The Mateo on TV is mysterious and quiet. He smiles for the cameras and poses with kids.
I didn’t think it was possible to have such a squeaky-clean reputation in this day and age. Unless you’re a psychopath or a serial killer. Which I’ll try not to think about while I’m living under his roof.
Although it might not be a bad idea to ask if he liked lighting fires as a kid or tortured small animals…
Beth lets me do Anna’s bedtime routine on my own tonight, which took us an extra half hour because we couldn’t stop yapping it up.
Anna is so expressive and has such a creative imagination. I’m constantly in awe of where her mind takes her, and with the way she can whip up a make-believe story out of thin air, she is definitely destined for a life in the arts.
I think I’ll type up one of her stories and turn it into a small children’s book. I’ll make the cover and have it printed for her little library. I think she would love it.
I say goodnight to her, but not before she makes me promise to wake her up a little early so we can make breakfast together, since her dad won’t be back until tomorrow evening.
I make my way down the stairs and watch as Beth brings two piping-hot mugs of tea into the living room.
“I’m surprised she didn’t convince you to sleep in her room tonight. After I got my new hip, I told her I felt good as new, and she almost had me sleeping on her shag rug.” She smiles lovingly up at the second floor.
“I did get pulled into breakfast duty, so hopefully I don’t make too much of a mess. Wouldn’t want Mateo walking into a disaster zone.”
I make a mental note to clean as I go tomorrow.
I recall one of Mateo’s previous nannies being fired for wearing inappropriate nighttime wear, and… ahem, I think I already got them beat on that one. Which, unfortunately, landed me my first strike.
The last thing I need is to get my second by making a mess of the kitchen like the other nanny who got fired.
Beth waves my worries away as she hands a tea over. “Mateo is all bark and no bite. Make the mess, enjoy breakfast, and worry about the clean-up later. It’s not like he doesn’t have a small army cleaning every nook and cranny a couple of times aweek.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know how they’re able to clean without music or at least something on the TV. I could never.”
I smile and think about all my weekend morning wake-up calls from my mother, blasting music while cleaning our modest apartment. There is a sense of home that comes with the little things, like listening to heartbreak merengue and belting the lyrics alongside your mother at the age of eight, only to realize many years later that you had no idea what you were actually singing about.
Which makes a thought pop into my mind.
I lean closer to Beth. “Please tell me Mateo used to sing to Aventura, or something more old-school like Hector Lavoe.”
She grins. “Oh, he’s been known to belt out a few good ones around the house. But you’d never guess by who.”
I take a quick sip of my tea, then promptly place it on the coffee table. I can’t be trusted with hot liquids at a time of juicy chisme like this. “Who?” I plead.
She looks around us conspiratorially, as if someone is going to pop up behind the couch. Then gives me the most devious smile ever sent my way. “Olga Tañón.”
I give my best telenovela gasp, hands over chest and mouth at once. “No. I can’t…Olga?” I burst into laughter, knowing it’s gonna be the kind that makes you feel like you did a hundred crunches.
I start wiping away the tears that had no chance of being repressed as I say, “I fucking love Olga Tañón. She’s an icon. But Mateo… I’m sorry, New York Monarchs’ starting pitcher, Mateo Martinez, belting out those notes as a kid? I will never emotionally recover from that visual. Thank you for this gift, Bethzaida.”
She sips her tea casually as she murmurs, “Who said it was when he was a kid?”
My momentary shock quickly succumbs to my second round of laughter.
Smacking the couch mercilessly, causing Beth to quickly drop her tea on the coffee table in an attempt to keep it from spilling, I internally vow to mock him relentlessly about this little tidbit.
That is, if I don’t get fired first. Priorities and all.
“And here I was, making tea, thinking it was a safer option than you spitting up red wine. But clearly, consuming any liquids around you is a hazard,” she teases.
“I need to hear him sing in Spanish. I haven’t heard him speak much of it while I’m around. I wonder how I can catch him in the act.”
Beth’s face falters for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong.
Once she realizes it’s safe to do so, she picks her tea back up and stands. “I’m going to add a little whiskey to this.” She half smiles as she walks toward the kitchen, and unease settles in my gut.
