Page 46 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“You like it here?” the child replied, his curious tone softening. He wasn’t expecting her to agree.
This was progress. Step one: find something you have in common with the kid. When she worked those mermaid parties, she always made sure to amp up the enthusiasm.
“Sure, this place looks awesome. You have your own creek, and who wouldn’t want to eat grilled cheese sandwiches every day? By the way,” she added, slipping one of Oscar’s pictures from her tote. “I see you like to make your grilled cheese sandwiches super-cheesy,” she finished, sliding the Polaroid under the door.
Little fingers snapped it up. “I can make peanut butter and banana sandwiches, too. And I get to use the big knife to cut it into triangles.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” she answered, catching a glimpse of his sneakers through the gap between the floor and the door.
“So, I can stay at my house?” Oscar pressed, his voice losing the hothead edge.
“Sorry, buddy, that’s not my call,” she answered gently.
“But you don’t like my dad, either,” the child exclaimed, sliding a photo facedown under the door. She picked it up and gasped. It was the picture he’d taken from the tree of her and Mitch. From the bird’s-eye view, with their bodies less than an inch apart, it looked as if they were about to kiss. And then the moment came back to her—Mitch’s vulnerability and her inability to resist the man.
“I don’t dislike your dad. But he sure can be a hothead when he wants to,” she added.
The boy giggled. “A hothead?”
“Yes, it’s a funny word, isn’t it?”
“I like it! Hothead, hothead, hothead,” the boy repeated, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Do you want to see something, Charlotte?”
“I’d love to,” she answered, listening as Oscar disengaged the lock on the bedroom door, then peeked out.
“I took a picture of my dad when he was a super-duper hothead,” he said, handing her a Polaroid as he came out of his room wearing a worn army-green backpack, then plopped down onto the floor beside her. She pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh as she studied the photo. Mitch stood in the center of the room, red-cheeked and squeezing the bridge of his nose. She’d seen this version of the man more times than she could count in the Crystal Cricket kitchen.
She set the photo on the floor, then turned to Oscar. It was her first chance to get a good look at the boy. And even without the child’s temper, the resemblance to Mitch was uncanny. They shared the same stormy blue eyes and the same strong, stubborn set of their jaw.
“I’m calling that picturethe hothead,” Oscar announced
“Did you take it with a Polaroid?” she asked, knowing he did but wanting to give him the chance to share.
“Yep,” the boy replied, slipping off his worn pack, then removed the camera. He held it up as if he were presenting the Crown Jewels.
“You have a good eye. You captured the moment,” she replied, remembering that she also had a picture of Mitch. She reached into her bag. “Would you like to see one of my pictures?”
“You have a Polaroid camera, too?” he asked. “I like the noise it makes when the picture comes out,” the boy finished, then emitted a grinding, guttural sound mimicking the camera.
“No, I have a Nikon,” she answered, handing it to the child.
“It’s nice and all, but it doesn’t print a picture right there in like two seconds,” Oscar commented.
She chuckled. “It doesn’t. But I can see every shot I take here,” she replied, turning on the camera and activating the LCD screen. Then gasped as the last picture she’d taken appeared.
“Is that my dad?” the child asked.
The glow of the food truck blurred behind the image of a man—Mitch—whose expression held an intense honesty that mesmerized her. The darkness dotted with hazy light surrounded him, giving the picture an ethereal quality. But it wasn’t the background that left her speechless. It was the subject. Mitch stared into the camera as if he’d wanted to show her his soul. There was nothing wooden or hollow about the photo. It held a beautiful melancholy quality that broke her heart while simultaneously igniting a kernel of hope deep in her chest. Shaking her head, she could hardly believe she’d taken the photo.
“Yes, that’s him,” she answered.
“He looks like the opposite of a hothead,” the boy remarked as the two of them stared at the image.
Wasn’t that the truth!
“He does,” she answered, assessing the composition. It was a good shot—an exceptionally good shot.
A shot worthy of the Royal College of Art.
