Page 9 of Foster

“But you should stay and sing,” I say, noting that Leo’s open hard case on the stage beside him is sprinkled with fives, tens and even a twenty, while mine has a few one-dollar bills. It’s not that Leo is a better singer or musician than me—we both are fucking good—but the coffeehouse is probably eighty percent women and everyone who approached the stage to tip us veered toward his case.

Geriatric patron Mr. Porter, who drinks tea at his favorite table by the window every Saturday, is the one who graciously tipped me the dollar bills, which is a lot given he doesn’t have much money. Over the years I’ve had conversations with him, I’ve learned he lives in a fixed-rent, senior-living apartment and depends on his social security income to get by. He can stretch a cup of tea into an hour, bopping his head along to our music, even though most of it he doesn’t know.

I hop off my stool, grab the ones in my case and toss them into Leo’s. He needs them and I don’t. Leo leans into the microphone and gives a sexy smile. “Folks… how about a big round of applause for Mazzy Archer? She’s got to hustle off to another gig but I’m going to stick around for a while, so settle in with another cup.”

Smiling, I acknowledge the rousing cheer because while the women here may be lusting after Leo, there’s no doubt that my music is appreciated. I lift a hand in acknowledgment, sling my backpack over my shoulder and nab my guitar case by the handle.

Leo covers the microphone again. “Text me later and let me know about the interview.”

“Will do.”

“And we’re still on for tomorrow at six?” he asks, eyes filled with hope.

I laugh. “Yes. Dinner at my parents’ house, six p.m. sharp.”

“Sweet,” he says, and I know he’s already salivating for my mom’s fried chicken. My mother hails from Georgia and even though she’s been in Pittsburgh for almost thirty years, she still cooks from her southern heart.

“Later,” I say to Leo as he pulls on inspiration from his T-shirt and starts plucking the cords of “Silent Lucidity.” He and I actually do a beautiful, harmonized rendition of this song, but he freaking kills it on his own. I’m forgotten and no one watches as I walk out of the coffeehouse and across the street to where my car is parallel parked.

I drive an Audi Q3, my one big splurge from the generous salary the Hamberlys paid me. Because I was an almost full-time live-in with them, I had no rent or utilities. On my days off, I would stay with my parents over in Mt. Lebanon, so I’ve managed to save up an incredible amount of money in the 401(k) the Hamberlys started for me, as well as in individual investment accounts my dad helped me set up.

Opening the rear hatch, I place my guitar in gently, toss my backpack in behind it, and grab my keys and phone from the back pouch. The SUV is a push-button start engine, so I toss the keys in the cup holder. I take a moment to plug in the address from the text Sasha sent and am relieved to see that with lazy Saturday traffic, it will put me there five minutes early.

Disregard for punctuality is a pet peeve of mine, so I always try to be a little early. On the rare occasion that I might be a few minutes late, I chastise myself hard. Checking for traffic in my side mirror, I pull out and head over to Squirrel Hill where Pittsburgh Titans hockey player Foster McInnis lives.

♦

The hockey player’s house is imposing, as are all the houses in the affluent neighborhood of Squirrel Hill. Still, it’s not as large as the mega mansion the Hamberlys owned in Oakmont, so nothing about it is intimidating.

I had a middle-class upbringing with two very successful parents as role models. My mother, a chemical engineer with PPG, is highly educated and analytical. My father is an entrepreneur at heart and has owned his own commercial landscaping business for the last twenty-five years. He went into manual labor upon graduating high school while my mom went off for seven years of university, earning a bachelor’s, master’s and ultimately a PhD.

I’m part of a blended family but it’s the absolute best family. I never knew my biological father—he wanted nothing to do with my mom after she got pregnant with me twenty-eight years ago when she was just twenty-five and starting her career at PPG. She met Kyle Archer, a handsome man who had his own start-up cutting grass around her workplace, when I was two.

Divorced, he had two boys who were six and nine and they split time between parents. Kyle fell in love with and married my mom and I had a new dad, and he’s been my dad in all ways ever since. Never a stepfather, Kyle adopted me and I became an Archer through and through. My two older brothers, Brian and Tim, immediately became overprotective, overbearing and completely nonsensical when it came to me. They embraced their new little sister and deemed it their duty to watch over me alongside their dad.

But our family wasn’t done growing. Our families melded, Mom rose in the ranks of PPG, and Dad’s business boomed, and because my parents apparently thought that their lives weren’t chaotic enough, they had a baby eleven years into their marriage. I was thirteen, Tim was seventeen, and Brian was twenty and off to college at Penn State.

When people ask why I’m a nanny, I can honestly say I came by it naturally and to an extent, by default. With two career parents and a soon-to-be eighteen-year-old brother who was so into his girlfriend at the time he was hardly ever home, I was the go-to person to help raise my new baby brother, Mason, and my second one who came along two years later, Landon.

My parents never asked or demanded of me the extra time I put into helping with the two babies. They had, in fact, hired a nanny to watch the boys while they worked and when Tim and I were at school.

But when I wasn’t in school or playing music with Leo, I doted on Mason and Landon. I love them so much and it was a calling in my heart. I thought at first maybe it was just the novelty of having babies in the house—I loved everything from changing poopy diapers to rocking them to sleep after their baths. My parents often joked they had to beat me off the boys so they could have time with them after work.

It wasn’t a baby thing, though. I loved the toddler years just as much, and while I don’t have as close a hand in the boys’ upbringing now since they’re twelve and fourteen and completely self-sufficient (which is how our parents raised all of us), I get a kick out of watching them go through hormones and puberty and crushes on girls, dealing with acne and outgrowing their clothes every three months. What’s best about that though, is they come to me for advice, and we can talk about anything.

At any rate, when it came time for me to graduate high school, I had no interest in going off to college. I’m a reasonably smart girl, although not close to genius the way my mom is, or dedicated to knowledge the way Brian and Tim are. I was more the entrepreneur and my dad encouraged me to find my own path, even if it wasn’t going to college.

I took my first nanny job when I was nineteen after a year of waitressing at a downtown steakhouse. I wasn’t in that job for more than two days before I knew I’d found my calling.

The last four years with the Hamberlys have been a dream and I was devastated when they both got transferred to London with Norcross Holdings. They asked me to come along and even offered an insane salary increase because they love me as much as I love them. Let’s not even talk about the emotional attachment between me and their kids.

But in the end, I couldn’t bear to leave my family. My parents and brothers—the ones at home and those who have flown the coop—are my life, and I can’t imagine ever leaving Pittsburgh as long as they’re here. Brian and Tim both have jobs in the city and are married, although I haven’t been graced with nieces or nephews yet.

It’s my family I’m thinking of and our monthly family dinner tomorrow as I walk up to the front door of Foster McInnis’s house. I’d have every right to be irritated that I’m spending hours out of my day in what I think is futility, but I don’t mind doing this favor the Hamberlys asked of me. My mind is pretty much set on accepting a job offer from a couple with a new baby, and while the salary isn’t exactly what I’ve been making, the hours aren’t as tedious. I figure, however, I can hear what Mr. McInnis has to say and maybe even offer him some help finding the perfect person for him.

I ring the doorbell, pocketing my car keys, and when the door swings open, I’m not prepared for the stunning man standing before me. It never once occurred to me that he would be handsome, not that it has any bearing on anything, but he’s so good-looking, I’m momentarily speechless. His dark hair is longish on top, shorter on the sides, and looks like it was styled only by a quick running of his fingers through it. His strong jaw is covered with thick stubble but it’s his light hazel eyes fringed in dark lashes that hit me with a case of the stupids.

“You must be Mary Elizabeth,” he says, offering a hand. “I’m Foster McInnis.”

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