Page 13 of Foster

Her eyebrows raise but she focuses on the batch of chicken she’s pulling from the cast-iron skillet. “You think he’d cross a line?”

“No, that’s not it either. It’s just… he has a bunch of rigid rules regarding the baby, none of which by themselves are concerning, but I get the impression that I won’t have a lot of latitude. On top of that, he’s just really austere and a little intimidating. At first I didn’t think that would be a problem because he’d be working and I’d be taking care of the baby, but after interviewing with Foster, who’s so laid-back and trusting of my abilities based on the Hamberlys’ recommendation, I’m wondering if I wouldn’t be happier in that environment.”

Mom places the last piece of cooked chicken on the platter and clicks off the stove. She turns to face me, kitchen tongs still in hand. “So basically, one job will be fewer hours and a more consistent schedule, but less pay. The other is a bit more demanding of your time, but for more money. Outside of that distinction, one dad seems very rigid and may be difficult to work for, the other laid-back and trusting of your skills.”

“Exactly,” I reply, not needing to add a single clarification.

“Seems like an easy choice to me,” Mom says, except she doesn’t tell me what the choice is. Because it’s not easy for me.

“The Titans dad, right?” I guess.

“Right.”

“But there might not be an actual job,” I remind her.

Mom grins at me. “This was the guy who handed you a blank check for a signing bonus.”

“Yeah, but I can’t just take some man’s check and fill in an amount. That’s, like… tacky.”

Chuckling, my mother shakes her head. “No, you could never do business that way, but it goes to show you that this is someone who really wants to hire you. Which means things are negotiable. Make a counteroffer that protects you.”

“Like what?” I ask.

Megan Archer is a brilliant woman and while she dispenses the most amazing advice, she doesn’t provide answers to her kids when they can find them on their own. She just waits me out.

I consider how to best protect myself. If I accept the job from Foster McInnis and he doesn’t get custody of his daughter, I’m going to miss out on a good opportunity with the other family. However, I won’t be unemployed for long. The need for good nannies in this area is immense, given the number of executive working parents. Pittsburgh has become a financial mecca in recent decades.

An idea strikes. “I know what to do,” I say with excitement.

“I suggest you go make your calls then because we have about five more minutes until dinner is ready. Hopefully Leo will be here by then.”

“On it.” I kiss Mom’s cheek. “Thanks.”

Rather than head upstairs to my room for privacy, I step out onto the back patio through the glass-paned wooden door off the kitchen. My father is an absolute craftsman and created this outdoor living space to match the rustic charm of the stone house.

It’s an open-air chamber of tranquility that marries the house with nature. The expansive stone, all uniquely shaped and sized, has been laid in a random pattern of autumn colors like sienna, ochre and charcoal. The ceiling is comprised of thin boards in a dark polished wood with subtle recessed lighting and a large fan in the center for hot summer nights. The beams supporting the wood canopy are rough cut and unadorned, contrary to the polished ceiling, but somehow it all works together.

My favorite parts are the gas lamp sconces my dad installed on both sides of the kitchen door and the cut stone columns that surround the edge of the patio. The lamps come on automatically at dusk, which is imminent, and the ambience of the flickering lights is truly magical.

Someone has already set the table—most likely my father, as he likes to be helpful when Mom is in cooking mode. It’s not fancy but it doesn’t need to be for our family. Regular plates, worn and scratched over the years, a folded paper towel on top of each, along with a fork and butter knife. In the center are trivets to hold the hot dishes and we’ll pass the food around family style. There aren’t any cups or glasses for drinks, as we’ll all help ourselves to whatever we want, but you can rest assured there’s a large pitcher of sweet tea my Georgian mom made chilling in the fridge. I know a lot of my northern friends gag over the sweetness of the drink but I was practically raised on it, and I drink far more of it than is healthy.

I pull a chair back from the table’s end and place a call to Foster McInnis. He answers on the third ring which surprises me as I assumed I’d get his voicemail. He clearly has my name programmed in his contacts because he merely says, “Mazzy?”

“Yeah… hi. Is this a good time to talk?” I ask.

I can hear the smile in his voice. “It is if you’re accepting the job.”

Laughing, I tuck a wavy lock behind my ear, then sift my fingers through the back of my hair. “I want to talk further about the job,” I correct him. “I have to admit I’m interested but if I accept with you, I lose out on the other opportunity. If you, God forbid, don’t get Bowie Jane, then I’m screwed.”

“So tell me how to make you feel better about it,” he says.

“You agree to pay me the monthly salary I would have gotten with the other offer until I can find another position. I’ll, in turn, promise to look diligently for something else, but I’ll need at least a three-month commitment from you to pay me. I should be able to find something easily in that time frame.”

“Deal.”

“Deal?” I echo back incredulously.

“Did you not want me to do what you just asked?” There’s playfulness in his voice. For some reason, it doesn’t irritate me but in turn amuses me.

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