I know when I’m outnumbered.
Oh, well, why not. We’re family now. I grab the two leashes hanging on a hook, clip them to the dogs, and tie them to the carriage hood. Then we’re off. Sort of.
The first challenge is getting all of us through the front door with barely an inch of clearance on either side. Actually, the dogs are a big help. They prance ahead of us like noble carriage steeds. What Amber failed to tell me: There are no sidewalks on this little private road. Just pristine lawns ending in a concrete parkway. I steer the mammoth carriage slowly, but it’s tricky. It’s like pushing a car that’s run out of gas.
The dogs bark at every bike, person, and automobilethat passes. Then suddenly, Jane stops to take a dump. I find some dog-poop bags in a pocket of the fully equipped pram and scoop it up. Half a block later, Austen dumps. Jane watches him, then decides to dump some more herself. More stopping, more scooping. Must be some sort of sibling rivalry.
I look around to see if there are any other dog walkers on the street. Anybody from the neighborhood I could get to know and maybe learn some gossip about Ben. But I don’t see a soul.
Things were different when I was a kid. Back then, walking your dog was a major social event, and you knew the name of every dog on your block. Abby, my sweet little beagle, would wag her tail the minute she saw Poppy, the spaniel from down the street, or Roscoe, a funny cross-eyed mutt. She was also a big fan of Foxy the boxer as well as Beulah and Duke, two huge sheepdogs who could swallow her in one gulp.
But Abby was fearless. She’d run to them and they’d all welcome her happily, yapping away like aunts and uncles at a family reunion.
I kept hoping Abby would feel the same about Brandy, a chocolate Lab, since I had a mad crush on his owner, fourteen-year-old Chet. But when Brandy and Chet walked by, both with their noses in the air, Abby growled. I guess she felt Brandy was beneath her. And maybe Chet felt the same way about me.
Here, in this lush suburb, everyone has a backyard, and I imagine they all have gardeners, so it’s no wonder thestreets are empty. Why walk your own dogs and pick up their poop if you can hire someone to do it?
The route to the park is all uphill. I’m starting to get blisters on my hands. The dogs run back and forth in front of the pram, and their leashes keep getting twisted. I have to keep stopping to untangle them. We’re like a pathetic float in a pathetic parade that no one is around to see.
CHAPTER 12
TAGGART PARK IS JUST a few city blocks away from the Harrisons’ home. But this is not the city. I’m dealing with dirt trails and a baby carriage that handles like an army tank, so it takes me and the gang twenty minutes to get there.
It’s called a public park, but it looks like a fabulously landscaped sanctuary: A few acres of country-club-quality grass. Lawns bursting with pink begonias, scarlet impatiens, and yellow sunflowers. And not a single child is trampling over them.
I bet these rich kids have had tutors since infancy, so even the toddlers can read the sign that saysKEEP OFF THE GRASS. Or maybe all the tire swings, rock-climbing walls,avalanche slides, ladders, ramps, and tunnels are way more enticing than a bunch of flowers.
With the Harrisons’ elegant carriage and purebred dogs, we should fit right in.Should,yes. But then there’s me. I look around. All the moms and nannies are younger, more relaxed, and way better dressed than I am, wearing slim trousers with the pleats intact and soft pastel sweaters and silk scarves loosely tied around their necks, or nanny uniforms way more elegant than mine. All their children are playing nicely together. And, of course, all their babies are asleep. But Lily started screaming again halfway through our journey and hasn’t stopped. And the dogs are growling, trying to bite each other. I’m sure everybody is whispering behind my back.
The truth is, even with the chaos my little group is generating, I’m still invisible. No one is looking at me. They’re simply chatting quietly or scrolling through Instagram.
I sit on a bench and try mind control.Please quiet down, Lily,I think, staring hard into her eyes. No response. A pacifier doesn’t help. Rocking her in her $4,499 carriage doesn’t help either.
Then one of the nannies walks over and starts talking to me. “I am Marianna,” she says.
Marianna, a young woman with thick gorgeous black hair down to her waist and a wide smile, looks like she stepped out of aTown and Countryspread on “The Most Beautiful Childcare Money Can Buy.” She pokes her face into the carriage. Her voice is warm and friendly when she asks, “Lily, what is wrong today?”
Marianna recognizes the baby. Or the carriage. Or both.
Lily looks up at her.
“Here is a beautiful day, but you are in tears. So what is the problem?” Marianna reaches in and pats Lily on the head.
Lily sniffles.
“May I pick her up?” she asks.
I nod yes. I resist the urge to tell Marianna she’s welcome to keep her.
Marianna unzips Lily’s cotton harness and gently lifts the baby up to her own lovely face. “There’s an old Colombian trick for a crying baby,” she says to me. “Watch.”
Without warning, Marianna buries her face in Lily’s neck and makes a funny growling sound.
Lily is startled.
Marianna does it a second time. And a third.
Now Lily is giggling. Even the dogs have settled down. Marianna is both a baby whisperer and a dog whisperer.
