Chapter 14 #2
Both things can be true, I guess. My life can be impossibly busy and complicated, and I can still be curious about her.
I can still wonder if maybe, in some alternate universe where I’m not her employer and she’s not Emma’s nanny and I’m not a disaster of a human being when it comes to relationships, it could’ve worked.
“You’re doing the thing,” Joe says.
I blink. “What thing?”
“The thing where you think too much and talk yourself out of everything.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Allison says. “We can literally see you doing it.”
My mother pats my arm. “Just ask her to dinner, agápi mou. What’s the worst that happens?”
“She says no, quits, and Emma loses the one person she’s actually bonded with since her mother left,” I say. “That’s the worst that happens.”
The group goes quiet. Even Joe’s grin flickers and dies.
My dad clears his throat, the sound rough and thoughtful. “Or,” he says slowly, his eyes fixing on mine, “she says yes.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because the idea of her saying yes is somehow more terrifying than the idea of her walking away.
“DADDY!”
Emma’s voice cuts through the Monster Mash and the general UWS street noise like a siren. She’s hauling back toward me, her sequined tail throwing off sparks in the glow of a nearby streetlamp. “Daddy, you have to see this house! It’s so cool!”
I risk a glance back at my family—a tactical error. My mother is currently boring holes into the side of my head with a look that very clearly says, We are not finished with the topic of your romantic ineptitude. My personal life is being managed by a committee, and I’m the only one without a vote.
Emma hooks her hand into mine and practically dislocates my shoulder pulling me toward where Annie and Lauren are standing. As we clear the line of trees, I let out a low whistle. “Okay. Someone has a very healthy budget for theatrical supplies.”
The brownstone in front of us is a neon fever dream.
It’s draped in orange and purple string lights that blink in a staccato pattern designed to trigger a migraine in anyone over the age of thirty.
Giant inflatable pumpkins are vibrating on the steps, and a fog machine is working overtime, pumping out thick, white clouds that pool around our ankles like a scene from a low-budget horror flick.
On the porch, two life-sized skeletons are settled into rocking chairs. One is wearing a top hat and a tuxedo that looks surprisingly well-tailored; the other is draped in a tattered, blood-stained wedding dress that’s seen better centuries.
We all stand there—the Greek contingent, the ladybug, the cat-mermaid, and the nanny—just tilting our heads in unison. It’s like looking at an abstract painting; you keep waiting for it to make sense if you just squint hard enough.
Emma looks up at Annie, her face lit purple by the lights. “What’s their story? Why is she all messy?”
Annie rubs her chin, her expression shifting into that of a investigative journalist. “Well,” she says, her voice dropping into a low, storyteller’s rasp. “Don’t you know? That’s Harold. And that’s Beatrice.”
“Harold and Beatrice,” Emma repeats, her voice hushed with reverence.
“They were married in 1892,” Annie continues, warming up to the bit. “Harold was a banker. Very boring. He spent all day counting other people’s nickels and wishing he was literally anywhere else.”
“And Beatrice?” Lauren asks, eyes wide under her ladybug antennae.
“Beatrice was a stage actress. Extremely dramatic. She once fainted during a play just because someone in the front row coughed too loud, and the audience gave her a standing ovation.”
I find myself grinning. It’s impossible not to. There’s something about the way Annie’s brain works—it’s quick, it’s playful, and it’s currently holding my daughter’s entire world in the palm of its hand.
“But,” Annie says, leaning in conspiratorially, “Harold had a secret. He wasn’t just a banker. At night, he’d sneak out and steal diamonds from all the fancy houses on Central Park West.”
“No way,” Emma breathes.
“And Beatrice,” I jump in, the words out of my mouth before I can talk myself out of it, “was actually a spy.”
Annie looks at me, one eyebrow arched in a challenge, but her lips are twitching. “A spy?”
“For the French government,” I say, keeping my face as stoic as a statue’s. “The acting? Pure cover. All those ‘tours’ in Europe? She was gathering intelligence on the high seas.”
“That explains the dress!” Annie snaps her fingers, her eyes bright. “She got into a duel with a rival agent on the way to the altar. A little wedding-day espionage.”
“Harold had to help her hide the evidence,” I add.
“Obviously.”
“They buried it in the backyard. Under the rose bushes.”
The girls are losing it, giggling so hard they’re clutching their pillowcases for stability. It’s a ridiculous, dark, wonderful little moment, and for the first time in a long time, the heavy weight in my chest—the one that’s been there since Rebecca left—feels a little lighter.
“And now,” Annie says, gesturing toward the skeletons, “they sit here every Halloween, guarding their secrets.”
“Waiting,” I add, my voice dropping an octave.
“For what?” Emma asks, breathless.
Annie and I lock eyes. She’s biting her lip, her eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes my pulse do a little jump.
“For someone to find the body,” we say in a perfect, creepy unison.
The girls shriek with delight and scramble up the steps.
Annie stays at the bottom with me, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets.
She’s still looking at me, her smile wide and unguarded.
Her long lashes sweep down as she looks away suddenly, landing on her freckled cheeks.
Her hair’s grown out in the last few weeks, past her shoulders now, dark brown and thick with a slight curl that catches the Halloween lights.
Her lips are this perfect shade of pink, like they’ve been bitten or like she’s just been kissed. It makes me wonder—makes me want to know—if they’d turn even pinker if I kissed them. I look away before she can catch me staring.
“Harold and Beatrice,” she says softly, shaking her head. “That got dark fast, Leo. You’re a bad influence.”
“You’re the one who turned the banker into a jewel thief. I just gave him a supportive wife.”
“A French spy wife. There’s a distinction.
” She laughs and I have to find a very interesting crack in the sidewalk to study.
This night is a landmine. My family is ready to plan the wedding, Emma is head-over-heels, and I’m standing here wanting to kiss my employee while my daughter is ten feet away asking for Fun-Size Twix.
“Your mom is glaring at you,” Annie murmurs, glancing over my shoulder.
I don’t even have to look. I can feel the heat of her gaze. “Yeah. She does that.”
“Should I be worried?” Annie asks, her tone playful but her eyes searching mine.
“Probably.”
“What did you do?”
“Exist,” I say, a wry smile finally breaking through.
“Sorry if my family was a lot back there.” I watch Emma and Lauren admire a giant inflatable ghost that’s currently losing a battle with a leaf blower.
“They have a tendency to…well, overwhelm is the polite word. ‘Steamroll’ is usually more accurate.”
Annie’s laugh is soft and warm in the small space between us. “Are you kidding? I really like them, Leo. They’re wonderful. Your mom keeps trying to feed me spanakopita she has hidden in her purse, and your dad told me I have a ‘solid Greek forehead.’ I’m charmed.”
“You haven’t known them long enough,” I mutter, though I’m fighting a smile. “Wait until they start asking for your tax returns and your blood type.”
She smirks, nudging my arm with her elbow. It’s a light touch, but through the sleeve of my jacket, it feels like a low-voltage shock. “No, really. They seem like good people. Good parents. You can tell they actually like each other.”
“They do,” I say, and I mean it. “They’re the best. A little insane, but the best.”
Annie’s expression shifts, a shadow flickering across her face so quickly I almost miss it. She keeps her eyes on the kids. “Not everyone is blessed with that, you know. Good parents. You shouldn’t take the madness for granted.”
There’s a shift in her voice I can’t quite parse, a sudden gravity that makes me want to reach out and—what? Comfort her? I’m not even sure. Before I can even open my mouth, the girls come tearing back, their pillowcases bulging and dragging on the concrete with a heavy thump-thump.
“Only a couple more houses,” I announce, checking my watch. “Then we’re heading back for the cake-cutting ceremony.”
“Is everyone coming over?” Emma asks, breathless, her cat ears sitting slightly askew on her head.
“Yes,” I sigh, already imagining my mother in my kitchen. “Everyone.”
“Good! Because Lauren and I have to see if there’s any candy we want to trade.”
“That’s fine,” I say, leaning down to her level. “But just so we’re clear, I get fifty percent. It’s the Dad Tax. Standard city ordinance.”
Emma stops dead. Her eyes go wide, her jaw dropping as she clutches that pillowcase to her chest like I’ve just suggested we sell her stuffed rabbit. “What? No! You didn’t earn this, Daddy! You didn’t even wear a tail!”
I bite back a laugh. “Doesn’t matter. I provided the security, the navigation, and the height required to reach the higher doorbells. Fifty percent. My office will send over the invoice.”
She whips around to Annie, desperate for a loophole. “It’s not real, right? He’s joking?”
Annie tsks, shaking her head with a solemnity that would hold up in the Supreme Court. “I’m so sorry, Em. It’s the law of the land. I think it’s in the Constitution. Somewhere in the back.”
Emma stares at us for a beat, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated defiance. “You’re not touching my Snickers! I’m hiding them under my bed. Or putting them in the freezer!”