Imagine a large red-brick Tudor house on a tree-lined property. Then add an extra wing. And a pool. And a two-hole golf course.
And did I mention the clay tennis court? One with the preferred north–south exposure, of course. So the sun never gets in a player’s eyes.
The cartel must pay well.
I ring the bell. In the half second between thedingand thedong,a woman I assume to be Mrs. Harrison opens thedoor, hyperventilating. You’d think the house was on fire and I showed up with a hose.
“Hello, Mrs. Harrison. I’m—”
“Please! Call me Amber!” she says. Amber is clearly! One of those women! Who always! Adds exclamation points! To the ends of her sentences!
She’s a tall, slim, stunning brunette in crisp tennis whites with green eyes the color of her pool tile. Hard to believe this tanned, toned body gave birth just five months ago. She’s what my late mother would have called “a size three with alterations.”
Still, when she starts to talk, I can tell she’s as frazzled as any new mom.
“I don’t know what happened to Isobel!” she says, referring to the young nanny from Nebraska who quit yesterday.
(I do: The FBI offered her ten thousand dollars to walk out on the spot.)
“She loved the baby,” Amber continues. “I thought she was happy here. But you know what teenagers are like.”
Actually, I don’t. Haven’t been one in years. Amber is on the verge of tears as she describes what life has been like since Isobel left.
“I couldn’t believe it at first, and then I was so angry, and I tried to get her to stay but she said no, so I was really sad, but then I thought,Hey, time to move on.”
Amazing. In just one day and one sentence, Amber has gone through all five stages of grief.
“Had she been with you long?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” Amber says with tears in her eyes. “Tomorrow would have been a month. But it’s so great thatyouwere available,” she adds, her mood brightening. “And the woman from the childcare agency gave you such glowing references.”
Childcare agency? Glowing references?Me?Who did Metcalf get to play that role? Meryl Streep?
I’d hoped Amber would show me around the place, but she wants me to meet the baby first. She rushes me past the central staircase, through a living room the size of a basketball court, past rooms filled with antiques, chandeliers, plants, and exercise equipment. There’s no time to get my bearings. With any luck, this place is on Google Maps.
Finally, we wind up in a family room with a cathedral ceiling soaring above piles of toys, rattles, puzzles, blocks, a veritable jungle of stuffed animals, and a mechanical swing. It’s like being in a Where’s Waldo book. But instead of Waldo, there’s an infant around here somewhere. Finally, I spot her. A sweet-looking blond baby lying in a small round plastic seat on the floor just to the left of a Paddington Bear the size of a Buick. The baby doesn’t notice me at first. She’s too busy playing with what looks like a potholder. A good sign, I think. This baby might be easy to entertain.
Then she sees me and begins to cry.
“Now, Lily,” says Amber, unstrapping the baby and lifting her out of the seat. “I know you miss Isobel. We all do. But this is Carol. She’s going to be your new nanny.”
“It’sCaroline,” I say. “Hello, Lily.”
As I put my arms out to take her, Lily looks at me in horror and clings to her mother, then starts to climb Amber as if she were a tree.
“She’s a little anxious around strangers,” Amber says.
“All babies are,” I say. Is that true? I don’t know. It’s something I pulled out of my ass. But Amber looks reassured.
“Let me show you where everything is,” Amber says. Lily is still screaming as the three of us make a sharp left out of the family room and into what turns out to be the kitchen. It’s a huge sunny room with a twenty-foot-long center island and light wood paneling covering everything, including the appliances.
“Open door number three,” Amber says. So I do. I’m hoping I won a trip to the Bahamas. But no. It’s a refrigerator the size of my first apartment. The second shelf is filled with labeled bottles of breast milk. Lily looks at the bottles. She seems to quiet down a little.
“Guess I don’t have to showyouhow to warm these. Ha-ha,” Amber says.
“No, you don’t. I can google it. Ha-ha.”
“I just started giving her tastes of some food,” says Amber. “Oh, just dabs,” she adds as if I am going to criticize her. “The size of a pencil eraser, really.” Amber is now on a mommy roll, talking nonstop, desperately seeking approval. “I mix it with a bit of breast milk to make a paste. Sometimes she just puts her fingers in it and smooshes it around, and sometimes she tastes it. Is that okay, do you think?”
