Chapter 12
TARA
"Thank you for picking me up, Chloe," I say as we both carry my belongings up the grand staircase of the Swain-Black mansion.
My hands still shake from last night's terror, the memory flashing back every time I hear a sudden sound. Yet, Chloe's steady presence helps calm my nerves.
I set my suitcase on the polished hardwood floor of her bedroom. The lavender color theme, frilly pillows, and canopy bed stand in stark contrast to my former cabin.
"Last night was terrifying beyond belief."
"I'm glad you're in one piece, that you fought back. And most importantly, that you called me."
Chloe turns to face me, placing her hands on my shoulders with the gentle authority of someone used to comforting others. Her slight French accent softens her words, making them feel like a warm embrace.
"The Swains gave permission for you to stay, but just for one night. I'm so sorry."
"Should I call them the Swains, or the Swain-Blacks?"
"Technically, they're the Swain-Blacks," says Chloe, lowering her voice to a whisper as she glances at the open door.
"Madame descends from a long line of Swains, founders of Nantucket centuries ago.
Mr. Black is an off-islander from Manhattan.
Though they married nearly a decade ago, locals often forget his surname.
You can just call them the Swains—except to their faces, of course. "
My stomach drops. "What am I supposed to do tomorrow night? I don't know anybody else here."
"No worries," she says breezily, like some 'good witch' in a fairy tale. "Time works everything out. I'll call around. If worse comes to worst, you can always go back to New York, right?"
I shake my head, sinking onto the edge of her neatly made bed. "I don't know. Keesha has a new roommate to take my place until fall." I trail off, staring at my hands. "But I really want to stay on Nantucket for the summer."
Chloe sits beside me. "For the salty sea air?" she asks, a sly smile curving around her full lips.
"You'll think me silly..."
"Go on. Tell me."
"I met a man briefly in Manhattan," I say, feeling my cheeks burn as I think of Cameron. "He's famous and temporarily on Nantucket. I ran into him yesterday at brunch."
"And?"
"I'm hoping to run into him again."
"Sounds like the best reason to stay!"
"And there's more. Remember I told you about my interest in meeting the Met Opera Company's music director? I'm still hoping to meet him."
"Ah, well, let's take one thing at a time."
Before I can respond, the sound of running feet echoes down the hallway. Two little blonde girls come charging through the open doorway.
"Hi, I'm Jill!" announces the first one.
"And I'm Joan!" says the other.
They both have the same gap-toothed smile, all giggles and boundless energy. Though it's nearly ten in the morning, they're still wearing their bunny-print flannel pajamas.
"Girls, where's your nanny?" Chloe asks. "It's time to get you dressed for the day."
"She's still sleeping," says Jill, rolling her eyes with the dramatic flair only a six-year-old can manage.
"Snoring!" Joan blurts out, making exaggerated snoring sounds that send both twins into fits of giggles.
I watch them bounce around the room, their energy infectious despite my exhaustion.
"I thought you were their nanny," I say, turning to Chloe.
"I'm the second nanny. Their summer nanny." She grabs a brush from her dresser and starts working on Jill's tangled hair. "The 'play nanny,' if you will. Their French-teaching nanny. And right now, you're my assistant in getting these rascals ready for breakfast. Up for it?"
I feel a wave of relief at having something useful to do. "Of course. I told you I'm majoring in early childhood education."
"Ah, so you're all textbook-based."
"That's about the extent of it. I was an only child."
We spent the next half hour transforming the twins from sleepy, pajama-clad gremlins into presentable little ladies. It's surprisingly challenging work: extensive face washing, tooth brushing, hair braiding, and negotiations over which dress each girl wants to wear.
I stay back as Chloe takes the children downstairs for breakfast. But then I can't resist moving to the old-fashioned banister to peer down at the scene below. The dining room looks like something from Downton Abbey, complete with gleaming silver and crystal.
Chloe takes plates for both children, fills them, and sits down to eat with them. Within minutes, a stout woman with gray hair pulled into a severe bun joins them. The senior nanny, I assume.
The parents whom I remember from the cafe appear shortly afterwards.
Feeling like an interloper, I retreat to Chloe's room and pull out my phone. I get the courage to text Zaza and Chloe about my fiasco with Mr. Johnson. I assure them I’m safe, staying with a friend, and will be okay.
Within minutes, I get a response—Keesha's invitation to come back to New York and couch surf until her new roommate moves out in the fall.
This is welcome news, but I like Nantucket. Especially since Cameron's on it. I'm not quite ready to leave. Not just yet.