Chapter 8
Eight
CLOVER
I wave from the porch—Bella on my hip, and Ava bouncing beside me as she shouts, “Bye, Grammy! Bye, I love you so much! See you soon!”—like a person whose life isn’t in a rapid downward spiral.
Nothing to see here, folks.
Just your average, professional childcare provider who absolutely did not have another kinky sex dream about her boss last night.
Her boss, who apparently had no idea he was about to be her boss. And who is probably going to fire her as soon as he gets back from taking his mother to the airport.
What fun!
What an absolutely fantastic start to the day, the week, the new year.
But at least the cabbie had already pulled away by the time Ava ran into the road, and I didn’t have to watch a little girl get run over.
Good God, that was scary.
And way too close for comfort. She didn’t so much as glance at the street before she dashed through the gate and into the middle of it.
And sure, the Kates live in a cul-de-sac, where there isn’t a lot of traffic, but that doesn’t mean she should assume that it’s safe to run out into the street—any street—without checking to be sure.
We’re going to work on safe street-crossing protocols ASAP.
And in the meantime…
Well, in the meantime, I’ll just try to take excellent care of the girls until we go our separate ways. Even if that separation comes a lot sooner than I was expecting.
As Dean’s truck rounds the corner and disappears, I herd the girls back inside, where I lock the deadbolt and the little button lock in the middle of the knob before setting Bella down and dragging my suitcase in front of the door for good measure.
Ava watches me, a guilty expression on her face.
But she doesn’t make any promises not to make a break for it in the future.
Nope, there are no promises, no assurances, just a mildly repentant gleam in her blue eyes as she asks, “Do you want to see my room, Clover? And my toys?”
“Yes, for sure, I do,” I say. “Just let me tidy up the kitchen a little, and I’ll be right up.” I turn to Bella, who’s still practically glued to my thigh. “Do you want to go play with Ava in her room, Bella? Or would you rather come help me clean up breakfast and load the dishwasher?”
“I come help you, Cwover,” she says, thrusting her arms up toward me.
“Okay, great.” I scoop her up, balancing her with one arm as I reach for my cane against the wall with the other.
I’m having a good leg day, thank goodness. If I weren’t, I might not be able to hold Bella this much.
But it’s been a rough morning, what with Ava going missing, Grammy flying home, and a new nanny in the house.
Once we’ve established our routine and she feels safe and comfortable, she probably won’t need as much holding.
And she’s a sweet little girl. I’m sure if I told her that my leg was tired, and I needed to cuddle her on the couch instead of toting her around on my hip, she would understand.
We’ll both learn to make accommodations to get the job done, and things will be just fine.
Unless I’m fired, of course.
Yay, uncertainty! My favorite.
I head into the kitchen to corral the coffee cups and tidy the sticky mess on the table by Bella’s booster seat, still spiraling.
Dean is totally going to fire me, and I really can’t blame him, I guess.
I blame Tasha.
How could a woman who’s called me Clover to my face in every interaction we’ve ever had, tell my new employer my name was Meredith?
Meredith.
Who the heck is she? I have no memory of being called Meredith or Merry or anything else. I’ve always gone by my middle name, the hippy one my hippy mother gave me, because clovers are good luck, and I was her lucky baby girl.
She’d tried to get pregnant for years with her ex-husband before accidentally getting knocked up with me.
She was nearly forty and thought her window for having a child had closed.
Then, one night after a Cinco de Mayo party where the tequila had flowed a bit too freely, my father, her first and only one-night stand, made her dreams come true.
She didn’t even know his last name, so it wasn’t easy to track him down when those two little lines appeared on the test. And when she did eventually make contact, Dad told her he wasn’t interested in being a parent.
But that was fine with Mom. She swore she was excited to raise me alone without any “stinky boys” around to ruin the fun.
At least that’s what my father told me.
I don’t remember much about my mom except how safe I felt in her arms and how sad I was the day the policeman picked me up from daycare, taking me to my father’s house, where he told me I would live from now on.
But even my father—whom I’d only met a few times at that point—knew to call me Clover. The only person who’s ever called me Meredith was my stepmother, and I’m pretty sure she did it specifically because she knew I hated it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“One second, Bella,” I say, setting her on the floor by the open dishwasher. “Can you put this coffee cup on the top rack for me?”
“Yes, I can. That’s Grammy’s favorite,” she says, taking the chunky mug I’ve just rinsed in both tiny hands. “I’m a good helper.”
“You are a good helper,” I agree, glancing down at my cell.
It’s Tasha asking—How’s it going? Settling in okay?
I stare at the screen.
How to respond?
Maybe… Hey, Tasha, quick question, did you know that the emergency placement you found for me is the same man I went to third base with in a bar parking lot on Saturday night?
No?
Well, funnily enough, neither did he because you gave him the wrong name, and now everything is weird.
Really, really weird.
So weird.
But of course, I can’t say any of that, so I shoot back—It’s going great! The girls are so sweet, and their dad is already on his way to the airport. Thanks for getting this sorted out so fast.
Not a lie. Not the whole truth, but the best I can do at the moment.
“Okay, ready for a cereal bowl?” I ask, slipping my phone in my back pocket. “You can load it right next to the mug.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Bella says in a wobbly voice. “I don’t think I can.”
I glance sharply down, something in her tone alerting my lizard brain to danger. “Why not? What’s up, honey? Are you okay?”
“No,” she says, peering up at me with a pale face. “I feel hot inside.”
I blink. “Oh no, that doesn’t sound good.” I press the back of my fingers to her forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever, but we can—”
Bella cuts me off by bending over and yacking with a soft blehck.
Partly into the open dishwasher.
Partly onto her tiny pink tennis shoes.
It isn’t a lot—maybe a handful of what looks like partially digested cereal—but the second the mess hits her shoes, she begins to wail, “Oh, no. I sick! I sick, Clover! I told Daddy the bananas were bad bananas! They’re the mean bananas that make people sick. And now I made a mess on my shoes.”
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay. Don’t worry, we can clean them up just like new,” I say, grabbing a dish towel and crouching down beside her.
I brush her silky curls from her forehead with one hand while I wipe her face with the other.
“But first, let’s make sure you’re okay.
Do you feel like you’re going to be sick again? ”
She pulls in a shuddery breath. “I don’t know. My tongue tastes yucky.”
I make a sympathetic noise. “I bet. Here, let’s get you a drink of water.” I reach up beside the sink, grabbing one of the waiting dishes. “This is your cup, right? The pink one with the duck on the front?”
She nods. “Yes. That’s my favorite.”
“It’s really cute. I love ducks,” I say, filling the glass from the tap and pressing it gently into her hand. “Take a sip and swish it around your mouth. But just a little sip,” I caution when she tips the cup back with enthusiasm. “Let’s see how it feels in your tummy before you drink too much.”
She swallows and licks her lips, pressing them together for a moment before she announces, “I don’t think I’m going to be sick again. My tummy doesn’t feel bad now.” She glances down, shifting her soiled shoes back and forth. “But my feet are yucky. And they smell bad. Like scary music.”
I fight a smile as I consider that. “I think you’re right.
I think scary music would smell like that.
But you’re going to be fine, and so are your shoes.
Let’s take them off and leave them right here.
” I brush the worst of the mess away with the towel before levering her shoes off by touching only the clean parts by her heel.
“Then, once we get you clean and in fresh clothes, I’ll tidy this up lickety-split. No stress.”
Her mouth turns down again. “Lickety-split reminds me of banana splits. And that reminds me of bananas, and I hate those bananas.”
“Valid,” I say. “I hate them, too.”
“I’m not supposed to say hate,” she whispers behind her hand. “Grammy says it’s a mean word. Especially if I say it about a person.”
“Your Grammy sounds very smart,” I whisper back. “But it’s okay to hate foods, I think. Especially if they make your tummy sick.” As I take her hand and lead her through the kitchen toward the living room and the stairs beyond, I ask, “Do bananas always make you feel sick?”
She shakes her head, her bottom lip starting to tremble.
Before I can follow up, Ava appears at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide. “Oh no, did Bella throw up again?”
My brows lift, but I fight to keep the “what do you mean again, what tomfoolery is afoot here?” from my tone, as I say, “A little bit. But she’s already feeling better.
I’m going to run her a bath so she can get the yucky smell off.
Want to be an amazing big sister helper and pick out some fresh clothes for her?
I bet you’ll do a better job than I will since I don’t know where everything is yet. ”
“Yes! I know where her clothes are, and I can do it all by myself! I know what she likes to wear when she feels sad.” Ava dashes away, calling over her shoulder as she disappears down the hall, “Don’t worry, Bella, I’ll be right back!”