The Nannies (3 page)

5

“Ms. McCann, Mrs. McCann, welcome to the Hotel Bel-Air,” said the young man at the front desk. Tall and rangy, he had the chiseled good looks of a soap opera boy toy. Did they only let gorgeous guys into L.A.? “Your welcome packet from Platinum
Nanny
is in your room.”

“Are the other girls here?” Kiley asked, glancing around for her competition.

The desk clerk shook his head. “They’re on a shopping trip to the Beverly Center. Of course, with the traffic out there, you might be the ones ahead of the game.” He smiled broadly at Kiley with Chiclet white teeth.

“Are our bags in our room?” Mrs. McCann asked.

“Of course, Mrs. McCann,” the desk clerk said smoothly. He handed over a set of key cards. “Suite four-oh-one.”

“You’re
sure
our bags are there?” Mrs. McCann asked.

“I’m certain of it,” said the desk guy, without any hint of irritation. Kiley noticed his nameplate: David.

“Thanks again, David,” Kiley said. At the mention of his name, David’s kilowatt smile went into overdrive.

“Happy to be of service. Anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant, you let us know. James will show you to your suite.”

Kiley turned. James—another tall hunk of burning love, in the same dark gray suit that David wore, offered Kiley a dimpled grin and a sweeping gesture. “Right this way.”

James led daughter, mother, and the omnipresent
Platinum
Nanny
cameraman out of the elegant reception area into the lush gardens for which the Hotel Bel-Air was famous. As he walked, he relayed a brief history of the hotel, running down the list of celebrities who called the place their second home.

Impressed, Mrs. McCann didn’t interrupt him. Even more impressive to Kiley was the care that had been taken in constructing the place. The architects had designed the hotel with low-slung buildings that seemed to be part of the surrounding hillside. And the greenery was world-class, better than anything Kiley had ever seen on television.

“This place looks like the Garden of Eden,” Kiley told James.

“Adam and Eve didn’t have five-star twenty-four-hour room service,” James pointed out, and stopped at a solid white door with a gold plate that read 401. “Shall I?” He held up the access card that fit into the door.

“I’ll do it,” Mrs. McCann said. “This way we’ll know if it sticks.”

“Excellent,” James agreed, without a hint of superciliousness.

Mrs. McCann slid the access card into the door. It opened easily.

“Enjoy,” James told them. “Call if you need anything at all.”

“And if we lose the little card thing?” Mrs. McCann asked.

“Just let them know at the front desk, ma’am.” With one last dazzling smile, James departed.

Kiley and her mom stepped into their suite, a spacious and impeccably decorated two-bedroom apartment. There were Persian rugs on the floor, original late-twentieth-century gouaches on the walls, and a gorgeous floral display on the coffee table. The living room featured a big-screen TV, state-of-the-art computer, and flat-screen monitor.

“This is amazing,” Kiley said, heading into a full kitchen, furnished in Swedish modern. A basket of fresh fruit rested on the marble counter. Kiley opened the fridge; it had been stocked with food. “Wow is an understatement, huh, Mom?”

Mrs. McCann stuck her head through the open doorway. “It ought to be double wow. I read the sign on the back of the front door. It’s two thousand three hundred dollars a night. That’s more than I earn in a month. And our luggage is definitely here. I checked.”

There was an awkward moment of silence. Then Kiley impulsively hugged her mother. “Let’s try to enjoy the lap of luxury, okay? Want to go for a swim?”

“I think I’ll just lie down for a bit,” Jeanne McCann replied. “I saw a manila envelope on the bed,” she added. “From your show.”

Kiley went to the bedroom—the packet was on the pillow. She tore it open; inside was a DVD. Kiley inserted the disc in the bedroom’s combination TV/DVD player and it started automatically. Loud rock and roll filled the air, followed by concert footage of Platinum. Then Platinum herself grinned at the camera, her signature platinum blond hair reaching her waist. Her tanned skin was silken perfection, her makeup so well applied that she looked as if she was fresh-scrubbed. She wore white.

“Hello,” Platinum said, with the faintest tinge of a British accent. “Welcome to
Platinum Nanny.
I’m so glad that you’re here. What you are about to experience will change your life, and change the face of television forever. It also should result in a perfect nanny for my three children.”

Platinum went on to explain that a series of challenges would eliminate contender after contender, until there was but one
Platinum Nanny
candidate remaining.

“And now,” Platinum went on, as captioned images of all the contestants flashed on the screen, “here’s your chance to meet the other contestants.”

Kiley peered intently at the screen.

Cindy Wu, age eighteen, San Francisco, California. Incoming freshman at Stanford University.

Naomi Steinberg. Nicknamed Steinberg. Age nineteen, Rye, New York. Performance artist.

Tamika Jones, age eighteen, Carson, California. Rap artist.

Veronique Lecouturier, age twenty-two, Paris, France. Professional nanny.

Jimmy Jackson, age eighteen, Starkville, Mississippi. Star quarterback.

Her own face. Kiley McCann, age seventeen, La Crosse, Wisconsin. Incoming senior, La Crosse High School. And then, to her surprise, her mother’s. Jeanne McCann, age forty-three, La Crosse, Wisconsin.

Platinum returned to the screen. “I just wanted to extend a welcome to all of you. Especially to Kiley’s mother. Can’t have little Kiley without a chaperone!” She winked at the camera, and then the screen went blank.

Kiley turned to see her mom in the doorway, staring at the TV, too. She had a sick feeling in her stomach. Suddenly, it all made sense. “Know what, Mom? I’m the joke.”

“Huh?”

“The joke,” Kiley repeated. “That’s why I’m here. I’m the high school kid who had to bring her mom.”

“It’s a little late for regret, Kiley.” Her mother sat next to her on the bed.

“What was I thinking? I never should have done this.”

Mrs. McCann got in her daughter’s face. “You are a lot of things, Kiley, but a quitter isn’t one of them. You just turn that joke right back on them.”

“And just how am I supposed to do that?”

“Just because I was sick on the ride over here doesn’t mean I didn’t hear what you said.”

Kiley sighed. “What?”

“That you came to win, Kiley.” She took both of her daughter’s hands in hers. “You came to
win.
”

6

Esme had enough experience with police to know just what to do: follow their orders exactly. She edged out of Junior’s car, making sure her hands were visible at all times. Meanwhile, Junior slid out the driver’s side.

“Hands on the hood! Both of you!” A cop was bellowing at them over his cruiser’s bullhorn.

Esme felt ridiculous, putting her hands on the hood of the car. It was something out of a bad movie—the cops ducking behind their open car doors, guns at the ready for the shoot-out with the big, bad criminals. Right. If only they knew that they were accosting a paramedic and an honor student.

At one cop’s signal, the others leaped forward and patted down Esme and Junior for weapons, screaming at them not to move. Esme suffered through the pat-down with as much dignity as possible. She knew that for some police, it was a sick power game. But here in Bel Air? When all she was doing was picking up her parents at work?

“What the hell is going on here?”

The voice shouting those words from the other side of the security fence had so much authority that everyone—Junior, Esme, and the four officers of the Bel Air law—looked to see who was doing the shouting. It was a tall, bearded man in his late forties. He wore faded jeans, a tennis shirt, and a blue Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap.

“Possible intruders, Mr. Goldhagen,” the older cop explained.

Esme had to risk it, though she’d never actually met her parents’ boss. “No way! I’m Esme Castaneda! I’m here to pick up my parents!”

Mr. Goldhagen gave the cops a look that was both pleasant and pointed. “Fellas?”

The uniformed men exchanged a sheepish glance. “Just doing our job,” the youngest cop said, but he slid his gun back into its holster.

The cops returned to their cruisers as Mr. Goldhagen pushed a hidden button and the iron security gate swung open. Junior glared at him. “What’s up with your gate, man?”

“I apologize, it doesn’t seem to be working properly. I’m Steve Goldhagen, by the way.” He held his hand out to Junior.

“Raoul Hernandez,” Junior said, reluctantly shaking Mr. Goldhagen’s hand. Esme knew that there was no way he would reveal his G-name, Junior. Junior got the moniker for his older brother, who’d died in a shoot-out. It was that shoot-out that had made Junior “drop the flag”—leave the gang.

Mr. Goldhagen motioned to Esme to come through the open gate. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you from your mother. I’m sorry that this is the way we’re meeting.”

Esme managed a slight nod.

Junior was still fuming. “All we wanted to do was get past your damn gate. You trying to get us killed?”

“I really am sorry,” Mr. Goldhagen said. “We just moved in and the gate’s been acting hinky. There’s no buzzer or telephone box down here; we see everything on closed-circuit TV up at the house. I pushed the button up there, but something didn’t work. I got down here as fast as I could.”

“Not quite fast enough,” Junior said, his eyes hard.

Esme laid a hand on Junior’s arm. “He apologized,” she said softly.

“Would you two like to come in?” Mr. Goldhagen offered.

Junior shook his head.

“You can wait here then,” Esme said. “I’ll get my parents.”

“This neighborhood makes me nervous,” Junior told Esme under his breath.

But Mr. Goldhagen overheard, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “How about I have my driver take Esme and her parents home? I really am sorry for what just happened.”

“Thank you, sir. But Raoul will wait for me.” She turned to her boyfriend. “Right, Raoul?”

Junior took a few steps backward and shook his head. “I’m outta here.” He strode back to the car, started the engine, turned the car around, and headed back toward Benedict Canyon. Esme found this as humiliating as their stop by the cops. How could Junior just leave like that?

“Hey, I don’t blame him,” Mr. Goldhagen said, trying to lighten the mood. “I’d be upset, too.”

Except that would never happen to you,
Esme thought.

Mr. Goldhagen guided Esme toward a golf cart parked just inside the gate. “Is that young man your boyfriend? He seems a little tense.”

“Yes to both. It makes him mad when someone judges him without even knowing him.”

Mr. Goldhagen nodded. It was a five-minute ride up the winding hillside; there were moments when the driveway was so steep Esme feared that gravity would drag them all the way down to the Pacific. But Mr. Goldhagen kept the accelerator on the floorboard. Somehow, they made it, and stopped at the top. He pointed behind the house. “Your parents are out back, working in the guesthouse. Just follow the signs. Nice to meet you, Esme.”

“You too, sir.”

Mr. Goldhagen waved and started up the cobblestone path that led to the front door of the most magnificent mansion Esme had ever seen, including on TV and in the movies. It was built of natural woods, with huge, soaring windows, sloped roofs, and a series of cascading reflecting pools that produced a constant, lulling white noise. For the briefest moment, Esme felt a hot flush of jealousy. No way would she ever get to live someplace this beautiful, no matter how hard she worked in her life.

Then she shrugged, knowing she should be content with what she had. She’d been an accomplice to a crime—an unwilling accomplice but an accomplice nonetheless—and was still walking around a free woman. Her father had assaulted an Anglo—in defense of a friend but assaulted him nonetheless— and was walking around a free man. She knew they both could easily be doing hard time.

Esme followed a gravel path around the mansion. Then she saw something that made her stop: two dark-haired little girls who looked to be about six, playing on a swing set. They were watched by a thin woman in a Vassar College sweatshirt who was easily fifteen years younger than Mr. Goldhagen. Leashed to the bench on which she sat was a champagne-colored poodle with a pink bow in its hair, and matching pink nail polish on its nails.

One of the girls singsonged a Spanish nursery rhyme as she pumped back and forth on the swing:

Uno, dos, tres, cho!
Uno, dos, tres, co!
Uno, dos, tres, la!
Uno, dos, tres, te!

Esme couldn’t help herself. She came right back with the rejoinder she’d sung so many times when she was a child herself:

Bate, bate, chocolate!

The girls stopped swinging and turned to Esme, as did the skinny woman.

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“Alberto and Estella Castaneda’s daughter—”

“Esme!” the woman filled in with a smile. “I’m Diane Goldhagen. What a pleasure!”

So, this was Mr. Goldhagen’s wife. The closer Esme came to her, the more beautiful Esme could see she was. High cheekbones, full lips, and thick blond hair.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Esme said dutifully.

“Please, call me Diane,” the woman said. She turned to the children. “And these are our twin daughters, Easton and Weston.”

Esme was surprised; her parents had never mentioned that the Goldhagens had young children, let alone identical twins. The only difference between them was that one wore a pink T-shirt and the other a blue one.

“No es verdad.”
The little girl in the blue T-shirt ran to Esme and grabbed her sleeve.
“No me llamo
Easton.
Me llamo Isabella,
pero mi madre me llama
Easton
ahora. Qué significa
Easton
?”

“Esme, you speak Spanish. What did she say?” Diane asked.

The little girl had said that her name was Isabella and that she didn’t know why her new mom had named her Easton. Esme had no idea, either. But there had already been enough cultural friction for one day.

“She said she adores her name,” Esme lied.

Diane’s face lit up. “Really? That’s so great! You know, it’s been quite a challenge, not speaking their language.” She lifted a pocket English-Spanish dictionary. “I’m trying, but I’m pretty hopeless.”

Esme nodded, curious. Obviously the girls were Latina; Diane and Steve Goldhagen were not.

“It’s a long story,” Diane went on. “I was in Colombia—Cali, Colombia—on a UNICEF trip. We certainly weren’t planning to adopt. But then these two little girls were introduced to me.” She turned and smiled at the twins. “And I lost my heart.”

“I can see why,” Esme said. It was true; the girls were incredibly cute.

“So I called Steven and he said yes—he was in the middle of a hellacious shoot so I’m not sure he was tracking.” Diane laughed nervously. “We already have Jonathan, he’s eighteen. And Steven always said he didn’t want more kids.”

The toy poodle at her feet barked and jumped into Diane’s lap. “I’m sorry, Cleo,” the woman cooed, petting the dog, “I should have counted you, too.” Diane smiled at Esme. “Cleopatra thinks she’s a child, it’s so cute. I’m not the kind of woman to have a fussy little dog, really I’m not. Cleo was an anniversary present from Elizabeth Taylor last year. She introduced me to Steven.”

Esme nodded. She had no idea why the woman was telling her any of this.

“Anyway,” Diane went on. She swept her arms toward her new daughters. “A canine baby isn’t the same as a real baby— that’s what I told Steven. The paperwork was accelerated and . . . here are my girls! I brought them home yesterday.”

She motioned for Esme to sit next to her on the wrought-iron love seat. Esme sat and looked in wonder at the children. Their lives had to be so different now. “What happened to their parents?” Esme asked quietly.

“I’ve decided that’s their story to tell—or not tell. Not mine.”

Esme nodded. If she ignored the overdone poodle, she might actually be able to like this woman.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Goldhagen.” A uniformed maid had just hustled toward them from the main house. With a pang, Esme realized that somewhere on the property was her mother, probably wearing the exact same uniform.

“Yes, Selma?”

“The groomer is here from Puppy Love’s Traveling Show,” the maid said. “They want to know can they park the groom-o-bile by the front door?”

“The side door, please, Selma,” Diane said as she untied Cleo’s leash and handed the pooch over to the maid. “Oh, I’m expecting Gelson’s to deliver the groceries,” she added. “If you could please supervise and make sure the filet mignon ends up in the downstairs freezer this time? And put the live lobster in the tank until Mr. Richard needs them for dinner, would you?”

“Yes, certainly,” Selma agreed. The dog growled at her, baring its teeth.

“Stop, Cleo!” Diane scolded the pooch. “Have them switch her bow and polish to zebra-striped for this month, okay? Wouldn’t that look cute?”

“Very cute, ma’am,” the maid said dutifully, then trotted off with the dog.

Diane turned back to Esme, a finger to her lips. “Where was I? Oh, right. I was just thinking . . . you’re Mexican—”

“American,” Esme corrected.

“Of course, sorry. But your parents—well, you can’t imagine what a godsend they are to us, we couldn’t function without them—they’re Mexican.”

“Yes. From Ciudad Juarez.”

Diane suddenly smiled. “I should take advantage of you while I’ve got you here. My high school Spanish is horrible. Could you tell the children that we’ll go inside in ten minutes so that they can have a bath before dinner?”

“Sure.” Esme turned to the girls.
“Escucha, Isabella. Cómo se
llama su hija?”

“Juana.”

“Qué bueno. Escúchame, todo los dos. Vamos a la casa en diez
minutos. Necesitais tener un baño. Y después, hay comida, a las seis.
Bueno?”

“Sí,” Isabella declared. “Cómo se llama?”

“Esme. Esme Castaneda.”

“Qué bueno, doña Esme. Yo entiendo y comprendo ahora. Es muy
difícil con una madre que no habla español. Hay mucha gente en los
Estados Unidos que hablan español como usted?

“
Demasiado
. Soon, you will learn English,” Esme told her.
“Necesitas trabajar con su inglés.”

“Sí,” Easton said. Weston nodded. Then Easton put her head down on Esme’s lap. Esme stroked her hair, thinking how much the twins looked like her little cousin, Jacqueline.

Ricardo’s sister Jacqueline. Dead Ricardo. Murdered Ricardo.