Chapter 7 #3
“I mean, Meredith is the name on my birth certificate, yes, but no one calls me that,” she says.
“Never. I’ve been Clover practically since birth, and Tasha never calls me Meredith.
I wasn’t even sure, she knew—” She breaks off with a wince and a shake of her head.
“But, I mean, of course, she knows my legal name. She has a copy of my driver’s license and did the background check with my full name, but I never thought she would—”
“Dean, my flight’s delayed,” my mother calls cheerfully from the open front door, making Clover and me both flinch. “By a whole hour! So, we’re in no rush.”
I turn to face her, forcing a smile. “Good. Great. I’ll be um… I’ll be inside in just a minute.”
“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t turn to go back inside. She stands, staring for a long beat before she asks, “Is that the nanny? Hi, nanny, I’m Eliza.”
“Hi, Eliza,” Clover says, waving with a forced, but friendly smile. “I’m Clover. Legal name, Meredith, but my friends call me Clover. I hope you will, too.”
“Great to meet you, Clover!” Mom cheers.
“You look like you’ve got spirit! I like that in a woman.
None of that mealy-mouthed, kindergarten teacher energy for me.
I like a woman with a spine. You’re going to need one to keep up with these two.
They’re the sweetest girls in the world, but stubborn as mules, both of them. And impulsive.”
“Mom, please,” I start, only for her to cut me off.
“But I’m sure you’ve gathered that since you caught Ava making a break for it as you were pulling up.
” Mom laughs, clearly embarrassed beneath the bravado.
“So sorry about that. What a terrible first impression.” Shifting her focus my way, she adds, “You should make a note on the caregiver directions to keep the front door secure, Dean. We can’t have that happening again. ”
“On it, Mom,” I say, wishing she’d head back inside already.
There’s no point in getting to know Clover.
Because Clover—aka Meredith—is leaving.
Having a woman I fingered in my truck two nights ago watching my girls, working for me full time, living in the apartment above my garage, is a clear conflict of interest.
Or a violation of decency. Or both. Or something.
Whatever it is, it feels wrong and a little…icky.
Even if she weren’t planning on moving into the apartment—an assumption that would be incorrect, judging by the large suitcase perched on the sidewalk beside my front gate—this wouldn’t work.
I can’t be Clover’s boss; she can’t become emmeshed in my family, not even for a month.
I’ve been hoping, if the chemistry between the part-time nanny and the girls was solid, that the part-time nanny would become the full-time nanny, giving my daughters some much-needed stability and continuity of care.
But the chemistry between Clover and me makes that an impossibility.
I can’t afford for her to set a single foot in my home. I can’t afford to let anyone get attached. I can’t afford for my mother to decide this Cummings might have the sense to flush a toilet and be a good fit for the girls.
Oh, but she would be, a voice whispers in my head.
She would be good for the girls. She would be great.
Exactly what they need. A young, energetic, sweet, smart, upbeat, thoughtful, fun, fantastic nanny to help keep their mind off all the hard things they’ve been through in the past year.
And you’re going to ruin it for them because you didn’t have the sense to leave McLeary’s the second Clover told you she was twenty-four years old.
I drag a hand through my now even more unruly hair, silently cursing my gift for getting myself into impossible situations.
Before I can think of the kindest way to inform Clover this isn’t going to work, my mother asks, “How about a cup of coffee, honey? You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
“Yes, please,” Clover says. “I can always use a cup of coffee.”
“A girl after my own heart. Cream? Sugar?”
“Sugar, please, no cream,” Clover says, glancing back to me as she adds, “I mean, if that’s okay with you, Mr. Kate.”
Mr. Kate.
I don’t know what to say to that.
I only know I don’t like it. Not even a little bit.
I like it even less when my mother cheers, “Just how I like mine! Come on in, take your shoes off, get comfortable. We’ll get you caffeinated and introduce you to the girls before we go. Grab her bags, Dean. I assume you have bags, Clover?”
“Just one suitcase,” Clover says. “But I can get it. It’s not that heavy.”
“I’ll get it,” I grit through clenched teeth. “It’s not a problem.”
But it is a problem, a big problem, one I’m not sure how to head off at the pass with Clover already climbing my porch with a bounce in her step and a few jaunty thrusts of her cane.
Thrusts…
Vowing not to think about thrusts—any kind of thrusts—I collect her suitcase and head inside, figuring this latest mess can wait until after I’ve dropped Mom at the airport.
But as soon as I get back…
Well, Clover and I are going to have to talk.
A long, serious, sober talk.