“Oh. Great.” I clear my throat as disappointment settles in my stomach. “Is Tiffany your—”
“My new nanny,” Belle confirms. “The movie started shooting this week. So it’s just me and Tiffany now.”
Belle looks like she could use a hug, which I doubt she’ll get from her nanny.
I squeeze Belle’s hand. “Why don’t you help me set up while your nanny registers you with Sadie if she hasn’t already. I mean, if that’s okay with her.”
The woman rolls her eyes and shrugs. Without speaking to me or Belle, she turns around to leave, still typing into her phone.
“Okay, bye! We’ll be done in an hour!” I call to her as she walks out the door. She doesn’t even turn around.
I breathe a sigh of relief when she’s gone. So does Belle, I notice.
We both stare after her. “How does she walk in those shoes?” I ask in wonder.
“She’s just like the others,” Belle says.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s only nice to me when Father’s around. She wants him to like her. But when it’s just us…” She looks down at her hands.
Something twists in my gut. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. But I hate the idea of someone like Tiffany caring for this little girl, who needs a warm presence. I’m also not ecstatic about her living with Ronan. But maybe that’s just because it sounds like my dream scenario, and I’m a little jealous.
“I wish Mrs. Cranwell were still here. She was my babysitter and really nice. She always smelled like cookies. But she didn’t want to leave California. Father says to give Tiffany a chance.”
“Well, let’s focus on having fun now,” I suggest.
Soon, Belle’s helping me get the rest of the supplies ready and greeting the kids who filter in with a shy smile. I seat her up at the front so I can give her and her pumpkin painting extra attention.
This is always my favorite part of the day. I liked teaching art at the school, but there were so many parameters, and I hated grading and report cards. This—helping children find the joy in art—is what I love, having complete freedom over the projects we do without worrying about assessments or sticking to a particular curriculum.
My mind has been mulling over the studio. I have so many ideas for the gallery space and classes. In addition to art lessons, I could arrange wine-and-paint nights for adults, do private events, and so much more.
But all that would take money. Sadie is encouraging me to go for it, but she’s never had to pay a mortgage. She inherited her parents’ thriving general store when they retired. Sadie has changed a lot about the shop, given it her own special twist, but she never had to start from scratch.
I know the building next door won’t be around much longer, though. The town, with its quaint Main Street, Victorian mansions, and charming waterfront, is a popular place, even more so now that it’s famous for our Dickens festival. The building won’t be free long. But even if I can get the bank to agree to a mortgage, it will take several more months of spending next to nothing, of taking every substitute teaching job I can, to save the amount I’ve calculated I’d need just for the business costs.
I could take the full time teaching job and put my dream on hold, but I have this bone-deep fear that if I do, I’ll never open the studio. Before I’d lost my job and my fiancé, it had just been a fun dream, not anything I believed I could ever have.
My parents drilled into me to always be practical. Derek was the same. He had a five-year plan, a ten-year plan, and a twenty-year plan. He’d made it clear that we’d both teach and have secure, stable jobs. He scoffed at my dream of opening a studio someday.
It should have been no surprise, then, that he dumped me soon after I lost my job. He replaced me quick enough with another teacher from our school, though secretly, I think the joke’s on him because I doubt Monique will stay in our small town for long. I’ve known the beautiful French teacher for a few years, and she’s never made it a secret that she thinks she’s made for bigger things.
And maybe I am too.
With my life in shambles, I have a blank slate. The rare chance to reimagine what I could do just for myself, to figure out what the little girl who loved to paint wants to do with her life.
I’ll worry about that later, though. Until then, I just need to focus on helping this awesome group of kids and their awesome pumpkin paintings. I have opportunities and choices, more than many people have, and I’m grateful for that.
When we wrap up, the kids line up to wash their hands in the small sink at the back of the room. They sing our clean-up song as parents filter in.
Belle makes her way to her seat, admiring her art.
“I love the colors you’ve used,” I say.
She looks up at me, her face glowing with pleasure.
Tiffany strides in, and the moms watch her with ill-disguised envy. She grimaces at the paint-covered table.
