I finish the story, trying my best to make Belle happy again, but nothing works, not silly voices, tickles, or jokes. I almost wish she would cry or complain, but she doesn’t. The resigned sadness tells me she’s used to feeling like this, passed off to the hired help when the people who should love her are too busy. When I’m done with the story, I reach over and turn out her light.
“Stay with me?” she asks.
I nod, even though she can’t see me in the dim light. I lie down on top of the covers, stroking her hair.
“What’s wrong with me?” Belle asks into the silent night.
“What do you mean? There is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” I say, turning toward her.
“Then why doesn’t my mom want me? Why doesn’t my dad?”
And that’s when my heart breaks into a thousand pieces.
“You’re perfect, just as you are.” I sigh. “I’m sure your mom loves you, and so does your dad, even if you two haven’t had much time together. But sometimes…sometimes it’s the adults who aren’t perfect. And they make mistakes.” I’m unsure how to explain the complexity that is life and love.
“Like when my mom left me with my dad because her boyfriend doesn’t want a daughter?” she says.
I don’t know how to answer that.
“No one thinks I’m listening because I’m small. But I always am. It’s the only way I learn anything important.”
“I believe it, honey. But you shouldn’t have to do that. You shouldn’t have to learn things that way.”
She shrugs, a slight movement I feel more than see.
“Your dad loves you,” I tell her. I know he does. Even with his questionable decision-making, I’ve seen it on his face. “And you know what? I do too.” I squeeze her shoulders.
I can feel her big, serious eyes on me. “I love you, Poppy,” she says solemnly. “But you’re my nanny, which means you’ll leave soon. My nannies never stay long.”
“It doesn’t matter how long we’ve known each other. You’re in here.” I press her hand to my heart. “And once you’re in my heart, you’re part of me and part of my whole family. I’m an O’Brien, so you’re one of us now. You can’t escape an O’Brien that easily.”
“Really?” Her voice is full of something I recognize. Something that sounds like hope. Tremulous, but it’s there.
“Really,” I say. “Once you’ve had Thanksgiving with us, you’re stuck for life. You can call me, write me, or visit me anytime you’re allowed.”
“I want that to be true.”
I smile. “You’ll see.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And maybe what I said is reckless. She’s right; I’m just the nanny with little power or control over her situation, so I shouldn’t be making promises. But I vow to do whatever it takes to make sure that Belle knows what it feels like to be loved and important while I’m here and for as long as I’m able to after they leave.
Once Belle’s breathing turns even and I know she’s fallen asleep, I tiptoe down the stairs. I was tempted to turn right and go straight to my room, but I need to keep my promise to Belle. Which means I need to have a conversation with Mr. Masters. My stomach flips with nerves at the idea of a confrontation. But this is too important to back away from.
My footsteps falter at the bottom of the staircase as I hear a noise from the kitchen. It occurs to me for the first time that Ronan might not be alone. He could have brought his model home. This is his house, after all. The urge to run and hide in my room is almost overwhelming. But Belle’s tear-stained face makes me square my shoulders and forge on.
I pad into the kitchen on bare feet, pulling at the sleeves of the sweater I put on earlier. So many hours, so many emotions ago. Then, I’d felt almost giddy with the crush I’d formed on Ronan. Now, I regret being that naïve girl.
I want to believe there’s a logical explanation. That he’d been working. But I saw all the party photos of him doing shots with his coworkers, and I saw him with that model. In one series of pictures, she was even sitting on his lap. He said he would be home early to spend time with Belle, and he hadn’t even called to say he would be late. I can’t explain that away.
When I see him, he’s alone. There’s no model. He’s looking out the window at the falling snow, holding a glass. He could be a man in a whiskey commercial, with his beautiful profile, brooding at the window, drink in hand. But then the differences emerge. He’s not drinking whiskey like some sophisticated playboy; he’s drinking a glass of water, looking defeated.
All my anger holds and falters on a pinpoint, and when he turns and looks at me with eyes that are red-rimmed with fatigue and what looks like pain, my anger shifts, turning and gentling in my heart.
I’m still upset for that little girl upstairs, but I can’t pretend that he’s the Hollywood party boy I’d built in my mind tonight. I can’t pretend he doesn’t care about Belle. Maybe he made a mistake, but everything he’s shown me up to this point says he’s trying his best, even if his best isn’t always good enough.
