The Sitter Page 4

  “Wow!” I let out a scream. I grabbed his head and kissed him. “Wow!”

  And immediately, I was thinking—I’m staying here in Madison, starting at the university, and he’ll be off at Princeton. That’s in New Jersey, right? A long way from here.

  How do I feel about that?

  Will must have read my face. Because he came over and put his arms around me—strong, athletic arms because he was a basketball forward and he likes to work out—comforting me.

  “We’ll see each other a lot,” he said. “No problem, right? We can visit each other at school. And there are a lot of breaks. You know. Winter break, spring break.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I muttered. I liked having him hold me like that, and I liked the way he reassured me. But I kept thinking . . . thinking . . . thinking. . . . You can’t stop your mind. It just keeps going.

  How do I feel about that?

  “I’ll come home for every holiday,” Will said. “It won’t be bad. We’ll see each other a lot, Ellie. And we won’t go out with anyone else.”

  Whoa.

  How do I feel about that?

  Will and I had been together only for three or four months. Was I really willing to make that commitment?

  Yes, I cared about him. Sure, I did. I liked the strong, sure way he walked. And his smile. The way he tossed his head sometimes and trotted like Mrs. Havers’s greyhound down the block. And the way he held me as if he owned me. And the way his hair felt so soft and babylike between my fingers.

  “Four years is nothing,” he said. He pressed his lips close to my ear. “Then we’ll be together forever, Ellie.”

  We will?

  Forever?

  We’re up in his room now. He closed the door. He’s holding me, kissing me. He wants to make love. He wants to seal the bargain.

  He keeps some condoms in his sock drawer, under the Ziploc bag of pot.

  Yes, we’ve made love a couple times before. But this is different, he says. This is special. This is a pledge. A pledge of our love.

  He’s so happy. He’s so excited.

  Shouldn’t I be happy, too?

  Shouldn’t I be overcome with emotion right now? Instead, I’m thinking, what if his mother comes home early? What if his sister comes home? Shouldn’t we pull the shades?

  What if I meet another guy I like?

  That’s what I’m thinking when I should be thinking of Will.

  I’m pulling off my jeans, and I should be thinking of Will.

  I’m pulling down my tights and not bothering with my two sweaters.

  No time. He’s in a hurry to celebrate. To seal our bargain.

  I’m climbing into his single bed under the Michael Jordan Bulls poster, and I should be thinking of Will.

  So happy. Early admission. But we’ll stay together.

  Yes. Together forever.

  Why am I so surprised?

  Why can’t I feel more? Shouldn’t I feel more right now?

  And then we’re making love.

  I’m letting him.

  I’m letting him.

  He swings me on top with those powerful arms, and I’m moving over him, and we’re both moaning in a steady rhythm, eyes shut.

  I’m moving . . . moaning . . . moving on top of him . . . so wet . . . not neat . . .

  And I shouldn’t be thinking at all.

  But I’m glancing back at the bedroom door. And I’m thinking about dinner. I was supposed to get home early and help out. And I’m thinking about Lucky. Did I remember to buy cat food? And about a boy named Gary who offered to help me with my Politics paper . . .

  Oh . . . oh . . . oh, yes . . .

  I’m moaning and I’m feeling guilty. And I don’t think we’ll stay together when we’re apart.

  Oh . . . oh, yes . . .

  I feel so bad about it. Because I care about him. He’s holding my head, holding me so firmly, as if he’s captured me.

  Will?

  Will? Where are you?

  If only I had held on, too. . . .

  7

  By the time we reached Southampton, the clouds had given way to bright sunshine. I took a deep breath as I followed Teresa off the bus. I thought I could smell the ocean nearby.

  Teresa immediately pulled out a pack of Parliament Lights and lit one. “All this fresh air can kill you,” she joked. I waited for her to get her nicotine fix. Then we went inside.

  We were at a long, low, redbrick building called The Omni. It seemed to be a bus station, gym, and restaurant combined. Teresa rented a car and drove into Southampton, a cute little town, all red brick and white, with rows of shops on either side of the tree-lined main street.

  She turned off Main Street and onto another street of shops called Jobs Lane. “There’s your store,” she said, pointing. “Jump out, El. After your interview, walk around town a bit. I’ll pick you up on the corner—in front of the old library—in half an hour.”

  “Thanks, Teresa.” I glanced back to make sure no one was coming and then hopped out of the car. Country Modes was in a low, white clapboard building with a tall display window covering the front.

  Three lanky teenage girls had stopped to gaze at the window display. I peered over their shoulders. It didn’t look too countryish to me. Five or six mannequins wearing string bikinis.

  A bell rang over the glass door as I stepped into the store—a long, narrow store with a glass display counter in front and shelves of clothes on both sides, stretching to the back.

  Dance music rang out from a small shelf stereo behind the front counter. Two middle-aged women were picking through tie-dyed beach cover-ups near the back.

  The woman behind the counter was tall and very thin. She had raven-black hair pulled tight behind her head, lots of blue and black eye makeup, and a red lipsticked mouth so bright that it seemed to float on her pale face.

  I cleared my throat. “Hello.”

  She glanced up from the local newspaper she had spread over the counter.

  “Are you Sheila?” I asked.

  She frowned. “No. I’m Shirley.”

  “Well, hi,” I chirped. I was determined to make a good impression on my new employer. I had worn my only business suit, a gray Ralph Lauren that I’d spent at least two weeks’ temping money on. “I spoke to Sheila yesterday. About the job here.”

  Her eyes seemed to disappear behind the black rings of mascara. “Job?”

  I nodded. “Sales clerk? Full-time? She said I just needed to come in for a short interview and fill out a form.”

  “Oh. Yeah. We filled that job.”

  My throat tightened. “Excuse me?”

  “We filled all the summer jobs. Some girls came in yesterday.”

  “But I don’t understand. Sheila said if I came in—”

  “Sheila doesn’t work on Sunday. You know. Standing so long, it’s hard on her back.”

  A young woman stepped out of the dressing room, carrying two black tankinis in her hand. “I’ll take these two,” she called to Shirley. “They’re perfect.”

  She wore a pale violet tank top tucked into white tennis shorts. She had a purple bandanna wrapped around her head. She was already very tanned, even though it was still May. Probably from one of those tanning places, I figured.

  I turned back to Shirley. “So there are no jobs?” I asked, unable to hide my disappointment.

  She shook her head. “All filled. Have you tried the shoe store next to Nancy and Company?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  I turned and saw the woman in the purple bandanna staring at me, studying my face. She didn’t look away, even when I stared back at her.

  Finally, she blinked. She wrapped her hand around my shoulder, as if testing if I were real. “Did you say you were looking for a job?”

  I swallowed. “Yes, they told me yesterday—”

  “Do you know anything about kids?” she asked, still studying me. “I mean, have you ever baby-sat? Would you consider a nanny job?”

  “Well . .
. yes. I love kids,” I said. “I was a camp counselor back home. And I tutored kids after school.”

  “It’s a live-in job,” the woman said. “Taking care of two little kids. Our nanny left last week, and we’re desperate. Would that be a problem for you? Living in? I’ll pay you really well.”

  My mind whirred. Since I was losing my apartment in less than two weeks, the idea of a job and a place to live sounded all right with me!

  “It sounds kind of exciting,” I said. “I’d love to talk to you about it.”

  “Can you come to the house after lunch? Around one or so?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. She took a Country Modes business card from the holder on the counter and scribbled her name and address on the back.

  “Here. Sorry to sound so ditzy,” she said. “I didn’t even ask your name.”

  “It’s Ellie. Ellie Saks.”

  Her eyes widened. “Like Saks Fifth Avenue?”

  “Not related,” I said.

  “Well, I’m Abby Harper.” She gave my hand a quick, hard shake. “See you at one? I’m sure you’ll be wonderful, Ellie. Chip and I really are frantic. We have kind of a . . . difficult situation, you see.” She bit her bottom lip. “Yes. Very difficult,” she whispered.

  “Uh . . . How do you mean?” I asked.

  But she didn’t answer. She squinted at me one more time, as if memorizing my face. Then she grabbed her package from Shirley and hurried out the door.

  A few minutes later, Teresa pulled up, and I climbed into the car. I told her the whole story in one long whoosh, without taking a breath. I showed her the address on the card.

  “Wow. Flying Point Road in Watermill. You may have lucked out, El. It’s probably one of those glitzy houses right on the beach. This could be an awesome summer!”

  Yes. Awesome summer, I thought. But as we headed out to get some lunch, a few things tugged at my mind.

  Didn’t Abby Harper seem a bit too eager to hire me?

  And why did she say it was a difficult situation?

  Stop it, Ellie. You always do this.

  Just stop.

  It’s two little kids to take care of.

  How bad could it be?

  8

  Teresa and I had lunch at an old-fashioned soda-fountain-type place called the Sip ’n Soda.

  It was filled with laughing, noisy high school kids and about a million little kids with their moms. We had greasy cheeseburgers and shared some fries, and we talked the whole time, but my mind was on the job interview. What would Abby Harper’s kids be like? What would she ask me about? Would I get the job?

  After lunch, Teresa drove me to their house. We passed a cluster of car dealerships—a big Mercedes place, BMW, Range Rover.

  “The Hamptons are the Mercedes capital of the world,” Teresa said. “In town once, I saw six of them parked side by side, all of them black. Mercedes is like the Chevy of the Hamptons.”

  We were moving past an ocean inlet now, with flat blue water and a narrow sand beach. Several cars were parked there. About a dozen people in wetsuits were taking Windsurfers out onto the water.

  “They’re always here,” Teresa said. “They don’t care if it’s cold or not. This is their beach. We’re on Flying Point Road. The seashore is right up there.” She pointed.

  “You’re a hell of a tour guide,” I said. We had the windows rolled down. The sea air smelled salty and fresh.

  “I should be. I’ve been in a share house out here for the past three summers. Want to see the ocean?”

  I glanced at my watch. Nearly one o’clock. “Better not. I’m going to be late.”

  Teresa made a sharp left turn. “The house should be up here. See the houses on the right? They’re all facing the ocean. Can you imagine what they cost?”

  I stared out the window. “Millions?”

  “No one ever sells them,” Teresa said. “Would you sell a house right on the ocean?”

  As we drove, the houses became farther apart, and the sandy dunes grew higher. Teresa slowed down to read the address numbers on the mailboxes.

  I saw several seagulls flocked together, swooping high in the blue sky. I wondered if gulls were good luck or bad. But then I thought about the dead deer back on the side of the highway and decided I’d had enough omens for the day.

  Give it a rest, Ellie. Make your own luck.

  Teresa’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Wow. Check out their house!”

  She pulled into a curving asphalt drive. We drove past a front yard of tall grass and reeds, waving up from the sandy ground. A cluster of trees stood near the house.

  The house rose up like a battleship—all white wood and glass. I saw a three-car garage, a black SUV, a red Porsche, and a tricycle at the top of the drive; a tall hedge of rhododendrons not quite ready to bloom; a light-wood deck stretching along one side—and glass windows stretching to the red tile roof. Like the beach houses you see in movies!

  Sunlight glared off the tall windows, making it look as if the house were ablaze. Behind the house, I glimpsed a tall, grassy dune. As Teresa stopped the car, I could hear the ocean in back.

  “Wow. You lucked out,” Teresa said. “This place is to die for.”

  “Teresa, I don’t have the job yet.”

  I don’t think she heard me. She was too busy gawking. “The back of the house is probably all glass. It must be an awesome view. This is so not to be believed. I can’t wait for you to invite me over.”

  I pushed open the passenger door. “Well . . . wish me luck.”

  “Luck.” She flashed me two thumbs up. “I’m off to the spa in Sag Harbor. Call me on your cell when you’re finished.”

  I watched her pull away. Her tires slid in the sand on the road. Then I turned back to the house. I could see a little face watching me from an upstairs window. Boy? Girl? I couldn’t tell. The face was a ghostly image behind the sun’s glare.

  I followed the flagstone walk, then climbed the white steps to the double front doors. Big clay pots of purple impatiens stood on either side of the door. I could hear music inside the house. Reggae music.

  I took a deep breath.

  Go, Ellie.

  This could be a new start. A whole new life. New people. A summer of fun. Maybe a new guy . . .

  I hope the Harpers are nice. I hope they like me.

  I hope this job doesn’t suck.

  I pressed the brass doorbell.

  9

  A man opened the door. He was tall and trim, probably in his early thirties. He had short, wavy brown hair over a tanned, square face, a nose that had probably been broken a few times, a stubble of whiskers, and round brown eyes set close to his nose.

  He wore a loose-fitting blue polo shirt, untucked, over wrinkled khaki shorts. He was barefoot.

  He looks familiar, I thought. Have I seen him before?

  I quickly dismissed the idea.

  “Hi. Are you Ellie? I’m Chip Harper.” His breath smelled of gin. And as he ushered me in, I saw that he had a drink in his hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. He switched his drink to his left hand, and we shook hands.

  I gazed into the living room. The blond-wood floors were beautiful. I saw a high, cathedral ceiling stretching over a white balcony.

  Chip Harper raised his glass and smiled. “I know it’s early. I’m having one for the road. I’m heading back to the city.”

  “You . . . go back and forth?” I asked.

  Somewhere in the house someone turned off the reggae music.

  “Yeah, I’m an I-banker. You know. Investment banker, so I have to be in the city. I come out for long weekends. But I’m coming out to stay for a while in June. You know. My vacation.”

  He took a sip of the drink, ice cubes clinking, then motioned to the black SUV in the driveway. “You need a ride back to the city? You can come with me.”

  “No. Thanks. I have a friend. I’m going back with her.”

  He flashed that slightly crooked smile again. His brown eyes sort
of took me in, checking out my suit. I straightened my skirt and followed him to the living room.

  My eyes swept over the room. Two white leather couches facing each other, a couple of wicker chairs, a fireplace with black wrought-iron fire tools on one side, a tall window facing the front, colorful pillows spread out along a cushioned window seat.

  A collection of fashion magazines was stacked on a low glass coffee table. Beside it, a Martha Stewart gardening book. Several paperback mysteries were strewn on the table.

  “Hey, Abby? Where are you?” Chip shouted. His voice echoed off the high, white walls. He turned to me. “I think she’s upstairs with the kids. Our bedroom and the baby’s room is down here.” He pointed to a hall at the back. “But the other bedrooms are upstairs. Your bedroom, too.”

  Your bedroom. As if he already had given me the job.

  I gazed up at the cathedral ceiling. The balcony ran the length of the second floor, and I could see the upstairs rooms along it. An enormous antique quilt, red and blue stars on streaming patterns of yellow, hung over the side of the balcony. “It’s a beautiful house,” I said.

  He nodded and took another long sip of his drink. “Yes, it is. I wish I could spend more time out here. Abby and the kids have been staying out here since the beginning of May. But I have to go back and forth to the city. I can’t wait till the end of June . . . my vacation,” he repeated.

  I realized he was studying me again. “Are you from here?” he asked.

  “No. I’m from Wisconsin, actually. Madison. We don’t have much ocean in Wisconsin.”

  He snickered. Then he shouted again. “Hey, Abby. Where are you? The new sitter is here.”

  Abby appeared on the balcony. She leaned over the side and waved to me. “Hi, Ellie. I’ll be right down.”

  I watched her come down the stairs. I hadn’t really seen her clearly in the store. For one thing, she had that bandanna around her head. And when she started talking about a job, I was too startled to see anything!

  She was drop-dead gorgeous. I mean like a fashion model or something. She had her black hair cut short, parted in the middle, very shiny, very stylish.