2. Conrad #3
The name sounded old-fashioned. I pictured a woman with iron-gray hair, black shoes, and the kind of posture that made children sit up straighter with one stern glance.
Honestly, that sounded promising.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” She tucked her handkerchief back into her bag. “And bring the children by my house for tea sometime.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. They can hardly be worse than my nephew.”
“Well, I’d hope not. He tried to sell you your own silver.”
“And did a dreadful job.” She glanced toward the path, where her driver now stood beside the car with the rear door open. “Give her a call. Promise me that you will.”
I nodded and waved goodbye, watching as she slowly made her way to the car.
We went home after that. I got everyone inside, warmed up, fed leftover pancakes, and assigned chores.
CJ was supposed to put away the board games from the night before.
Bianca was told to finish her reading log and not include footnotes this time.
I gave Billie a damp cloth and told her to clean the batter mural off the wall.
Grinning, she saluted.
That worried me, but I had other matters to handle.
I shut myself in my office and began the long, humiliating task of asking strangers whether they would consider employment in a house that had developed a reputation around town.
The first agency put me on hold for twelve minutes, then disconnected.
The second said they were “at capacity,” which might have been true if the woman hadn’t whispered, “Is this the flour family?” to someone in their office before hanging up.
The third asked for my surname twice, then said, “Oh,” in a tone usually reserved for disappointing lab results.
The fourth had availability until I mentioned live-in hours were unnecessary, but after-school supervision was essential.
“Are the children under eight?” she asked.
“One is.”
“Ah.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, no.” Paper rustled on the other end. “And the others?”
“Nine and eleven.”
Another pause. “Would you classify them as spirited?”
“Legal counsel has advised me not to answer that.”
She laughed, then stopped laughing when she realized I was only partly joking.
The fifth agency remembered Miss Kearney and asked, with genuine concern, whether the attic situation had been “resolved.”
I told them I still didn’t know what had happened in the attic. They said that was unfortunate.
The sixth told me they had an excellent candidate until I gave my address. Then, according to the woman on the phone, the excellent candidate developed “a scheduling conflict.”
“With what?”
“Her schedule.”
By call number eight, I was pacing.
By call number ten, I was bargaining with a woman named Linda, who clearly hated me on behalf of the entire profession.
“I can pay above market,” I said.
“That is generous, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Significantly above market.”
“I’m afraid?—”
“Hazard pay.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I can offer hazard pay.”
Linda inhaled slowly. “Mr. Lawrence, are you describing your children as hazardous?”
“No,” I said immediately. “Of course not.”
Then I looked through the glass door and saw Billie running past, holding a whisk and wearing swim goggles. CJ followed at a calm walk, holding a clipboard. Bianca trailed behind them both, reading from a book titled Household Chemistry.
I averted my eyes. “No,” I repeated, less convincingly.
Linda cleared her throat. “We’ll keep your file active in case we have a good fit for you in the future.”
Which was agency-speak for “may God have mercy on your soul.”
When I finally hung up, I looked hopelessly around my office.
My laptop sat open on the desk, inbox multiplying, and little red notification badges spreading everywhere.
My life was a series of urgent problems that all needed me immediately, and somehow, the most urgent problem was three rooms away, probably still wearing goggles.
I sat down and took Lady Ferdinand’s card from my pocket.
Miss Winifred Carrington.
I tapped the card against my desk as I dialed. On the third ring, someone answered.
“Carrington.”
A woman. Definitely not elderly—at least, she didn’t sound old.
I sat up a little straighter. “Hello. My name is Conrad Lawrence. Lady Ferdinand gave me your card.”
A pause. “Did she?”
There was something in the way she said it that made me glance down at the card again, checking for instructions I’d missed.
“Yes. She said you might be willing to discuss a childcare position.”
“Lady Ferdinand has always been generous with other people’s time.”
“I can call back another?—”
“No,” she said. “You’ve already called. Tell me about the position.”
She was efficient. That was good.
“Right. I have three children. Eleven, nine, and five. They attend school during the day, so I need someone in the mornings to help them get ready and see them off, then after school until I get home.”
“What time do you return?”
I hesitated. “Usually seven.”
“Usually?”
“Sometimes later.”
“How much later?”
I looked at my calendar again and felt judged by every block on it. “Eight. Occasionally nine.”
“And their current care?”
“She quit yesterday.”
“Why?”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “There was an incident with flour.”
Another pause. “Flour,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Was anyone harmed?”
“No.”
“Was it intentional?”
I thought of Billie’s grin. “Yes.”
Winifred laughed. “Creative.”
“That seems to be the consensus,” I said.
“Tell me what else I should know.”
I leaned back in my chair. This was where I usually tried to make us sound normal enough to be acceptable. Three bright, energetic, yet sensitive children, who were adjusting to our new normal. They’ve had some big transitions. They respond well to structure.
All true.
All incomplete.
I looked toward the office door. Through the glass, I could see Billie crawling along the hallway floor now, while Bianca walked beside her, taking notes. CJ stood at the bottom of the stairs narrating something with great solemnity.
“They’re good kids,” I said.
“I didn’t ask if they were good.”
I looked down at my hands. “Their mother died three years ago. They were little. The youngest was only two.” I swallowed.
“They’re smart, funny, and extremely loving.
They’re also difficult right now. They’ve chased off every nanny I’ve hired.
They’re not cruel, but they test people.
They push and lie. They make up stories and create weather events with flour.
Lady Ferdinand refers to them as little revolutionaries. ”
On the other end of the line, the woman said nothing.
I kept going. Honesty became easier when failure was guaranteed.
“I work too much. I know that. But I want my children to have the best of everything life has to offer. Honestly, I need help before I break something I can’t repair.” I paused. “Or before Billie enters the walls again.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“That does seem worth preventing,” she said.
The corner of my mouth lifted despite myself.
Another silence. Then Winifred said, “I’ll come tomorrow.”
I sat forward. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“To interview?”
“To assess.”
I frowned. “You want to assess the children?”
“And you.”
“Me?”
“Of course. Children do not become difficult on their own, Mr. Lawrence.”
I should’ve been offended, but I was mostly relieved.
“What time?” I asked.