He gave her a kiss on the forehead. “You’re the best. I’ll call you from the hostel. Love you.” With that, he turned and raced off to the gate.
Mara stared at his retreating back, still clutching her expired passport. A few minutes ago, she’d been ready to board a plane to Europe, but now her perfect summer—not to mention her perfect boyfriend—was vanishing right before her eyes.
au pair means “extra set
of hands” in french.
so why not have two?
“AND THIS”—ELIZA POSED DRAMATICALLY IN THE SHOP window—“is where the cotton candy machine is going.”
“The cotton candy machine?” Jeremy chuckled, shaking his head.
“It’s edible pink!” Eliza squealed. She ducked her head so she wouldn’t hit the ceiling and climbed off the ledge in front of the shop window, making sure not to topple over on her four-inch Yves Saint Laurent platforms. “Isn’t that such a great idea? It’s going to be like a carnival of pink in here!”
Jeremy smiled. “Except for the clothes, of course.” He turned to marvel at the racks of clothing neatly lined up by the wall, still wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic.
“Of course.” Eliza flicked her wrist in mock-diva fashion. “I mean, please, no one actually wears pink. It’s cute, but strictly for babies.” Eliza’s summer collection was completely monochromatic—just as everything in her fall collection had been black, for summer everything in the store would be white: white bikinis, white sundresses, white capri pants, white jeans, white caftans, the perfect white button-down shirts. It was a perfectly Hamptons-pleasing collection. Eliza knew lots of girls who never wore any other hue for all three months—in fact, she was one of them. With the all-pink walls, the handful of pink Pucci chairs, the aquarium filled with pink tropical fish, and the pink cotton candy machine, the white clothes would stand out all the more, practically screaming for attention.
“And we’ll put the mannequin here—the one based on Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch.” Eliza giggled, standing in front of the fan and trying to keep her skirt down, just like her idol once had on top of a subway grate. “I mean, that is the most iconic white dress in history.”
“You’re nuts,” Jeremy said fondly, coming up to stroke her hair. “But you’re my nut.”
“Can you believe I have this store? I had to raid my trust fund to do it, but whatever.” Eliza whooped. “This is huge, J. I mean, this is, like, so scary, but so exciting.”
“Speaking of exciting,” he said, sweeping her into his arms. “I wanted to tell you about what happened to me today ….”
Before he could finish his sentence, the front door whipped open with a clang, and a harassed-looking Swedish girl tumbled in.
“Is this Eliza Thompson shop?” the girl asked.
“Yes, it is,” Eliza said, untangling herself from Jeremy’s embrace. “But I’m afraid we’re not open for business yet.”
From behind the girl, Suzy’s wunderkids from earlier that morning appeared, fanning out inside the store. Violet started gently fingering the clothing, as if afraid it might jump up and bite her, while the little boys dispersed in every direction.
“Are those fighting fish?” Logan asked, coming up to the aquarium and pressing his nose against the glass. The startled fish fled from his magnified face, scattering throughout the tank.
“This is crooked.” Jackson straightened a framed photograph of Marlene Dietrich in a white tuxedo that was hung low by the sweater table, getting fingerprints all over the carefully buffed frame.
Wyatt came up to Eliza and tapped her on her shin. “I have to pee,” he whispered, cupping a hand over his mouth as if he were sharing a big secret.
“Yes, they’re fighting fish,” Eliza told Logan as she began to steer Wyatt toward the bathroom. They were perfectly sweet kids, but really, what were they doing in her store?
“This is silk? Where is it made?” Violet held up a white pareo, reading the tag as if it were an information plaque at a museum.
“Actually, the silk comes from a farm in Thailand where the silkworms only eat organic leaves.” Eliza smiled, feeling a small surge of pride. She turned to the Swedish girl. “What’s going on?”
“I leaving. I get modeling contract. Miss Suzy said Mr. Thompson say you will deal with children—you were also au pair.”
“My father said what?” Eliza felt herself turning red. Of course her father would assume she had nothing better to do than babysit his girlfriend’s children—he’d never really taken her fashion design career seriously. He’d been totally miffed when she postponed Princeton for Parsons.
“I leaving,” the girl said again, removing the Björn carrier from her chest and handing the baby to Eliza.
Eliza looked down, completely perplexed. How had she wound up with a six-month-old in her arms? Cassidy cooed and gurgled, and she felt her heart melting at the sight of him. But really—she had no time for child care this summer. She had a business to run. “Hey, you can’t just—wait!” she called after the Swedish au pair, but the girl was already out the door.
Eliza turned to find Jeremy giving Wyatt a piggyback ride from the bathroom, while Logan and Jackson each clung to one of his knees, mirror images of each other. He approached Violet, who was standing by one of the racks of clothing, looking like she didn’t know what to do with herself. “You want to try on some clothes later? When everything’s all set up?” he asked.
“Okay,” she said with a shy smile, nodding.
“Sounds good. But how about we all clear out of here for now and let Eliza finish her work. There’s an outdoor circus down the block.” He gently set Wyatt down and then took the baby from Eliza’s arms. “I’ll take them for a while, don’t worry,” he told her, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks.” She nodded gratefully. Her eyes misted. She’d forgotten how good Jeremy was with children. He was going to be an awesome father someday—some far, far distant day in the future.
When Jeremy had every last kid out the door, Eliza stopped to think. So Suzy needed an au pair, did she? Maybe even two au pairs? There were four kids and a baby, after all. Quite a handful.
Eliza knew just who to call—if it wasn’t too late.
jacqui finds comfort
in a stranger
JACQUI WALKED OUT OF THE PERRYS’ TOWN HOUSE feeling like she’d just been sucker punched. All of her plans—her well-laid plans—had disappeared in a puff of smoke. Or, more precisely, in an invitation from Buckingham Palace. Jacqui took the envelope Anna had given her out of her bag and peeked at the check. Looking at all the zeros, she instantly felt a little better. Still, it wasn’t nearly enough to cover the entire first year’s tuition, especially if she was going to have to find a new place to live for three months on top of that. What good was getting accepted into NYU if she couldn’t actually afford to go?
Jacqui made peanuts at Daslu, the designer store in Brazil she’d be forced to work at if she went home—the job was all about the free clothes, which weren’t going to pay for college. She pictured the NYU admissions office opening the envelope with her contribution in it and finding a Versace gown instead of a check. She tried to laugh at the image but instead found herself blinking back tears. It felt just like last year when she’d been told she was a perfect candidate except for the whole math requirement—close, but no cigar. She wiped her eyes. There would be no NYU in the fall.
Jacqui walked blindly through the streets of New York, not knowing or caring where she was going. She went up Fifth Avenue, past a construction site—they were no doubt building another set of ten-million-dollar luxury apartments, as if the city needed more—and tried not to notice the construction workers leering at her.
“Baby, don’t look so glum—I’ll cheer you up!” one of them shouted at her as she walked past, but she just threw him a dirty look and kept walking.
Jacqui used to be flattered when men ogled her, but now she was just disgusted.
Someone had
once told her that even in a city full of beautiful women, she stood out like an orchid among roses. But what had being pretty really gotten her in the long run? She looked at herself in a shined-to-perfection shop window, taking in her razorsharp cheekbones and lustrous dark eyes. Her whole life, Jacqui had wanted to prove that she was more than just an amazing body and a beautiful face. It had been so difficult for her to take the embarrassing fifth year of high school, getting left behind as her friends went to college and regaled her with their success stories. She didn’t resent Eliza and Mara’s accomplishments, but she did wish she had a few of her own under her belt. Being beautiful didn’t seem like an achievement—she’d done nothing to deserve her good looks, other than winning the genetic lottery.
Without realizing where her feet were taking her, Jacqui found herself in the middle of Central Park. She spotted a park bench and sat down, watching a family of mallard ducks float on the pond. She wondered if they were hungry and wished she had something to feed them. Whenever Jacqui took the Perry kids here, she thought of Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye and his fascination with the ducks—he always wondered where the ducks went in the winter and why, despite the inhospitable cold of New York City, they always came back. Why did they try to live in Manhattan when it obviously wasn’t a place for a duck? It clearly wasn’t a place for a poor girl from Brazil, either. Jacqui felt the tears coming again and blinked furiously.
She’d been kidding herself, thinking that she fit in here. The Perrys had been her substitute family, so much so that she didn’t even know her real family anymore. But when it came down to it, she was still considered the help. Help that could so easily be dismissed. It was a painful wake-up call.
I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to cry, she thought fiercely, even as two fat tears slid down her cheeks and plopped onto her lap, staining her whiskered jeans.
She blinked to find a white cotton handkerchief being held under her nose.
“Oh. Thank you,” she said gratefully, keeping her eyes to the ground. She blew her nose on the handkerchief, taking in the sweet smell of freshly ironed lavender. It was as large as a formal dinner napkin and softer than Kleenex. Who even carried handkerchiefs anymore?
“I’m sorry. I think I’ve soiled this,” she apologized, balling it up in her hand. She looked up to see who’d given it to her, expecting a white-haired old lady with a plaid hat, but instead found herself looking at a tall, towheaded boy built like a football player, with broad shoulders and a rugged bearing. He was about her age, Jacqui guessed. He had quintessential all-American good looks, from his thick blond hair and clear, cornflower blue eyes to his straight, roman nose.
“I’m Pete Rockwood,” he said, holding out his hand.
She shook it. “Jacqui Velasco.” She held out his handkerchief. “Thanks again.”
“Not at all. Keep it. You need it more than I do.” He smiled gently.
Jacqui nodded and looked up at him again. He had a camera around his neck—a small digital Canon Elph, but still. He was clearly a tourist. Somehow she didn’t feel the usual disdain she felt for the provincial hordes that swarmed upon Manhattan in the summer months. He was too … cute for disdain.
“You take care now.” Pete gave her another kind smile and turned to walk away. Jacqui was shocked. He wasn’t even going to stay and make small talk? In her whole life, she’d never met a single guy who’d given up the chance to flirt with her. She couldn’t decide if she was impressed or insulted.
“Hey!” she called out after him.
He turned around.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To St. Patrick’s. My family’s waiting there.”
“Oh …” Jacqui said. She didn’t want to keep him, but she didn’t much feel like being alone right now either. “Well, what are you doing here, then?”
Pete smiled and gestured to the scene before them. “I just wanted to see the pond, you know. Have a little J. D. Salinger moment. I’d always wanted to see the ducks. We have ducks in Indianapolis too, but it’s not the same.”
Jacqui felt like she’d just been knocked in the chest. He’d been thinking of The Catcher in the Rye too? “Do you have to meet them right now?”
Pete walked back and sat down next to her on the bench. “I guess not.” He removed a plastic bag full of bread crumbs from his back pocket and handed her some. Together they started tossing the crumbs to the ducks on the water.
“Sorry to keep you; it’s just … it’s been a crappy day.” She tossed a crumb to one of the hungrier-looking ducks.
“Yeah? What happened?” Pete turned and looked at her, really looked at her, waiting patiently for her to tell him.
Jacqui didn’t know why, but she felt like she could trust this Pete Rockwood. Maybe it was something about taking comfort in a stranger, someone who didn’t know anything about her, but before she knew it, she was unburdening herself to him, everything coming out in a torrent—her hopes for NYU, the Perrys’ shocking abandonment, her doomed future.
Pete listened quietly, asking the right questions, never interrupting her or making snap judgments. Throughout all of her experiences in America—with the super-rich Hamptonites, the spoiled and self-involved New Yorkers—no one had ever treated her so … nicely. He was so gentle and sweet, strong and solid at the same time. What was this Indianapolis place, and were all the guys there like Pete?
His voice broke into her thoughts. “You know, you’ve been dealt a bad hand—but as my granny says, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” Pete grinned, and his teeth were so white he looked like he should be in a Crest commercial.
“Lemonade?”
“You know, figure out a way to make things work for you.” He shrugged. “It’s not an exact science. But something will come up. It always does.” He smiled shyly and his hair fell into his eyes.
“Are you always this optimistic?” Jacqui asked.
Pete nodded. “Yeah, actually. I mean, that lady—Anna, right?—she said she’d give you a great reference. And that there’s a family that’s going to need you.” He picked up the camera and held it up to one eye, squinting. “Well, you’ll probably have a job by tonight.” He snapped a few photos of the ducks and the surroundings but never once asked to take her photo. Another first.
“You think?” Jacqui wrinkled her brow doubtfully, although Pete’s positive outlook was starting to rub off on her. Anna had said someone would need her. After all, this was Manhattan. A family with young children must be in search of a good nanny right now, right?
“Of course. If NYU is what you want, it won’t just … happen.” He shrugged again. “You’ll make it happen. All you have to do is follow your heart, and your dreams will come true.” Pete snapped another photo, then put down his camera and turned to face her. “I know it’s totally corny, but I’ve always believed it.” He stood up, brushing the crumbs from his jeans, which weren’t dark-rinsed or low-rise or even remotely trendy—nothing like the jeans worn by guys who chased Jacqui around nightclubs. They were just plain, straight-leg Levi’s 501s.
“You’re going?” Jacqui suddenly felt disappointed, though she wasn’t sure why.
“I have to go meet my family—our flight leaves tonight. Going back home to Indy.” He sighed and crumpled up the now-empty plastic bag, putting it in his pocket—most likely to find a recycling bin for it somewhere.
She nodded and briefly considered asking him for his e-mail address or phone number. But what was the point? He lived in Indiana. She’d likely be on her way back to Brazil soon. Or, if Pete was right, starting classes at NYU.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Miss Jacqui Velasco.” Pete offered her his hand.
She shook it warmly. “You too, Pete Rockwood.” She grinned at his formality. It was sweet and unexpected.
On a whim, Jacqui took Pete’s camera from his hand and stood next to him, holding the camera away from their faces and snapping a picture of the two of them. “I want you to reme
mber me.” Jacqui smiled.
“Aw.” Pete broke into a wide grin. “I don’t need a picture for that. But thanks.”
Jacqui watched him walk in the direction of St. Patrick’s, and she felt content. Even though she knew she’d never see Pete again, she was happy to have met him.
And just then, as Pete disappeared behind a giant leafy oak tree, Jacqui’s cell phone began to sing the tune to Led Zeppelin’s “The Lemon Song.”
Jacqui glanced down at the screen and saw Eliza’s name.
Had the lemonade arrived?
good friends have
great ideas
MARA SAT UNDERNEATH THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS OF the airport Pizza Hut, chewing her slice of pepperoni but barely tasting it. She was still slightly shell-shocked. How could David do that to her? She’d always appreciated how much David shared her passion for writing. Well, he shared her passion, all right—so much so that he was on a plane to Brussels while she was stuck at the baggage terminal. Even though she’d told him to go, she’d really wanted to scream, Stay! What do you mean you’re going to Europe without me?
She couldn’t decide if she was angry or proud. You would do the same thing, he’d said. But would she? Would she have been driven enough to follow her dreams, even if it meant walking away from him? This isn’t a vacation, Mara.
Well, maybe that was fair—wasn’t that what she’d been secretly fantasizing it would be? A romantic, all-expenses-paid vacation through Europe’s most glamorous capitals with her wonderful and worldly boyfriend? Had she not been taking the trip seriously enough? Was she really not cut out for journalism?
The sound of her phone playing Fergie’s “London Bridge” startled her. She picked it up immediately. “Liza! Hey!” Mara smiled. She could really use a friend right now.