Chapter 11
THE BIBLE IS RIGHT: Pride goeth before a fall. I was too cocky. As I carry Lily down to the playroom, she starts crying again. It’s like she’s suddenly remembered that her mother is not here. Gotta give this baby credit—her short-term memory is better than mine.
Amber mentioned a stroller, but I can’t find one anywhere in the front or back hallways.
All I see is a huge navy-and-white carriage about the size of a Steinway grand.
Is that a kajillionaire’s idea of a stroller?
According to the “Get to Know Your Balmoral Pram” booklet in the hanging basket, this carriage was designed to “exude luxury from every angle whilst”—whilst?
—“offering your baby every comfort possible, thanks to the world-famous gliding Silver Cross ride.”
As I strap Lily into the pram, I hear a squeak from the kitchen.
It’s the doggy door. Jane and Austen come bouncing in.
Do they smell the fear in my new-nanny pheromones?
Do they smell my fear of animals? Does it matter?
The two of them slowly circle the carriage, watching me closely, whining.
Great. It’s just like Amber predicted. They want to join us on our walk.
And they won’t take no for an answer. To make their point, the two of them dart past us and block the front door.
I know when I’m outnumbered.
Oh, well, why not. We’re family now. I grab the two leashes hanging on a hook, clip them to the dogs, and tie them to the carriage hood. Then we’re off. Sort of.
The first challenge is getting all of us through the front door with barely an inch of clearance on either side.
Actually, the dogs are a big help. They prance ahead of us like noble carriage steeds.
What Amber failed to tell me: There are no sidewalks on this little private road.
Just pristine lawns ending in a concrete parkway.
I steer the mammoth carriage slowly, but it’s tricky.
It’s like pushing a car that’s run out of gas.
The dogs bark at every bike, person, and automobile that passes.
Then suddenly, Jane stops to take a dump.
I find some dog-poop bags in a pocket of the fully equipped pram and scoop it up.
Half a block later, Austen dumps. Jane watches him, then decides to dump some more herself.
More stopping, more scooping. Must be some sort of sibling rivalry.
I look around to see if there are any other dog walkers on the street. Anybody from the neighborhood I could get to know and maybe learn some gossip about Ben. But I don’t see a soul.
Things were different when I was a kid. Back then, walking your dog was a major social event, and you knew the name of every dog on your block.
Abby, my sweet little beagle, would wag her tail the minute she saw Poppy, the spaniel from down the street, or Roscoe, a funny cross-eyed mutt.
She was also a big fan of Foxy the boxer as well as Beulah and Duke, two huge sheepdogs who could swallow her in one gulp.
But Abby was fearless. She’d run to them and they’d all welcome her happily, yapping away like aunts and uncles at a family reunion.
I kept hoping Abby would feel the same about Brandy, a chocolate Lab, since I had a mad crush on his owner, fourteen-year-old Chet. But when Brandy and Chet walked by, both with their noses in the air, Abby growled. I guess she felt Brandy was beneath her. And maybe Chet felt the same way about me.
Here, in this lush suburb, everyone has a backyard, and I imagine they all have gardeners, so it’s no wonder the streets are empty. Why walk your own dogs and pick up their poop if you can hire someone to do it?
The route to the park is all uphill. I’m starting to get blisters on my hands. The dogs run back and forth in front of the pram, and their leashes keep getting twisted. I have to keep stopping to untangle them. We’re like a pathetic float in a pathetic parade that no one is around to see.