The Sitter

  “Ellie, where are you?”

  “Mom? Hi. I’m in my room. You know. My new bedroom. At the Harpers’ house in Watermill.”

  “You mean . . . you really took that job? I didn’t think you were serious. I mean, I hoped—”

  “Mom, yes. I took the nanny job. And I’m really happy about it. I’m looking forward to a great summer.”

  “A great summer? How about looking forward to a great career?”

  “Excuse me? Mom, the connection isn’t very good.”

  “You’re a baby-sitter? Isn’t that a job for teenagers? Ellie, did you lie about your age?”

  “Ha ha, Mom. We all know you’re funny. How’s Lucky? Did you send him to Marsha?”

  “Yes, I sent him and his furballs to Marsha. Don’t change the subject. What’s the family like? They’re famous Hamptons people? Have I heard of them?”

  “No, they’re a young couple, Mom. He’s some kind of financial guy. And she . . . I’m not sure what she does. She has the summer off. She has two kids to take care of.”

  “I don’t mean to pick on you, Ellie, but—”

  The famous but.

  “—but why take another dead-end job? I’m just asking. I can ask a question, right?”

  “Mom—I just woke up. I don’t need this now.”

  “Well, I’m calling with good news. You don’t have to take an attitude.”

  “Good news?”

  “Knock knock.”

  I groaned. “Mom, I don’t have time for jokes.”

  “Knock knock, Ellie. It’s not a joke. It’s opportunity knocking.”

  “Groan. Groan. Do you hear me groaning? I’ve got to go, Mom.”

  “Listen to me. Your sister, Wendy, is expanding her real estate office. Madison is growing like wildfire. She’s taking on two new people. There’s a place for you, Ellie. A very good salary and a fifteen percent commission.”

  “Mom, you want me back in Madison? You practically tossed me out of the house, remember? You were so thrilled when I moved to New York.”

  “Thrilled? Don’t say that, Ellie. That’s not true. It was hard for me to send my daughter away. I went along with it. I wasn’t thrilled. You needed a fresh start in new surroundings. But you made a flop of that, too. Pardon my French.”

  “Huh? Mom, that’s really harsh.”

  “Harsh? Harsh is for laundry detergents.”

  “Listen to me, Mom. I’m keeping this job, and I’m going to make something of it. You may think it’s beneath me or something, but I don’t. I have some things to prove to myself before I can start thinking about a real career. And I’m starting right here. And I don’t need any suggestions from you or Wendy.”

  “I was only trying to help,” she replied in a mousy little voice, totally phony.

  “Bye, Mom.” I clicked off the phone and tossed it to my bed.

  I turned. Brandon was standing in the doorway. He wore a sleeveless striped T-shirt over a baggy black swimsuit that came down over his knees. He had his skinny arms crossed in front of him. And he stared at me coldly.

  How long had he been standing there?

  “Brandon. Hi.”

  Why was he staring at me like that, his lips pressed together so tightly?

  “Were you outside last night?” I asked. “Did I see you in the backyard late last night?”

  He continued to stare. Then he slowly shook his head.

  “Come on, Brandon,” I insisted. “Wasn’t that you?”

  He shook his head again. He twirled his finger around his ear, signaling that I was crazy.

  No point in continuing.

  “Listen, I’m going to go exploring this morning,” I said. “Would you like to come with me?”

  He turned and darted away.

  Abby took the kids into town to buy shoes. I had a nutritious bowl of Cocoa Puffs—the kids’ favorite—and a cup of lukewarm coffee.

  Then I pulled on my new flip-flops and stepped outside to do some exploring. I figured it was time to get familiar with the terrain.

  Whoa. The morning sun was already high in the sky, and I could feel its heat on my bare shoulders. I hurried back inside to get my sunglasses.

  Last night, I was so freaked out that I didn’t see where I was. This morning, I had time to take it all in.

  A beautiful, wide redwood deck stretched along the back of the house. A round umbrella table and white metal chairs stood at one end, and several chaises longues and matching chairs were arranged nearby. A large barbecue grill stood at the other end.

  Steps led down to the small, sandy backyard, and a low, unpainted picket fence tilted this way and that on the left. A hedge of tall rhododendrons stretched along the bottom of the deck. The spring blossoms, all white, were starting to shrivel and turn brown.

  I picked up a beach ball and tossed it back toward the house. An inflated inner tube and a silver-blue Frisbee lay near the rhododendrons.

  I trudged up a steep dune, my flip-flops slipping, the sand already hot, burning my toes. At the top of the dune, a row of slanting pine trees. They stood in a perfect straight line, I noticed, as if deliberately placed to hide the guest house behind them.

  I ducked into the shade of the trees and gazed at the little house. A dark cyclone of buzzing insects rose up at the side of the house. The tiny gnats—or whatever they were—spun furiously, millions of them, sending up a loud droning whine, such an unpleasant sound.

  Though it was two stories tall, the house was nearly as small as a gardening shed. Its gray shingle siding was dark and weathered with age. The small windows at the back were frosted with dust. A thick carpet of dried pine needles stretched the length of the house, piling up like a snowdrift against the back wall.

  As I drew nearer, a strong stench of mold and decay invaded my nostrils. I held my breath. Was it just normal house smell? Or was something rotting inside?

  I let out my breath in a whoosh as Mrs. Bricker’s warning flashed back into my mind. What had that crazy old woman said?

  It’s in the guest house. Stay away. It’s in the guest house.

  What could she have been babbling about?

  And why the hell did I have such a talent for attracting crazy people?

  I turned and made my way past the whirling insects and to the front of the house, which faced the ocean. The front door had been white at one time, but the paint had peeled and faded, revealing the dark wood beneath. The tiny octagonal window in the door had cracked in two.

  A dark stain rose on the shingles beside the door like a shadowy ghost. A faded gray curtain covered the front window, which was also frosted with dust. Slates from the roof littered the ground.

  This must have been a cute little house when it was built. Did someone live here once? Why was the place abandoned?

  It’s in the guest house. Stay away. It’s in the guest house.

  The old woman’s velvety voice lingered in my mind.

  What was in the guest house?

  I had to check it out.

  I held my breath again as I stepped up to the front door. To my surprise, the air suddenly grew chilly. As if the house gave off waves of cold.

  “Huh?”

  Through the broken window, I thought I saw something move inside.

  I jumped back.

  No. Wait. No.

  It had to be my shadow on the glass—right? Or maybe my reflection.

  Ellie, don’t scare yourself. It’s an abandoned old house. That’s all. Are you really going to let that crazy old woman terrify you?

  I stepped back up to the front door, and again I felt a wet chill seep from the house. I squinted through the tiny window in the door, but couldn’t see anything.

  I’m going in, I decided.

  I grabbed the doorknob. The metal was cold. Cold despite the hot sunshine beaming down on it.

  I squeezed the knob. Started to turn it.

  And a voice shouted, “Get away!”

  16

  At first, I thought the cry had
come from inside the house. But then I heard the crunch of footsteps behind me.

  I spun around.

  The glare of sunlight hid the person approaching, a figure in white, all white. And again, I thought of ghosts. I squinted hard, struggling to focus.

  And then he stepped out of the glare, a grin on his tanned face. He wore a white polo shirt, damp from sweat, white tennis shorts, white sneakers, and he carried a tennis racquet in its case.

  “Chip? Oh. Hi.”

  “Ellie, I didn’t scare you—did I?”

  “Uh . . . no,” I said. Why did he shout like that? Did he deliberately try to make me jump?

  “You should be careful. Stay away from here,” he said.

  He stepped closer, and I could see his broad forehead was beaded with sweat. “Dangerous,” he said, a little out of breath. He grinned at me. “You’re looking fresh and alive this morning.”

  “Well . . . thank you.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his shorts and mopped his forehead. “You finding your way around?”

  I nodded. “Yes, doing a little exploring. I saw the little guest house and—”

  “Think I should rent it out? Ha ha. What a dump, huh? It looks like a bomb hit it. No kidding. It’s kinda dangerous. You should stay away. And you should definitely keep the kids away. Don’t let ’em play in here or anything.”

  “I won’t,” I said. I tried to act as if he wasn’t staring at my top. But it was hard not to notice. The guy wasn’t exactly subtle.

  He put his hand on my bare shoulder. “I hope you like it here. Everything okay so far?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  But I’d like it better, Chip, if you stopped staring at my tits.

  “Shame about this little guest house,” he said. He brushed a fly away from his face. “It was already a wreck when we moved in. Abby and I really should have it torn down, I guess.” He scratched his crooked nose. “Probably cost as much to tear it down as rebuild it.”

  He grinned at me, his eyes lowering over my body. “You play tennis?”

  “No. Not since high school,” I said.

  “Oh. You’ve got those strong, athletic legs. I thought maybe you played.”

  “I do the treadmill. You know. At the gym. When I can afford it.”

  He nodded. “Have you been to the beach yet?”

  “No. I was just on my way to check it out.”

  I was tempted to tell him how uncomfortable his stare was making me, but I had the feeling he didn’t care.

  I turned and started up the dune that led to the beach. “I’ll be back for lunch. Abby says I have the kids this afternoon.”

  And wouldn’t you know it? He followed me. “Totally amazing day, isn’t it? But, man, I sucked at my tennis match this morning. And I was playing a guy twice my age. Gotta get back in shape.” He took my hand and pressed it against his stomach. “Still pretty tight, huh?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  I didn’t like the way this was going. I pulled my hand free. “Chip, I ran into someone . . . in town yesterday. Mrs. Bricker? Actually, she came up to me. She said she used to be the nanny here.”

  “You’re kidding.” His face reddened. Rivers of sweat ran down his cheeks. “That crazy old bitch? What did she want with you?”

  “She—she acted very strange. She—”

  “She is very strange,” he said. “She’s totally nuts. I had to fire her. I caught her telling Brandon all kinds of frightening ghost stories. She was scaring the poor kid to death.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s awful,” I said.

  “Can you imagine? Telling ghost stories to a four-year-old? Abby and I think maybe that’s why he stopped talking.”

  I shook my head. “That’s bad news.” Then I added, “It’s a good thing you hired me. I don’t know any ghost stories.”

  I was just making a joke, but it didn’t make him smile. “Enjoy the beach, Ellie. See you at lunch.” He lowered his gaze. “Are you wearing a swimsuit under that?”

  Yuck.

  “No. I’m just exploring today,” I said.

  He saluted with his tennis racquet. Then he turned and started trotting toward the house.

  “Weird,” I muttered.

  I heard a loud creak from inside the guest house. Did the curtain over the front window move?

  No. Of course not.

  I was imagining things.

  Right?

  17

  I can’t believe that I stood this close to her this morning, that she’s in my house. That I see her every day.

  She’s so close.

  Close enough to strangle.

  Parading around in that tiny pink top, as if she had any tits. . . .

  I really can’t stand it. She’s making me crazy.

  Only two days, but she’s making me crazy.

  All the old feelings . . . They’re all flooding back to me.

  I’m only human. Every time I see her, every time I stand close to her, she brings it all back—all the bad feelings. All the anger.

  How can she not remember me? How is that possible?

  She looks at me and doesn’t remember.

  How insulting is that?

  It proves that I was nothing . . . nothing at all to her.

  I’ve controlled myself so well. I haven’t let on a thing.

  But I’m angry enough now. After two days of seeing her, I’m angry enough.

  She’s made me angry enough to kill her.

  Sooner? Or later? That’s the only question.

  Sooner? Or later?

  Or . . . perhaps I should torture her first. The way she tortured me.

  18

  After lunch, Abby and I rubbed the kids down with sunblock. Brandon stood still as a statue and let Abby goo him up. Heather made a giggling game of it and made me chase her around the house first. Then she kicked and screamed and pretended she didn’t like it when I slathered her with the stuff.

  “They make a spray sun lotion now,” Abby said. “We’ll have to get some. Then we can just line them up and spray them.”

  “In my eye,” Heather complained, rubbing both eyes.

  “Well, stop rubbing it, then.” Abby took a tissue and wiped Heather’s eye.

  “Do you like the beach?” I asked Brandon.

  He nodded, but his flat expression didn’t change.

  Abby pulled a blue-and-white Yankees cap over Brandon’s curly black hair. He took it off. She put it on again.

  She turned to me. “Since we’re down at the end, our part of the beach is pretty deserted. No one for them to play with. So turn right when you get there and go where it’s more crowded. The public beach is just a short walk.”

  “No problem,” I said. I slung the bag of beach toys over my shoulder.

  “Look for an au pair named Maggie. She has long red hair, and she’s very tall, and has an Irish accent. You’ll see her. She works for Hannah Lewis, a friend of ours. Maggie takes care of the two daughters. Sometimes Heather and Brandon like to play with them.”

  “Great. I’ll find her,” I said. “It’ll be nice to have company.”

  “You can’t miss her,” Abby said, pulling a small tennis hat over Heather’s blond hair. “She has the reddest hair you’ve ever seen and a face full of freckles. I think you’ll like her.” She patted Heather’s head. “Are you going to keep your hat on today?”

  “No way.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. I laughed. Two-year-olds are so refreshingly honest.

  Abby flashed me a scolding glance. “Don’t let her get too much sun.” She grabbed Heather playfully and started to tickle her ribs. “Heather’s bones. I’ve got Heather’s bones.”

  Heather giggled and squirmed. Then she thrust her little hands at Abby’s ribs. “Mommy’s bones! Mommy’s bones!”

  I turned to Brandon. He stood in the corner, tugging the waist of his swimsuit, watching the tickling match, his face as blank as ever.

  Abby and Heather giggled together. “M
ommy’s bones! Mommy’s bones!”

  Then Abby said, “Enough.” She pulled Heather to her and kissed her cheek. “You be good for Ellie, okay?”

  Heather didn’t answer.

  Abby handed me a straw carrier full of beach towels and sun glop. “And here. Take some extra Pampers. You’ll probably need them.”

  So now I had the pails and shovels slung over my back, the straw bag in one hand. Heather took the other hand. Brandon ran ahead, and we stepped out the back door, finally on our way to the beach.

  As we passed the deck, I glimpsed Chip stretched out on a chaise longue, reading a Stephen King novel, a tall drink on the table beside him. He lowered the book and gave us a wave. “Have fun,” he called.

  “Daddy, come beach?” Heather called.

  “Maybe later,” Chip shouted.

  We climbed the dune toward the guest house. The sun faded in and out. High clouds passed quickly overhead. The breeze off the ocean felt cool.

  As soon as we reached the line of pine trees, Heather pulled off her tennis hat and handed it to me. I decided not to argue with her. I tucked it into the beach bag.

  Brandon suddenly started to run toward the guest house, a determined expression on his face. He bent down and picked something up from the thick carpet of pine needles.

  “Brandon? What have you got?”

  “Bandon? What got?” Heather called, mimicking me. “Bad boy. What got?”

  Stepping into the cold shadow of the guest house, I caught up to him and saw that he’d picked up a straight stick. He studied it for a moment, then began trotting toward the beach, waving the stick in front of him.

  “Hey, you don’t need that stick,” I called. “What are you going to do with that?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Put it down. You’ll poke your eye out.”

  But how many thousands of times had my mother said that to me?

  I caught myself in time. No way was I becoming my mother!

  “Brandon, wait for us. Don’t run ahead.” I practically dragged Heather up the dune to catch up to him. “Are you going to use that stick to help build a castle?”

  He waved the stick at me.

  “Shall we build with that?” I repeated.