“Nanny is another option.”
“Option for what?” Declan asks, appearing in the kitchen. He’s in the middle of fixing his tie, glancing between me and Willow.
“Mommy was telling me about the new nanny!” Willow says right away.
Declan raises a brow at me. “Were you now, love? More excited than you let on?”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “I was telling her about all the applications we’re receiving. We’re at thirty.”
“Good. Means we’ll have plenty of options to choose from.” He leans close to kiss my cheek, then turns to the breakfast table where Willow sits with her yogurt and drops a kiss on top of her curly head. She has my curls but a blend of our hair colors: a rich brown shade with subtle undertones of red.
Both our children are a perfect mix of us. From Willow’s reddish brown hair to the fact that Emmett looks just like Declan as a baby, except dipped in caramel.
“It seems like it,” I say. “But we should have a cut off. We’ll be reaching triple digits before we know it.”
“Friday afternoon. I’ll come home early. We’ll do interviews.” He kisses me a second time, this one on the lips and then makes us promise to behave ourselves. “Especially you, Widget,” he says to Willow, stroking her curls on his way out.
She giggles mischievously. “Yes, Daddy!”
Once breakfast is over, I load Emmett into the stroller and walk Willow to school.
Rosethorne is a quaint village tucked into the Hampshire countryside. The roads are narrow and winding, bordered by low stone walls and dense hedgerows. Most of the houses are older but well-maintained Georgian homes with steep slate roofs, stone facades, iron fences, and garden trellises.
Willow enjoys skipping along with her backpack and lunchbox, pointing out all the pretty details, like the roses in the hedges and the ragdoll cat in one of the windows.
The townspeople are polite but distant. They’re what Declan has called posh, considering most who live in Rosethorne are upper middle class. That includes us now.
Soon we’ll even have a nanny…
I scoff and shake my head at the thought. I’ve never seen myself as the type to hire help—especially not a stranger in my home, around my kids—but Declan is worried about me. He says I’m stretched too thin.
He’s not exactly wrong.
I’ve just been too stubborn to admit it. If we have any hope of really starting over, and for me to get my writing career back on track, I need a helping hand.
At least for a little while.
Friday afternoon comes before we know it.
Declan comes home early from work. We send Willow outside to play in the garden with her jelly ball. Emmett’s upstairs in the nursery taking his second nap of the day. I have the baby monitor at our side as we sit down in the living room with the first applicant.
“Your name’s… Poppy?” I read off the application we’ve printed out.
The woman seated in the armchair across from us gives an excitable nod. “That’s right!” she chirps. “Like the flower! Or the seed, I suppose. Though I’ve always thought of myself as more of a flower than a bagel topping.”
Declan and I share a look as she laughs—the sound loud and shrill—and claps her hands together before smoothing them over her polka dot skirt.
“I’m just so thrilled to be here. Honestly, this house is darling. Do you rent it, or is it yours? Because if it is yours...” she whistles as if impressed. “You’ve donewonderswith the space. That paint color. Divine.”
“Why don’t we circle back to discussing details about the position?” I interject gently, but she plows on.
“I bought my own puppets, by the way,” she says loudly. “I always keep a set on hand in case I need to break the ice with the littlies. Kids can be so nervous, can’t they? Oh, and I don’tsuppose you’d be okay with me bringing my parrot to work sometimes? He’s quite well-mannered. Says ‘good morning’ and ‘bugger off’ depending on the mood.”
Poppy’s interview doesn’t last much longer. She’s shown the door and we usher in the next applicant.
Enid Cattermole is a squat-built woman in her late sixties with a pinched mouth and gray hair pinned into a low bun at the back of her head. Declan offers his hand in greeting when she enters, but she merely gives a terse nod as hello.
I scan the paper in front of me. “So, Enid?—”
