2. The Nanny Interview #2
From the patio, I watched Riley follow Ava deeper into the citrus grove, matching her pace without hurrying or steering. Adaptable. Precise. Unafraid.
The résumé hadn't lied—but it hadn't prepared me for how right she looked here, sun dappling her hair in the very place Zoe used to sip morning tea.
I swallowed, pulse drumming: history, attraction, danger—all converging on my lawn.
Riley and Ava drifted deeper into the citrus grove, sunlight spangling through glossy leaves.
I trailed at a distance, choosing the patio's shade—the observer's perch Zoe once called my "crow's-nest." From here I saw everything: Ava hopping stone to stone in her striped socks, Riley mirroring each leap without hurrying her rhythm.
Ava paused beside the lime tree whose trunk forked like a Y. She knelt, shell cupped, and whispered a string of syllables I barely caught. Riley echoed them back—same cadence, softer volume—then pointed to a tiny green insect perched on a leaf.
"Leafhopper," she said, voice bright but hushed, like discovery was sacred. "See the rocket wings?" She shaped her fingers like a V.
Ava's grin flashed, wide and unguarded. "Tiny rockets.
" She bounced once on her toes, then broke her own rule, hopping to the mulch to get closer.
Riley hesitated—gray stones lost—but followed, careful to avoid the ant hills.
I should've felt alarm, but the way she scanned the ground said she'd logged every hazard before stepping off the path.
The leafhopper launched, a green flick of motion. Ava gasped delight, clapping the scallop against her palm. Laughter—clear and wobbly from disuse—rang under the canopy. My vision blurred; I blinked it back.
Footsteps behind me. Maria, polishing cloth in hand, lingered at the threshold. She watched the pair, then touched my elbow. "Hace mucho que no se ríe así," she murmured—It's been a long time since she laughed like that.
I nodded, words jammed behind my teeth. Hope felt dangerous, like stepping into the ring with hands untaped.
Riley guided Ava back to the stones, praising the careful return. They resumed the hop pattern until Ava declared, "Sunroom now. Crayons." Riley glanced at me for confirmation; I gave a short nod and met them at the terrace door.
As we walked, citrus blossoms perfumed the warm air. Guilt slipped in on the sweetness—Zoe had planted those trees, dreaming of orange-juice mornings we never reached.
At the doorway, Riley lowered her voice. "She's got a keen eye for patterns. That's a strength we can build on." We, as if she already belonged here. The idea landed like a fist to my sternum—equal parts comfort and terror.
Ava darted ahead, humming a tune that matched the leafhopper's flight rhythm. I stood there a beat longer, listening to the music of possibility—and the echo of promises I'd once made to a woman now gone.
The sunroom breathed bright light and uneasy history.
Zoe's watercolor sailboats still hung on the far wall—cheerful, accusing.
Ava settled at her low table, lining crayons into ROY-GBIV ranks, humming.
I gestured Riley toward the rattan loveseat; she chose a straight-backed chair instead, perching on its edge like she might leap at the first wrong note.
I remained standing. Safer that way. "We'll keep this brief."
Her smile was thin but brave. "Understood." She opened her folio, produced printed lesson plans—visual schedules, emotion charts, snack preferences filtered by texture. Organized, anticipatory. My chest tightened.
I cleared my throat. "Before we discuss logistics—there's context." I flicked a glance at the garden beyond the glass, at anything but her mouth. "Last week?—"
"We nearly made a mistake," she finished, tone soft yet steady. "I know. You walked away. I'm not here to blur that line again."
Ava hummed louder—purple crayon tapping the shell four times. Brave. I swallowed. "Explain why you want this position. Honestly."
Riley exhaled through her nose. "I moved to Miami to become an event planner—galas, yacht weddings, the whole glossy dream.
Turns out glossy doors stay shut without connections.
To pay rent, I took childcare gigs." She smiled at Ava's rows.
"Somewhere between flashcards and meltdown drills, I realized I didn't dread Mondays anymore. "
She flipped a page, revealing a color-coded success story.
"Last month I worked with a six-year-old who was nonverbal.
We created a color-cue break system—green card meant 'I'm fine,' red meant 'Please give me space.
' By week two, he'd started tapping yellow for 'I need help. ' His mother cried. I felt...useful."
Useful. The word landed like a balm and a barb. Zoe had always said healing didn't have to be heroic; sometimes it was showing up at the right frequency.
I studied Riley's face: freckles dusted by sun, eyes steadier than mine felt. Attraction pulsed beneath the professionalism—undeniable, dangerous. Yet Ava's posture—shoulders relaxed, hum rhythmic—argued harder.
"I need time," I said, voice low. "Ava's therapist will want a meet-and-greet. Background check is still processing." And I had to bury memories that kept clawing fresh.
Riley nodded. "Take whatever time you need, Mr. Santoro." My surname on her lips felt like distance measured in miles. She closed the folio, stood. "Thank you for letting me meet Ava."
Ava looked up. "Come back soon?"
Riley's throat bobbed. "If your dad decides it's okay." She waved—two careful wiggles—and turned toward the foyer.
I escorted Riley to the foyer. Air crackled with unspoken memory. She opened the door, sunlight catching her hair.
"This is still a terrible idea," I murmured.
Her smile held equal parts regret and dare. "Sometimes the best ones start that way."
Ava's humming drifted from the sunroom, carrying more promise than I deserved.
I watched her go, heart a tangle of gratitude and regret, knowing the next decision might rewrite all our lives.
Maria appeared with a dust cloth, eyes bright. "Se?or Luca... la ni?a likes her." Outside validation twisted the knife.
The front door eased shut. A faint rumble of tires, then quiet so complete I could hear the ceiling fan's lazy blade.
Ava remained at her table, stacking the purple crayons into a tower while she hummed the leafhopper tune.
I joined her hum on the lower harmony—our secret duet—until her shoulders loosened.
"Daddy decides soon?" she asked without looking up.
"I will." My voice cracked like an old hinge. I touched her hair, then forced myself toward the balcony before she could read the storm on my face.
Outside, the bay glittered hard and bright, sunlight flashing off whitecaps. Zoe used to park herself in this very chair, knees tucked, teasing that I protected Ava so fiercely the kid would need a passport to leave the driveway. You can't wrap her in bubble wrap forever, Luca.
The memory knifed under my ribs. I gripped the railing, Zoe's ring cold on its chain against my chest. "Help me out here, Z," I muttered to the water. "Tell me if this is wrong." Only gulls answered.
My phone vibrated. Background Check: Brooks, Riley — CLEAR. Immediately another ping from Bianca: So? The universe was tag-teaming me.
I opened the draft email—Subject: Summer Nanny Offer. Cursor blinking like a heartbeat. Pros and cons lined the notes field, raw and lopsided:
Pros
? Ava laughed. First time in weeks.
? Sensory-integration trained.
? Mirrored echolalia without prompting.
Cons
? Chemistry that could explode.
? Eight prior families—flight risk?
? Zoe's ghost watching.
I scrolled, thumb hovering over Send. Salt wind lifted the sweat on my neck, carried a hint of citrus blossom—hope and guilt braided together.
Ava's humming floated through the open doors, soft and steady. Brave purple today. She'd asked Riley to come back. How many more strangers would she have to test-drive before one fit?
I inhaled for four, exhaled. My thumb trembled—half a centimeter from commitment, half a centimeter from retreat. Whichever way I moved, something would break: either the fragile calm I'd built or the chance at a summer my daughter actually remembered as happy.
Wind gusted, rattling the locket against my shirt. I closed my eyes but didn't move.
Decision suspended in one breath, the offer unsent, the future balanced on a fingertip.