19. Winnie
WINNIE
On Monday after school, I was in the middle of helping Billie construct what she insisted was a “fairy hospital” out of popsicle sticks when my phone buzzed.
I glanced down at the screen.
Millie PTA
That alone was surprising. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had simply texted me unless they needed something or there was a crisis.
I opened the message.
Millie PTA: Hey. Are you busy?
Before I could answer, another message appeared.
Millie PTA: Hazel has somehow acquired a recorder.
Millie PTA: You know. The instrument from hell.
I laughed.
Billie looked up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Millie PTA: If I hear Hot Cross Buns one more time, I may walk directly into traffic.
My shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
Billie narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
Me: That seems rather dramatic.
Millie PTA: You haven’t heard it.
Fair.
Millie PTA: Any chance you and Billie want visitors?
I blinked. Then reread the message.
Me: We’re building a fairy hospital.
Millie PTA: Perfect. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
I stared at the phone. Then at Billie. “We’re having company.”
Her face lit up. “Really?”
“Apparently.”
“Who?”
“Millie and Hazel.”
Billie launched herself to her feet. “This hospital needs more beds.”
Twenty minutes later, the house looked as though a craft store had exploded. The table was covered in popsicle sticks, construction paper, markers, and enough glitter to haunt the estate for generations.
The girls were delighted. Hazel immediately volunteered to become Head Fairy Surgeon. Billie promoted herself to Hospital Director. Neither title appeared to come with actual responsibilities.
I carried a tray of lemonade into the dining room and found Millie leaning against the table.
She accepted a glass with visible gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Rough day?” I asked.
She took a long drink. “Do you know what my daughter asked me this morning?”
I shook my head.
“She asked whether dogs have feelings.”
I considered this. “Do they?”
“I don’t know.” Millie threw up her hands. “That’s the problem.”
I laughed.
Millie smiled. “There it is.”
I frowned. “There what is?”
“You.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
She waved a hand. “Half the time you’re so composed I feel like I’m talking to royalty.”
I nearly choked.
“And then you laugh.” Her smile widened. “And suddenly you’re normal.”
I wasn’t sure anyone had ever described me as normal before. It felt strangely nice.
We drifted into easy conversation while the girls played. The older children wandered through periodically, usually in search of snacks. At one point, CJ stopped by to announce that fairy hospitals were medically inaccurate.
Nobody cared about his opinion.
The house settled into its usual chaos. Millie watched it all with amusement.
“You know,” she said, “they really love you.”
The statement caught me off guard. I looked toward the living room. Billie and Hazel were arguing over fairy insurance policies.
“Kids get attached easily,” I admitted.
“They do.” Something in Millie’s tone made me glance over. She smiled softly. “But not that easily.”
I looked away first. The compliment made me uncomfortable.
Millie set down her glass. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“I was nervous when Hazel told me Conrad hired you.”
I laughed. “That’s fair.”
“No, I mean really nervous.” She winced. “Hazel described you as a beautiful fairy. People talk around here, so it wasn’t long before I had the full picture. Single dad. Three grieving kids. Beautiful nanny.”
I stared. “Beautiful nanny?”
Millie rolled her eyes and gestured at my body. “Please.”
Heat crept into my face. I disliked how everyone seemed determined to notice my appearance.
“I thought it would be a disaster, just like all the other nannies. Trust me, I’ve seen them all, hauling the kids to their respective activities.
The kids didn’t like them, and the nannies despised the kids.
You could just tell.” Her lips curled into a slight smile. “But you’ve been wonderful for them.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside me. “Thank you.”
“I mean it.” She nodded toward the living room. “They smile more. Even Hazel has talked about how much happier Billie seems.”
My throat tightened.
“They talk more.”
I swallowed.
“I’ve been here for a few parties and play dates in the past. Believe me when I say that the house feels different. Good different.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Millie sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, now you’ve raised the standard.”
I blinked. “What standard?”
“For future childcare.”
“Oh.”
“If you ever leave, the next nanny is doomed.”
I laughed. Millie took another sip of lemonade.
The girls laughed. Something crashed. Neither of us reacted. That alone told me we’d both spent enough time around children.
Eventually, Millie sighed. “You know what the funny thing is?”
“What’s that?”
“When I was twenty-five, I thought I’d have everything figured out by now.”
I laughed softly. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Poorly.”
I smiled.
She traced a finger around the rim of her glass. “I thought I’d be married forever.”
The smile slipped from my face.
“My husband left when Hazel was two.”
I stayed silent.
Millie stared off into nowhere. “At first he told me he needed space.”
I winced. That never led anywhere good.
“A few months later, it turned out he needed a twenty-two-year-old yoga instructor.”
I blinked. “That’s unfortunate.”
“That’s one word for it.”
The laugh she let out held very little humor. I knew that sound. I’d heard versions of it for two centuries. It was the sound people made when something hurt so much that they were tired of crying about it.
“He remarried.”
I nodded.
“He has two little boys now.”
Something about the way she said it made my stomach tighten. Grief.
“Poor Hazel,” Millie said softly. “She only sees him on holidays. Sometimes she acts like it doesn’t bother her. And sometimes she asks me whether he loves his new kids more.”
My heart broke a little. How pitiful. “What do you tell her?”
Millie looked down at her glass. “The truth.”
I waited.
“I tell her that her father loves her.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Then I tell her that adults make stupid decisions.”
That startled a laugh out of me.
Millie smiled. “It’s surprisingly effective.”
“I imagine it is.”
She looked toward the living room again. The girls were giggling hysterically. Billie appeared to be wearing a paper crown. Hazel was attempting to attach googly eyes to a stuffed rabbit.
“They deserve better than what they got.”
I followed her gaze.
“They do.”
Millie glanced at me. “You know what surprised me?”
“What?”
“How much easier it became once I stopped trying to do everything perfectly.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds suspiciously wise.”
“I spent years trying to be enough for everyone.” She paused, considering her words carefully. “Eventually, I realized being present mattered more. Being present for Hazel, even when she’s driving me nuts, is my priority in life.”
The girls emerged from the living room covered in glitter. I wasn’t sure how, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Millie buried her face in her hands. “Oh no.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“It absolutely isn’t.”
“It washes off.”
She pointed at her daughter. “That confidence suggests you’ve never encountered craft glitter.”
She had a point.
When they left an hour later, the house was louder, messier, and somehow happier. I stood on the porch, watching them get into the car. Hazel waved enthusiastically. Billie waved back with equal enthusiasm.
Millie rolled down the window. “I can’t wait for our baking night!”
The words escaped before I could stop them. “Me either!”
Millie pulled out her phone. “What day works for you?”
I stared. Most people promised future plans that never materialized. Millie was already opening her calendar. “Oh.”
She laughed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not really. I had the strange feeling that I’d just made a true friend.
I had always thought immortality would eventually make attachment easier. That if one simply lived long enough, loss would stop arriving so harshly.
It didn’t.
If anything, time only made me more aware of how hazardous loving people truly was.
Which was unfortunate, because I had accidentally fallen in love with an entire family.
I stared at the ceiling of my casket instead of sleeping like a sensible undead woman and tried very hard not to think about it.
Naturally, this meant I thought about nothing else.
Above me, rain tapped softly against the roof of my cottage.
The weather had turned moody again for the week after Mother’s Day.
Damp mornings. Silver skies. Wind carrying the scent of wet earth through cracked windows.
Perfect sleeping weather. And yet there I was.
Awake. Miserable. Thinking about Conrad Lawrence kissing me in his kitchen. Again.
Thinking about the way his hand had rested against my face. Thinking about the way he’d looked at me after. Like I was something precious and valuable. Which was absurd.
I groaned softly and covered my eyes with one arm. “This is why vampires shouldn’t fall for widowers,” I informed the darkness.
The darkness, predictably, offered no useful feedback.
My brain, however, went directly back to Conrad.
What if Bianca hadn’t interrupted us with her nightmare?
Would I have allowed the kiss to go further?
God knew I wanted it to go further. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel how good it had felt to have Conrad’s finger inside me.
I groaned again, but my traitorous vagina had already begun to feel tight and warm, pressure building that needed release. Perhaps then I could sleep. After living as long as I had, I certainly wasn’t a prude over self-pleasure. I just hadn’t felt that desire in a long time.