Page 3 of One Hot Daddy

The four of them tumble out, colliding into the early morning mist like a time-lapse video of child chaos.I step onto the stoop, mug in hand, and watch as they clamber aboard.Backpacks bounce, and hair flounces.Voices are already raised in a new argument about whose backpack is the most embarrassing.

Finally, the bus drives away.

After seventy-two minutes of chatter and clacking silverware, I have peace and quiet at last.

I blow out a breath, close my eyes, and let the breeze carry the faint, sweet aroma of burnt toast and jam.When I open my eyes, the bus is a shrinking speck at the end of the street.I savor this moment, halfway between emptiness and relief.

Then, I trudge back inside.The kitchen is still a mess, but for a glorious six minutes I simply slouch on the sofa.After that, I pour another coffee---a proper cuppa this time---and enjoy the delicious aroma, not to mention the sweet silence.The chair on my left is empty.It always is these days.There's still a groove in the seat beside mine.I swear the faint trace of citrus shampoo wafts around me, as if Claudia might walk in any second and start lecturing me about cholesterol.I stare into space, remembering mornings when we'd sat here together, negotiating breakfast treaties and trading knowing looks over the kids' heads.Back when it was us against the world.

Now it's just me.Fletcher and the Four Children of the Apocalypse.

At least Claudia sends cards and small gifts to the children for birthdays and holidays.She always chooses Australian-style gifts.The kids like what she sends them, but my ex-wife has become more of a distant relative to the four beautiful youngsters she left behind.

The coffee tastes like heaven, though it's average at best.I drink slowly, watching the light creep across the kitchen tiles, turning the mess into something almost beautiful.

At precisely 8:12 a.m., I gather my coat and keys.Then I take a last look at the kitchen---the sock on the table, the puddle of juice by the fridge, the soccer ball waiting on the stairs---and I lock the door behind me.Outside, the world is cold and quiet.I pull my coat tighter and wonder if Claudia ever misses this mess, or if she's grateful to have gotten away from all of us.

She didn't just run away from me.She left the kids too---for an Australian yoga instructor.

On Millbrook Valley Road, the sun is just starting to carve the frost from the lawns.The school bus is a memory, but the exhaust remains visible.I shuffle down the path in my wrinkled shirt and tie, dodging the puddle under the mailbox.

The street is too quiet after the blast radius of my kitchen.The weight of responsibility bears down on me like a heavy blanket.I like it and hate it in equal measure.But I would never give up my children for any reason.They are my North Star, the glittering white light in my sky.

The car starts up on the second try.A minor victory.

I'm backing down the drive when my phone buzzes.It's a text message from the desk clerk on duty at the hotel this morning.

Emergency.Need you here ASAP.New guest.High priority.

And so, my day begins.

Chapter Two

Jennifer

I'm five minutes early.In my experience, that's four minutes too late for a job interview.The nanny agency's waiting room smells like microwaved coffee and shoe polish, which is about right for a Tuesday morning in Millbrook Valley.I had never heard of this town until eight days ago.The lady from the nanny agency had assured me this is a beautiful small town, and I'll love it.

I pick at the edge of my manila folder, tap-tap-tapping the corner against my knee.My heels drum out what sounds like Morse code against the linoleum.If it spells SOS, I'm not sure anyone would notice.

My former family---the Johnsons---pulled up stakes two months ago and moved to Manhattan for a "can't-miss opportunity."I don't blame them.Their oldest daughter, Mallory, wrote me two postcards from the Upper West Side before she completely forgot who I am.Even her cursive looked more sophisticated after a week.Mrs.Johnson offered to pay for my relocation if I wanted to stay with them.I politely told them I'm not interested in a world with more rats than trees.

Small towns fit me better.Here, I'm sure people say good morning and genuinely mean it.In the city, I'd probably wind up as a cautionary tale, one of those nannies who snaps and locks herself in the wine closet with a spiral-bound planner and a box of Wheat Thins.

The chair beneath me is vinyl and navy blue without a single crack.Every time I shift my weight, it sounds like a balloon deflating.I stare at the coffee table, which is crowded with parenting pamphlets that look like they've been thumbed through by a hundred anxious hands.Some promote "nurturing emotional intelligence"; others offer dire warnings about screen time and gluten.I try to guess how long each pamphlet has sat here by the depth of its coffee ring.The record-holder, "Your First Baby: A Survival Guide," is practically laminated with stains.

As I glance around at the other applicants, I count three of us.There's a woman with steel-gray hair and orthopedic shoes, and a college student in a sequined headband who's spent the last seven minutes uploading selfies with her tongue sticking out.The agency receptionist, a woman who looks like she could have been a sitcom mom in the '80s, sits at her post, flipping through paperwork like she's shuffling a deck of tarot cards.

I wonder how she'd read my future.Is today the day I meet my "forever family?"Or will I be making PB&Js for an emotionally stunted software developer with joint custody?The odds are fifty-fifty.My folder holds all the usual stuff: CPR certification, background check, a few limp reference letters from families that have moved on to bigger, better nannies.

The clock on the wall clicks over to 9:00 exactly.Right on cue, the receptionist stands and clears her throat."Jennifer Cordell?"

I rise and smooth my skirt, trying not to look like I've just spent ten minutes studying the merits of a gluten-free childhood.My shoes squeak on the floor---a last little protest from the linoleum.The other two applicants glance up, their expressions a mix of envy and relief.Finding a nanny can be a competitive business.No one wants to be here any longer than necessary.

"Right this way," the receptionist says, already turning her back.

I follow, passing a row of posters that are mostly stock images of babies wearing silly outfits.As I walk into the boxy space of the interview room, I'm bathed in fluorescent lighting.A faint whiff of disinfectant wafts around me.I have my choice of two chairs as well as a faux-wood desk and a computer that still holds a floppy disk.The wall calendar is stuck on February, but the dry-erase board beckons me with "Welcome, New Families!"in green bubble letters.

The woman behind the desk is not what I expected.She's younger than I expected---late thirties, maybe, with sharp features and a chic haircut that must've cost at least a hundred dollars.Her suit is almost dayglow pink, which seems inappropriate for the Midwest.Or anywhere except a gaudy big city.