By dinnertime, a trio of waiters had arrived. The housekeeping staff had changed out of their usual jeans and T-shirts into crisp black slacks and white blouses. Though their work was mostly done for the day, Lucia wanted them to be ready in case a visitor needed extra towels or something else. Lucia had changed into a fresh silk blouse and earrings, and Maddy and I were wearing the outfits I’d picked out the night before. A current of anxiety and excitement crackled in the air and grew stronger as 7 p.m., the estimated time of arrival, came and went.
Lucia’s cell phone rang at 8:15. “They just passed the gatehouse,” she announced to the assembled staff. “Brace yourselves.” Maddy’s bedtime was 9 p.m., but there was no way she would sleep before she’d greeted her father. Until she was called for, she and I stayed out of sight in the playroom. From the window, we watched three SUVs roll up the drive and stop near the front entrance to unload their passengers. I saw the guests emerge from the first two cars and recognized Mr. Rathburn’s bandmates from their photographs on his CDs. The third and final SUV carried the man I most wanted to see — Mr. Rathburn. He stepped out first, his shirt a brilliant shade of blue I had never seen him wear before. It suited him. He went around to the other side of the car and held out a hand to Bianca Ingram. Her legs emerged first, then the rest of her. Though dressed casually in high-heeled boots, jeans, and a tight white tank top, she radiated opulence and style, as she had in the red carpet photo. I stepped away from the window and let the curtain fall into place. “You’ll see them soon enough,” I told Maddy.
In the foyer, they were a noisy bunch, the men joking with each other, the women laughing. From the playroom, I could hear their muffled voices. And then there was Mr. Rathburn’s familiar, deep voice. “Why don’t we pull out your figurines?” I asked Maddy, willing myself to be calm.
“Do we have to?” Maddy usually loved nothing more than to play with her precious collection, but she was on edge too. I thought about bringing her down to make cinnamon toast, but that would have required that we pass the newcomers, not to mention the risk of a mishap in the kitchen. Out of ideas, I popped Sleeping Beauty into the DVD player, and the video held her attention for a while.
Dinner came and went without our being called for. I could hear the chink of silverware against china and voices wafting from the dining room. I wasn’t surprised when we weren’t asked to join the party, and anyway Maddy and I had shared one of Walter’s macaroni-and-cheese casseroles earlier. Still, I wanted to put her to bed, and I was disappointed that Mr. Rathburn hadn’t called for her after having been away so long, especially when the crowd was gathered in the living room after dinner. I was just about to give up hope when I heard a knock on the door.
“Ready to go?” Lucia bent down and addressed Maddy. “The grown-ups want to see you now.”
To my complete surprise, Maddy looked shy. She grabbed my hand. “Can Miss Jane come too?” she asked.
“You’ll be fine,” I told her. “Miss Lucia will bring you in.”
Lucia folded her arms and gave me a stern look. “Nico specifically asked for you to join Maddy.” I began explaining why that wasn’t a good idea, but she cut me off. “No use protesting.” She got behind me and gave me a little shove between my shoulder blades. “It’s showtime.”
Maddy grabbed my hand. Together we entered the living room, where a collective “Ahh” went up from the women at the sight of Maddy. I noticed, though, that Bianca Ingram, who sat beside Mr. Rathburn near the fireplace, remained silent. I slipped into a chair in the darkest corner, hoping to see and not be seen. So far, so good; nobody seemed to notice me.
The eight of them were scattered about the room, settled in as if they planned to be there for hours. Several open bottles of Merlot and whiskey stood on a side table. Two of the men were deep in conversation — something about reverb. From my days studying Mr. Rathburn’s CDs and liner notes, I recognized them as Mike Krikorian, the keyboard player, and Tom Rhodes, the bassist. Tom was the youngest in the group, with boyish features and a blond crew cut. Mike had curly black hair and the leathery skin of someone who’d led a fairly rough life. Neither seemed to notice Maddy, but the rest of the party was instantly drawn to her.
“Munchkin!” A man as big as a linebacker swooped down to lift Maddy in his arms; she shrieked with joy. “The last time I saw you, you were a toddler. You couldn’t even say my name. You called me Deh-Deh. Remember?” This must be Dennis Everson, the band’s rhythm guitarist, whose pale face and thick, black-framed glasses seemed an ironic twist on what rock-and-roll guitarists generally look like.
Maddy shook her head vehemently and clung to his neck until he put her down. Then she ran for Mr. Rathburn and threw herself against his knees. He bent over to help her onto his lap and kissed her hair. “Where’s my gift?” she demanded. Everyone laughed.
“The child has her priorities straight,” Bianca Ingram quipped. Mr. Rathburn grinned as though she’d said something very funny.
Though Maddy had practiced her dance routine for hours with surprising concentration that afternoon, she had no desire to leave Mr. Rathburn’s lap.
“She looks just like Celine,” a man said in a British accent. It was Lonnie Branch, the drummer, a handsome, dark-skinned man with a shaved head. The flame-haired woman perched on the arm of his chair leaned over to whisper something in his ear, and then the two of them laughed. I glanced at Mr. Rathburn; he was frowning.
“What a beautiful little girl,” a woman with high cheekbones and extremely short platinum hair said. She edged up closer to Mr. Rathburn and bent over to get a better look at Maddy, who buried her head in her father’s chest. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. Don’t you want to come out and say hello?”
Maddy clung even tighter to her father’s shirt. “Okay, okay,” I just barely heard him mutter to her. “I’ve got you, cupcake.” From my seat in the corner, I could watch him as long as I wanted. To see his face — his strong features, his dark brows, and those storm-colored eyes — was to instantly give in to the emotions I’d been trying so hard to ignore.
And what of his friends, the attractive, accomplished people who surrounded him, who drank his wine and laughed at each other’s jokes? The women were beautiful, and the men all had the healthy glow that, I realized, must belong to the very wealthy, who can travel to sunny climes all year long, who eat only the best food and work out daily with personal trainers. All of them looked perfectly self-assured, knowing that wherever they happened to be was the center of the universe.
“Nico, who’s that in the shadows over there?” a voice called out, startling me. It was Dennis, pointing in my direction. His words had the unpleasant effect of causing everyone in the room to turn and look in my direction. “Is this the new nanny you were telling us about?”
Maddy found her voice. “That’s Miss Jane.”
“Jane, let me introduce you,” Mr. Rathburn said.
I had no choice but to stand up and step out of the shadows. “Hello,” I said, nodding to the group. What else was I supposed to do?
“Jane Moore, my nanny,” Mr. Rathburn said.
Bianca laughed, not pleasantly. “You mean Maddy’s nanny.” She gave Mr. Rathburn a playful shove. “Unless Daddy’s messing where he shouldn’t.” Though she might have expected the others to laugh at her remark, only Mr. Rathburn did.
I took a step back and returned to my seat.
“No! No! Don’t hide,” Lonnie called out to me. “We don’t bite.”
“Come sit by me, sweetheart,” Dennis said — a bit drunkenly, I thought — patting the empty sofa cushion beside him. “I’ll take good care of you.”
“I’ve seen how you take care of girls her age,” Mr. Rathburn chided. “Jane, you’re better off steering clear of that one. Why don’t you put Maddy to bed and come back and join us?”
Maddy started to protest.
“It’s at least an hour past your bedtime,” Mr. Rathburn said. “Go with Miss Jane now, and in the morning I’ll give you
something special.”
Although reluctant, Maddy let me lead her back to her room, prepare her for bed, and tuck her in. “I wish all those people would go away,” she said.
I knew better than to agree with her aloud. “You’ll see more of your daddy tomorrow.” I kissed her on the cheek, hoping I had spoken the truth. Then I sat beside her bed for a while, waiting for her to drift off, which didn’t take long. I lingered there well after she fell asleep.
“Jane?” The static crackle of the intercom startled me. It was Lucia. “Nico wants to know if you’ve forgotten you were invited to come back to the living room?”
Invited? It seemed more like an order to me.
“I’ll be right there,” I told the intercom. Then I checked Maddy one more time to make sure she was still asleep, smoothed my hair in the bathroom mirror, and walked, as slowly as I could, back to the living room. I tried to slip into the same chair in the shadows.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Mr. Rathburn said. “Come sit with the adults for once.”
Why me? I couldn’t help wondering. Lucia hadn’t been forced to join the group, and she was my superior.
“At least have some wine,” Dennis called, waving me over. “You are over twenty-one, aren’t you?” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, Groucho Marx–style. “If you’re under eighteen, don’t tell me. I want to maintain… what do they call it?”
“Plausible deniability?” Mike chimed in.
“She doesn’t look a day over seventeen,” Tom observed.
“Leave her alone, already,” the blonde woman said, sounding annoyed. “Can’t you see she doesn’t want anything to do with you?” She crossed the room a bit unsteadily to give Tom a playful swat.
“Spoilsport,” Lonnie said. “We all like to watch Dennis at work.”
Then the redhead sidled up to me. “I’m Yvonne, sugar.” She grabbed my hands and pulled me up. “You can’t just sit by yourself like that. It’s unhealthy. It’s not right.” Hands on hips, she addressed the crowd. “Nannies are people too, you fucking losers.” Then she giggled. “Listen to me. I’m a crusader for nanny rights. Nanny liberation. Power to the people.” She waved a fist in the air.
“I’m so lonely,” Dennis called. “Come, have pity on the lonely guitar player.”
The rest hooted at him.
“Jane, you realize these clowns won’t leave you alone until you come out of the corner,” Mr. Rathburn said. “You’d better join us.”
Yvonne pulled me over to the couch and pressed my shoulders down until I was sitting, against my will, beside Dennis. To tell the truth, he scared me a little. I hadn’t yet worked out how seriously I should take his big-bad-wolf routine.
“There.” Yvonne gestured toward me with a flourish. “Liberation accomplished.” She patted me on the head and collapsed into a chair across from me. “Mike, pour her a glass of wine. If it’s okay with the Man, that is.”
Mr. Rathburn scowled and waved her off. “She’s underage. And as for you” — he turned to Dennis — “ hands off. I can’t have you corrupting my nanny.”
Dennis raised both hands in the air. “Hokay, boss,” he said. Then he leaned closer to me and whispered, “It’s a routine, sweetheart. Don’t look so scared. I’d never cross Nico.”
Had I looked scared? I’d been trying hard not to let my face register any emotion at all. I didn’t know what to say, so I thanked him, and he smiled at me — not unkindly, I thought. Then he started trying to draw me out, and I decided I liked him after all. He asked me questions: Where was I from? How long had I been a nanny? I replied as best I could. I’d never been much good at small talk. Besides, I couldn’t give him my full attention. A few feet away, Mr. Rathburn was chatting quietly with Bianca Ingram. Snatches of their conversation reached me. She was saying something about boarding school, how good it would be for Maddy as soon as she was old enough. I heard her say that being sent away from home was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Something about confidence and independence. And then something about puberty and sexual experimentation.
“Of course most of us outgrew it,” she admitted, and Mr. Rathburn laughed.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said.
“But seriously,” she said, leaning in so close that what she said next was lost to me. I heard her say the word nanny once and then again. Then her voice got louder. “How can you stand having live-in staff? I know it’s a status thing, but what is it like? They never go away! Don’t you feel… I don’t know… watched?”
I could feel my cheeks get warm.
“You’re flushed,” Dennis said. “It must be hot in here.”
“Yes, it must be,” I said.
Yvonne and the blonde woman with the short, spiky hair approached us. “Dennis, you bad boy. Leave this poor little creature alone,” the blonde said. “Can’t you see she’s too smart to fall for your sensitive-guy crap? You want to get her fired?” She beckoned to me. “We’re going to rescue you, honey. Come with us. You need an intervention.”
I looked over at Mr. Rathburn to see if I should go with them or not, but he was deep in conversation with Bianca. The bright manicured nails of her slender hand rested intimately on his forearm.
“Oh, he won’t care,” Yvonne said lightly. “Come on. We’re bored to tears. Mike, Lonnie, and Tom will talk shop for hours and not even notice we’re gone. Go on,” she commanded Dennis. “Talk about guitars. You know you want to.”
Dennis rose with a wry smile in my direction. I stood and followed the two women.
“Where’s your room?” Yvonne asked me.
“The bathroom’s better,” the blonde asserted. “I’m Kitty.” She held out a hand for me to shake. “Mike’s wife.”
What do the two of them want with me? I wondered.
Yvonne locked the bathroom door behind us. It was a large room, with an enormous mirror and a long white bench. “This will do,” she said.
Kitty rummaged in her yellow crocodile handbag. “Oh, good. I brought my Nars with me.” She pulled out a black compact with silver writing across it. “For a brunette, you’re pale,” she observed. “My shades should work on you.”
I exhaled with relief.
“What did you think? We were bringing you in here to do a line?” Yvonne giggled. “Nico would never allow that in his house. Not since Maddy.”
“Not that he’d have to know,” Kitty said. She dug into her bag and brought out another round compact and a lipstick. “Sweetie, don’t you wear makeup? You could use a little color.” She knelt down in front of me and started rubbing sweet-smelling beige foundation across my face. “How do you ever expect to bag a husband and get out of the nanny biz?”
Yvonne giggled again. “Not everyone’s interested in marrying up.”
“Everyone should be,” Kitty said matter-of-factly. “When’s Lonnie gonna make an honest woman out of you?”
Yvonne shrugged. “After wife number four, he’s a little bit shy.”
Kitty rubbed the foundation deeper into my face. “Shit, I forgot my blush,” she said. “Got any, Vonnie?” Yvonne looked in her purse and handed over another compact.
“Lonnie and Vonnie sitting in a tree,” Kitty sang as she tickled my cheeks with a brush dipped in pink powder. “Think how wonderful ‘Lonnie and Vonnie’ would look on monogrammed bath towels.”
“She’s a Winter,” Yvonne said. Then, to me, “That means you should wear deep, rich colors.”
“That whole season thing is so dated,” Kitty said. She was painting my lips, so I didn’t respond. Besides, what could I have said? That I had never really cared about makeup? That was obvious. I remembered my mother squatting in front of me just as Kitty was doing now, the first and only time she’d tried making me up. The sweet, slightly floral fragrance of foundation and lipstick brought that afternoon back vividly. I’d enjoyed having my mother stand so close to me, and I liked the attention. A hopeful feeling had risen within me: maybe her makeup would transform me, make me pretty. And if
I were pretty, maybe she’d love me as much as she loved Jenna.
But when she finished, she stepped back for a look at her handiwork, and I saw the disappointment in her eyes. “You inherited your father’s face,” she said. It clearly wasn’t a compliment. “Right down to his eyelashes. It’s a crime.” She snapped her makeup case shut. “Life’s so much harder for a…” — her voice trailed off — “for a girl like you. It’s a good thing you don’t care about these things,” she concluded.
I was at a sensitive age then. Had I been thirteen? Fourteen? She thought she knew so much about me, but she didn’t know anything. I’d felt tears welling up in my eyes, but I didn’t want her pity. So instead of crying, I let a righteous bubble of anger burst in my chest.
“Stop trying to make me into Jenna,” I shouted. Until that day, I don’t think I’d even so much as raised my voice to her — or my father — in my whole life. Instead, I’d tried to please them with good grades and obedience. And, yes, she and my father had praised me for those things, but never with the warmth and enthusiasm that Jenna received for her shiny auburn hair, wide, white smile, excellent posture, and ballerina grace. “I’ll never be what you want me to be.” My voice rose; I heard anger in it, and a newfound defiance. “I’ll never be your little Barbie doll. Why can’t you love me the way I am?”
My mother’s face blanched. “How dare you talk to me that way,” she said under her breath, in a firm voice that frightened me more than yelling would have. “Nobody speaks to me like that.” She glared at me a moment, her nostrils flaring. Then she snatched up her makeup kit, wheeled around, and was gone.
From that moment on, she lavished even more attention on Jenna — her face, hair, and clothes — reserving her approval for Jenna’s small acting triumphs and Mark’s athletic achievements. Every now and then, she’d look at me and complain, “If only you’d take a little care with your appearance.” But then she’d bite her lip and turn away. I can’t remember her showing the least bit of interest in my grades or art after that. Soon I stopped playing the violin; I’d only been doing it for her. But I continued to work hard in school. I enjoyed school, and studying and writing term papers came easily to me. When my paintings won first place in a high school competition, my father came to the show and afterward slipped a fifty-dollar bill into my hand — his way of saying he approved. My mother had begged off, saying she had to drive Jenna to an audition, which, I suppose, was the truth. (Had I really heard her say to him, “She’s all yours”?) When I graduated high school with honors, my parents sat through the ceremony, but the only congratulation I could recall was my father’s gentle kiss on my cheek, and, this time, a hundred-dollar bill. When I’d gotten into Sarah Lawrence, my parents didn’t take me out to celebrate the way they had when Mark got a lacrosse scholarship to Ohio State and Jenna got into NYU. If Dad hadn’t been away on a business trip then, I suppose the job would have fallen to him. Until the accident, they had dutifully paid my tuition, but they never asked how I was doing or said much, if anything, about the class reports I mailed home to them from the first semester.