wondering what the hell I’ve just gotten myself into. I came here to disappear, not to become a temporary nanny to a pint-sized tornado.
One day, I assure myself. What could possibly go wrong in one day?
The universe, wisely, doesn’t answer.
But I swear Pancake From The Bad Place gives me a knowing look as I move to clear the plates.