Chương 2
The artist had painted her in the blue dress she wore to a hospital fundraiser, one hand resting against the back of a chair, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and impatience.
Kevin had offered to take it down after she died.
Oliver had screamed.
So it remained.
Claire watched the room with the same expression she had worn whenever Kevin pretended not to understand something obvious.
He looked away.
Annie had followed his gaze.
"They didn't need another nanny," she said.
Kevin's eyes returned to her.
The sentence landed strangely.
He felt an immediate impulse to defend himself, though he wasn't sure against what.
"You're not their nanny."
"I know."
"Then I don't understand what you're saying."
Annie inhaled softly.
Her hands remained near the front of her apron.
She was careful around him, Kevin noticed.
Not frightened.
Careful.
There was a difference, and somehow the difference made him feel worse.
"They've had a lot of people taking care of them."
"Because they need people taking care of them."
"Yes."
"I can't be here every minute."
"I didn't say you could."
His jaw tightened.
The reaction was immediate and childish, and he knew it.
Annie seemed to recognize it too.
She looked toward the bed rather than challenge him.
Kevin lowered his voice.
"I am doing the best I can."
"I know."
"You don't know."
"No."
That stopped him.
Most people rushed to reassure him.
Annie did not.
She stood there while the truth of her answer remained between them.
Kevin turned away.
On the dresser sat a plastic cup decorated with faded rockets.
Beside it was one of Noah's socks, a silver cuff link Kevin had been looking for since Tuesday, and a folded paper airplane made from what appeared to be an investment report.
The absurdity of the arrangement bothered him.
He picked up the cuff link.
It had been there all along.
"Why did they ask if you were leaving?"
Annie's voice softened.
"Oliver heard Mrs. Bell talking to the agency."
Kevin looked at her.
Mrs. Bell managed the household and possessed the unfortunate belief that closing a door made every conversation private.
"What agency?"
"The staffing agency."
"About you?"
Annie nodded once.
Kevin felt heat rise beneath his collar.
"Why?"
"Because I wasn't hired for childcare."
"They were asleep in their own bed before nine."
"That's not usually in the housekeeping contract."
Despite himself, Kevin looked at her.
She was serious.
After a second, he laughed.
It was a quiet, ugly little sound, rusty from disuse.
Annie's mouth twitched again.
Then Kevin remembered why they were having the conversation.
"Is Bell trying to have you replaced?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"She was asking whether the agency could extend my placement."
Kevin stared at her.
"And Oliver heard that?"
"He heard enough."
"He thought extend meant end?"
"I think he heard my name and the word placement."
Kevin closed his eyes.
Of course.
Adults could destroy a child's sense of safety with vocabulary nobody expected him to understand.
"What did you tell him?"
"That I wasn't leaving tonight."
"Tonight."
Annie's expression changed.
There it was.
The thing she had been avoiding.
Kevin set the cuff link back on the dresser.
"Are you leaving?"
"My placement ends next Friday."
"No."
The word came too quickly.
Annie blinked.
Kevin heard himself and tried again.
"I mean, that's administrative."
"It's my contract."
"Contracts can be changed."
"Sometimes."
"Kevin."
He disliked hearing his first name from employees.
Claire had once accused him of using formality as furniture, arranging it between himself and everybody else so no one could get close enough to inconvenience him.
He had told her that was ridiculous.
She had kissed his cheek and said, "See?"
Now Annie saying his name made him feel suddenly exposed.
She took one restrained half-step closer.
"They didn't need another nanny," she said again.
He looked at her.
"They needed someone to stay."
The room did not change.
The lamp continued glowing.
The curtains moved faintly.
Somewhere downstairs, an old pipe knocked once inside the wall.
Kevin lowered his gaze.
His first instinct was anger.
Not at Annie exactly.
At the accusation hidden inside a sentence she had not made accusatory.
At Claire for dying.
At the boys for needing things he did not know how to provide.
At himself for the immediate, humiliating relief he had felt upon discovering that someone else could put his children to sleep.
He put both hands into his trouser pockets.
"Did you promise them?"
"No."
"Good."
Annie's eyebrows drew together.
Kevin heard the coldness in his own voice.
"Don't promise them things you can't guarantee."
"I didn't."
"Children hear what they want."
"So do adults."
He looked up sharply.
Annie swallowed.
For the first time, uncertainty crossed her face.
"That was inappropriate."
"Probably."
"I apologize."
"Don't."
She waited.
Kevin looked again at Claire's portrait.
The painted version of his wife appeared infuriatingly alive in the lamplight.
He could almost hear her telling him he had managed to turn an apology into another opportunity to make someone uncomfortable.
His eyes burned.
He blinked once.
Then again.
Annie said nothing.
That mercy nearly undid him.
"Did they ask about their mother?"
"Oliver did."
Kevin's breathing changed.
"What did he ask?"
Annie hesitated.
The hesitation frightened him.
"What did he ask?"
"He wanted to know if people leave because children are difficult."
Kevin's face went still.
The cuff link on the dresser suddenly became impossible to look at.
Behind Annie, Noah shifted beneath the quilt and pushed his foot farther into the open air.
Annie turned immediately.
She crossed to the bed, lifted the quilt, and covered him without tucking it too tightly around his legs.
Noah sighed.
His hand found Oliver's sleeve.
Kevin watched his sons settle against each other.
Five years old.
Old enough to hear adult conversations.
Young enough to build explanations from whatever pieces adults dropped around them.
His throat tightened.
"What did you say?"
May you like
Annie remained beside the bed.
"I told him difficult children still get breakfast."
