Page 1 of The Nanny Game Plan
One
DEAN WITHERSPOON KATE
A responsible, devoted single dad
on the verge of making some
risky (and racy) decisions…
My mother isa force of nature.
When Hurricane Eliza blows onshore, you have two choices—get on board with whatever she has planned, or get the hell out of her way. When she blew in two months ago to help me through the most hellish time of my life, I was relieved.
Now, I do my best to get out of the kitchen before she spots me by the freezer, hunting for ice cream when I’m supposed to be out “doing grown-up shit.”
“Dean Witherspoon Kate, what are you still doing in this house?” she demands, flicking on the overhead light.
I wince, cringing in the sudden glare. “Deciding that eating ice cream and watching The Naked Gun makes me feel more like a grown-up than going to a party?”
“Nope! Out. Now.” She points to the door, snapping her fingers twice before pointing again. “This instant.”
I motion to my grungy brown sweater and sweatpants. “I’m not even dressed!”
“You’re a man, it’ll take you two minutes. Jeans. Black sweater. Run a little gel through your hair, and you’re out the door by eleven. You’ll pull up right when the fun is starting.”
“How do you know when the fun starts? When’s the last timeyouwent to a party, Ms. Workaholic?” I ask, dancing away as she comes at me with the magazine in her hand, swatting in the general direction of my ass. “Okay! Fine, I’ll go. I’ll go.”
“Don’t just go. Go, and have a good time,” she says. “I’m old. I’ve had my share of parties, thank you very much. I was snorting cocaine off your dad’s bald head when you were just a twinkle in his balls.”
“Mom!” I shoot a pointed glance toward the stairs, where the kids are asleep. “What if the girls heard you saying shit like that?”
She rolls her tired blue eyes. “Oh, please. Those sweet babies have no idea what cocaine is. And when they’re old enough, I’ll tell them what it is and why it’s a bad idea.” She sighs. “Nearly as bad as marrying a man twenty years your senior, who drops dead of a heart attack while cheating on you with a girl even younger than you are.”
I close my eyes, muttering beneath my breath, “I liked it better when you were still hiding your checkered past.”
“Well, it’s not my fault you turned thirty-five,” she says, parking a hand between my shoulders and pushing me toward my room. “Thirty-five is old enough to handle an adult conversation. And to handle being a single dadandlearning to live again. Frederica would want you to be happy again, son.” She pauses in front of my door, patting my back with a firm one-two. “She wanted that before she was dead. I bet she wants it even more now that she knows how time flies.”
I sigh, but don’t argue or ask her to take the bluntness down a notch.
My mother doesn’t do pretty lies or even pretty truths. She lays the facts out as she sees them, stripped down and naked in the harsh light of the Eliza sun.
I’m sure she’d be gentler with me if my ex and I hadn’t been out of love for a long time before Frederica died in that plane crash. Or if she hadn’t died on the way to her honeymoon with another man.
As things stand…
Well, I’m lucky my mother’s been as patient with my moping and wallowing as she’s been thus far.
But I can’t help it. I wasn’t in love with Frederica anymore, no, but she was someone I loved for a long time. More importantly, she was the person my girls loved most in the entire world.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to love Ava and Bella enough to make up for that kind of loss.
The thought keeps me up at night, worrying, stewing, researching new therapists because I’m pretty sure the one they’re working with now isn’t helping them process anything except how much they like playing with the dolls and trains in her office.
Last night, I was up until nearly one in the morning looking at nanny agencies. I have a part-time service lined up for the next month, but I need long-term. I can’t pull off an NHL career and being a full-time single dad without help, and Mom has to go home. She’s already been here for almost eight weeks. If she stays remote much longer, her clients will mutiny. Mom’s the best divorce lawyer in our hometown. She has half a dozen court dates coming up in February alone and has to get on that flight back to Minnesota on Monday. No more delays.
I’m dreading her leaving nearly as much as I’m dreading this party…
Though—bright side—once she’s gone, there won’t be anyone around to shove me out the front door with shouted orders to “cut loose a little, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t raise you to be a fun-hating prude.”
