“The train to Paris d eparts in fifteen minutes.” I’m buzzing with excitement, standing on the train station platform. I’ve latched on to this wild idea as if it’s a hot air balloon taking flight. If I let it go, I’ll drift off into space. Instead, I hold tight and try not to look down. The letter is tucked safely away in my pocket. Every few moments, I shove my hand in to make sure it’s still there, sometimes rubbing it softly with my thumb or picking at a corner as if it’s a safety blanket. When the train doors open, I climb aboard and find a quiet seat in the back. I called into work this morning at the bookstore, telling Marguerite I had a bad case of food poisoning. It’s a one-hour train ride to Paris, and my plan is to arrive in the city, go straight to the apartment listed on the envelope, and return the letter. Perhaps I could spend a couple of hours around the city before boarding the train tonight and coming home. Still, after much deliberation, something about this plan feels off. It’s as if I can’t fully commit to it because part of me doesn’t want to come home at all. This is the first time I’ve properly left home in years. It feels like a taste of adventure when what I really want is a lifetime of it. Papa used to say I was like a little hummingbird, constantly flitting from one place to another, and that someday I would fly too far if someone didn’t hold me down. I was always running off, sneaking out, staying out too late, and ditching school. I certainly didn’t make it easy on him. But he was never too angry. He’d shake his head with a tsk, but he was never one for punishment. The memory stings my eyes. I don’t feel much like a bird anymore. Ever since he died, it’s like my feet have been glued to the village. That part of me died with him. The Camille he once knew, who had enthusiasm for
life, perished the moment he did. Would he be disappointed in me if he knew how much I’ve changed? That I lost my luster. That the responsibilities and weight of adulthood without him tied my feet to the floor. Would he be let down by the woman I’ve become? During the train ride, I pull out my phone and browse some more about my mystery couple. I’ve done so much research on the woman, Emmaline, that I’ve barely done any research on the man. Suddenly realizing that I might see him today, I decide to try to find something about him. In the photos with her, he’s not tagged. In her friends list, he’s not listed. Even when I search his name, results pop up, but none of them are the man in the photo. It’s like he’s a ghost. For the rest of the journey, I busy myself with checking my appearance in the selfie camera of my phone, taming my stray curls and wiping the ink smudge from my cheek. Digging into the bottom of my purse, I find an old lipstick and swipe it across my lips. I’m not usually one for makeup, but I want to look nice today. One should always look beautiful in Paris. By the time the train arrives, I’m feeling far too flustered and tightly wound. From the train, I have to take the Métro to the 18 th arrondissement, where the address listed is located. As I climb up the stairs from the underground, it suddenly hits me that I’m really here. I’m really doing this. It’s a short walk to the apartment building, and as I walk, I enjoy the stroll through one of my favorite areas of the city. The art and culture come alive here. Walking alongside tourists and locals on a narrow sidewalk, I pass by a market bustling with energy and a small children’s park where the kids laugh and play while their parents watch from the sides. The hills in Montmartre make for a beautiful view of Paris.
Then, before I know it, I’m standing in front of his building. The leaves of a large cherry tree fall around me as I stare up at the apartment building. Emmaline’s letter is still safely stowed away in my pocket. Nervously, I climb the stairs and find the main door unlocked. I realize at this moment that it’s possible he doesn’t even live here anymore. He could have moved, especially if this letter is from before they were married and had their child. And even though I came all this way to give him this letter, there’s a subtle sense of relief at the idea that he might not be on the other side of that door. Then at least I could ke ep the letter guilt-free. I’d have a funny story and a day in Paris to look back on. Still, I climb the stairs to the second floor and gently rap my knuckles against the surface. My limbs are shaking, and it’s as if I forgot how to breathe entirely. Behind the door, I hear a little girl shouting something I can’t make out, and a woman r eplies in an assertive tone. The door flies open, and to my surprise, a beautiful woman with long red hair stands before me. She has a businesslike appearance to her with black trousers, black flats, and a thin white blouse tucked into her pants. “Bonjour,” she says in a polite greeting. Struck by the sight of her, I hesitate before reaching my hand in my pocket. “Uh... I—” “You must be here for the nanny position,” the woman says in hurried English, cutting me off. “Please, come in.” The hand in my pocket freezes. Nanny position? Just then, a small child pops up to the right of the redheaded woman. She has piercing blue eyes and perfectly combed brown hair that reaches her shoulders. “Bonjour,” she greets me sweetly. I return the sentiment softly. Then the woman st eps backward, allowing me space to walk into the house. Still frozen with uncertainty, I stammer some more. “I, uh...”
“Please, come in,” she urges. It’s her authoritative tone that shakes me from my stupor. I don’t understand why, but I take the st eps forward into the stranger’s apartment. Think, Camille. What are you doing? Why are you here? “My name is Phoenix Scott,” the woman says with an American accent. “I’m Mr. St. Claire’s business partner. I’ll be conducting the interviews for the position. What is your name?” I blink rapidly as if I’ve forgotten my own name. Interviews. Positions. “Parlez-vous anglais?” she asks as I stand here like a fish with my mouth hanging open. I’ve never been more confused in my life. “Oui,” I stammer. “I mean... yes.” “Good.” She gives me an uncomfortable smile and a nod. “And your name?” This isn’t what I’m here for at all. I’m here to return a letter. I’m here to meet the mystery man in the photograph and return something from his late wife. I’m not here to apply for any job. But for some reason, I find myself holding out a hand toward the woman. “Camille Aubert,” I r eply. “Enchantée, Camille.” She seems pleased that I managed to finally remember my name, gesturing for me to follow her into the apartment. My jaw drops even more as I take a look around and notice just how stunning it is. The ceilings soar with ornate crown molding, and large windows bathe the space in warm, natural light. Looking down, I stare in awe at the herringbone wood floors and expensive-looking rugs. My fingers drift along the back of a plush velvet upholstered sofa. It’s a big difference from the small, boxy two-bedroom I live in. Just then, I hear heavy footst eps from above, and I glance up toward the staircase to see someone walking by. It’s clearly a man in a dark blue suit, but at this angle, that’s all I can make out. In a flash, he’s gone.
“Was that... Monsieur St. Claire?” I mumble awkwardly. The woman glances up toward the stairs. “Yes, but he won’t be coming down,” she answers in a rush. “Oh.” “Please have a seat,” she says, guiding me toward the sitting room with two oversized armchairs near a marble fir eplace. I sit down in one of them, and warning sirens continue to go off in my mind. They say that I’m going to be in trouble for even sitting down. I’m a trespasser. An interloper. I’m not supposed to be here. I only came to return a letter. And now I’m sitting in their home under false pretenses. The last twenty-four hours of my life, I’ve been obsessing over this family. I know far more about them than they know about me, and something about that feels very wrong. I should go, but as I sit in this beautiful room in this luxurious apartment, I can’t bring myself to leave. I’m not harming anyone. I can apply for the job. It doesn’t mean I have to take it. The woman with the interesting name returns and hands me a clipboard with a stack of papers on it. “Fill these out, please. And then we’ll get started with the interview.” Biting my lip, I take it from her. “Yes, ma’am.” As I’m filling out the papers on the clipboard, I ke ep glancing up at the stairs, wondering if I’ll get a glimpse of the man again. Every few moments, I hear his voice, de ep and muffled. It makes me wonder what he does for work. Why isn’t he the one conducting this interview? It takes me nearly thirty minutes to complete the paperwork, which is a considerably long time to spend on something I shouldn’t even be doing. The woman and the little girl seem to have es caped into another room of the home, leaving me alone. Every time I contemplate giving a fake name or wrong answers, I choose not to. Instead, I scribble every single answer with conviction as if this is a job I actually want.
There are more footst eps upstairs, and the curiosity becomes too much to bear. Setting the clipboard on my seat, I stand up and glance around cautiously to be sure I’m alone. Then I quietly tiptoe toward the stairs. I just want a small glimpse. I’d only like to lay my eyes on him—for reasons even I don’t understand. If I’m caught, then I can simply claim confusion or say I got lost. Climbing up the stairs one by one, I get about halfway, and it’s high enough to just peek into the office on the left. And there he is. He’s pacing the room and speaking, sounding frustrated and controlling. I assume he’s on the phone, but I’m not focused on his words. Instead, I’m staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders and the sharp line of his cheekbones. He’s even more handsome in person than in the photo. But there’s a darkness in his eyes, heavy circles underneath, and new wrinkles at the corners. He’s aged, and not just by time. The effects of grief are apparent in his weathered features. His posture is rigid and straight, and I watch the way his right hand balls into a fist before releasing, over and over again. “I’m Beatrice,” a small voice says from behind me, and I let out a startled yelp. Spinning around, I stare at the little girl at the bottom of the stairs. She’s standing politely with her small hands clasped in front of her. “But everyone calls me Bea.” I open my mouth to r eply, but first, I glance back up toward the second floor in time to see Jack St. Claire glaring down at me. Heat and embarrassment pulse through my veins. A moment later, he slams his office door, and I am riddled with shame for spying on him. Taking a de ep breath, I turn back to the little girl and descend the stairs toward her.
“Enchantée, Bea,” I r eply with a half-smile. “How old are you?” “I’m five. Are you going to be my new nanny?” she asks. She has on a lavender chiffon dress with pristine white tights and shiny black Mary Jane shoes. Her hair is meticulously combed with a part on the side and a matching purple bow pinned just above her ear. “I don’t know,” I r eply as I kneel down in front of her. “Can I tell you a secret?” She nods emphatically. “I’ve never been a nanny before,” I whisper. “I didn’t even know I was going to be applying for this job today.” I’m not sure why I come clean to a child, but Bea smiles widely at me when she hears my confession. “That’s okay,” she chirps with a grin. “Do you like unicorns?” This makes me chuckle. “I love unicorns.” “And fairies?” “Of course.” “Want to see my room? It’s painted with fairies and unicorns.” “I should probably wait here,” I start, but the girl takes my hand and tugs me along with her. Her shoes clap loudly against the floor as she pulls me de eper into the apartment, down a hallway, and into one of the bedrooms. The room is, in fact, painted with fairies and unicorns. The entire back wall looks like a scene out of a fairy tale, with lush green trees, toadstools, and a castle in the background. “This is amazing,” I whisper as she hops up onto her bed, kicking her feet beneath her. “My papa works a lot,” she says. “Phoenix says I need someone to play with when I’m not in school because Papa is too busy to play with me.” There’s sadness in her voice when she says this that tugs on my heart. I suddenly remember that this poor child lost her mother at only three years old. She probably doesn’t even remember her.
Something I can relate to. My mother didn’t die. She just decided she wasn’t fit for motherhood and rarely came around as I was growing up. But at least I had my father, who was always present, always enthusiastic about raising me, and always there to be the parent I needed. But poor Bea has a father who is too busy to spend time with her, so they have to hire someone to come into their home and give her the attention she deserves. And she’s so desperate for that attention that she’s latching on to a random stranger. I remember doing the same. I stand in the doorway of her room, not comfortable with going inside. “I’m not going to be your nanny,” I say softly as I cross my arms over my chest. “Why not?” she asks. “Why don’t you want to be my nanny?” “Well, it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that...” My voice trails, unable to find a good enough reason for her. “Your papa is going to find you a very good nanny. I’m sure a lot of people have applied.” “He’ll pay you a lot of money,” she says, and it makes me chuckle. “And you can stay in our extra bedroom. And we can bake cookies and have sle epovers and play games.” “That sounds very fun,” I r eply softly, which isn’t a lie. Just then, I hear footst eps behind me, and I turn to find the redheaded woman coming toward us. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was on a phone call. We can do your interview now.” Giving Bea a small wave, I leave her and follow the woman back out to the sitting room. Phoenix takes the opposite seat from me as she glances down at the packet I just filled out, assessing my answers with a strict, tight-lipped expression.
“Do you have experience with children?” she asks. “I curate the children’s d epartment at our bookstore, but other than that... no.” She glances up at me sk eptically. “Any certifications... or training?” I shake my head. “No.” “What makes you qualified for this job?” she asks plainly. Somewhere in the midst of this whole mix-up, I found myself actually wanting this. And why shouldn’t I? I want to work in this home and live in this city. I want to pull my feet from the cement they’ve been stuck in since my father died and actually live my life. This could all be a mix-up, or it could be fate. My hands are clutched in my lap as I glance back up toward the stairs again. Then my eyes dance over to where Bea is peeking out from the hallway. And the answer comes straight from my heart. “I didn’t have a mother growing up,” I say. “So I can understand what life is like for Beatrice. I know what it’s like to feel like a part of you is missing, but I was lucky enough to have a father who instilled confidence in me. I may not be... certified or trained, but I’m trustworthy and curious and fun. And I’d love her like my own.” Bea grins at me from the hallway. Just then, something draws my attention to the stairway again, and I glance up to find a man standing there, watching me from the second-floor landing. He has intense dark eyes and a wide, stoic stance. The way he’s staring at me sends chills down my spine. Without saying a word, he walks away again as if he was just caught spying. He leaves me feeling cold and strange after gazing at me so intensely. Phoenix doesn’t even notice his presence. She just notes something on the paper before smiling back up at me. “That was lovely. Thank you.” After a minute, she adds, “You should know the position is live-in. Beatrice
would require around-the-clock attention with breaks, of course, in the evenings and on Sundays. I think that’s all for now. Do you have any questions?” Questions? No. I’m still reeling from this entire encounter. My only question is how on earth did I end up in this job interview? Instead of asking that, I shake my head. “Great,” she says as she stands. “We will be in touch.” I stand from the chair and wave goodbye to Bea, glancing up at the stairs one more time, but he’s not there. Then I shake the woman’s hand and walk out the front door. On my walk back to the Métro line, I can’t stop thinking about the man’s eyes as he stared at me. And about the sad way Bea spoke about him in her room. And about how strange it is that I just applied for a job I didn’t even come here for. The letter is still hiding in my pocket. I no longer feel bad for not giving it to him. I don’t feel bad for actually wanting this job now. And it’s not because I want the money or the life in Paris. It’s because something about this home and this family feels right. It feels familiar. It feels, in some small way, as if they need me.