Chapter 3
Annie
From: AnniesArtisanCatering@
Hi Brooks,
My name is Annie, and I just saw your application for the live-in nanny position for my daughter, Ruby. Your resume was impressive, and I’d love for us to meet before I introduce you to her, just to make sure you’re the right fit. Let me know a time and date that works best for you.
You’re a lifesaver!
Annie Cringle
From: Brooks.Bennett97@
To: AnniesArtisanCatering@
Hey Annie,
Awesome! I’m available whenever. I have a lot of free time on my hands since my last job wrapped up.
Feel free to text me the location, and I’ll be there. Here’s my number.
See you soon,
Brooks B
From: AnniesArtisanCatering@
To: Brooks.Bennett97@
Thank you for responding so quickly! How about you come by tomorrow? We can meet and then we can meet with Ruby.
Thanks!
Annie
From: Brooks.Bennett97@
To: AnniesArtisanCatering@
I’ll see you then!
Brooks
The next morning started the way most of my mornings did—half-asleep, clutching a mug of coffee like it was my lifeline, and hoping I didn’t have to referee any more dramatic battles between Ruby and her cereal box.
It was still snowing outside. Thick flakes drifted down past the kitchen window, swirling in that lazy, hypnotic way that made you think of holiday movies and perfectly frosted sugar cookies.
The kitchen smelled like peppermint coffee and toast, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge, until I opened my laptop and saw the little notification that would change the entire holiday.
There was a new notification about a response to my post on the Snowberry Peak discussion group.
I clicked on it, not expecting much. My last applicant for the nanny posting had been another sweet eighty-four-year-old woman, this one named Florence. While lovely, she had admitted she hadn’t been around children in “about five decades” and couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t “nap mid-shift.”
Snowberry Peak did have a rather large elderly population.
But this one…
The name at the top read: Brooks Bennett.
Short. Simple. Clean. I liked it already.
I scanned the resume. It wasn’t overly formal—no stiff corporate jargon—but it was packed with relevant experience. Birthday party host. Summer art camp leader.
Under their special skills it had balloon animal artist listed. Even a line about being highly skilled in glitter clean-up, which I personally believed should qualify anyone for sainthood.
For the first time since posting the job yesterday, I actually exhaled.
This could work.
They could actually be good.
I got sophisticated but fun young woman. The resume felt warm and playful, or maybe I just wanted another woman in the house for the holidays.
I clicked over to my email and sent a quick response, my fingers flying over the keys. A friendly “Thanks for applying! I’d love to chat!” kind of note. Professional but warm. Not desperate. Even though, if we were being honest, I was desperate.
Typically, I’d vet someone more if they were going to be meeting and spending time with my daughter, but I was in a pinch. Plus, the few emails I had exchanged with them were pleasant. I knew I had a bunch of questions but, I had to get this ball rolling.
Leaning back in my chair, I sipped my coffee and let out a long, relieved sigh.
I didn’t even realize I was smiling until I caught sight of my reflection in the darkened microwave door.
“Ruby!” I called toward the living room, where I could hear the opening lines of The Polar Express, her latest animated obsession. “Pause your show and come in here for a sec!”
From the other room came a groan of pure, tragic suffering. “Mooooom! It’s the good part!”
“Pause it. It’ll still be there.”
Footsteps padded reluctantly across the hardwood, and then Ruby appeared in the doorway. Her hair was sticking out in three different directions, and her fleece pajamas—blue with tiny snowmen—were slightly twisted from her morning couch sprawl.
My brother dropped her off first thing this morning, looking like she’d just come from a pillow fight warzone. Immediately, she curled up on the couch and fell right back asleep until waking up just a few moments ago to watch her movie.
Of course, the first thing she asked me when I saw her was, “What did you do last night, mommy?”
Well, I lied of course. I wasn’t going to tell her about the outrageously good-looking man I ran into at the local bar, the same one I couldn’t stop thinking about. Secretly, I hoped I would run into him again so I could make good on what I was willing to do on a second date.
“If this is about brushing my teeth,” she announced before I could even speak, “I’m on break from that until after Christmas.”
I blinked. “That’s… not a thing.”
“It could be a thing,” she muttered, climbing up onto one of the counter stools. She rested her chin in her hands and gave me the kind of look that suggested she was tolerating this conversation out of the goodness of her heart. “Okay. What’s up?”
I wrapped my hands around my mug for warmth, bracing myself. “So… I talked to your dad.”
She gave the world’s most exaggerated eye-roll. “And?”
“And… he’s not going to be here for Christmas this year.”
Ruby’s expression didn’t change much, but she did shrug one shoulder. “Okay.”
The sarcasm was so deadpan it almost made me choke on my coffee. “Glad to see you’re coping well.”
She tilted her head. “We still doing presents?”
“Yes.”
“Still doing cookies?”
“Obviously.”
“Still doing my Christmas Eve hot cocoa buffet with Uncle Ollie in the morning?”
“Of course.”
She gave a small nod, satisfied. “Then I’m fine.”
“Glad we could get through that emotional hardship together,” I said dryly, taking another sip of coffee.
She grinned, and I felt a flicker of that bittersweet ache I always did this time of year. My girl was resilient—sometimes more than I was—but there was still a part of me that hated she had to be.
“Well,” I said, trying to shake off the heaviness, “lucky for you, I have a backup plan.”
Her little head tilted. “Does it involve pancakes? Because that’s the only backup plan I care about.”
I laughed. “No pancakes…yet. But I found someone who’s going to come stay with us through New Year’s and help out while I’m working.”
Ruby perked up. “Like… a live-in elf?”
“Sort of,” I said, unable to hide my smile. “Their name is Brooks. They have a lot of experience doing fun things. Sound good?”
Ruby narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Brooks… is this a boy or a girl?”
“Girl, I’m pretty sure,” I admitted. Suddenly, I was unaware if I made the right assumption or not. What man would apply to nanny a seven-year-old girl around the holidays and agree to live here? “Does it matter?”
“Only if they’re a boy,” she said seriously. “Because then I’m gonna make them play princess tea party every single day until they cry.”
I laughed so hard I had to set down my coffee before I spilled it. “You’re something else.”
She responded with a smirk, running her small hands over her crazy auburn hair. Hair that matched mine identically.
In fact, she was a spitting image of me. People who saw us together never would’ve guessed someone else was involved in making her, well, besides the basic understanding of reproduction.
I closed the laptop, feeling the first real spark of holiday relief. “So you’re okay with Brooks staying here?”
Ruby hopped down from the stool, clearly over the conversation now that she’d secured her cookie and cocoa guarantees. “Yep. As long as they’re ready for slime, glitter, and me winning at every game we play.”
Something told me Brooks Bennett had no idea what they were in for.
I watched Ruby disappear back into the living room, the faint sound of a train horn picking back up as she unpaused her movie.
My mind was already spinning with possibilities.
Maybe this was the little holiday miracle we needed—someone fun, dependable, and willing to dive into the chaos that was our December.
If I were being honest… maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world that I’d have another adult around too. Even if it was just to have someone to talk to who didn’t try to negotiate bedtime like it was an international peace treaty.
I pulled my mug closer, staring at the little snowflakes melting on the windowpane, and let myself hope that this holiday might not turn out to be a total disaster.