Page 39 of Nine Week Nanny
“Understood. I will be in touch today.”
“Thank you.”
I head for the garage. The air is cool and smells like concrete dust. I slide into the Maserati, and the AC hits my face. It still feels warm.
This is temporary. One day at a time. Calls behind a closed door, working lunches off-site, and the conference rooms at the hospital for the sensitive pieces. It will be fine.
I can do anything for a short time.
Sloane edges into my thoughts. Bare feet on my kitchen tile, her long hair loose.
Professional distance, I remind myself.
Traffic moves along Ocean Boulevard. I keep it steady and loosen my tie as I roll my shoulders. But the stress sits between them like a rock.
The office is not the problem. The kid is not the problem. The problem is her in my home, close enough to hear her voice and smell her shampoo, while I am supposed to keep a line.
I pull into the drive and cut the engine. For a moment, I don't move. My hands stay on the wheel. I draw a slow breath and count it out.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out of the cupholder and see it's from Lenoir.
Building superintendent says environmental team is on site. No timeline yet. Possible material removal pending moisture readings. I will keep searching for swing space.
No timeline. Which means plan for longer.
From inside the house, I hear a chair scrape on stone, then a light laugh. It carries through the open courtyard before the door closes again.
I pick up my bag and step out of the car.
Professional distance. Nothing else.
ELEVEN
Sloane
I shield my eyes from the bright Palm Beach sun, watching Lennon methodically fill and empty his blue plastic bucket with damp sand. The rhythmic scrape of his shovel against the sandbox edge has a soothing quality, like a metronome keeping time while my mind races ahead.
"And what about the staff-to-child ratio?" I ask, finishing outlining the star I doodled at the top of the notepad in the caregiver binder I started yesterday.
"We maintain about one staff member to four children," Dr. Serrano explains through the speaker. Her voice carries the calm assurance of someone who's answered these questions a thousand times. "For children needing extra support, we can adjust as needed."
I double over the numbers I doodled several times, making it extra thick and black. "And the daily schedule? You mentioned it's a half-day?"
"Yes, we run from 12:30 to 4:30, Monday through Friday. Most families appreciate that window. It gives them mornings for appointments or quiet time at home."
Perfect timing for us, allowing for our homeschool schedule in the morning.
A seagull lands near the sandbox, and Lennon freezes, watching it with intense concentration before it flies away. He returns to his sandcastle without a word.
"What about children who are processing loss?" I keep my voice steady and clinical. "Do you have staff trained in trauma-informed approaches?"
“We see a lot of children working through different things like anxiety, behavioral challenges, and sometimes big transitions at home. Our staff isn’t made up of therapists, but everyone here is trained in trauma-responsive practices. We keep the groups small and the days short so kids never feel lost in the crowd. It’s not therapy, but being outside, learning to care for living things, and working alongside peers. All of that can be incredibly healing.”
This isn’t therapy, but it doesn’t need to be. Kids regulate in nature. Sand and water hit the senses without demanding words. Caring for crabs or shells gives them a safe way to project feelings they can’t say out loud.
It’s not about making him “better.” It’s about giving him space. A short day, a small group, week-to-week flexibility. No grades, no labels. Just room to breathe. That’s exactly what he needs.
Plus, it will eleviate having to bring in the weekend nanny for a few hours each day. I can keep the hours to the required forty and give him a fresh, healthy outlet.
