Have to Have It Page 4

  They wound their way out of the kids' indoor play area that included a trampoline, a miniature golf course (complete with a giant windmill), a rock-climbing wall, a big-screen TV (high-def, of course), and a lifetime supply of LEGOs, video games, and Power Wheels. Ten feet ahead of them, Weston and Easton, wearing identical pleated Lilly Pulitzer skirts and bubble-gum pink polos, chugged along. They were mixed in with a gaggle of other kids, all part of the country club's “Nanny and Me” afternoon programming. Every kid carried a plastic golf putter.

  Anya and Kat's children had wanted to be in the equivalent older kids' group, but Anya had been absolutely inflexible. Instead, they had a private swimming lesson scheduled, and the private swimming lesson was what they'd attend. It gave Lydia some free time—she would meet them at the family pool in two hours.

  “Hey, you never know,” Esme tried to reassure her while still keeping a watchful eye on the twins.

  “This time, I know,” Kiley muttered. “My mom has me on a ten o'clock flight tomorrow morning back to La Crosse. Nonrefundable.”

  Lydia offered a sympathetic smile. “Too bad that thing didn't work out at the coffeehouse with Esme's friend.”

  Kiley shrugged. “It wouldn't have mattered. My mom said I couldn't live in Echo Park.” She shot Esme a guilty look. “No offense, Esme.”

  “No offense taken,” Esme assured her.

  “I don't see why we're just giving up, y'all,” Lydia insisted. “We just need another good brainstorm session. Maybe I can find you another nanny job.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” Kiley said, “but there isn't enough time. My mom wouldn't allow it, anyway. I think she's ruined for life on the idea of me being a nanny. God, it's so ironic. Here I am at the first day of Nanny and Me—a nanny with no kids to nanny for, because they're under state protection.”

  Nanny and Me was one of the country club's most popular programs. Many of the members were parents of kids under the age of nine, and many of those parents worked full-time and/or did charity work full-time and/or were simply too busy with paraffin pedis, shopping sprees, or cheating on a spouse in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. So the country club offered Nanny and Me, where special counselors organized activities for the children and their nannies. It seemed as though all the country club kids had nannies—many had more than one, with the second nanny to fill in on weekends and days off. Sometimes a third nanny covered nights.

  Today was the first day of this season's Nanny and Me; Kiley was impressed by the turnout. There were upwards of three dozen nannies—she heard accents from France, England, the American South, Jamaica, and the Far East—shepherding twice that many young children.

  In a way, being there was painful. The whole day had been painful, in fact, and not just because her mother had ordered her to come home. Even the skimpy helping hand that Jorge had offered, the possibility of her waitressing at La Verdad coffeehouse, had been ripped asunder by reality. Kiley had hoped against hope that if she had a job, her mother would relent. But it turned out that La Verdad had no job openings. Jorge tried to cajole Geraldo, but it was no use. In the end, he was as disappointed as she was.

  They'd just been leaving La Verdad when Kiley had gotten the call from Esme—did she want to come to the country club? At first Kiley had demurred; then she'd decided that they'd probably not even let her through the iron gate. But Esme had insisted, and asked Jorge to drop Kiley at the country club. He'd agreed, since he'd ordered some books from Dutton's bookstore in Brentwood, which wasn't all that far away from the club. Kiley realized she had nothing better to do, so she took Esme up on her offer.

  To her surprise, she had no problem getting into the club— the skinny security guard with the bleached blond hair recognized her and waved her through. She met Esme and Lydia in the activity center with the kids. The first thing she noticed was that Lydia wasn't decked out in her aunt's “borrowed” couture duds. Instead, she was in her old ratty Houston Oilers jersey and cutoffs that she'd brought back from the Amazon. Lydia quickly explained how she'd been busted by the moms and how her closet-raiding days were a thing of the past. As for Esme, this would be her first and last day at Nanny and Me for a while, since she was going with the Goldhagens on a snap vacation to Jamaica the next morning.

  Kiley bumped a hip softly into Esme's as they walked past the grass tennis courts, one of the few such facilities in Los Angeles. “You didn't say exactly who else was going to Jamaica, you know.”

  “In other words, is Jonathan going?” Lydia translated. “She didn't tell me, either.”

  “The answer is no,” Esme said. “Just Steven, Diane, the twins, and me. They're meeting another family down there. The Silversteins or something like that. It's just as well because this morning Jonathan and I—”

  She stopped midsentence, because the twins were gleefully launching themselves into mud puddles that had been left by the tennis court watering system. “Weston! ¡Por favor, no más d'eso!”

  “¿Por qué no?” Weston asked, hands on nonexistent hips. “¡Es más diversión que esta actividad estúpida!”

  Esme cracked up.

  “What did she say?” Kiley asked.

  “Why should I stop?” Esme translated. “It's more fun than this stupid thing we're going to do.”

  Kiley laughed. “They're so cute.”

  Esme rolled her eyes. “Not all the time, believe me. Look at Easton.” She pointed—Easton was giving chase to a big lizard, swinging her mini putter at it with malice aforethought. She gave up when the lizard scurried up one of the massive palm trees lining the walkway, but only after whacking the tree a few times for good measure.

  “We used to eat those things in the rain forest,” Lydia recalled. “They're really good if they're fried in fresh lard.”

  Kiley made a face. “Is there anything alive that you didn't eat down there?”

  “People,” Lydia mused. “But I can't speak for the Amas. Most of them have given up cannibalism, of course. But you'll always have your traditionalists.” She looked over at Esme. “So what did you start to say about you and Jonathan?”

  As they headed for the golf course, Esme brought them up to date on her new double-secret-probation status, which included no contact with the Goldhagens' son.

  “They might as well put me in a burka so that nothing shows except my eyes,” Esme complained. “Wouldn't want to tempt the royal prince.”

  Kiley was confused. “Wait, are you mad at Jonathan or something?”

  “No,” Esme mumbled.

  “You say no but there's a yes in your voice,” Kiley insisted.

  Esme sighed and raked her long hair back with her fingers. “He says we can come out in the open and have a ‘real relationship.’”

  “So, that's what you wanted, girl,” Lydia reminded her.

  “How do we do that and at the same time pretend that we're nearly strangers when we're at home?” Esme queried.

  Lydia shook her head. “See, now, I don't believe that's really what's holding you back.”

  Esme dead-eyed Lydia. “Oh, you know me better than I know me, is that it?”

  Lydia stopped and pivoted toward Esme. “Maybe I do at the moment. You want this boy more than I want a no-limit Visa card, but you're afraid to admit how much you want him because it makes you feel all scared and vulnerable. How close to on the money would you call that?”

  “Not to mention that you'd have to tell Junior everything,” Kiley added, since she felt certain that Lydia was right.

  Esme held up her palm. “Can we table this conversation? I'm supposed to be working.”

  The look on Esme's face made Kiley hold her tongue. It made her sad, too. It wasn't as if they could discuss it tomorrow, or the next day, or next week sometime, because Kiley would be back in La Crosse, filling out an application to serve deep-dish pepperoni pies at Pizza-Neatsa.

  God, she was going to miss these two girls so much.

  The grounds of the club golf course were normally off-limi
ts to anyone who wasn't playing. On this exceptional Nanny and Me day, though, the welcome mat had been put out. There was literally a red carpet leading down the cobblestone path to the golf clubhouse, and a banner hoisted across the path announced: NANNY AND ME MINI-GOLF TOURNAMENT. TODAY! PUTTING GREEN CLOSED FROM 1:00 P.M. TO 3:00 P.M. NANNIES AND KIDS ONLY.

  The moment they hit the red carpet, Easton and Weston charged ahead. The second they started to run, the pack of kids ran after them, laughing and shouting. A couple of little ones even dropped to the ground and rolled on their sides all the way to the bottom, nannies screaming and chasing after them, not wanting to be blamed for the damage done to clothes recently purchased at Fred Segal.

  When they reached the putting green itself, Kiley saw that it had been decorated specially for the competition. A leaderboard had been erected, on which each of the kids' names had been painted, along with blank spots for their scores on eighteen holes. There was even a spectators' gallery, with bleachers and an overhang to protect it from the sun. Once all the nannies had taken charge of their kids, the head golf pro—forty years old with a hawkish nose and chiseled features; dark hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples; and tanned, muscled biceps straining his short-sleeved white golf shirt with the country club's logo embroidered in blue on the left-hand breast pocket—spoke into a wireless microphone attached to the collar of his shirt.

  “Welcome, kids, nannies. I'm Oliver Sturman, head pro at the club and MC for today's event. Would the nannies please take seats in the bleachers? I'm sure you won't mind the break in the least. Golf staff members, please join up with two or three of the children. Thank you.”

  Lydia poked Kiley as they moved into bleacher seats with the other nannies. Meanwhile, eight attractive young men and women, all wearing the club's official white golf shirt, trotted out of the clubhouse. Each of them held a putter.

  “Sturman,” Lydia guffawed as she found a seat. “Sounds like Studman.”

  Esme, who sat on the other side of Kiley, peered around to Lydia. “Don't you ever stop thinking about sex?”

  “In all honesty, rarely,” Lydia confessed. “Well, of course, I do. When I think about shopping.”

  Kiley laughed. Even from where she sat, she could see a handsome young man—spiky, short dark hair, luscious caramel skin—speaking to Easton and Weston. They were obviously speaking Spanish, because the girls jabbered back as if this guy was their long-lost uncle. Then they turned to the bleachers with huge happy smiles, looking for Esme.

  “Excuse me,” Esme told Kiley and Lydia. “I think I'm being summoned. Save my seat.”

  “Nannies,” Oliver Sturman intoned into his microphone, “we're pleased to present you with a welcome basket to this event, compliments of the club. You'll find those baskets directly under your seats.”

  Kiley reached under her seat. Sure enough, her hands touched a white wicker basket. It held everything that the nannies might need to be comfortable during what would evidently be a kids' putting competition: oversized J. Lo sunglasses, a butter yellow Lacoste sun hat, and a liter bottle of Badoit water from the Loire Valley in France, nestled in a special icy container—which also featured the club's logo—to keep it cold. There was also 40 SPF Kiehl's sunblock, Rosebud Salve, a jet black iPod Nano already filled with three hundred summer-centric songs (à la the Beach Boys), a copy of the latest editions of People, Glamour, and Los Angeles magazines, and a soft foam cushion to go between butt and seat.

  Lydia pawed through her basket. “Screw this stuff, I need clothes. They couldn't throw in a designer T-shirt or two?” She held up the iPod. “Hmmm. Maybe I could sell this on eBay. There's a notion. Maybe you could start an eBay business out of Jorge's house. I hear some people make serious money that way. You could stay in L.A.—”

  “Not gonna happen,” Kiley interrupted. “You don't know my mother.” She smiled wanly. “Thanks for trying, though.”

  A few moments later, Esme rejoined them, and gave them the report on the assistant pro who had so captivated the twins. His name was Luis, he hailed from Costa Rica, and he was in America on a golf scholarship to Pepperdine University.

  Lydia turned to check Luis out. He was attempting to teach Easton and Weston how to hold their putters properly, which was incredible, since a few minutes before, they had been more interested in swinging them at each other's heads.

  “Marry him,” she decreed. “No, wait, marriage is the last step before divorce. Have a torrid fling.”

  Esme shot Lydia one of her “if looks could kill” specials, which made Kiley's throat ache. No one in La Crosse was remotely like these girls. It hurt to be with them now, even, but in the best possible way.

  As the golf pros were leading their junior charges out onto the putting green, Lydia watched Luis give some quick last-minute instructions to the twins. They appeared to hang on his every word as he dropped two golf balls to the manicured green, then pointed to a hole about ten feet away. He steadied Weston's hands on the putter, then helped her line up her shot.

  “Okay” Kiley saw him say. “Do it.”

  Whap.

  Weston struck the ball. It rolled thirty feet past the cup.

  “Tiger Woods she isn't,” Esme surmised.

  “Who's Tiger—” Lydia started to ask, but was interrupted by someone at the base of the bleachers calling Kiley's name.

  “Kiley! Yoo-hoo! Kiley!”

  Kiley peered down into the crowd at the base of the bleachers. A tall, bone-thin woman with short dark hair, expensive-looking khakis, and a fitted oxford was practically jumping up and down, waving her hands as she shouted Kiley's name.

  Lydia recognized her before Kiley did.

  “Run for your lives, girls,” she warned her friends. “Or call out the National Guard. It's the one and only Evelyn Bowers.”

  It was indeed Evelyn Bowers, who was supposed to be Lydia's inaugural client in her nascent nanny-placement business— Lydia's big make-scads-of-money scheme.

  Lydia had, in fact, found Evelyn a nanny, but the nanny had turned out to be … strange. Still, from what Kiley knew, Evelyn Bowers was even stranger. Not only had she fired that nanny after less than a day on the job, she'd also gone off on Lydia, promising to bad-mouth her to every other mother in Los Angeles (a bit of an exaggeration since obviously she didn't know every mother in Los Angeles; but Evelyn was a publicist, and Kiley had quickly learned that the L.A. show business world was sort of like its own small town). This threat had pretty much killed Lydia's business before it had even gotten started.

  So Kiley's question was, why did Evelyn want to talk to her? They'd met exactly one time, here at the country club. Evelyn had been wowed that Esme was working for the Goldhagens, and that Kiley was a nanny too. Lydia had done everything she could to underscore the impression that it had been she who'd gotten the girls their jobs.

  “I suggest you go down there,” Lydia advised. “Otherwise, she'll come up here, and that puts my life in danger.”

  “Fine. I'll talk to her.” Kiley stood and edged her way to the bleacher stairs, then took them two at a time. As she did, Evelyn broke into a wide grin and pushed through the crowd to meet her.

  “Kiley, it's great to see you again!” the woman said, taking both of Kiley's hands in hers as if they were long-lost friends. “How are you? How's every little thing?”

  Kiley tugged her hands back. “Fine, Mrs. Bowers.”

  “Evelyn, please!” she insisted. “You're Platinum's nanny, right? Your friend-who-shall-go-nameless told me.” Evelyn shot a look of pure loathing up the bleachers toward Lydia, who Kiley saw was looking everywhere but down at the two of them. But when Evelyn refocused on Kiley, she was as perky as ever.

  Kiley cleared her throat. “Actually, I was working for Platinum but—”

  Evelyn smacked an open palm against her own forehead. “Of course. How could I be so stupid! Platinum had that… incident last night. I read about it in the Times this morning.” Evelyn's voice dropped at least fifty
decibels. “A shame. Really. How terrible for those children. Did the arrest affect you personally in any way? I sincerely hope it didn't.”

  Kiley tried to hold back the bitterness she felt. “You could say it did, Mrs.—I mean, Evelyn. Her house is a crime scene. I'm not her nanny anymore. I'm going home to Wisconsin. Tomorrow. My mom already bought me a nonrefundable plane ticket. So I would say so. Thanks for asking, though.” She tilted her head toward the bleachers. “I should get back to my friends.”

  Kiley went to turn away but Evelyn's lightning-fast hand clamped onto her forearm. “Kiley wait. This … change in your circumstances. That means that you're … available.”

  “In what sense?” Kiley asked warily.

  Evelyn released Kiley's arm. “Well, it occurred to me when I read what had happened with Platinum—I really never thought the woman was stable—that if you were offered the right position as a nanny, you would be prepared to accept it immediately. More importantly, there would be no delay. You could start immediately.” She grinned hugely. “In that sense.”

  Whoa. Was Evelyn offering her a job?

  Kiley's mind raced. It was one thing to be living in Echo Park in a stranger's house and working as a waitress; it was quite another to be able to tell her mom that she'd secured an actual nanny position with someone who was far more stable than Platinum. She couldn't be certain, but her mother might actually be persuaded to let her stay in California under those circumstances.

  Maybe. Please, God.

  Evelyn was getting her Louis Vuitton checkbook out of her Kate Spade bag. “How much was the plane ticket, did you say?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, let's just say five hundred dollars and we'll work it out later.” Evelyn scribbled the amount on her check and handed it to Kiley, curling Kiley's fingers around it. “There! I've left the payee blank for the moment. Why don't we take a walk up to the restaurant so I can interview you? If the interview works out—and I'm getting a fantastic vibe here—we'll call your mother together. You can either send this to her—we'll fill in her name—or I can wire the money to her account in … where did you say she lives?”