5. ISABELLA
five
My bedroom looked like a disaster zone by the time I was done packing the largest piece of luggage I could get my hands on. I needed options on how to dress for the upper crust of Manhattan while also being comfortable enough to run after a kindergartener.
My mom watched the spectacle as she sipped her third cup of coffee with a smug look on her face, boasting about the ways society would advance if everyone listened to their mothers.
My father, bless his heart, looked as confused as ever as I gathered my laptop and ancient iPad from the living room. When he finally asked what was going on, my mom answered. “This is what it looks like when I’m right, mi amor.”
If I wasn’t properly freaking out about making this one-week trial go smoothly and without a hitch, I would have probably reminded my mother about the fact that this was only a temporary agreement.
But I guess if I had a twenty-five-year-old daughter who had yet to leave the nest, I might have been drinking wine in that coffee mug. So I let her have her small win for the time being.
I decided to skip out on the typical Latine goodbye where you stand by the door for forty-five minutes chatting and instead gave both of my parents a quick peck on the cheek before heading out.
I felt like if I spent a second without moving, the gravity of what was about to happen would sink in.
I was moving in with Mateo Martinez.
A sports legend whose name is more revered than those of Brady and James. A celebrity in his own right. Dubbed America’s Sweetheart. Even though he is much more reserved than flirtatious. At least in the media. I have no idea how he is in his personal life.
Or even the story of Anna’s birth mom.
The internet exploded the day paparazzi caught an exhausted-looking Mateo pushing a stroller through his neighborhood. The look was completed with a diaper bag slung over his shoulder.
He then made an official announcement that he had, in fact, welcomed a daughter into the world but would be providing no further details and asked the media to please respect his privacy as he learned to navigate his new role as a single father.
The media did not respect his request, and instead created a frenzy around him. It got so bad that my mom told me he had to move out of his previous home when security cameras caught a reporter trying to break into the nursery window.
The search for Mateo Martinez’s baby mama became late-night show fodder. And more than a handful of socialites began wearing baggier clothes in attempts to have the internet believe that they could be the secret mother in hiding.
In the end, no one ever got the answer, and eventually, they moved on to the next big story. But I’ve always wondered.
Even my mom doesn’t have the full story, which means Mateo must have sworn his mom to keep the details surrounding his daughter’s conception under lock and key.
And now my nosy self is going to be living with him and will have to be on my best behavior if I want this to pan out.
I breeze out of my parents’ building, but freeze when I see an older man in a full suit and tie leaning against an SUV, smiling at me warmly.
No one smiles warmly in New York unless they’re related to you or plan on distracting you while stealing your purse. So to say that I’m instantly on high alert is an understatement.
“Ms. Morales, I presume?” he yells out over the noisy street.
“Uh…”
He steps forward, slowly bringing his phone close enough for me to see his screen.
It’s a text thread between him and a contact named BOSS.
BOSS:
Hey Hank, before you’re off for the day, I need you to pick someone up for me. Her name is Isabella Morales. She’s Anna’s new nanny, and she should be coming over with some luggage. I have to run out and get her a few things, but I promise to be back for when you drop her off at my place. Thanks.
The text is followed up with my address and a selfie of Anna and me in the Dominican Republic.
I completely forgot we had taken it. We’re sporting wide smiles and slightly burned cheeks and noses.
Anna must have taken this picture on her father’s phone instead of mine, because I’ve never seen it before. An odd sensation washes over me, knowing that this picture has lived in Mateo’s phone for months. Pathetically, I wonder if he’s looked at it since the end of the trip.
I laugh to myself. Yeah, that’s probably going to be a hard no.
The driver tries to make a move for my luggage, but my survival instincts kick in, and I stop him. “Hold on a sec. How can I be sure that BOSS is who I think it is?” I squint at his amused chuckle.
“Well, I can’t exactly be listing every famous person I’ve driven for with their real name. Would make it too easy for their information to get in the wrong hands.” He taps his phone a few times, then turns it over to me again, showing the contact details.
I pull out my phone and confirm that it’s the same number I have for Mateo. The one whose text chain consists of messages from when I vacationed with them in the Dominican Republic, mostly me telling him I’m at lunch or the pool with Anna, while he responds with ok .
“Smart girl. You’ve got good instincts. I’m sure Anna will be safe in your hands.” He smiles as he gestures toward my bag, and I nod my consent.
“Sorry. I’m not used to this kind of… um, treatment. You know.” I point at the shiny SUV double parked on my street as if it has every right to be there.
He opens my door, and I hop in and sink into the comfortable leather interior while he goes back to loading the trunk.
“I’m Hank, by the way.” He smiles into the rearview mirror as he slides into his seat and buckles his seat belt.
“Hi, Hank. Nice to meet you. Sorry for the third degree back there. Just trying to make sure I never land myself on an episode of Dateline .” I chuckle bashfully as I take in the man who resembles a caring grandfather far more than a serial kidnapper.
Hank’s face instantly drops. He clears his throat while he struggles to meet my eyes again. “My, uh, sweet wife, Linda, was featured on one of those episodes.” He hesitates. “The Brooklyn Butcher, they called him.”
I gasp as my hand covers my mouth in mortification. This poor man’s wife was murdered, and I made a terrible joke about the television program that covered her story. I’ve been known to put my foot in my mouth, but after this instance, I know for sure I’ll have to quit this job before I even get started. I need to figure out how to enter the witness protection program or find a way to buy a new identity.
“I-I’m so, so sorry, Han—”
His boisterous laugh interrupts my apology. I’m still trying to find the right words, but he beats me to it.
“My wife is alive and well, Ms. Morales. She’s a crime scene unit tech, so she was asked to be featured on the show. To give her first-hand account, so technically, I didn’t lie to you. I was just pulling your leg.”
My jaw drops. I was already running scenarios through my head, calculating how I could make it to JFK airport in time to board a flight to Timbuktu.
“Pulling my leg?” I squeal. “You pulled my heart out of my ass, Hank,” I say, my filter obliterated by being the unsuspecting victim of the world’s most morbid joke.
He’s still wiping his laugh-induced tears as he pulls into traffic to make our way downtown. “Oh, Ms. Morales.”
“Listen, Hank, you made me shit my pants less than five minutes after we met. I think we can drop the last name shtick. Call me Isa,” I playfully snark.
“Isa.” He tries to take a breath between chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this hard while on the job. Thank you for that.”
I shake my head while suppressing a smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be here all week. Unless Mr. Big Shot fires me before then.”
He glances my way, his face mischievous. “Oh, Ms. M—Isa,” he amends. “I have a good feeling that you’ll be around for the long haul.”
By the time I return to Mateo’s building, we’ve exchanged CliffsNotes versions of our life stories. I learn about his very alive wife, Linda, and how they’ve been together for almost forty years. He has two daughters and a son, all in their thirties, and gushed about all five of his grandchildren.
While I tried to focus on every detail, I was a bit distracted by my phone. I’d already been contacted twice by Mateo’s assistant, Josh. Once to give me a personalized entry code for the building and apartment. And a second time to give me Anna’s school and extracurricular activities schedule.
That email had an eleven-page PDF file.
The school itinerary was simple enough. Pick up and drop off information, what days she needed PE clothes and whatnot.
But the after-school activities are absolutely mental. There’s no way this girl is signed up for ballet, gymnastics, swimming lessons, karate, piano, and soccer, plus Spanish and French tutoring. She’s five, for crying out loud.
But according to the meticulous calendar that is now saved to my phone, she is.
When we enter the underground parking garage, Hank unloads my luggage from the SUV and into the waiting elevator labeled PH and wishes me good luck on my first day tomorrow. He also mentions that he’ll be driving me to and from Anna’s school, as well as all of her after-school activities. I feel a little more at ease knowing that there will be a friendly face with me.
When I enter the code provided for me earlier, the elevator closes and starts its ascent.
I try to take a few calming breaths before I’m faced with Mateo again. I need to make sure I stay focused on being professional and not letting my mouth get me into trouble before I pass this one-week test.
The elevator doors open faster than I anticipate, and I step out into the foyer. It seems like it’s been days, not hours, since I was here last.
I quickly kick off my sandals and start rolling my luggage toward the exuberant female voice singing in the kitchen.
The sound instantly puts a smile on my face.