Page 89 of Nine Week Nanny
"Girl, you can talk to me any time. I mean it. Nothing is off limits for me."
I smile, grateful for my unexpected friendship. We spend the rest of lunch catching up on where we went to school, my grad school degree, her surfing hobby. It was exactly what I needed for a recharge.
Lunch leaves me lighter, steadier. On the drive back, I decide to stop by my apartment instead of the house.
I pull into the lot, the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air as I push the door open. Dust motes dance in light filtered through blinds I forgot to open. It's a ghost of a personal space.
The kitchen smells faintly like something gone off, possibly some of the milk I poured out didn't get fully washed through the pipes. I turn on the water and disposal and let them run for a minute.
Crossing the living room, I throw open the windows, inviting the sea breeze to renew the air. It rustles papers on my counter, next to a stack of unread mail.
I flip through them absentmindedly. It's just flyers and magazines with coupons for local businesses. Beneath them, a crinkled envelope from Coastal Children's Behavioral Health. I hold my breath, fingers hovering over the flap, but leave it unopened for later.
Stepping into my bedroom, I scan the crooked shelf, packed tight with books I haven’t touched in weeks. I want something with mystery, distance, and an escape.
I tuck the book under my arm and breathe in the stale air, flat and heavy, no matter how wide I open the windows. Today is an excellent opportunity to sit on the beach and read with several hours to kill. I could use some salt therapy.
Closing the window and locking up behind me, I slide back into the driver’s seat and let the familiar route carry me toward the ocean.
I pull into Pope's driveway, the car tires crunching over crushed shell as the mid-afternoon sun casts honey-gold light across the landscaped yard. My finger hovers over the garage door opener when movement catches my eye.
Three men in matching navy polos haul equipment across the lawn. One carries a metal framework while another struggles with what looks like an enormous white screen folded into sections.
What in the world?
I step out of the car, novel still clutched in my hand, as a fourth worker wheels a cart holding speakers and what appears to be a projector.
"Excuse me," I call, approaching the nearest man. "What are you setting up?"
He barely glances at me. "Just getting things ready, ma'am."
Ma'am. Great. Nothing makes me feel more like the help than being ma'amed by other service people.
"I'm the—" I stop myself from saying nanny. "I manage the household schedule. Pope didn't mention any installation today."
A different worker hefts a heavy black case from a van. "Boss called this morning. Rush job."
"For what exactly?" I press, watching as they begin assembling frame pieces that must be at least twelve feet tall.
"Movie screen," he offers with a shrug. "Projector setup. Should be done in an hour."
My stomach tightens. A movie night? Some kind of surprise for Lennon that Pope didn't think to mention to me? Or worse, are guests coming over I haven't been told about?
I linger by the edge of the lawn, arms crossed, watching as the massive screen takes shape against the backdrop of swaying palms. The framework rises piece by piece, workers calling measurements to each other as they secure connections.
Whatever this is, Pope clearly didn't think I needed to know. After everything we've shared, I'm still just the nanny who doesn't warrant updates on household plans.
I turn and head inside, the cool air of the house raising goosebumps on my arms. I drop my book on the kitchen counter and place my purse in its usual spot on the shelf. The silence of the empty house wraps around me.
Upstairs, I change into shorts and a light t-shirt, listening to the muffled voices of the workers outside.
I step outside, leaving the rumble of the workers behind. The pool house door swings open with a hiss of warm, chlorine-tinged air.
Inside, I grab a folding chair from the corner and snag a chilled water bottle from the fridge, moving with the same restless energy buzzing under my skin.
Sand grinds under my sandals as I cross the path. The straps bite a little when the grains slip through, gritty against skin.
At the top of the dune, a breeze greets me, warm with salt and a faint edge of seaweed. The beach stretches wide and quiet, the horizon steady in a way I can’t seem to be.
