The Labyrinth of Love

Chapter Five

“A nanny?” Lettie almost screamed. “I’m no nanny, never have been,” she finished defensively.

“Then, I’m sorry. We have no business here,” the woman sighed. If Lettie didn’t know better, she would have sensed disappointment.

She couldn’t be a nanny. As a teenager, she’d always struggled with babysitting, and that lasted only a few hours. Being a nanny was a full-time job. The pay was amazing; she desperately needed a job, and the woman seemed desperate enough to hire her even without any experience as a nanny. She excelled at crunching numbers and organizing things. How could she manage a possibly rambunctious small human being? Hell, she wasn’t even sure she liked children. She was strapped for cash; after paying off her student loans with nearly all of the compensation money, she was currently between jobs, so any job was welcome, especially one that paid $25 hourly.

“How hard could it be?” she wondered, the battle within her intensifying. One part of her knew she’d hate the job, but the other part couldn’t care less; the money was great. Children weren’t that bad, she hoped; it was a temporary thing, and she was positive she wouldn’t make it past two weeks; there was nothing to lose. Try for two weeks and make nearly $4000, or pass up on this opportunity and continue to wallow in self-pity. Reluctantly, she decided the former was more appealing.

“I may not have any experience as a nanny, but I managed a restaurant for more than two years. Before that, I was an administrative assistant at Sanders and Associates, an auditing firm in Brooklyn. I’ve volunteered with a couple of organizations, including the Green Initiative. I’m a model citizen, hardworking, and respectful. I’m sorry for rambling; I should probably give you my resume.” She hastily pulled a file from her purse and handed it to the pensive lady staring down at her with what some might call piqued interest.

She leafed through the document silently, her face in its usual stolid form. When she was done, she handed it back to her and with a curt nod said, “I can't believe I'm doing this...but... see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you so much, ma’am. You won’t regret this,” she tried to sound enthused, but it was quite obvious that it was forced.

“Don’t make me. Oh and Miss Mayburn, if anyone asks, Melanie sent you to me.” Lettie nodded, and the woman handed her the paper with the address on it.

"Miss Mayburn, let's go over a few things, shall we? When coming tomorrow, it is absolutely important to dress demurely. Wear shades of brown, grey, or black, no colours..." She eyed her suspiciously before continuing, "Is the colour yours?" Referring to her bright auburn hair.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Shame... How do you feel about brunettes?" She briefly considered, index finger tapping her chin.

"I think people with brown hair could be decent human beings?" She asked, a little confused and disliking the start of the conversation.

"So you wouldn't mind becoming one?"

"A decent human being or a brunette?" It was meant to be a little joke, but it bounced off the sheath of glass that was the woman's aura without making a scratch.

"A brunette, of course." She could have said 'Well duh!'

"Brown hair is lovely, but I'd prefer to keep my colour, Ma'am." She quickly chipped in, "...if I can," so as not to sound presumptuous.

"Shame... if you must retain it, make sure it's out of the way, no straying strand, no long tresses, or you'd be worse for it."

“Have a lovely day,” was the last thing she heard as she plodded out of the office, down the elevator, and out of the building.

Her feet were sore, her heart heavy. She wasn't sure how to feel—Lucky perhaps. Considering the events of the day, she had to be one hell of a lucky girl— the ad had been a mistake; she'd walked in on an interview that wasn't meant for her, an interview which didn't happen; she was absolutely overqualified yet entirely under-skilled for the job, regardless she'd somehow gotten it.

She was sure now, if she hadn't been before, that she hadn't impressed the woman, if anything, the woman had only been desperate to get a nanny. She'd have hired just anybody.

If she was being honest and not greedy, it was a risky thing and quite irresponsible to hire a stranger out of nowhere, just to get a child out of your hair. She hadn’t been from the agency, but what the woman seemed to be interested in was her appearance and hair colour preferences.

One would think she'd have asked questions along the lines of 'Have you had any experiences with children?' 'Have you read any books or taken any courses on child psychology?' 'How would you handle discipline and manage a child's behaviour?' 'What are your communication skills like?' 'Are you comfortable assisting with homework?' 'How will you create a structured and organized environment around the child? '

It made her wonder what kind of mother the woman was. She seemed very busy, not to mention impassive and inaccessible. She could imagine how the child would be; lovelorn and lashing out as a result, difficult but for the sake of attention, quiet and repressed, and possibly shy. But that would depend on the age of the child.

The other possibility was that the child wasn't hers; she could vividly remember the woman saying "...if anyone asks, Melanie sent you to me...", why would anyone else ask or be interested, if she was the mother of the child? It was also a bit strange how concerned she was about her physical appearance. "A husband, dummy," she internally face-palmed herself. The woman probably had an eye-wandering husband, hence the need for the young female nanny to look demure. More's the pity for the child, she thought—an icy mother and a philandering father. Thank God it was temporary.

Now a few blocks down the building, she spotted a cozy little coffee shop around the corner. There was something about it that reminded her of Angie's, the size perhaps, or the homeliness of it. Like a moth drawn to a flame, she couldn’t resist its charm; she suspended her despair for a while, to revel in the peace that the shop might offer.

As she pushed open the door, the entryway bell chimed, and the smell of freshly baked food and hot brewed coffee welcomed her. The coffee shop was elegant and cozy; its walls were adorned with pale pink and grey floral wallpapers, and modern pendant lights hung down the ceiling expelling a soft yellow glow.

She walked over to the counter and was greeted by a friendly middle-aged woman. Her eyes lingered wonderingly on the showcase holding an array of mouth-watering pastries. Torn between croissants and chocolate-glazed bagels for a few minutes, she finally settled for a croissant and a cup of latte.

The shop, she noticed, as she walked to a table by the entrance, was relatively empty. The two other customers had finished and were just on their way out. She didn't mind the tranquillity. Save for the brewing sound of the coffee maker and shuffling movement from behind the counter, all was still.

She bit into the croissant, welcoming a burst of buttery and sweet flavours. Simultaneously, her eyes rolled back, and she groaned in pleasure, wasting no time to go for a second bite. Abandoning the croissant for a moment, she gulped her latte; the combination of flavours felt like a sensational operatic medley in her mouth. A deep moan escaped her throat, and her eyelids closed in adoration.

"I'm having what you're having," a heavily British voice interrupted, teasingly, with a smile obvious in it. She gulped and chuckled nervously, opening one eye after the other. Her face flushed in embarrassment as her eyes came in contact with the most beautiful face she'd seen in a while.

He was a dark-skinned hunk, tall and toned. His face was oval, his jaw chiselled, and he had honey-coloured eyes that felt warm. The stubble on his face had an aesthetic appeal that made little sense to her, as she generally preferred clean-shaven men. He looked dapper in black dress pants, a light blue button-down, and a burgundy tie. His brown leather shoes matched his belt, and he filled out his outfit quite nicely.

"I...it's very...handsome...ugh...I... mean good...the croissant very good...you should get it," she sputtered, getting even redder but thanking her stars that her mouth wasn't full.

"There's no need to pitch it, I'm getting it. I reckon it's rare to come across a handsome croissant; even rarer to eat one that gives s****l healing," he teased further, a dashing smile strewn across his perfect face, his British accent making every word exotic.

"I'm James, by the way. Pardon my manners, but I couldn't help intruding."

"Scarlett. It's a pleasure," she beamed.

"Believe me, the pleasure is mine," he said, enunciating 'mine.'

"Would you mind terribly if I joined you?" he questioned, eyeing the stool opposite her.

"It depends, to eat or experience s****l healing?" she teased back, getting over her earlier embarrassment.

"I want to say both," his baritone went down a notch, a suggestive lilt to it.

"Then, Bienvenue monsieur," she whirred, flirting right back.

He chuckled, placed his order, and took the seat opposite her. Conversation flowed so easily between them that by the end of their meal, they'd exchanged contacts, and she'd promised him "lunch, some other time."