At the Midnight Hour (2 page)

The sting of tears was beginning to fade, and after another long moment, she had control again. She tilted her chin, willing herself to talk to this intimidating man. This was her new life. She had worked hard for this, prayed for this. Besides, she didn’t know what else to do if it didn’t work out.

“I realize that I’m young and all,” she began, her words slow and not as firm as she would have liked, “but I’ve been thoroughly trained by the agency, and they have the utmost confidence in me, Mr. Keaton. You can be sure they wouldn’t have sent me all the way here if they didn’t think I was up to the challenge. The truth is, Mr. Keaton, your son is, well, precocious, for his age, sir. He’s already caused the resignation of three wonderful and highly qualified nannies. As you can well imagine, nothing like that’s ever happened before—”

“Miss Guiness,” Richard interrupted. “I believe Andrew is well beyond precocious.”

She nodded. Yes, in fact it would seem that Andrew was closer to unbridled genius. The boy had taken it upon himself to read all sorts of bizarre statistics, which he recited to anyone who would listen. As she recalled from the file, Andrew Philip Michael Keaton had asked the first nanny, Ms. Gregory, if she’d known that each day one hundred seventy-eight babies were conceived by artificial insemination. Ninety-six with donations from people they knew, and forty from anonymous sources. Andrew had then gone on to suggest that artificial insemination might be a suitable option for her. When Ms. Gregory had attempted to reprimand him, he had written a formal statement in his defense claiming first amendment rights, not to mention that punishing an individual for issuing true and factual information was unjust censorship. All this from a six-year-old child. Further incidents had followed until Ms. Gregory, an older, very conservative woman, had resigned.

After that, it would appear that Andrew had become even more literal. During Ms. Haverford’s term, he’d refused to bathe for five weeks on the grounds that, on average, one American drowned in the bathtub a day. Then for three days he had refused to eat because he’d read that ten people choked to death a day in the United States alone. When the little monster finally did start eating again, all he’d wanted was Coca-Cola because nine hundred and fifty thousand Americans drank Coke for breakfast, therefore he should, too. Shortly thereafter, Ms. Haverford had ruled him completely uncontrollable and had resigned her position.

Then had come the interesting case of Mrs. Louis. A middle-aged wonder, Mrs. Louis was rumored to have an angel’s touch with children. Calling her in had been the agency’s equivalent of marshaling the cavalry. There was no child Mrs. Louis couldn’t tame. And, indeed, for the first few weeks, Mrs. Louis had seemed to be doing well with Andrew. Then there’d been a series of tense dark nights. Andrew kept having nightmares, and before long, Mrs. Louis was claiming nightmares, too. One night, she’d simply run screaming out of the house, wearing nothing but her long flannel nightgown. She had refused to go back in the Keaton household, even to retrieve her clothes. When the agency had drilled her on her improper behavior, she had firmly stated there was nothing in the world that would make her return to that house and that was all there was to it. Finally, they had decided that Andrew had set something up to terrify the woman. So they had given her a leave of absence and looked around for a new approach to the “Andrew Dilemma.” They’d decided upon Liz. She was young, fresh and energetic. Perhaps she would have the imagination and creativity necessary to deal with such a difficult charge. Now, if only she could convince the father of that.

“Mr. Keaton,” she tried again, clearing her throat. “Andrew definitely is beyond precocious. That’s precisely why I was sent. I grew up with four older brothers and I’ve always been around lots of children. I truly do love them, and maybe, just maybe, I can think of a new approach for the little gu—for your son, sir. And honestly,” she rushed out suddenly with a fresh burst, “I really think I can do it. I am young, but I have lots of energy. I even have a degree in English, so perhaps I can keep up with Andrew’s reading. Please, at least give me the chance.”

Her eyes were so earnest in the shadows of the den. They were beguiling, drawing him in when he already knew better than to be such a fool. Still, it was hard to remember the lessons learned from Alycia, looking at such dark blue eyes and such an open face. Alycia’s beauty had always possessed a fixed, almost porcelain nature—the type of beauty meant for show, not touch. This girl before him, however, exuded a natural freshness, a wholesomeness he hadn’t seen in far too long. Her eyes seemed to care....

He frowned once again, steepling his hands beneath his chin as he contemplated this newest turn of events. He should just send her back. This arrangement would never work. So Andrew had already gone through three nannies in three months. Surely the agency could still do better than some mere girl. He didn’t want someone this inexperienced. He didn’t want someone this...beautiful, this feminine. No, the older, Mrs. Pram, variety was much better. Beauty, after all, had a way of blinding a man, confusing his senses. He wasn’t interested in such distractions, and he’d already learned his lesson well enough by now. No, he liked his solitary life. He liked his work. He liked the emptiness that surrounded him.

She really did have such a fresh, earnest face. And those dark blue eyes. A man could dream of such eyes forever.

Perhaps he should at least give her a chance. Perhaps she really could tame the brilliant monster mascarading as his son. Perhaps...

He kept his voice neutral, unsteepling his hands from under his chin.

“All right,” he said firmly, trying not to notice the brilliant light of relief that flashed in her eyes. For one instant, her face broke into such a wide smile that he couldn’t remember his next sentence. Then abruptly she was leaning forward, doing her best to look calm and professional. It was disconcerting. “Let’s just go over a few details,” he said curtly, trying very hard to keep his stern composure. “As I’m sure you know from the agency, the position is full-time, with every other weekend off. You will be staying in the room adjoining Andrew’s, and you will be expected to be available whenever he needs you. While it may seem very demanding, Andrew generally likes to keep to himself so it shouldn’t be as difficult as it may sound. Do you understand?” he said stiffly.

She nodded, her eyes still burning with a mixture of relief and earnest determination. He’d never had such a hard time keeping his concentration.

“Traditionally,” he continued quietly, “Andrew likes to eat breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and following the custom of his grandparents, tea at four. Dinner is served at eight. Currently, he has no tutor or formal schooling arrangements, although he has been studying on his own. I expect you’ll find him filling most hours by reading. I will leave it to your own judgment as to how to manage his time. If there is ever an emergency, you can find me in the left-hand tower.” His face grew very serious and grim. “That is where I work,” he warned darkly. “And I am a very busy man. I do not want to be disturbed. Any unnecessary interruptions, Miss Guiness, and your stay with us will be a short one. Is that clear?”

His voice was so ominous, all she could do was nod with large round eyes. At least he was letting her stay, she consoled herself. But even then, she could feel a slight uneasiness in her stomach. This was her new life now, but it certainly wasn’t going the way she’d imagined.

“Good,” Richard was saying curtly. He turned away to buzz a small intercom on the corner of his desk. “Mrs. Pram will be here shortly to take you to your room and to introduce you to Andrew. Any last questions?”

She shook her head. She’d never met a man quite so efficient, quite so completely impersonal. No, this definitely wasn’t how she’d pictured things. How could one man seem so distant? And what really went on behind those shuttered blue eyes of his?

For a moment, she was almost tempted to pry. For a moment, she wanted to stand up and touch his arm, just to see what he would do. She was accustomed to warm, caring people. She was accustomed to the easy laughter and casual interaction of her large family, the indulgence of her solid, teasing brothers. She didn’t know how to handle a man so completely remote.

Did he ever laugh? Did he ever, even for a minute, let go of his stern composure? She found herself guessing no, but didn’t think she had the courage to ask.

“Good,” he was saying briskly from behind the desk. “Then that will be all.”

With that, he turned away completely, his attention returning to the computer in front of him. Feeling rather awkward, she rose from the chair. She wrung her hands in front of her nervously. Should she just walk away? What?

Abruptly, one last question came to her. The dossier the agency had shown her contained a full bio on Mr. Keaton. But Mrs. Keaton was a blank, leaving Liz to believe they must have divorced, with Andrew obviously living with his wealthy father. But she had to know about visitation rights. Should she be prepared to turn over Andrew to Mrs. Keaton whenever the boy’s mother came?

“Excuse me,” Liz ventured. “I have just one last question.”

Richard turned enough to pin her with one sharply raised eyebrow.

“When does Andrew’s mother visit? Is it on the weekends when I’ll be gone, or does she ever come during the week, or...”

She let the rest of her sentence trail off, waiting for an answer.

She never expected how dark and cold his face became.

“Alycia Keaton is dead,” he told her flatly. “Do not speak of her again.”

“Oh,” she said, that one statement taking her completely off guard. Abruptly, she felt its impact in her gut. Her eyes began to swim, a dozen pictures suddenly flooding her mind. Nick, picking her up in his shiny black Mustang. Nick, standing beside her at the altar, his young face so serious and strong as he looked into her eyes. Nick, jumping in front of her at the first sound of the gunfire. Nick, down on the sidewalk, his blood on her hands as she tried so hard to make it stop. Nick, handsome, strong Nick dying in front of a stupid, small-town movie theater. Nick. Even here, she could still see his face. Why couldn’t it have been her, instead?

The thought was so strong, it almost overwhelmed her. With sudden effort, she dragged it in. It had been a year now—she was supposed to be getting better. She was supposed to be moving on with her life.

Swallowing resolutely, she turned and headed for the door.

Behind her, Richard Keaton watched her with intense concentration. He’d looked up just in time to see that look in her eyes, that look of absolute pain, of agonizing emptiness. He knew the expression well, for so many times he had seen it in his own. But he’d never thought to see it in a girl so young.

Just for a moment, he wanted to call her back. Just for a moment, he wanted her to turn around so he could see her eyes, and see if what he’d seen had really been there at all.

But after all these years of the emptiness, he found he didn’t know the words anymore. And so he watched her disappear into the long, dark hallway instead, listening to the echoing of her boots on the hardwood floor as she walked away.

He turned back to the computer screen. She was just the nanny, he reminded himself firmly. And he was a man who knew better.

* * *

Mrs. Pram led Liz through the dimly lit halls in silence. Every now and then, if Liz asked a direct question, she would receive a curt one- or two-word answer. In such a strained manner she managed to learn a little about the immense house where she would now live.

The main structure of the house had been built shortly after the Civil War, when the first Keaton made his fortune in steel factories. With all the additions made by future generations, the house now consisted of forty-five rooms, which divided into two wings to form a V-shaped structure. The west wing contained the rooms for the family, while the upper east wing had been designated for servants. The main structure of the house contained the formal rooms, including the entranceway, the kitchen and dining room, a study, two ballrooms and a grand library. Since the current Mr. Keaton wasn’t given to entertaining, most of the main structure was closed up. The right-hand tower was also closed, though Mr. Keaton used the left one for his work. From what she’d seen so far, most of the house hadn’t been redecorated since its inception.

Dark portrait oil paintings of kings and queens hung next to dim gas lamps in the hall. The doors all appeared to be made of thick, heavy wood, and the crimson Oriental runner down the center of the hall was becoming threadbare in the middle, its gold and black scrolls already faded from time and traffic.

All in all, it was a far cry from the cozy white ranch house where Liz and her brothers had grown up. But then, wasn’t that what she’d been looking for? a voice in the back of her mind whispered. She had wanted to get away....

“Your quarters,” Mrs. Pram was saying. The door was open, so Liz went ahead and walked in. It was a nice room, its new furniture and bright decor a startling contrast to the rest of the house. The hardwood floor was covered with a thick blue rug and the furniture was made of white-painted pine. A four-poster bed sat against the far wall with a blue and rose comforter, while a rose chaise rested not far from it. There was an armoire for her dresses, as well as a dresser against one wall and a chest of drawers at the end of the bed. It was a very nice room, looking as if it had come straight out of a magazine, she thought with surprise. And it was obvious that it had been redone very recently. Why? Surely no one had gone to all that trouble just for a nanny.

But she had no time to pursue the matter because to her right a door swung open abruptly and she found herself face-to-face with someone who could only be Andrew Philip Michael Keaton. He looked like an angel was her first thought. His hair glowed a flaxen blond under the lights and his skin maintained a pale translucence against the darkness of his navy blue suit. He must take after his mother, she thought, because except for his stiff bearing, he certainly didn’t look like Mr. Keaton.