Our Nanny is a Vampire

1. Conrad

CONRAD

As I drove home, I kept thinking about my couch.

After the week I’d had, the idea of sitting down without anyone asking me for revisions, projections, approvals, signatures, follow-ups, or “quick five-minute calls” felt like the equivalent of an all-inclusive beach resort.

Traffic crawled the last few miles into the neighborhood. The earlier rain still clung to the roads in silver streaks beneath the streetlights, and my windshield wipers gave a final tired swipe before I turned off the car in front of the house.

Finally home. Thank God almighty.

I stared at the three-story manor. Some might describe my home as overkill or a bit on the large side.

I, however, loved that I provided a beautiful home for my children.

They had the space they needed to stretch out, and a vast front yard to play sports in.

Birthday parties and get-togethers had always been a hit at our place.

I grabbed the bakery box from the passenger seat carefully before climbing out. The raspberry swirl cheesecake with fresh whipped cream piped along the edges had cost so much that it would’ve offended me if it wasn’t genuinely life changing.

Friday night cheesecake had become a tradition sometime after… everything. The kids looked forward to it all week. Honestly, so did I. It was predictable and fun.

It was ours.

For a few hours every Friday, we got to pretend life wasn’t exhausting and weird and occasionally heartbreaking.

The porch lights shone brightly into the darkening evening as I climbed the steps. I loosened my tie with one hand, then balanced the cheesecake against my hip while digging for my keys.

Suddenly, the front door burst open with enough force to make me jump. Mrs. Cornell stormed out, covered in flour.

What the hell?

There was flour in her hair, on her cardigan, coating the front of her skirt and her orthopedic shoes. She looked like she’d lost a fight in a bakery.

Only her glasses remained untouched. They sat pristine on her face while the rest of her looked ready to be baked at three-fifty for forty minutes.

My stomach dropped instantly.

“No,” I said. “No, no—Mrs. Cornell?—”

“I quit.” Arms loaded with her belongings, she blew past me down the porch steps, moving with alarming speed for a woman who owned at least seven different shawls.

“Wait.” I hurried after her. “What happened?”

She spun around so abruptly that I nearly walked straight into her.

“What happened?” she screeched. “Your youngest child released flour through the ventilation system of your house, Mr. Lawrence.”

My mouth dropped open. “She did what?”

“You heard exactly what I said. She called it a weather event.”

I felt my soul leave my body a little.

Mrs. Cornell yanked open the trunk of her sedan and started throwing her things into it with frightening efficiency.

Umbrella.

Spring jacket.

Spare shoes.

Electric kettle.

Industrial steel teacup.

Extra pair of glasses.

Extra, extra pair of glasses.

Extra, extra, extra pair of glasses.

At that point, I began to suspect she’d been preparing for optical emergencies since the Reagan administration.

“Mrs. Cornell,” I said, setting the cheesecake on the hood of my car before one of us destroyed it, “I’m sure we can work through whatever happened.”

She let out a laugh that contained no joy whatsoever.

Behind us, the front door creaked open.

I turned.

CJ—short for Conrad Jr., also known as the “Conman” for being a certified fibber—stood there with perfect posture, concern written all over his face.

Behind him, Bianca sat halfway up the main staircase with a book open in her lap, pretending she’d never met any of us before in her life.

Billie hung upside down through the stair railing, grinning at me with flour all over her cheeks.

She waved enthusiastically, and a puff of white powder floated off her sleeve.

Jesus Christ.

“Daddy,” Billie called happily. “Mrs. Cornstarchsnell is leaving!”

Mrs. Cornell closed her eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Billie,” I said tiredly, “that’s not her name.”

Billie grinned from ear to ear. “She knows.”

Mrs. Cornell pointed at my children without looking at them. “The little one is feral.”

I sighed. “That’s a fair assessment.”

“The older girl is frighteningly intelligent. Dangerously so.”

Bianca lifted one shoulder modestly without glancing up from her book.

“And the boy,” she continued, staring directly at me now, “could manipulate international governments if given enough time and resources.”

CJ smiled pleasantly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You see?” Mrs. Cornell hissed.

I rubbed a hand over my face. She’d only lasted two weeks, which, unfortunately, made her our second most successful nanny.

Miss Kearney still held the record at one month before leaving in tears after what CJ later referred to as “The Incident.” I still didn’t fully know what that was, and no one would tell me.

“Please reconsider,” I said. “I can increase your pay.”

“No.”

“More vacation time?”

“No.”

“Benefits?”

“No.”

“I’ll double your salary.”

She paused at that.

Hope blossomed briefly inside me.

Then she reached into the trunk and took out one of the backup pairs of glasses, even though her current ones looked clean to me. Granted, she was covered in flour and, more than likely, her glasses had received some residual drippage from the flour in her eyebrows.

She took the old pair off and slid them carefully into their case before looking at me with the exhausted pity of someone watching a man unknowingly board a sinking ship.

“Mr. Lawrence,” she said, “your children do not need a nanny.”

I swallowed.

“They need a miracle.”

Then she placed the new pair of glasses on her mean face, climbed into her car, and sped down the driveway so fast, I was concerned for the local wildlife.

Silence settled over the yard.

I stood in the driveway for a few seconds after Mrs. Cornell disappeared around the bend, mostly because I wasn’t emotionally prepared to go inside and face my children with no one to back me up.

Miss Kearney, the one who’d made it a month before she left us high and dry, had informed me that my children were “organized.” It had sounded like a compliment until she clarified she meant “in the way small criminal enterprises are organized.”

Before that, there’d been Miss Julie Poppins, who’d started referring to her wine as “medicine” after a few days.

Damn, could I relate.

I picked up the cheesecake and headed inside, resigned with the knowledge that I was walking into a situation I’d already lost.

The foyer was too quiet. Never a good sign.

I shut the door behind me slowly and looked up toward the lofted landing above the staircase. There they were. All three of them lined up almost angelically beneath the bright overhead lighting.

CJ leaned casually against the railing with his hands in his pockets, looking heartbreakingly sincere.

I hadn’t even accused him of anything yet.

Bianca sat cross-legged on the floor with a book open in her lap, entirely composed.

Billie crouched beside the wall, drawing large swirls onto the paint with what looked like raw egg mixed with flour.

I stared at the wall, then looked at Billie. “Is that… batter?”

Billie grinned up at me. “It’s art, Daddy.”

“Billie.”

“It’s temporary.”

I growled. “That’s not the point.”

She nodded seriously, smearing another spiral onto the wall with her entire hand. “Whatever you say, Daddy. I think you’ll really like this non-art piece I’m working on.”

I closed my eyes briefly. When I opened them again, CJ was watching me carefully. That kid could read a room faster than most of the adults I worked with.

“Dad,” he said gently, “before you get upset?—”

I held up a hand. “Let me stop you right there, son. I’m already upset.”

“Okay, but emotionally upset or practically upset? Can you be persuaded not to be upset?”

Bianca turned a page in her book. “He’s practically upset. Emotionally, he still has cheesecake.”

I looked down at the bakery box in my hand.

Right.

Thank God for cheesecake.

I set the box on the entry table before loosening my tie the rest of the way. My headache had started somewhere around Mrs. Cornell’s third emergency pair of glasses and was now settling in behind my eyes for the evening.

“Come downstairs, please. All three of you.”

The kids exchanged glances, which should’ve concerned me more than it did.

CJ descended first, easy and relaxed, all floppy teenage limbs despite only being eleven. Bianca followed with considerably more dignity. Billie attempted to slide down the banister until Bianca caught the back of her shirt without even looking up from her book.

My daughter had incredible reflexes.

Once they reached the foyer, all three stared up at me with expressions ranging from apologetic to suspiciously prepared to defend themselves.

I crossed my arms. “Would anyone like to explain why our nanny quit?”

Silence.

Then Billie raised her hand. “You may not like the answer.”

“That’s usually how these conversations go.”

“She got floured,” she said.

“I noticed.”

Billie examined her flour-caked hands. “That’s her fault. She was standing under the vent.”

CJ stepped in smoothly. “To be fair, nobody could’ve predicted the airflow distribution.”

I glared at him. He looked right back at me with complete composure. The terrifying thing about CJ wasn’t that he lied, but that half the time I truly believed him.

“Guys,” I said tiredly, “Mrs. Cornell was nice. I was really hoping she’d be the one who stuck around.”

Bianca finally lowered her book. “She called my reading material psychologically concerning, which was offensive.”

I sighed. “To be fair, you were reading about forensic pathology at the breakfast table. And you’re only nine.”

“That was none of her business. She invaded my privacy.”

I pressed my fingers to my temples.

There was a beat of silence before CJ stepped closer. “We’re sorry, Dad,” he said quietly.