Chapter 2-2
1389 Words
THE HALLWAY LED PAST several rooms and if she hadn’t been following in Millieur’s wake, she would’ve been hopelessly lost in the first twenty steps. There was a turn, and another, and they were suddenly in a long dining room, with a rectangular table that could have hosted a dozen people comfortably. Currently, there were only three chairs set in place. Simple white plates of sliced bread and deli meat and tomatoes and cheese crowded the middle of the table.
Two of the chairs were on the side away from the doorway Mallory had just been led through. Millieur went around to one of those and sat. Next to him was a little boy in a Star Wars t-shirt, eating a sandwich that was piled high with white and yellow cheese slices. It was easy to see this was Millieur’s son, even if he hadn’t wrapped his arm over the boy’s shoulders to hug him close and kiss the top of his messy blonde hair. Father and son shared the same eyes and the same chin. This kid was probably ten or eleven now. This must be whom they needed a nanny for.
Millieur looked back up at her, that same dark eyebrow arched. “You’re going to just stand there?”
“Daddy?” the boy asked around a mouthful of half-chewed sandwich. “Who is she?”
“Ah, yes. Manners.” Millieur stole a cherry tomato from a plate and popped it into his mouth. “Brendan, this is Mallory Rose. She’s here for a job.”
“What job?”
Millieur directed his gaze at her, and then finally waved a hand at the single chair opposite him and Brendan. “That’s what we’re going to find out now. Sit, Mallory Rose. Join us for some lunch. Let’s talk.”
Mallory watched Millieur cautiously as she folded herself into the seat he indicated. She was nervous around him. There was no other way to describe it. It wasn’t just the way he was treating her, either. That was bad enough. There was something else. Something that radiated from him like a pressure she could feel against her skin. It put her off her guard and she wasn’t quite sure what was expected of her.
She was usually a strong woman; she took care of herself. That’s what this whole trip across the country had been about. Everyone told her she was foolish for coming all this way to make a life for herself on just a whim and a dream. Mallory knew she could do it. She wasn’t going to let anything stop her. Only, she wasn’t doing it. She was failing.
Now she was here in this mansion with one last chance to make it on her own and she felt as timid as a rabbit. Except for her brief outburst on the stairs, her heart had been in her throat ever since she had first laid eyes on Mister Millieur.
His little boy—Brendan—was watching her while he sucked at his soda from a straw. She smiled at him, wondering why someone his age would need a nanny. Was this just something rich people did?
“How old are you?” Brendan asked suddenly.
“Me?” She laughed softly. Of course, her. “I’m twenty-seven. You probably think that’s really old, don’t you?”
He tilted his head to one side, putting his glass of soda down. “Nah. My dad’s older than that, and he’s not old.”
“Hmm. So,” she said, leaning on her elbows, “how old are you? I’m thinking, sixty-five.”
“Ha! Not even close. Try again.”
“Okay. Ninety-seven.”
He rolled his eyes at her, even as his smile got wider. “No way.”
“Well I know you aren’t two hundred. Nobody’s ever lived that long.”
“Except Methoosalem,” he said, stumbling over the long name. “Um. How do you say that name, dad?”
“Methuselah,” his father supplied in a gentle voice.
When Mallory looked over, Millieur was studying her with intense eyes. Watching how she interacted with his son. Ah. This was part of the job interview. Clever. Put the applicant in the room with his son and see if they got along or if they hated each other.
She knew she was winning Brendan over. His father was keeping his opinion close to his vest. There was no way to know from Millieur’s blank expression if she was scoring any points with him.
“Right,” Brendan said. “Methloosela. He lived to be really, really old.”
“Wow.” Mallory said the word slowly, like that was the most fascinating thing she’d ever heard. “You’re really smart.”
“Eh,” he shrugged. “My teachers tell me a lot of things.”
“Well, then tell me. How old did Methuselah live to be?”
“Like, eight hundred or something. I learned that in class.”
“Oh, yeah? What school do you go to?”
Brendan’s smile suddenly slid away and he stared down at his half eaten sandwich. “I have my classes right here. I don’t get to go to school with the other kids.”
She flicked her eyes over to Millieur again but nothing in his expression told her why his son wouldn’t be going to school. Was he sick, maybe? It wasn’t like this family couldn’t afford private school, even if they just wanted to limit who Brendan associated with.
“Well, I think you’re too smart to be five,” she said into the heavy silence. “Only smart, grown up boys know about things like Methuselah.”
That perked him up a little bit. “Yeah. I know lots of stuff.” He shrugged, like knowing stuff wasn’t that important to him. “Do you go to school?”
“Sort of. I was going to a dance school. I was learning to be a better dancer so I could perform on Broadway.”
That finally got a reaction out of Millieur. He arched that damned eyebrow again and she felt like asking him if that kind of career wasn’t good enough by his standards; probably not a good idea when she was looking to have him hire her. Besides, talking to his son was one thing. She wasn’t up for another confrontation with him.
“I know!” she said loudly, snapping her fingers dramatically. “You’re ten!”
Brendan looked surprised. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I have nephews your age. Besides, it’s written all over your face.”
“It is?” Giggling, he sat up a little straighter, wiping at his cheeks and forehead and chin. “Where?”
“Right there,” she said, pointing to the tip of his nose. His eyes crossed trying to look at her finger, and he laughed harder for it.
They talked a little longer, about nonsense and serious things and whether Methuselah had eight hundred birthday cakes. Brendan finished his sandwich and the potato chip pile from his plate. Mallory lost track of time.
After a while, Millieur cleared his throat. “Brendan,” he said, “it’s time for you to get washed up for your afternoon lessons.”
“Ah, dad. Can’t I stay down here with you and Mallory a little longer?”
“We talked about this,” was all his father had to say.
They did? Mallory was confused. Maybe, she thought, Millieur had prepared his son for someone showing up in answer to the ad, not her specifically. That made more sense than thinking he had been expecting her.
His son sighed and nodded as he got up from his seat. Millieur pulled the boy into a tight hug. “Are we still on for our board game tonight?”
“You bet! Oh. I mean, unless you need to go out.”
“Not tonight,” Millieur said quickly, and although he didn’t look at Mallory she had the feeling that he was watching her as he said it. “Now, run upstairs. Wash your hands good.”
“I will,” the boy promised. “Bye, Mallory. I really hope my dad gives you the job!” Then he was gone from the room and she was alone with Millieur and his silent gaze.
Uncomfortably shifting in her chair, keeping her eyes down, she asked, “Does Brendan have some kind of disease?”
“Why do you ask?”
“He said he doesn’t go out. I just figured that meant he was sick. You know, like with leukemia or an immune system disorder or something.”
Keeping his secrets, Millieur tapped his fingers on the tabletop. Then he stood up with a tight smile on his face. “You’ll start tomorrow, Miss Rose. Give your contact information to Wilson.”
“What? Really? Why?”
Millieur had started to walk out of the room. He turned back to her now with that amused look he seemed to enjoy giving her. “My, my, so many questions. You do want the job, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I mean, yes I do, but you must have more qualified applicants than me. You didn’t even ask what my qualifications were!”
“You made my son laugh,” he told her. “That’s all the qualifications I require.”
“Mister Millieur—”
“Call me Garnett. You’re not my servant. You’re my son’s nanny and you’ll be treated like part of the household for as long as you’re employed here. I’ll go over specifics with you tomorrow. What will be expected of you, your duties, and so forth. For now, help yourself to the lunch on the table. Wilson will be along shortly to show you out.”
She had so many things she wanted to ask but she was too excited to organize her thoughts.
Not that it mattered. Garnett had already left the room.
***
- Writer
