Chapter 6
Six
CLOVER
Proving things are looking up, I time my arrival at the bus stop perfectly. The French Quarter line is only running ten minutes late, and George, my driver bestie, is on duty.
“Morning, sunshine,” he calls, dropping the hydraulics for me.
“Morning, George, how was your Saturday?” I ask, maneuvering in behind an older woman hunting for her bus pass. “Stay out of trouble?”
He cackles his cartoony laugh, fresh wrinkles blooming around his eyes. “Mostly, mostly. Get yourself a candy, sunshine. Just restocked this morning.”
“Thanks.” I collect a Werther’s from the plastic cup of goodies he keeps strapped to the pole by the censor and suck it as we zoom south, watching the sun cut a path through the clouds.
It’s shaping up to be a nice day. Hopefully, that means the storm is over, and Gus and I will be able to hit the park tomorrow.
I pull my phone out to check—refusing to think about Dean or how I teased him about knowing the weather in advance.
I’m doing a decent job until the bus stops in front of the arena, where a giant photo of the Voodoo roster looms over the street.
And just like that, Dean is back at the top of my mind.
Even in a team of enormous men, he’s one of the biggest. He stands with his shoulders back and arms crossed in the third row, a look in his eyes that says he’s isn’t here to play. Well, he’s here to play, obviously—hockey is, at the end of the day, a game—but he’s going to leave it all on the ice.
Bet he would have left it all on my mattress, too, but alas…
I shove my phone back in my purse and focus on what matters. Tomorrow will be sunny and mild. Park weather. Frolicking weather. Wholesome-nanny-who-is-no-longer-thinking-about-getting-fingered-in-a-parking-lot weather.
That’s the energy I’m bringing from here on out.
I disembark not far from one of my favorite blues bars and head toward Southern Exposure, the café Marta picked. The second I walk in, it’s obvious this is one of those places where a cup of organic coffee costs nine dollars and an investment in carrot cake would wreck me financially.
So, I settle for an herbal tea—only five dollars, a steal by comparison—and find a table with a view of the door.
I’m twenty minutes early, but could have easily been twenty minutes late if the bus had decided today wasn’t my lucky day.
And as my stepmonster used to say, “Early is on time, and on time is late.” Rhonda was a nightmare, but she did instill a few solid habits in me, mixed in with the stress and anxiety.
Luckily for me, it seems the Hendersons are from the same school of thought, and push through the door a few minutes later.
They look different in person. When viewed from the chest up, Marta gave “powerhouse who captains her family’s ship with ease” energy. In real life, she’s tiny, maybe five-two, with a blond bob and posture so perfect, she looks like a former ballerina.
Or like she has a stick clenched tight between her ass cheeks…
Stanley isn’t much taller and still squinting like it’s his first day on the planet. He looks confused, irritated, and maybe a little scared. Marta looks determined, also irritated, and exasperated.
My inner alarm bells start blaring instantly. My gut insists this isn’t what we signed up for—this level of uptight isn’t close to our vibe—but I shush it and force a smile as I wave them over.
It doesn’t matter what my gut says. These are my new bosses, and I’m counting on this job to get me through until I’m strong enough to wait tables again. I’ll put on a brave face, suck it up, and make this work, even if Marta and Stanley are a handful.
And maybe they’re not always like this. Maybe they’re just stressed from the cross-country move and settling into a new routine. Maybe, once they’ve decompressed, they’ll be delightful.
Hope flutters inside me as Marta’s lips curve into a tight, but friendly smile. She grips a handful of Stanley’s jacket, dragging him my way.
“Hello there,” she says, her voice more nasal than I remember. “Clover! So good to finally meet you in person.”
“So good.” Stanley exhales a puff of air, then sucks it up again with a snort so loud, it’s jarring.
I cover my flinch by rising to my feet and extending a hand. “Good to meet you both, too.” I shake first Marta’s hand, then Stanley’s colder, damper one before reaching for my cane to leverage myself back into my chair. “How are things at the new house? Are you all settling in okay?”
Marta blinks at my cane, a small, but noticeable shift in her tone as she reaches for her chair.
“Yes, yes, just fine.” She laughs as she sits.
“I mean, the ceiling is leaking in the garage, and the carpet in the rec room has to be replaced, but at least the pod arrived before the snow started coming down.”
“We didn’t think it snowed in Louisiana.” Stanley sinks down beside his wife, his squint intensifying as he asks, “Should I get coffees at the counter, or will they come to the table?”
“The counter,” I tell him, inspiring another snort from the back of his throat.
I’m still trying to decide whether it’s a laugh or a sound of disapproval when Marta says, “That’s fine. Get us the usual, Stan, and I’ll fill Clover in on Gus’s schedule. I’ll have a bottled water, too, with bubbles.”
“Got it.” Stanley rises with a grunt. “Two decaf oat milk lattes, coming right up.”
Decaf.
They’re decaf people.
I try not to take that as another bad sign—but seriously, who can survive a day in the nonstop grind of modern society without caffeine, I ask you!—and fix my attention on Marta as she rattles off the details of all things Gus.
On non-school days, she prefers he eat breakfast no later than seven-thirty, and be directed toward “vigorous exercise” no later than nine.
Jogging on the treadmill or rowing on his kid-sized rowing machine are suggested as possible options for this vigorous activity.
Before I can ask if playing at the park—you know, like a kid—is an option, she’s moved on to a list of acceptable snacks to pack in my “diaper bag” when we leave the house.
“Diaper bag?” I cut in, confused.
Surely, Gus is potty-trained. He’s almost six years old…
“Yes.” Marta gives a tight-lipped nod. “Gus has a nervous bladder, especially when his routine is disrupted. In a new city, with a new school and new enrichment activities, the chances of an accident are higher than usual. You’ll need to be prepared.
I’ll prepack the diaper bag for the first few days, but come next week, you’ll take that on as one of your duties.
That’s something you can manage, right?”
I nod. “Yes, of course.”
And I can, but it would have been nice to know about this sooner.
I’m not afraid of a little mess—kids are messy, I know that—but it’s been a while since I changed a diaper.
And I’ve never had to do that for an older child.
It introduces a level of intimacy I want to be careful about, so that Gus feels safe.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the best way to do that, when Marta adds, “And you’ll need to be at the school by no later than eleven for pick-up.
Classes dismiss at noon, but we’ve promised Gus you’ll be at the front of the line.
To ensure that, you should arrive an hour early, perhaps more if you notice that other caregivers are lining up before then. ”
My brows shoot up. “Lining up more than an hour early? Is that a possibility?”
Marta’s brows mirror mine. “Well, yes. Of course. At our old school in D.C., some of the nannies never left. They’d do drop off, then pull back around to get in line for pick-up.
But we don’t expect that to be the case here.
The school has assured us that they keep the pick-up line closed until eleven and that a number of the children are picked up on foot. It’s a very walkable neighborhood.”
“Very walkable,” Stanley agrees as he returns with their drinks. “Did you tell her about the rowing machine?”
“I did, yes, of course,” Marta says with an exasperated huff.
“We’re already at enrichment activities.
” She sips her coffee, pulls a face that makes me think it tastes like garbage, and pushes the mug away.
“He has facilitated play twice a week, French class three times a week, and music lessons on Fridays.”
I nod. Finally, something to get excited about. “Great! I’ll see what he’s learning and supplement that at home. I love that he’s so into music, especially drums. Drummers are the best.”
Marta’s mouth tightens. “Yes, well, we’re trying to guide him toward woodwinds. Or the violin. Something more portable. He’ll outgrow his drum kit soon, and it already takes up so much space in the nursery. And it’s so…loud. Even with an electric kit and headphones.”
“It is loud,” Stanley echoes, because apparently having an original thought is too much for the man. He takes a sip of his coffee, then squints down at it. “Does that taste like almond milk, Marta? I think that’s almond milk.”
“It’s definitely almond milk,” Marta says, pushing her cup farther away. “Definitely.”
“Oh, well, I asked for oat,” Stanley says. “I know I asked for oat. Should I go back? Ask for them to make them again?”
“No, I think we should head home,” Marta says, surprising me. “I’ve just realized that I’ve forgotten the extra keys.”
Stanley’s eyes widen dramatically. “No! We put them in your purse. I’m certain we did.”
“No, I just looked, and they’re not there,” Marta says.
My gut pings again in silent warning. She didn’t just look. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since she sat down.
My stomach cramps as she pushes back her chair. “We’ll just have to get them to you in the morning, Clover. Along with the rest of the instructions. Does that sound all right?”
“Sure, that’s fine,” I lie.
But it isn’t fine. Something’s not right here, not right at all.