Page 1 of The Baby-whisperer and the Brute
Chapter One
Window on the World
You can’t appreciate all the implications of the word “conflicted” until you come face to face with the guy you’ve been secretly lusting after for weeks—and then learn he’ll be signing your paychecks.– Angelina Rappaport
I scrubbed at the modeling clay under my nails, using a small brush to dislodge the stubborn stuff. The children had enjoyed “art day” at the preschool where I worked even more today than they usually did.
The high-spirited three, four, and five-year-olds were more excited abouteverythingthese days—it was the last two weeks of school before summer break.
Unfortunately, that meant the schoolroom, and their teacher—me—were also a bit messier than usual.
My shirt and skirt were splotched with acrylic paint—washable, thank God. My long, thick hair bore the evidence of the day’s first project which had involved white glue. And glitter.
Lots and lots of glitter.Ugh.
Laughing at my disheveled appearance in the mirror, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower.
Washing my hair hadn’t been in my plans for the day—it was too much of an ordeal to do daily—but there was no choice in the matter now. I was expected at my next-door neighbors’ house this evening.
They were literal royalty—nice people, but still, you didn’t show up at the front door of a prince and princess looking like a walking, talking glitter bomb.
After my shower, I sat in front of my bedroom window, drying my long locks. It always took forever, but at least the ocean view and warm breeze were enjoyable.
My room was in the top of the stone turret that centered the rear of my family’s historic Eastport Bay, Rhode Island mansion. It was a modern castle of a house, built during America’s Gilded Age in 1891.
Clearly, my ancestors had harbored a fascination with Europe and its royal palaces because the waterfront home could easily have suited a monarch with more than a hundred rooms including an opulent ballroom.
Not that anyone used all those rooms anymore. For all of my twenty-three years, only my mother and I had lived here, and Mother wasnotthe ball type or the cocktail party type either. We’d never had overnight guests, and even daytime visitors were rare.
As a child, I’d pretended I was a fairytale princess trapped in my lonely tower, waiting for a prince or even a willing dragon to come along and free me.
Now I loved the room for its unusual circular shape, refreshing sea breezes, and especially for its vantage point on the bay and the Bluff Walk that bordered it.
The Bluff Walk was among Eastport Bay’s top tourist attractions, a busy pedestrian path that divided the back lawns of the city’s famous Oceanview Avenue mansions and the rocky cliffs that dropped into the Atlantic Ocean they presided over.
More than a million visitors a year walked the path, which was in places wide and smoothly paved. Here at the southern end of Oceanview Avenue, where it curved and met Atlantic Avenue, the Bluff Walk was more rugged. Pavement gave way to the natural rocky New England shoreline, necessitating a sure foot and a bit more attention to navigate.
There was always something to see when I sat at my window.
I loved watching the seabirds soar and dive into the deep gray-blue water, fishing for their meals. In winter there were harbor seals to look for and breaching whales to observe from April to October.
Best of all were the people of all sorts and shapes and sizes.
Already today I’d seen a group of women walking together in their stretchy shorts and t-shirts, their laughter so loud it reached my tower and made me smile.
Several young families had trekked to the end of the path and made their way back, leaving their strollers behind temporarily in order to make it to the very end of the path’s roughest part.
And then there were the joggers. Always plenty of those. The three-and-a half-mile length of the path paired with the cooling ocean breeze made it a perfect exercise venue.
Here was one now. Oh, I recognized him.
This one ran a little faster than the usual jogger. I assumed he always got on the path somewhere near the middle. If he’d started at its beginning point, he’d have to possess amazing stamina to still be running this hard near the end of it.
I’d noticed him for the first time about two weeks ago, his incongruous speed catching my eye along with his unusual height and his head of thick, dark hair, which gleamed in the afternoon sunlight on clear days.
He ran morningsandlate afternoons, which might account for that unusual speed and stamina.
Today he wore a bright red t-shirt, and as I brushed and dried my hair, my eyes followed the scarlet beacon until it disappeared around the bend.
