Chapter 4
Chapter Four
M y fingertips vibrate with nerves, and I force a painful swallow down my dry throat. At first, the porpoising car exacerbates the discomfort, but the bumpy cobblestone road begins to smooth out, and I catch glimpses of ocean in between the line of tall cypresses decorating the paved asphalt. When Antoine makes a wide turn to the right, he punches in a special code at a ten-foot-tall wooden gate. The digital padlock goes green, and the gate fans its two doors open. I drop my jaw at the sight before me.
“Bienvenue,” Antoine says. The gravel car park crinkles as he pulls to the front of the house, or should I say mansion.
“Antoine, are you sure this is right?” I ask, hastily pulling out the reference photo in my paperwork. Where’s the squat little brown stone cottage nestled among prairie grass?
He chuckles a bit but doesn’t explain himself.
Before me is a peach plaster chateau boasting two long rows of windows decorated with polished wooden shutters. The walkway to the front entrance forks to a connecting marble terrace wrapping around the house, and I suspect this is only a taste of what to expect inside.
As I continue gawking, Antoine finishes unloading my suitcase from the trunk. He returns to the driver’s seat after a long line of texts pepper his phone display. He sighs before waving to me.
“Mademoiselle Kat, c’était un plaisir. We’ll see each other soon, I’m sure.”
Wait, what? I step toward the car, but he’s already in reverse.
“Angela’s waiting for you,” he yells out the window.
Who the hell is Angela? And how does Antoine know her?
He zooms past the entry gate and speeds off down the drive.
And just like that, I’m stranded in front of a gorgeous mansion that doesn’t match the already sparse details I was given about my arrangements from Dare to Au Pair. I spend a few seconds scolding Kat from that buzzed May evening. She should’ve vetted this company more, especially with a name like that.
I drag my bags across the gravel, craning my neck to gander at the estate. A pang of embarrassment stirs in my stomach. My scuffed ruby-red Keds don’t exactly match the palatial paradise vibe.
Every detail that might improve the residents’ quality of living has been meticulously implemented. Even down to the wire basket wrapping around a towering leafy green tree. It holds mounds of chestnuts ready to be consumed. But I doubt any person that resides here has actually collected the tree’s droppings.
I tidy up the side bangs falling out of my braid and convince myself that the deodorant I applied seven hours ago will hold up. Hopefully whoever answers the door won’t notice any notes of fresh B.O.
Oh, but of course there’s no doorbell. Maybe the two brass lion door knockers, one on each caramel-glazed door, aren’t just decoration. Except when I go to lift one of the rings, it doesn’t budge, no matter how hard I strain. One of my suitcases slams against the stone porch, snapping off its handle into a million plastic shards. I scramble to recover the unstable bag, but as soon as I release my grip on the other, it too smacks the ground.
These people will surely have a hearty laugh waiting for them on their security footage.
I shake my head and lean the bags against the house’s exterior—the few feet where there aren’t any flourishing rose bushes or lavender plants.
Supposing my only other option besides jumping up and down and shouting is trying the terrace, I make my way west of the main door, but not before catching glimpses of a rolling field stretching past the right of the house.
Without a voice to be heard, I allow myself to frolic in the manor’s fairy tale-like allure. The trellis-covered walkway to the terrace renders a shady, aromatic path with climbing vines of jasmine and orange blossoms overtop. It precludes a stunning oceanside view, complete with the Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat peninsula. No part of èze’s town center can be seen from up here, just the treetops along the sweeping mountainside.
My hand travels along the marble railing, warmed by the midday sun, and I drink in the sunshine. No one populates the wicker seating area, so I wander through the open glass doors connecting the terrace to a living room. Once my eyes adjust from the brightness outside, I set my sights on the interior. It’s an immaculate blend of the building’s history with modern comforts. Oil paintings surround plump sofas, and tapestry rugs rest over faded terra-cotta flooring.
“Hello? Bonjour?” My voice echoes down the sunshine-filled hall.
I find myself in the kitchen. Reclaimed cabinetry, a soft seafoam green. Wood beams stretching across the ceiling. Potted plants dotting the perimeter. Sunlight bleeding through, though not a speck of dust rests on the quartz island and countertops. Stainless steel appliances and a farmer’s sink add a touch of modern glory next to the vintage brass pots and pans that hang over the stove.
An empty picnic basket sits on one of the island’s padded stool chairs. My gaze trails to the round breakfast table where loaves of bread wrapped in paper and twine, fresh berry bushels, cheese wheels, and glass bottles of lemonade are spread along the knotted wooden surface.
The click of heels hitting tile crescendos too quickly for me to recollect the introduction speech I’d prepared on the plane. My legs cement themselves to the ground, and my arms lock to my sides. All sense of logic and proper human interaction escape me as soon as I hear that voice. Commanding, feminine, and impatient.
“Te voilà. Et tu es Kat?”
I spin around. A woman at least a foot taller than me strides into the kitchen wearing a gorgeous houndstooth tweed pantsuit. She holds her chin high, looking down her nose at me as I sputter out “ums.” It’s an uphill battle to remember my name, place of origin, favorite kombucha flavor. It’s only exacerbated as the woman starts tapping her foot and glancing at her watch like she has more important places to be.
“Yes. I’m Kat. Nice to meet you.” An awkward half smile appears on my face. I feel my toes curl and shoulders rise the longer she goes without speaking.
“Hmm,” the woman says, squinting her beady eyes. Her gold bracelets clink together as she crosses her arms. “Oui. Votre fran?ais?” She understands my English, so why she insists on French is beyond me. A sigh and a few eloquent foreign curses escape her mouth before muttering, “Your French? Is it any good?”
“My Spanish is better.”
“Hmm,” she says. “We’ll have to fix that. Angela Lavergne,” she says, sticking her hand toward me as if it pains her to do so.
“Have you had au pairs from the States before?” My voice begins returning to its normal pitch.
“No.”
“Oh.” Pitch up again.
“Follow me,” Angela says, strutting out of the kitchen. “You’re late. Let’s not make that a habit.”
I look at the time on my phone. Late? It’s only three minutes past the time Dare to Au Pair sent me. Cheeks steaming, I hustle to catch up as Angela disappears down the hall.
“I prefer interviewing my au pair candidates starting in March, but my fashion line’s autumn spread took precedence this year. Normally, I wouldn’t use such a website for sourcing my employees.”
Great, so I guess I’m the chopped liver of hired help.
“Our last worked for George and Amal,” Angela name-drops. “But she only made it to July. We’re accustomed to high standards in this house. I hope you’ll be able to meet them.” Angela doesn’t look back at me once. Good thing too. It gives me a few seconds to rein in my bugged-out eyes.
We swiftly pass a few first-floor rooms I’d rather like to explore. A library lined in floor-to-ceiling bookcases and lounge chairs. The dining room with skylight windows and a long farmhouse table. Nearly every square inch of the house has been immaculately thought through. The furniture pristine, greenery or flowers at every turn, sunlight cascading in.
Angela breaks through my reverie with a stern warning. “The house is yours to use when you’re not engaged with the kids. But under no conditions should there be any uninvited guests unless I myself approve them. We enjoy our privacy.”
Angela spins around and takes a few steps in my direction; each heel click to the tile sends my heartbeat flying.
“Lastly, there is to be no, how you Americans say, funny business with my eldest son.”
Eldest son? I rifle through the mental rolodex I filed away on the host family, trying to think of who she could be referring to. If I’m remembering correctly, Angela’s three children are all very, very much too young to even be near my dating pool, let alone be in it.
“No exceptions. Should I catch you breaking this rule, you can say au revoir to ever working in France, or Europe for that matter, ever again.”
I gulp, thinking about Continental Air’s headquarters in Britain.
“I know what la C?te d’Azur can do,” she examines me head to toe, “to les hormones .”
Ah, zee French bluntness.
“You don’t have to worry about these hormones. I promise.”
“Bien.” Angela sticks her chin up again. “He doesn’t need any distractions. I know it’s tempting for girls of your age.”
I balk, taking another glance at the wealth oozing off every square inch of her home. What the heck is she talking about? From what I read in the information packet, the eldest son is only eight years old. What would I distract him from? Maybe rich people raise their kids to take over the family business from a young age? Or there’s another son in the picture that Dare to Au Pair hadn’t mentioned. And if there is, it’s presumptuous for Angela to assume I’d get sent into a tizzy before I’ve laid eyes on him.
“Are my rules clear?”
“Crystal.” I quickly follow up with, “understood,” when Angela’s furrowed brow tells me she doesn’t get the American colloquialism.
“I’m always watching,” she says, holding my stare for much longer than necessary.
We arrive in the foyer, which faces the ocean. The terrace clearly extends farther than what I had traipsed over. It’s like the house has been spun around so its residents can take full advantage of their coastal view.
Angela barely raises her voice, as she calls up the curving marble staircase. She forces a wry smile at me as footsteps above intensify. Doors overhead swing open, and two screeching girls come bolting down the hall.
“No, Josie! That’s mine, give it back. Maintenant,” the older one says in an accent entirely different from her mother.
“You have two already, Manon!” the younger one says in an identical accent. They’re English. Guess this is a popular holiday spot for the Brits.
“Because I asked for them for my birthday. It’s not my fault you wanted a Nintendo.”
“Girls!” Angela’s voice doesn’t dare enter shouting territory.
Her daughters turn their heads over the railing, halting their argument over a pair of wireless Beats headphones.
Angela gestures toward me. “This is Kat. Votre au pair for the summer.”
Manon, by my guess the eleven-year-old, tilts her head, and her strawberry-blond bun droops to one side. “Maman, we don’t need a babysitter,” she insists, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah,” Josie says, crossing her arms and sticking her tongue at me. By that move alone, I match her with the eight-year-old listed in the information packet.
Angela’s lips tense, accentuating her mile-high cheekbones. “Joséphine Lavergne Chessley!”
Chessley? Why was that name so familiar?
“Maman, Maman!” Footsteps scuffing the stone hallway come into earshot. A boy runs to Angela’s waist. Is this her eldest son? He looks younger than Josie even though he’s supposed to be the same age. His index finger, purple and throbbing, has a piece of wood poking out of it.
“Oh, Milo.” Angela holds up his hand. “Que s’est-il passé?”
“I-I-was in the olive grove and,” Milo pauses to catch his sobs. “And I wanted to hang... from the trees like George. And my hand... slipped, and now I have...” he blubbers before wailing into his mother’s waist.
Enough summers spent climbing trees in my backyard taught me a thing or two about splinters.
Angela tries to mar her impatience while she pats his back and smooths the mop of hair out of his eyes. “His favorite show. C’est Américain.”
“ Curious George ?” I ask.
Angela’s caught between a nod and an eye roll.
“I can help,” I say. My tone is half asking and half declaring.
Milo’s face is blotchy from the tears. Angela peels his hands off her pants and spins him to me. I kneel down to his eye level.
“Hi, Milo. I’m Kat. You watch Curious George ?”
He nods, but his frown remains.
“You know, I like to climb trees at home, and I’ve gotten my fair share of those too.” I point to his affected finger. “Lucky for you, I know how to get them out. Want me to show you?”
“Will it hurt?” he asks.
“Not for more than a second. C’mon.” I hold my hand out to his, and to Angela’s surprise—and mine—he takes it.
I whisper to Angela for a pair of tweezers as I walk Milo to the kitchen where I grab a pot off the wall, using Angela’s nod as my permission. The faucet knobs labeled with a C and F throw me for a loop. I start with the F, thinking it’ll dispense warm water but Angela clears her throat and shakes her head.
“You want chaud.”
I nervously smile, completely aware that she and her kids are watching me as if I’m about to perform surgery. After filling the pot with warm water from the sink, I sit Milo on a stool. His sisters have followed and now watch with intense focus. Maybe they’re waiting for me to mess up, but I won’t give them the luxury.
“Milo, do you remember that episode when George went to Australia with the man with the yellow hat?” I spent every morning from ages five to ten watching the show before the school bus came. When Milo nods, I continue. “Do you remember what they were looking for?”
“The Perseids,” Milo mumbles, and I stick his hand in the pot of warm water.
“So when George goes out at night hunting for the creature, he might’ve been a bit scared, but it was all worth it for the adventure.” Milo doesn’t see me grab the tweezers that Angela had placed behind him. “George was brave, wasn’t he?”
Milo sniffles and nods. His sobs have slowed.
“Okay, Milo. I’m going to pull out the splinter.”
His face crinkles, and he pulls away. More footsteps echo down the hall and toward the kitchen, but Angela pays no mind, and the girls are too enraptured in my procedure to notice.
“Do you think you can be brave too, like George?” I say to Milo. “I know you can. Your sisters think you can too, right?” I smile at the girls, and they quickly agree. Milo doesn’t say a word. He just nods and looks away.
“I think you might just be the bravest boy I’ve ever?—”
“Owie!”
“—met. That’s it, it’s all out.”
Milo heaves a relieved sigh and brushes his dusty blond hair out of his eyes with his dry hand. Angela pulls out a box of bandages from the cabinet underneath the wine shelf.
“Well, now that that’s all settled,” Angela says, lifting her son off the counter before diverting her attention to me. “Are you ready for your picnic?”
“Picnic?” My first thought is wow, these people are hosting a party for me. But that daydream quickly crumbles as I set my eyes on the unpacked hamper I’d noticed earlier.
“When you get back, we will go over the remaining détails for your summer with us. Sylvie prepared your lunch. And Kat, please make sure Joséphine actually eats her food and doesn’t spend the whole time picking daisies.”
“And who is Sylvie?”
“Our cook,” a familiar voice rumbles behind me.
I turn toward the voice and come face-to-face with the six-foot-tall pastry chef I’d been speaking to not forty-five minutes earlier at La Cave.
Jamie.
This is Jamie’s family! Of freaking course it is. Over two million people live in the French Riviera and the family I get placed into belongs to the man that makes my tongue dry up and palms go clammy when his soft, rounded eyes land on me.
A burning warmth invades my cheeks, already tomato red. He’s washed his hands of any cherry juice stains. My focus lingers around his forearms. Toned and tanned.
Realizing I’m staring, I quickly retreat my gaze to the marble countertops. But my eyes can’t stay away for long. I smile at the somewhat familiar face, but he doesn’t reciprocate. There’s not a hint of recognition of me in his eyes.
“So. Wait. You? Wh-what are you doing here?” I ask, tilting my head and putting down the tweezers I haven’t yet released from my constricting grip.
“Suppose Mum didn’t put me on the advert.” Jamie ignores my curious gaze, walking right past me and fishing over the cheese and bread selection waiting to be packed.
“But—” I scrunch my brow. The air conditioning is icy against my sweaty forehead.
“Jamie Chessley,” he says, tapping two fingers to his chest. His tactless tone reeks of arrogance. A complete 180 from the guy I met in the wine shop. “And no, you won’t be in charge of me.”
“Maybe if she was, we’d actually be able to get a hold of you, hmm,” Angela says, intently avoiding eye contact with her son.
Jamie’s eye roll isn’t as indiscreet as he tries making it.
“Maybe I like to be left alone,” he grumbles.
Angela lowers her voice, but the kids are too busy arguing how to pack the picnic hamper to notice.
“Why? So you can drink until the wee hours of the morning and shag every girl who walks by you?”
My eyes widen.
“Better than anything going on here,” Jamie responds coolly. I stand awkwardly between mother and son duking it out, unsure of which side I’m to take, if any. Angela is by no means offering a warm welcome, but Jamie’s standoffishness, toward me and his mother, has bad attitude written all over it. The Jamie I’d met today doesn’t match the one a few feet from me. The one I met was gentle and approachable. This one has a snarling look in his eyes.
“Well, Kat.” Angela turns to me. “You won’t have to worry about this one,” she says, barely nodding in Jamie’s direction. His nostrils flare, and his knuckles whiten as he clenches them into fists. “Probably won’t see each other unless you’re up at four in the morning to see him sneak in, back from wherever he was... whatever he was doing.”
I scrunch my brow in confusion. Was the Jamie I’d met in the wine shop an illusion?
“Jamie.” Angela’s accent thickens as the recollecting ire fuses into her tone. “How is your father to trust you with Chessley Enterprises when you still act like you’re seventeen? Et qu’il est temps de grandir.”
Jamie digs his hands into the countertop behind him. He drops his voice. “Maman, don’t tell me I need to grow?—”
“Milo, stop!” Josie whines.
Josie and her twin nearly knock over the vase of carnations on the little round table, tugging on a bottle of sparkling lemonade.
Angela raises her eyebrows at me, and I scramble to subdue the bickering, packing up the hamper and sweet-talking them with promises of a wonderful get-to-know-each-other picnic. Milo is game, but the girls won’t have it. Apparently, I’m intruding on their lunch. Manon, the oldest and only a few years away from adolescence, is not too keen on being watched over for the whole summer. And Josie quickly forfeits her own opinion to assume Manon’s attitude.
“I don’t want to go with you ,” Manon huffs. “Do you even speak French?”
“Well, I’m learning.”
“Kat will teach you Spanish,” Jamie says unexpectedly, but still with a curt chill to his voice. Angela scrunches her brow, but her ringing phone impedes her from pressing on his comment as she addresses the incoming message. Manon crosses her arms. “I don’t need a nanny.”
Jamie kneels down to Manon’s height. “Bien, parce qu’elle est journaliste incognito,” he says, casting a playful grin my way. For a mere second, the Jamie I met in downtown èze shimmers in his emerald eyes.
Angela looks up from her phone, catching me studying Jamie. Her brows narrow, and her lips purse as her eyes cloud with suspicion. I give her my most professional smile, trying to communicate that in no way will I be pursuing her town-flirt jerk of a son. In his best cinematic voice, Jamie announces, “Here to document the rare Chessley wildebeests in the wild.” Jamie gives his giggling sibling’s hair a quick tousle. Angela’s tensed brow softens as her attention returns to the kids.
Josie grabs her older brother’s hand. “Jamie, will you come with us? Please.”
“Josie,” Angela says, resuming her email scrolling. “Jamie has other things he’s spending his day doing.”
Jamie scoffs. We catch each other’s gaze.
“I’ll go,” he says.
“You will?” Manon asks, pausing from chewing on her thumbnail.
Manon’s and Josie’s enthusiasm picks up. Milo seemed like he couldn’t care less, as long as there are profiteroles packed next to the gouda rinds. Jamie takes his sisters’ hands. I take Milo’s, and we follow Jamie’s lead out the kitchen.
As Angela waves us off, she calls out, “Oh, and Kat?”
I let the others go on ahead as I circle back to Angela.
“Don’t forget about the rules.” She raises one eyebrow before abruptly strutting off. “You are here to work, remember. Ce ne sont pas des vacances.”
I stand gaping in the kitchen for a second longer. The whirlwind of meeting the family and Jamie’s plot twist of an appearance is enough to send my mind spinning, but I’m determined to get some answers. For one, why he’s pretending not to have met me.