Page 1 of Coast to Coast

CALLIOPE

Ileft the interview at the small café in Little Italy, knowing I’d bombed it. How could I have graduated second in my class at Boston University without the social skills to be hired anywhere in Boston?

I hated taking money from my parents to pay rent, buy groceries, and pay to live. Six months ago, I thought I had everything figured out. I had earned a coveted marketing internship at a tech startup and was dating a co-worker (yeah, I missed that red flag). I was expecting to be offered a full-time gig right after graduation. I only had to crush the final presentation.

I still viscerally felt the humiliation as my so-called boyfriend presented my five-year marketing plan to the board as his work. I ran from the boardroom and ignored the litany of text messages from Zander that arrived throughout the night.

Zander: Callie, you know I needed that more than you did.

Me: No, that was my work. That was yours to win on your own merit. You stole my work.

Zander: But you have your parents to fall back on. Callie, I have nothing.

That was the last text that came through because I blocked Zander’s number after that. I had never considered that maybe he resented the differences between our families. My father was the CEO of a major pharmaceutical corporation, his salary was public knowledge, and he was frequently vilified in the press. Zander’s father was an alcoholic who’d recovered while he was in college and recently lapsed. I had always resisted dating people my parents tried to set me up with and thought that I’d found someone in Zander who loved me for me. But nope.

He had seen my abilities and thought he could use me to get ahead. And then thought that I would forgive and forget.

After the interview, I walked around Little Italy, finding myself in front of Modern Pastry on Hanover Street. If all else failed, I could order myself a cannoli. How could you be miserable while eating a cannoli? Minutes later, I allowed the powdered sugar to scatter all over my shirt and suit jacket, not caring that I was a disaster as I waited for the hit of sugary sweetness to soothe my soul.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I looked at the screen to see the name Monica Drew on the screen and a picture of me with my best friend at my college graduation party. I made a mental note to update the photo; the reminder of my once bright future was more like salt in a wound nowadays.

“Hey,” I answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing right now?” she asked, her voice breathy, almost like she’d been running.

“Oh, I’m just eating my feelings, you know. Another failed job interview,” I answered, shrugging, catching the attention of some of the other patrons. With my earbuds in my ears and powdered sugar coating my blazer, I looked like I was talking to myself. I scowled back. I mean, I was in the middle of Boston. There was no way this was the first time they’d seen someone talking to themselves.

“Cannoli?” Monica asked.

“How’d you guess?” I guess I was predictable. Cannoli’s had been my emotional support snack for years; the sweet, creamy pastry had seen me through a record number of crises. I’d been back to the pastry shop almost daily in recent weeks.

“Let’s just say I know you too well. But right now, I’m gonna need you to dust off your shirt and get to Beacon Hill in a half hour. I have a job for you.”

I should be embarrassed that Monica knew my shirt was coated with sugar, but we’d been through much more over the years.

“Oh God, Mon. Why do I feel like this is bigger than just a job? You didn’t even try to ask me how many trips I made to the bakery this week,” I said. My friend had checked in on me relentlessly since my failed presentation, but she’d allowed me to eat as much pastry as I wanted without explaining. It was exactly what I needed.

“Just trust me, it’s perfect for you. And the pay is enough to get you off your parents’ bankroll. You love traveling, too.”

“What is it?” I asked. Monica wouldn’t lie to me, but I couldn’t imagine she would have a position in my wheelhouse.

“I can’t tell you much more until you sign an NDA.” Monica was a personal assistant to several high-profile clients and was constantly in contact with people who needed NDAs. To her, agreeing to an interview without knowing what the job entailedwas par for the course. We hung up the phone, and I looked in my e-mail inbox for the documents.

Curiosity killed the cat because less than five minutes later, I’d signed the NDA and turned to Google to run a search on the parties: Tom Campbell, Sam Drummond, and Kelsey Drummond. There, I learned that the men were professional athletes. I still couldn’t figure out how I fit into this equation until I found a brief article on their little boy’s paternity results.

No.

Me to Monica: Is this a Nanny position?!?!

Monica: Kind of.

Me: ‘Kind of’ being a nanny is like being a little bit pregnant. You either are, or aren’t a nanny.

Monica: OK. It’s definitely a nanny position.

Me: Why would you set me up to be a Nanny?

Monica then sent me the salary and benefits disclosure, and my jaw dropped. It also included first-class travel reimbursement nationwide and room and board in Colorado and Boston.