2. Saint #2
“Papa was on TV,” Ivy announces, mouth full of potato. “But he doesn’t do that anymore because he likes it here better.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I say automatically.
Wrenley dabs her lips with her napkin. “So you were a chef?”
“He still is,” Ivy corrects. “He has a restaurant in town. It’s really fancy. You need a—what’s it called, Papa?”
“Reservation.”
“Yeah, that. You need one of those. And sometimes famous people come, but Papa doesn’t care if they’re famous. He doesn’t really come out to say hi to people.”
I freeze, my wineglass halfway to my lips. “Ivy.”
“What? You don’t.” She shrugs, sauce smeared on her chin.
I focus on slicing my chicken.
Ivy kicks her feet under the table. “Papa has stars.”
“Stars?” Wrenley raises an eyebrow at me.
I don’t look up from my plate. “Michelin. It doesn’t matter.”
“Three of them,” Ivy announces proudly.
Wrenley’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “Wait, that’s huge. Congratulations.”
I shrug, shoving enough food in my mouth so I don’t have to continue the conversation.
“Papa doesn’t like being famous anymore,” Ivy stage-whispers, leaning toward Wrenley. “Not since Mama went to heaven.”
An immediate and suffocating silence descends. My grip tightens on my fork until my knuckles whiten. Ivy continues eating as if she hasn’t dropped a bomb on our perfectly civil dinner.
Wrenley’s eyes dart to mine, questioning, uncertain.
“Enough chatter. Eat your dinner,” I say to Ivy, my voice a low warning.
“What?” She looks genuinely confused. “Aunt Celeste says we should talk about Mama sometimes so we don’t forget her.”
I set down my fork with a careful clink against the china. “Aunt Celeste talks too much.”
Wrenley takes a sip of wine, her throat working as she swallows .
“This chicken is incredible,” she says, deliberately changing the subject. “What’s in the sauce?”
“It’s a trade secret,” I answer, grateful for the redirect.
“Papa won’t tell anyone his secret recipes,” Ivy explains, sauce now on her cheek as well as her chin. “Not even me. And I’m his favorite person.”
“That’s because you’d sell them to the highest bidder,” I say, reaching over to wipe her face with my napkin.
“Nuh-uh. I’d give them away for free.” She grins. “And for candy.”
A soft smile crosses Wrenley’s face, and the tightness in my chest loosens just a fraction.
“How do you know Celeste?” I ask her.
Wrenley takes another bite and swallows. “She was a collab of mine. We met in Paris maybe a year ago and became friends.”
Ivy says, “I talk to my grandma and grandpa every Sunday on the computer. They live in France. That’s where Papa’s from.”
“Is that right?” Wrenley asks, glancing at me.
“Half right,” I correct. “Born there, raised here after age ten, then went back to pursue my culinary career.”
Ivy waves her fork. “Say something in French, Papa!”
“ Non. ”
“That doesn’t count!” Ivy giggles, then turns to Wrenley. “He only speaks French when he’s really mad.”
“Or when little girls don’t finish their dinner,” I add pointedly in French.
Ivy rolls her eyes—a gesture she definitely picked up from Celeste—but returns to her food.
“So what did you do before you squatted in strangers’ guesthouses?” I ask Wrenley.
“Papa!” Ivy scolds .
Wrenley’s cheeks flush pink. She licks her lips. Big mistake, because that’s where my focus goes. “I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding.”
I take another sip of wine to distract myself from a plush, rose-colored mouth. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Wrenley tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I worked in content creation.”
“Like on Instagram?” Ivy perks up.
My attention shoots to my daughter. “How do you know about Instagram?”
Ivy shrugs. “Aunt Celeste lets me see her phone sometimes. She follows lots of pretty ladies who tell her to get ready with them.”
Wrenley nearly chokes on her wine.
“That’s not exactly what I do,” she starts.
“So you’re an influencer,” I say, the word tasting sour in my mouth.
A woman who makes her living telling people what to buy. Just what I need in my guesthouse.
Wrenley shifts in her seat. “I was. I’m taking a break.”
“From influencing?” I can’t keep the disdain from my voice.
She meets my gaze, not with insult, but something steadier. “From a lot of things.”
Whatever sarcastic comment was forming on my tongue slithers back down my throat. There’s weight behind her answer, a heaviness I recognize all too well.
“Miss Wrenley, do you want to read me a bedtime story?” Ivy pipes up, oblivious to the tension. “Papa always does the voices wrong.”
“I do not.”
“You do! You make the princess sound like a robot. You do a great dragon voice, though. ”
Wrenley’s lips twitch. “I’d love to read you a story, Ivy, but only if your dad says it’s okay.”
I open my mouth to refuse. To tell my daughter we’ve already disrupted Miss Morgan’s evening enough. To explain that bedtime is our time, one of the few sacred routines we’ve maintained since Celine died.
But Ivy’s eyes, wide and hopeful, are on me.
How long has it been since she’s asked for anything this simple? Since she’s been this excited about bedtime?
“Fine,” I say. “One story.”
“Yes!” Ivy pumps her fist, nearly knocking over her water. “I’ll go pick one out. The best one!”
She scrambles down from her chair and races toward the stairs.
“Walking feet!” I call after her, but she’s already thundering up to her room.
Silence settles between Wrenley and me. She takes another sip of wine, realizes it’s empty, then sets it back down. I also notice she’s practically licked her plate clean.
Her attention darts around the kitchen, anywhere but at me. When she catches me looking, she ducks her head.
“Sorry,” she says. “I was hungrier than I realized.”
“Never apologize for finishing a dish. Would you like more?”
“Oh, I couldn’t?—”
I’m already reaching for her plate. “It’s not a trick question.”
“Then yes, please.” A tentative smile plays at her lips. “It might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
I ladle more chicken and sauce onto her plate, adding extra potatoes. When I set it back in front of her, our fingers brush. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt up my arm.
She pulls back like I’ve burned her at the same time I recoil, and both our wineglasses topple onto the marble counter with a piercing clang. The rest of my red spreads like a bloodstain between us.
Our hands collide again as she reaches for napkins and I grab a dish towel.
“I’ve got it.”
“Let me help?—”
“I said I’ve got it.”
She withdraws, tucking her hands in her lap. I soak up the mess, tossing the ruined towel in the sink.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
“For what? Spilling wine or taking over my guesthouse?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady despite the flush on her cheeks. “Both, I guess.”
I pour us each a fresh glass, sliding hers across the counter without making contact this time. “Drink your wine and finish your meal. I need to check on Ivy.”
She nods, picking up her glass carefully.
I leave her in the kitchen, needing distance from whatever the hell just happened between us. The brush of her fingers shouldn’t affect me. Nothing should affect me. I’ve spent three years making damn sure of it.
Upstairs, Ivy has emptied half her bookshelf onto her bed. Her room is a riot of color, the one area of the house where I let her personality run wild. Stuffed animals crowd her bed, books spill from shelves, and fairy lights twinkle along the ceiling.
“Papa! Help me pick! Should we read the one with the dragon or the one with the talking animals?”
“The dragons,” I say automatically. “Always the dragons.”
“But we read that one last night.” She holds up a book with a worn purple spine. “What about this one? It has a unicorn.”
“You decide, mon trésor . It’s your story time.”
She bites her lip, weighing the options with the gravity of a Supreme Court Justice. “I think ... the unicorn. Because Miss Wrenley has pink hair like a unicorn’s mane.”
“Good choice.”
“Papa?” Ivy’s voice drops to a whisper. “Do you think Miss Wrenley likes us?”
The question catches me off guard. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I like her.” She hugs the book to her chest. “And she has sad eyes like you do sometimes.”
My throat tightens. For a long time, I didn’t have to worry about Ivy noticing adult idiosyncrasies like grief and depression, but she’s growing up so fast. It seems like yesterday she was crawling onto my lap and hanging off my ears.
I don’t know if I’m ready for the questions she will no doubt start asking.
“Where is Miss Wrenley?”
“Downstairs. Finishing her dinner.”
“Can she tuck me in after the story?”
I pause on my way to the stairs. “Why would she do that?”
Ivy shrugs, her small shoulders rising and falling beneath her fancy dress. “I just thought it would be nice.”
It takes all my self-control to keep the pain from affecting my expression. “Let’s just see how the story goes.”
My phone buzzes just as I reach the stairs, and it’s a text from Celeste:
Nora called me. Unicorns on her car?? Seriously?
Before I can respond, another message pops up: Btw, how’s it going with Wrenley? Ivy talking to her ?
And then: Don’t be mad, but Wrenley used to work with kids before the influencer thing. Creative types. Like Ivy.
I stare at the messages, a creeping suspicion forming. The timing. The convenient solution to my childcare crisis appearing right as another nanny quits.
This wasn’t a coincidence.
I look back at Ivy, hugging her unicorn book to her chest, more animated tonight than she’s been in months.
It hits me then. My sister-in-law didn’t just send a random friend to my guesthouse.
She sent me a fucking nanny.