Page 6 of The Guests on South Battery
“Family bed?”
“A bad idea.”
“Bottles in the crib?”
“Never. Rots their teeth.”
“Spanking?”
“Time-out chair is more effective.”
“Cloth or disposable?”
“Disposable.”
“Baby French lessons?”
“Ridiculous.”
“Infant beauty pageants?”
Jayne sent me a sidewise glance. “Seriously? You don’t seem the type.”
I smiled. “I’m not—just checking.” I pushed my chair back from the desk. “So, it just happens that I’m looking for a nanny for my ten-month-old twins. Their last one left rather suddenly and we’re a bit desperate, I’m afraid. It seems as if we agree on many child-rearing issues. If you’re interested, I’d love for you to come meet them and allow us to get to know each other better. Perhaps even make it a permanent thing if it all works out.”
She practically beamed and I had to restrain myself from doing cartwheels around the room and giving myself fist bumps. “I’m definitely interested,” she said.
“Good. I’ll have to do a background check, of course.”
“Absolutely. I can give you all the contact information from my agency in Birmingham, as well as references from my last three families. I think you’ll be happy with my past performance.”
I pulled out one of my business cards from the holder on my desk and handed it to her. I waited for her to say something about the multiple phone numbers, but instead she responded by sliding her own card across the desk toward me. I picked it up and saw that she had two cell phone numbers. I looked at her and smiled, feeling as if I had finally met a kindred spirit.
“Because you never know when one phone will stop working or has a dead battery,” she explained.
“Exactly.” My smile widened. “It’s so nice to finally meet somebody who thinks ahead. Everybody else seems to only understand how to live in the minute.”
Jayne stood, too. “I know, right? It can be annoying to be the only one prepared for the ‘just in case’ scenario.” She reached her hand across the desk and we shook. “It’s a pleasure meeting you. I’ll get all my information together and bring it over later today so you can get started with my background check. And call me anytime to set up an appointment to meet your children and husband.”
“And to go over and look at the Pinckney house. I’ll check with Sophie about her availability and let you know.”
Her smile dimmed. “All right. I guess the sooner we start, the sooner we can get it sold.”
We said good-bye and I returned to my desk, spotting the pink slips Jolly had given me. Two were from my annoying cousin and Jack’s ex-girlfriend, Rebecca, and one was from the journalist at thePost and Courier, Suzy Dorf, who had an abnormal interest in me and my house. Since I would have preferred to stick a knitting needle into my eyeball rather than speak with either of them, I folded each note up into tiny little squares, then placed them in the bottom of my trash can.
It was only when I picked up the phone to call Sophie that I realized the presence was gone, leaving only the fresh scent of rain as evidence that it had ever been there at all.
CHAPTER 3
Despite my battered and bruised feet, I nearly skipped home. It had been a long day, the bright spot being Skyping with Jack while he fed the babies their lunches of strained peas and pureed peaches. He’d still worn the T-shirt and pajama bottoms he’d slept in, but I refrained from commenting. I’d come to understand that writers had a few eccentricities I had to learn to live with. Not scheduling certain things like dressing in the morning or vetting one’s sock and underwear drawer on a monthly basis were just a few of the quirks to which I was making an effort to adjust.
I couldn’t wait to get home and kiss my babies and tell Jack that not only did I have a lead on a nanny, but I had three new clients—in addition to Jayne Smith—and six house showings already scheduled for the rest of the week. They’d all seen the ad I’d placed in the latest edition ofCharlestonMagazine, for which Nola had suggested including a picture of Jack and me, all three children, and the dogs in front of my Tradd Street house. She said it would make people believe that I knew what people meant when they said they were looking for a family home, and that I understood that historic homes were meant to be lived in.
I wasn’t sure I believed all that, but if it helped me sell houses, so beit. During my downtime, in which I’d dealt with the prospect of losing my home, an angry ghost, a difficult pregnancy that included months of bed rest, and my undefined relationship with Jack, I’d lost out on two news-making sales in Charleston—the Chisholm-Alston Greek Revival purchased by a well-known international fashion designer and the old, dilapidated yet still magnificent Renaissance mansion known as Villa Margherita on South Battery. I’d cried for days after learning those homes had sold and I hadn’t been the one to broker the deals. If anything, my anguish meant that my competitive spirit, dormant for so long, had reemerged kicking and screaming.
It was a good thing, considering we owed Nola for the money she’d given us to purchase the house when my ownership was contested. She was already a successful songwriter, having sold two songs to pop artist Jimmy Gordon and having one of them featured in an iPhone commercial, and she’d willingly given us the money, but neither Jack nor I would feel good about it until we paid her back in full with interest. Despite recent career setbacks, Jack had just signed a healthy two-book contract with his new publisher, but we were still trying to recover financially. Not to mention the fact that we owned an old house whose favorite hobby seemed to be hemorrhaging money.
My pace slowed as I neared my house, catching sight of not only Sophie’s white Prius parked at the curb, but also Rich Kobylt’s truck still in the same spot as I’d last seen it. This couldn’t be good. I hadn’t been able to reach Sophie when I tried earlier, and I wondered if she’d been avoiding speaking to me on the phone. She mistakenly believed that people would prefer bad news to be delivered in person. I didn’t, simply because if there were no witnesses to me hearing the news, then I could pretend it never happened.
