He Fired Five Nannies Until the Maid Revealed What His Twins Really Needed

Nothing useful arrived.

Housekeeping was the obvious answer, but both of them knew that wasn't what he meant.

He looked at the blue crayon.

"You got them to sleep."

"Once."

"You've been helping with them for weeks."

"Because they ask."

"And because I haven't stopped you."

Annie's eyebrows rose.

Kevin winced.

"That also came out wrong."

"Much worse."

"Fine."

He rubbed his forehead.

"I am apparently incapable of discussing employment after nine-thirty."

"Maybe chamomile."

"I hear it doesn't work."

This time her smile lasted.

Kevin let the quiet settle.

The refrigerator motor clicked on behind him.

Somewhere in the servants' corridor a door closed softly.

A clock near the pantry marked the quarter hour with a muted chime.

Kevin looked at Annie.

"What do you want?"

Her smile vanished.

He tried again.

"Not from me."

She waited.

"What do you want your job to be?"

Annie looked toward the dark windows over the sink.

For several seconds she seemed to consider whether he had earned an answer.

"I don't know anymore."

Kevin said nothing.

She rubbed her thumb against a small chip in the mug's glaze.

"I trained as a preschool teacher."

He blinked.

"You're a teacher?"

"Was."

"What happened?"

Annie's expression tightened.

"Life."

Kevin recognized the word as a closed door.

He did not push it.

"So housekeeping was temporary."

"It was supposed to be."

"How temporary?"

"Two years."

Kevin looked at her.

Annie gave a dry shrug.

"I said life happened."

"Apparently repeatedly."

"Apparently."

He turned the crayon once more between his fingers.

"Do you miss teaching?"

"Parts of it."

"Which parts?"

"The children."

"That's a fairly significant part."

"Not the paperwork."

"I assume that's also significant."

"You'd be surprised."

Kevin set the crayon down.

"Would you want to work with Oliver and Noah?"

Annie became very still.

"Professionally."

"I understood."

"Then why do you look alarmed?"

"Because they're grieving."

"So am I."

"You're their father."

"Yes."

"That's different."

Kevin's chest tightened.

He looked away.

Annie lowered her voice.

"They don't need somebody replacing their mother."

"I'm not asking you to."

"I know."

"Then what are you saying?"

She looked into her tea.

"I'm saying children can attach very quickly when they're scared."

Kevin stared at her.

"And adults?"

Her eyes lifted.

The question had left his mouth before he could stop it.

The room seemed suddenly smaller.

Kevin felt embarrassed enough to become irritated.

He stood.

"Forget that."

Annie did not answer.

He walked to the sink and looked out at his reflection in the dark glass.

His face appeared drawn beneath the kitchen lights.

He looked older than forty-two.

Behind him, Annie moved her mug.

"You should sleep."

"So everyone keeps telling me."

"They may have a point."

"Unlikely."

He heard the chair shift.

When he turned, Annie had stood and picked up her apron.

"Breakfast at seven?"

"Seven-thirty."

"The boys will be awake at six."

"Six-thirty if the universe has mercy."

"It doesn't."

Kevin smiled despite himself.

Annie folded the apron over one arm.

At the doorway, she stopped.

"I haven't accepted the other job."

Kevin nodded.

She looked at him for another second.

"Good night, Kevin."

"Good night, Annie."

After she left, he remained in the kitchen with the blue crayon on the table and the refrigerator humming behind him.

At six twelve the next morning, Noah climbed into Kevin's bed carrying a wooden dinosaur and announced that Annie had promised pancakes.

Kevin opened one eye.

"Did Annie actually promise pancakes?"

Noah considered this.

"She said maybe pancakes."

"That's not the same thing."

"It is when you're five."

Kevin stared at his son.

Noah smiled.

For the first time in months, Kevin had no answer ready.

Noah climbed fully onto the mattress and planted the wooden dinosaur on Kevin's chest.

"Mr. Roar says pancakes."

"Mr. Roar is not authorized to make breakfast decisions."

"He is a T. rex."

"That doesn't improve his authority."

Noah frowned at the dinosaur as though Kevin had raised a legitimate constitutional issue.

The bedroom door opened another inch, and Oliver appeared in the gap with his blanket dragged around his shoulders.

His hair stood straight up on one side.

"Annie's downstairs."

Kevin looked at the clock.

Six fourteen.

"Of course she is."

Oliver came closer but stopped before reaching the bed.

Kevin noticed the hesitation.

Until Claire died, both boys had treated their parents' bedroom as conquered territory.

They had launched themselves onto the mattress without knocking, hidden beneath the covers, built pillow forts, and once emptied an entire box of crackers between the sheets while insisting they had been feeding imaginary squirrels.

After the funeral, the room had become foreign ground.

Kevin had moved into the guest room for three weeks because every object inside it seemed to accuse him of surviving.

When he returned, the boys rarely followed.

"Come here," Kevin said.

Oliver shook his head.

Noah bounced once on the mattress.

"Come on."

Oliver remained where he was.

Kevin sat up slowly.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"That's usually not true."

Oliver looked toward the hallway.

"Is Annie leaving?"

The question arrived without warning and changed the room immediately.

Noah stopped bouncing.

Kevin glanced at both boys and felt the familiar instinct to produce reassurance before he had facts.

He almost said no.

Instead he rubbed his palm over the wrinkled sheet.

"Her job here is supposed to end next Friday."

Oliver's mouth tightened.

"Then she's leaving."

"Not necessarily."

"You said it's ending."

"The job she has now is ending."

"That's the same thing."

"No, it isn't."

Oliver stared at him with the deeply suspicious expression of a child who had recently discovered that adults could arrange words around unpleasant truths.

Kevin swung his feet to the floor.