On my next trip to Paris, I have a lot more with me than just one handbag. Okay, it’s not much more, only a rolling valise filled with clothes and a backpack with my electronics. It’s a little d epressing to see everything I own fits into one small suitcase, but I’m on a mission to change that. I’m moving to Paris to build a life, a real one. Once I save up some money working for the St. Claire family, I’ll have the means to get my own place in Paris. Eventually, I could find another job here. Maybe I’ll meet someone, and we could travel the world together. Who knows what my new future holds? The possibilities alone are more exciting than anything I’ve done in the past two years. My feet are leaving the floor, Papa. And there’s no one to hold me down. I’ve been in contact with Phoenix since Jack showed up in my bookstore out of the blue last week. She’s helped to set everything up so that when I get off the train at Gare Saint-Lazare, there is a driver outside waiting for me. I have never in my life seen a man in a black suit waiting for me with my last name printed on a white card, but there he is. I stifle a grin as I wave at him awkwardly. He helps me load my things into the trunk of the car and ushers me into the back seat before we take off toward the apartment in Montmartre. It still feels like a dream. Phoenix is standing out front with Bea when we pull up to the building. The little girl, clothed in a slightly more casual blue dress today, hops up and down excitedly as the driver opens my door. As soon as my feet hit the cobblestone street, Bea comes running toward me as if we’re old friends reunited. It tugs at my heart to see how quickly she’s latched on to me. “Camille!” she squeals as she throws her arms around my legs. “Bonjour, Bea,” I say as I lean down and give her a proper hug. Her hair is still as
immaculate as it was last time, and it makes me wonder if she ever lets it get messy. Is this little girl always so prim and proper? Does she ever get the chance to be a kid? “I told Papa to hire you,” she says with a giggle. “I’m glad you did,” I r eply. After greeting Bea, I stand and shake Phoenix’s hand again. She seems so serious with strict posture and very practical clothing. “How was your trip?” she asks. “Très bien, merci,” I r eply, wincing at the reminder that Jack said strictly no French in the house. Technically, we’re still outside, so hopefully she’ll let that slide on a technicality. Phoenix doesn’t react. “The driver can bring your bags inside, and I can give you a tour.” Bea links her little hand in mine as we follow Phoenix into the building and up the stairs toward the apartment. Once we enter, I find myself immediately looking toward the stairs for a sign of Jack. The apartment is quiet, so I assume he’s not here. “This will be your room back here,” Phoenix says, and I follow her through the apartment. It takes me by surprise again, just how large the home is with two levels, two sitting areas, two dining rooms, one grand kitchen, and a hallway full of doors. As she presses open one of the doors, I peer inside to find a pristine and practical bedroom. One bed, one dresser, one nightstand, and an en suite bathroom. “This is lovely,” I say as I take a look around. I imagine myself living here. It’s not much, but it’s a start. “I’ve printed out everything we agreed upon already here,” she says as she hands me a packet. “Including your hours, house rules, payment, and numbers in case of emergency.”
As I take the packet, I quickly scan through it, but none of it is new. We’ve already discussed all this. “Beatrice attends primary school from eight thirty until four. You will need to drop her off and pick her up. Monsieur St. Claire works mostly in his office upstairs during the day. The apartment must stay relatively quiet while he’s working. There’s a children’s park down the street.” Bea hops excitedly at the sound of that. Surely, she has some play clothes, because I can’t imagine her at the park in these pretty dresses. Phoenix continues to elaborate on all the rules and expectations, and I want to stop her and assure her that I have everything under control. But she seems so determined, I let her finish. “Do you have any questions?” she asks. “No,” I r eply with my hands gripped together behind my back. She hesitates briefly while staring into my eyes, and I can tell she wants to say something. “Bea, go play in your room,” she says to the little girl. Reluctantly, Bea listens, sprinting down the hall to her own room, leaving Phoenix and me alone. After breathing a pensive sigh, she says, “Monsieur St. Claire is a private man. It’s best you don’t go upstairs or bother him unless it’s important. Don’t ask about his work or where he goes at night.” Well, that sounds very ominous and not at all comforting. My brows furrow as my heart suddenly starts hammering in my chest. “Okay...” I should probably pry for information, but what if I do and she decides I’m too nosy and Jack changes his mind about hiring me? It was my stubborn curiosity that got me this job—I’m not about to let it ruin it at the same time. “He hasn’t dealt with the death of his wife well, so he might come across as a little cold and mean. It would be wise of you to give him his space.”
Consider my curiosity piqued. Leave it be, Camille. “I understand,” I murmur. “You have my number. If you need anything, call me. I live just two blocks down.” “Everything is under control,” I say with a nod. When she lets out another sigh, her shoulders relax. Before she walks away, I ask, “Has Bea ever had a nanny before?” She shakes her head. “No. Jack never wanted another woman in the house.” “So who normally watches her?” Her mouth sets in a thin line. “Me. Other friends. Her aunt.” “What about her father?” I ask, sensing that she’s hiding something. After a contemplative look, she r eplies, “Like I said, he didn’t handle Em’s death well.” Before I can ask her to elaborate, Phoenix walks out of the room and down the hall toward the front door. I’m left to wonder what exactly that means. Once Phoenix is gone, I find Bea sitting on the floor of her room. There is still no sign of her father. I’m not sure if that means he’s asle ep or at work... wherever that is. Suddenly, it hits me that it’s just me and her. I’m really doing this. I’m really her nanny. Until this evening, I am responsible for this little girl that I don’t even know. For now, I can put my curiosity about Jack St. Claire aside and focus on her. Bea’s room is tidy and simple. Other than the fairy mural painted on the wall, it’s a very traditional girl’s room. There’s a large dollhouse against the wall with a small bucket of toys next to it. Bea is lying on the floor with two of her dolls, playing quietly. “What are you playing?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed. The urge to use French is strong, but I refrain. Although I know English, French is what I’m accustomed to using at home. This
might be difficult to get used to. “With my dolls,” Bea r eplies playfully. My stomach growls as if on cue. I read somewhere in my very lazy research on taking care of children that they thrive on structure. And while Bea’s home seems to be very strict and controlled, I have a feeling her life is anything but structured. If what Phoenix said was true, then Bea has been cared for by family and friends sporadically to cover the gaps that her mother’s death left behind. St
Ep one—create a routine. Glancing down at my watch, I see it’s just past noon. “Are you hungry?” She glances up from the floor. With a cute little smirk on her face, she nods. I hold out my hand for her, and she jumps up from the floor and takes it. We walk together into the kitchen, and I find an apron hanging on a hook behind the door. After slipping it over my head, I open the fridge and scavenge for something to pr epare for lunch. The kitchen is poorly stocked, which is something I assume will be my responsibility starting today. St
Ep two—make a grocery list tonight and go shopping tomorrow. “There isn’t very much in here,” I say with a wrinkle between my brows. “Papa normally orders in.” “Orders in?” I r eply with a gasp. Slamming the fridge shut, I turn toward Bea. “Well, lucky for you, my father owned a restaurant, so I know how to cook.” It takes me a while to scour the kitchen, but eventually, I find enough to pr epare a simple stir-fry lunch with eggs and vegetables. As I’m working, Bea watches from the stool. Everything just feels right. I have a new job in Paris. An adorable little girl to look after. Excellent pay.
“Are you a...” She stumbles over her words. “What’s the person called who cooks for other people?” I turn to find her mouth twisted up in a quizzical expression. With a smile, I r eply, “A chef?” “A chef,” she r epeats. “Are you a chef?” “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I was a waiter sometimes, but not a chef.” “You don’t want to work there anymore?” she asks innocently. A pang of regret stings as I turn my attention back to the stove. “After my father died, the restaurant closed.” “Oh,” she mumbles sadly. “Did he go to sle ep like my maman?” Shit. The kitchen falls into a heavy silence, and the change in mood is my fault. I didn’t really want to cover death on day one of my new job. It’s slightly concerning that she thinks her mother went to sle ep, but maybe that’s how they explained it to her innocent mind. Who am I to complicate that? “Um... yes. I think we need some music,” I say to change the subject. Going into my backpack, I pull out my portable speaker and place it on the counter. After connecting it to my phone, I pick an upbeat playlist, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” blasts through the kitchen. Bea begins smiling and dancing in her seat as I continue cooking. Crisis averted. “So what do you like to do?” I ask, turning toward her. She shrugs. “You like arts?” “Sometimes we do art at school,” she r eplies. “What about sports? Or music?” “At school,” she r epeats. “Hm,” I mumble to myself. “Tante Elizabeth is a ballerina,” she says, and I turn to her with interest. “That’s nice,” I r eply. “Does your papa ever take you to her shows?” Bea slumps in her seat. “No. Papa doesn’t take me anywhere.” “Nowhere?” I ask. She shakes her head. I can see sadness cre eping in on her face, so I decide to change the subject—again.
“Well, I love arts and crafts and sports and music. So we’ll have lots of fun.” This makes her grin excitedly. The song changes, and the next one is an upbeat pop song that suddenly has us both dancing and singing along. The next thing I know, Bea is hopping around on the floor, shaking her hips, and trying to sing along with the words. She twirls so fast in her pretty blue dress that her hair bow flies across the room. It makes me laugh, so I crank up the volume and take her hands, spinning her around the kitchen as we giggle with excitement. I lose track of time as we dance. I lose track of everything. Warmth blossoms in my chest at the sight of her grinning from ear to ear. When was the last time she smiled like this? Hell, when was the last time I smiled like this? If this is what being a nanny is like, then I am certain I will love every second of it. All I must do is create a routine and ke ep her happy. That’s it. How hard could it be? Lost in the moment, I’m singing along to the lyrics, incredibly off-key, when I spin around and let out a scream. Slamming my hand over my mouth, I stare at Jack in the doorway, watching us both with a displeased grimace on his face. “Turn it down,” he barks angrily. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of smoke billowing from the pan on the stove. “Le riz!” I shriek as I run over and turn off the flame. I try to stir the contents, but it’s futile. They’re charred and stuck in a smelly black mass at the bottom of the pan. “Papa said to turn it down!” Bea shouts at me. Clapping a hand on my forehead, I dash over to the speaker, but Jack marches over and beats me to it. We reach for the device at the same time, our hands colliding as his clicks the button first.
Then the room is bathed in tense silence with the stench of burnt rice in the air. Jack is wearing a tense scowl, the cleft in his chin more prominent as he frowns at me. This job is about to be over before it even started. Frazzled and caught off guard, I start rambling apologies in French. “Je suis désolée. J’ai commencé à faire à manger, nous nous amusions beaucoup, et je n’ai pas fait attention. Je suis une très bonne cuisinière en principe, et...” “English,” he bellows in frustration. “Miss Aubert, I thought I made it clear that we only speak English at home.” My mouth hangs open as I stare at him in surprise. Does he not speak French? “I’m sorry,” I stammer in English. He settles his enraged eyes on me. “It’s only your first day, and you’re trying to burn our apartment down. I’m starting to worry that you can’t be trusted.” I square my shoulders, my brows knitting together. “We were dancing, and I got distracted.” I stare defiantly up at Jack. He’s tall, but he doesn’t intimidate me. I tip my chin up to try and make myself taller, but it’s no use. For what feels like an eternity, we do nothing but glare at each other. “This isn’t a game, Miss Aubert.” I catch a hint of grief in his dour expression, and I realize as I stare at him that he’s not just a cruel, angry man. There is pain there. I want to dislike him for the frigid, bleak exterior he presents to the world, but I’m too intrigued. This is not the man in the photo. This is not Emmaline’s husband. “I know it’s not a game,” I say, challenging him. I’m being obstinate. I know that, but I can’t stand the thought of yielding to his irrational mood. It’s bad
enough that he won’t even let Bea speak her mother’s language in their home. “Please don’t make me regret hiring you,” he commands softly. As his gaze moves away from my face, it travels down to his daughter as she stands hesitantly near the counter. I watch the way he regards her, remorse etched into his features. With a sigh, he turns his back on us and leaves the kitchen. His footst eps echo through the apartment as he climbs the stairs to the second floor. After a moment, I reach for the speaker and turn it back on, clicking the volume button until it’s low. The music begins to play again, and I turn toward Bea with a forced smile plastered on my face. “Still hungry?” She nods. “You like burnt rice?” She giggles. Smiling down at her, I walk over to the sink, scrub out the blackened sauc epan, and pr epare it for another batch. The entire time I work, I can’t stop thinking about Jack and the way he stared at me. Like we could speak a language with our eyes alone. I wish I could tell him what an ill-tempered, miserable grump he is. He’d probably tell me what a foolish, immature brat I am. So I guess in that case, we really shouldn’t talk to each other at all.