Page 16 of Kiss Me Again

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“I thought you’d be eager to meet him.”

“I like the mom. Mostly. And she divorced him for a reason.”

Mom nods knowingly. “And you’re worried he’ll bad mouth her to you?”

“I’m just hoping everything is as amicable as everyone says it is.”

“Only one way to find out.”

I shrug and head out. The directions to his office are simple enough, and it’s not like Somerset Harbor is very big, so I have no chance of getting lost. But something about meeting the kids’ father doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe it’s because Abigail won’t be there to defend herself. Whatever it is, I’m not looking forward to hearing some middle-aged dude whine about his ex-wife and bitch about child support.

On the way to his office, I practice some self-talk that I think could help. “It’s just a gig. Not a career. Don’t take it too seriously. Calm down.”

Maybe that’s the real core of the problem. Mom is right to worry that I could feel lost by taking this job. As much as I’m not ready to be in a kitchen again, I’m also not looking forward to a swerve in my career.

Turning onto Main, I get a text. “Apologies. I must cancel our meeting. Something came up at work. Instead, meet me at 3:30 at Billingsley Academy? I can meet you and put you onto the pick-up list for the kids at the same time. We will head to the house after so I can show you around.”

I slam on the brakes and bark curses, making the person behind me probably do the same thing to avoid hitting me. “Sorry,” I wave them off and pull into a slanted parking space in front of a tiny furniture boutique downtown. Re-reading the text half a dozen times, I’m still just as irritated as the first.

This guy thinks nothing of putting me out like this. These are the people I’ll be working for. Super.

Part of me wants to tell him to forget it all. But if I do that, it’ll look bad on Aria, since she went to bat for me on this. At Billingsley, reputation is everything. Hell, the same is true of Somerset Harbor. I can’t do that to my friend. More than that, if I were to reopen my restaurant in Manhattan, for the first few months, I still wouldn’t be making this kind of money.

Even though I have a feeling this indicates the treatment I’ll be receiving while I nanny for them, I text him agreeably. Then I toss my phone a little too hard at the passenger seat.

The good news is, the dad won’t be around much. Since he works all the time, my on-the-clock time will be with the kids. The bad news is, I have three hours to kill because their dad is an inconsiderate ass.

Looking up and down Main Street, I settle on a walk to cool down. In my lifetime, the furniture boutique has been a bookstore, a birdwatching store, a flower shop, and a kitsch store selling those welcome mats with inspirational messages like, “Live, Laugh, Leave.”

The furniture inside is gorgeous hand-carved stuff at high prices, and the man behind the counter is a sexy lumberjack type. When he asks if he can help me, to make it clear I am not interested, I ask, “Any idea where I can get ice cream around here?”

“You came here looking for ice cream?”

“Nope. Just lost. Haven’t been around in a while.”

“Four doors down, Beans and Things.”

“I thought that was just coffee.”

He shrugs. “They sell all kinds of things there. Get the pistachio. It’s the best.”

“Thanks for the tip.” The sidewalk is blisteringly hot, but periodic trees give enough shade that the walk s isn’t entirely unpleasant. The sea breeze helps with that, too. It wasn’t terrible to grow up in a seaside town, not even one as hoity toity as Somerset Harbor. But it always felt like things were temporary.

With so many people coming and going, either to the city or the nearby suburbs, nothing ever feels permanent. Or secure. Like life is so ephemeral…maybe that is just the depression talking.

I huff at myself and order a scoop of pistachio. It’s never been my favorite, but the lumberjack made it sound good. The ice cream isn’t neon green like so many. It’s a muted olive color instead. I take the cup out to a sidewalk table and dig in. The way the ice cream hits the palate, firm, but then giving way to a nutty, full-bodied yet delicate approach to the nut is a revelation. I did not know pistachio could be this good. After eating it so fast I get a brain freeze, I march back in. “What’s the deal with the pistachio? How is it this good?”

The woman at the counter giggles. “My grandfather’s recipe. He’s from Italy, and he insists pistachio doesn’t need much. Grind the nuts into a nut butter and work from there instead of adding any dairy products.”

“Your grandfather is a genius. When I reopen my restaurant, I’m going to buy this recipe.”

She smiles. “I’ll be happy to sell it.”

“And I need more, please.” After procuring my second scoop on a cone, I stroll down Main, checking out all the other changes since I was there last. A few shops I know—Deringer’s Drugstore and Alicia’s Health Foods. So much has changed, but the facades stay the same by city law, so the downtown area looks like it never changes. Old-time familiarity amid new businesses to keep things feeling a certain way.

It’s a strange kind of comfort while I try to keep myself from being annoyed by my new boss.

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