Page 6 of Hold My Heart

Chapter 2

Harlan Anderson waslooking forward to working again. It had been too long in between jobs. His last high-paying tutor gig was on hold for summer break and he hadn’t found a caregiving position in the last year. Wow, had it been a year already? He was losing track of his days.

It seemed there were more and more people who were uncomfortable with the idea of a manny—a male nanny. Heaven forbid anyone with facial hair apply to take care of their children. As if only women could be nannies. Only women could be good around kids and have their best interests at heart.

It wasn’t fair, although it had helped him better understand the struggles women faced in the working world. The general public was under the impression that some jobs belonged solely to women and others solely to men. The dichotomy was alive and well.

He’d sure turned a few heads when he went into child care as a full-time profession. More so when he decided to become a private manny. There was nothing he loved more than flipping a stereotype. It gave him a perverse sense of pleasure.

The old Victorian home he found himself looking up at was a sweet dedication to times past. The gables and corbels and whatever the hell they were called decorated the outside of the house, painted in vibrant shades of green and blue and pink. It was the flamingo of the neighborhood, standing out amidst its more modern and muted peers.

It was perfect.

Harlan had a feeling this job was going to be a game changer. Not because of any tangible reason. Just one of those vague gut feelings he’d learned to trust over the years. The woman who’d reached out to contact him was well respected in the community—he’d done an internet search on her name for intel—and from the sound of her voice over the phone, she needed help. A lot of it. Immediately. It wasn’t fair to say she was stressed, never having met her in person, but he had a way of telling. It was a sixth sense. And it was that sixth sense that also made him damn good with children.

He drew his bag over his shoulder and took a deep, steadying breath. There was no reason to be nervous. This wasn’t his first manny gig.But it is the most important, his subconscious argued. If he did a good job here, then word of mouth around town would improve and he might be able to have a steady paycheck for once. His other jobs had been small. Out of town. The kind no one paid attention to. He craved stability and a long-term commitment.

His footsteps echoed along the flagstone path. Once he made it to the door, hand poised to knock, he noticed the muted squawks he’d thought were birds were actually coming from inside the house.

No one answered him after a few minutes of knocking, and finally Harlan tried the doorknob and found it unlocked.

The second he had the door open, sound assaulted him, a cacophonous array of tinkling baby music and voices raised in a screaming match.

Ooh boy.

He took the liberty of letting himself inside, closing the door behind him. “Hello? Mrs. Trumbald? It’s Harlan Anderson. You called me about potential caretaking for your ward?”

Once again, he was greeted not with a welcome but with a crash, something plastic flung against a wall and bouncing off.

“Hello?” he said again, making sure he covered all his bases in case someone tried to argue that he hadn’t made his presence known. Parents could be testy, especially new parents running on little sleep.

From what he understood, the child in question was only four years old. Prime tantrum age.

He followed the noises into a kitchen near the back of the house. Eyes widening, he took in the scene, the bubbling pot of macaroni and cheese on the stove top. The microwave timer beeping frantically. The screaming red-faced toddler strapped into a high chair and the woman with her back hunched despondently, hands on either side of the sink, water running and hair falling over her face.

“Mrs. Trumbald?”

If she was surprised by his entrance, she made no indication. Instead, she turned slowly and wiped a hand beneath her eyes to clear the smeared mascara away.

“Please tell me you’re here to help,” she said, her voice caught between a plea and a sigh. “Are you Mr. Anderson?”

This was a woman who’d reached the end of her rope, he thought, setting his bag on the table and holding out a hand in introduction. The little girl seemed to be okay for the moment, apart from her rosy cheeks and tears. But he’d seen it all before, and knew that once he made quick work of introductions, he could handle the situation.

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Harlan Anderson,” he offered.

“Olympia Trumbald. And I’m a widow, so you don’t need to bother with themissusbit. Olympia will do just fine.”

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