Chapter 27

Mazzy

Bowie Jane precedes me into the house and as soon as her feet hit the kitchen tile, she lets her school backpack slide to the floor. She makes it no more than two steps before I halt her. “No, ma’am,” I chastise. “That doesn’t go there.”

She groans as she turns back to me. “I was going to get it when I do my homework.”

I close the door to the garage and nod toward the discarded bag. “Get it now. You know better than to throw things on the floor.”

Bowie Jane grumbles but does as I ask because she’s a genuinely good kid. Does she have moments where she gets sassy or pushes boundaries?

Absolutely.

But that’s part of growing up and finding her way. I also believe in consistently enforcing rules, even something as simple as not throwing things on the floor.

Once her bag is on the table, she heads to the pantry to get a snack. We agreed she could have an hour before she has to start homework to relax or do whatever she wants. Often, she’ll watch TV or play the guitar. If it’s a nice day out, she’ll go swing on the big wooden play set Foster got over the summer.

When she exits the pantry with a small bag of Cheez-Its in hand, I say, “We’re having salmon for dinner. Do you want broccoli or green beans?”

“Green beans,” she replies before stuffing a handful of crackers in her mouth.

“What do you have for homework tonight?”

She talks through the mouthful of food but I give her a look… one that has her grinning abashedly at me as she chews and swallows before speaking. “Three pages of math, reading for twenty minutes and spelling.”

“All right,” I say, glancing at the kitchen clock. “Be ready to start around four thirty. Until then, go forth and do that crazy thing you do, whatever that may be.”

Bowie Jane heads upstairs, most likely to watch TV in her playroom, but I’ll bet within twenty minutes or so, I’ll hear her plucking at the guitar. She’s gotten really good, really fast, and I feel an overwhelming flush of pride in her. I’ve never had one of my charges be interested in learning the guitar. Most of them played piano, which is all well and good. I play and love it, but there’s something very endearing about Bowie Jane following in my footsteps.

I don’t have to start dinner right away because the salmon will go in the air fryer and the green beans I’ll nuke right in the bag and then sauté them with olive oil and garlic. I check my phone to see if Foster texted, but nothing since his last one a little over an hour ago. He’s in Toronto for a game and he was leaving the hotel for the arena. He may or may not attempt to FaceTime with Bowie Jane, but that all depends on his pregame preparation and if he can spare a moment. At the very least, he’ll send me a video to play for her before bedtime, and I love that he’s always reminding her of his presence, even when he’s not here.

“Mazzy.” I look up to see Bowie Jane standing there with her guitar in one hand and a music book in the other. “Do you mind if I play down here?”

“Not at all. Do you want me to teach you anything new?”

“Maybe later, but I want to practice that new song… ‘Sloop John B.’”

“That’s a good one. One of the first I learned.” I nod toward the living room. “Have at it.”

Just as she’s settling down on the couch and opening the songbook to the proper page, the doorbell rings and I assume it’s a delivery. Foster insisted I use his Amazon account to order any household goods I might need. I walk through the living room, listening as Bowie Jane does the warm-up drills I taught her to loosen up her fingers.

I swing the door open, my gaze already dropped to the porch for whatever package might be there but instead I see a pair of legs in skinny jeans and kitten heels. I lift my head and am stunned to see Sandra standing there with a large purse slung over her shoulder.

She’s a beautiful woman, all sleek and polished with flawless features.

“Hello, Mazzy,” she says with a smile, sticking out her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

I’m so shocked that I’m on autopilot as we shake hands and I can’t think of anything to say.

As our hands break apart, she says, “I made an impulsive trip here to visit Bowie Jane. Thought I’d surprise her.”

Surprisewould be a good word to describe this visit, but she had been promising to make a trip to see her soon. The last few weeks Sandra’s calls have been frequent, consistent and engaging. Most of all, they’ve been fun for Bowie Jane and I’ve watched their relationship start to heal. Sandra’s also been polite to me in her requests to talk to Bowie Jane outside of our normal times, especially since it’s my phone that Bowie Jane talks to her on.

“Can I come in?” she asks hesitantly.

Can she? I have no clue what to do, but the decision is taken out of my hands when I hear Bowie Jane exclaim with joy behind me, “Mom!”

Footsteps run our way so I step to the side, motioning Sandra in. Just as she crosses the threshold, Bowie Jane flies by me and leaps into her mom’s arms. Sandra’s a tall woman, has me by several inches, and easily catches her daughter to swing her around in a hug.

Part of me is so happy for Bowie Jane right now, but a part of me is slightly jealous. I’ve had this little girl to myself for weeks now and I didn’t realize how much I’d become accustomed to her love for me until she shines it on her own mother.

That’s horrible thinking and I chastise myself for it.

“What are you doing here?” Bowie Jane asks as Sandra lowers her to the floor.

“I thought I’d surprise you,” she replies, then looks to me. “Any chance you might have a cup of coffee for a very weary traveler?”

“Of course,” I reply as I motion toward the kitchen. “Come on in.”

While I make Sandra a coffee, she sits with Bowie Jane at the kitchen table and they chatter away with excitement. I pour a glass of milk, plate up chocolate chip cookies and place them on the table with the coffee.

“Thank you,” Sandra says gratefully, ignoring the cream and sugar to sip the black brew. “That flight from Singapore is a killer.”

“How long are you staying?” I ask.

“Not long,” she replies, refusing to provide a number of days, which sounds evasive to me.

In an attempt to put a time limit on the visit, I look pointedly at the kitchen clock and remind Bowie Jane, “Don’t forget… you need to start your homework at four thirty.”

She gives me a toothy grin. “I won’t forget.”

I want to give them some measure of privacy so I walk into the living room, sit on the couch, and pull out my phone. Should I text Foster to let him know Sandra is here? I don’t want to do anything to distract him from his game, so I probably shouldn’t.

“Mommy wants to see my bedroom so I’m going to show her,” Bowie Jane says, and I look up to see her holding her mom’s hand.

“Um… okay. Holler if you need anything,” I say, my gaze cutting back and forth between Bowie Jane and Sandra.

Bowie Jane talks nonstop as they ascend the stairs and as their footsteps recede, I worry if I should have let them out of my sight. Maybe I should’ve insisted they stay down here or maybe I should’ve followed them up.

But no, I don’t want to mess up this experience for Bowie Jane. She’s obviously happy to have her mom here and Sandra has successfully parented her for years, with the exception of her recent nuttiness.

I busy myself cleaning the remnants of the coffee, milk, and cookies, handwashing the glasses and plates rather than putting them in the empty dishwasher, just to have something to do. The house is spotless and our dinner is uncomplicated, so there’s no prep there.

Because I’m nervous and it’s producing a need to expel energy, I walk over to the guitar Bowie Jane left propped against the couch. Sitting down, I prop it on my thigh, check the tuning and make a few adjustments. I pick at the strings, tiny little melodies here and there. New ideas to teach Bowie Jane circulate in my head.

I wonder why Bowie Jane didn’t play for her mom or show her what she could do? Sandra wanted to see her bedroom, but wouldn’t the guitar be more important and well… it was right there.

An unease prickles at the back of my neck and I set the guitar down. Slowly rising from the couch, I tilt my head and listen, but I can’t hear anything from upstairs. Did they close the bedroom door when they went in?

I make my way to the base of the stairs and listen again.

Nothing.

Lifting my foot to take the first step up, determined to check on Bowie Jane, I’m startled when I hear a door open. Sandra says, “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

“But I don’t want to go,” Bowie Jane whines.

Something cold sweeps through me, but not in a way that weakens me. Instead, the ice in my veins clarifies things and I brace hard when Sandra appears at the top of the stairs. She’s got Bowie Jane by the hand, pulling her along, her small rolling suitcase in her other hand.

What in the actual fuck?

Sandra halts at the top, stares down at me first with surprise to see me there, then determination.

“What are you doing?” I demand before my eyes cut to Bowie Jane. My stomach curdles when I see a mixture of confusion and fear on her face.

“I’m visiting my daughter, as is my right,” she says, lifting her chin defiantly.

“Yes, you are visiting your daughter. But only within the confines of this house. Why do you have her suitcase?”

“Because I thought she could stay at my hotel with me so we can have private mommy-daughter time.”

Another glance at Bowie Jane and her eyes lock with mine. She doesn’t say anything but gives the smallest shake of her head. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I take it to say she doesn’t want to leave. Not that I would take her wishes into consideration in this instance because no way in hell I’m letting her leave with Sandra.

“Not going to happen. You’re more than welcome to continue your visit here but Bowie Jane isn’t leaving this house with you.”

Sandra starts down the staircase, pulling on Bowie Jane, who willingly follows but looks miserable at the same time. She comes barreling at me and I step backward to give her room to get off the staircase, but the minute her foot touches the foyer floor, I reach forward and jerk the suitcase from her hand. She’s not expecting that and it pulls free easily. Not about to give up my position between Sandra and the door, I set the bag down on its wheels and give it a slight shove so it rolls off to the side.

“Get out of my way,” Sandra snarls, pulling Bowie Jane into her side and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I’m taking Bowie Jane so we can spend some private time together.”

More like taking her to the airport to heading back to Singapore, but I don’t say my worst fear out loud. I don’t want to scare Bowie Jane.

I notice that Sandra’s fingers are pressed into her daughter’s shoulder, and I can tell it hurts by the expression on Bowie Jane’s face. “You need to ease up on the way you’re holding her.” I nod at her tightened grip.

That seems to jolt Sandra out of her fight mode as she releases the little girl, turning to look down at her with concern. Bowie Jane scrambles backward up the staircase, putting three steps between herself and her mother.

“Oh, honey… I’m so sorry,” Sandra coos apologetically, holding out her arms. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Come here and give me a hug.”

Bowie Jane just stares at her mom, indecision on her face. Sandra’s tone is sincere… I believe she’s truly regretful for hurting her daughter, and I know more than anything, Bowie Jane wants to reconnect with her.

But this is a precarious situation, and I can’t worry about treading carefully for my young charge’s feelings.

“Bowie Jane,” I say firmly but with an upward lilt so that I sound positive and reassuring. Her hazel eyes, just like Foster’s, land on me. “I want you to go to your bedroom right now. I need to talk to your mom privately.”

“Bowie Jane,” Sandra exclaims, a slight hysterical lift to her voice. “You come to me.”

The poor kid is clearly torn, her gaze moving between me and her mother.

“I’m your mom,” Sandra whines. “If you love me, you need to come with me.”

I can’t compete with a child’s love for their parent, but I can remind Bowie Jane of her dad’s love. “Your dad would not want you to go. He would want you to go up to your room so I can handle this.”

That makes the needed connection and Bowie Jane nods, turning on the staircase to go back up.

“Bowie Jane,” Sandra screeches.

She doesn’t look back but flinches at her mother’s bitter plea. I silently watch as she hits the top of the landing, disappears into her room and shuts the door.

Sandra seems shell-shocked but quickly recovers and starts for the stairs. I leap forward, grabbing her wrist to halt her. “Oh no you don’t.” I dig the treads of my Adidas into the wood flooring and pull on her hard toward the door. “Time for you to leave this house.”

I’m stunned that Sandra capitulates, allowing me to move her one, two… three steps. I’m reaching for the doorknob when, from the corner of my eye, I see a blur of movement. My vision cuts back just in time to see a close-up view of Sandra’s fist round-housing my way. It connects with my left cheekbone and stars burst in my eyes.

Tearing free of my hold, Sandra attacks by slamming both palms into my chest so hard I windmill backward, trying to stay upright, but gravity is stronger and I fall hard on my butt. Pain shoots up my spine, but I ignore it as Sandra turns to run up the stairs.

I’m momentarily motionless, so surprised by this turn of events. As she makes it up two steps, all I can think is, How is she doing this while wearing heels?

Granted, she’s a lot taller than I am and I’m guessing watching her husband fight in the league for years must’ve made her a brawler too. I’m not a fighter, preferring to keep my hands intact to play guitar or wipe tears off cheeks. But fuck… watching Sandra’s determination to get at Bowie Jane, who must be so confused and scared up in her room right now, lights a fire within me. Gone is the ice from my veins and in its place is a raging hot fury.

I scramble to my feet, ignoring the ache in my back and the throbbing in my cheek. My instinct is to leap onto her and bring her down onto the staircase. I’m both gleeful and sickened at the thought of slamming her into the carpeted stairs and rug-burning the shit out of her perfect face.

But I’m smarter than that and I reach for my best weapon. I pull out my phone and tell Sandra, “I’m calling the police right now.”

That halts her. She turns her head to look back at me, but I’m not bluffing just to get her to stop. I dial 9-1-1 and put the phone to my ear, looking up at her and willing her to reach for a moment of sanity in that fucked-up head of hers.

“Fine,” Sandra retorts, baring her teeth at me. “Go ahead and call. I’m her mother and they’re not going to have a problem with me taking her.”

Oh, they’ll totally have a problem with it, as well as the fact she’s trespassing and assaulted me, but I don’t say that to her. I’m done trying to reason.

I’m connected to a dispatcher and I quickly inform them of what’s happening, trying not to overdramatize the situation but giving enough keywords that will ensure a fast response.

The dispatcher has me stay on the line, assuring me that a police cruiser is in my area and should be here in two minutes.

Sandra looks up the stairs to Bowie Jane’s room and I growl at her, “Don’t you even think about it.” Her neck twists, hard eyes back on me. “I suggest you leave before the police get here.”

That would be best for Sandra but inside I’m hoping she doesn’t. I want them to see her on this property, violating a custody agreement and assaulting a resident of the home. I want a report on this because Foster will go apeshit and move heaven and earth to use this to secure permanent custody for Bowie Jane.

I surprise myself by how clearly I’m thinking… planning for the best resolution.

I’m stunned when Sandra huffs and stomps down the stairs. “I’m not leaving. I have a right to see my daughter and the police will agree with me on that. You’re just a nanny.”

Her heels click on the hardwood floors and I stare at her slack-jawed as she turns toward the kitchen. She sits at the table and pulls her phone from her purse. Her fingers fly over the screen and she looks so completely at ease in Foster’s home after she just scared Bowie Jane that I want to grab that perfectly blown-out blond hair and drag her out of the house by it.

Instead, I ask the dispatcher how close the cop is as I go to sit on the bottom stair, intent on maintaining a barrier between Bowie Jane and Sandra.

“She should be pulling into the driveway any moment,” she replies in a professional, no-nonsense voice that reminds me of how I talk to Bowie Jane at times to get her hustling.

In less than a minute, the doorbell rings and I hang up from the 9-1-1 call as I move to answer it. I glance back to see Sandra has risen from the table and is walking calmly our way, a serene smile on her face, as if she wasn’t just crazy pants.

The police officer is female and identifies herself as Miranda Schmidt. “What seems to be the problem?”

I open my mouth, but Sandra is at my side. “Thank God you’re here. I’m trying to visit with my daughter, having just made a long journey from Singapore, and her nanny won’t let me have access.”

That might make the cop align sympathetically with Sandra but I’m hoping she’s well versed in domestic disputes and has heard it all. She knows there are two sides to every story. Her gaze comes to me, eyebrows raised in a silent request to hear what I have to say.

“This house belongs to Foster McInnis,” I begin, and if Officer Schmidt recognizes his name, she doesn’t give it away. “He has primary custody of his daughter, Bowie Jane, who is upstairs in her room. My name is Mary Elizabeth Archer and I’m the nanny hired to watch Foster’s daughter when he’s out of state, such as he is now.” I jerk my head to the right. “Sandra showed up unannounced—”

“To see my daughter,” she exclaims. “I have a right—”

Officer Schmidt, still on the porch, holds up a palm to Sandra. “You had your turn. Let Ms. Archer finish.”

Sandra’s mouth slams shut and I continue. “As I said, she showed up unannounced to visit, and because she’d come such a long way and Bowie Jane was excited she was here, I invited her inside. But then Sandra tried to take Bowie Jane from the house and I couldn’t let that happen, so I called 9-1-1.”

“And where’s the child?” the cop asks.

“I had her go to her room so she wouldn’t see any of this.” Then I blush having forgotten my manners. I step back and motion with my hand. “Please… come in.”

With a curt smile, the officer steps in and glances around. “Anyone else in the home?”

“No,” I reply. “Just us.”

“Any weapons?”

“None.” Unless you count Sandra’s right hook.

“What is the custody arrangement?” she asks, her gaze remaining on me to answer.

“I’m allowed to visit,” Sandra says and then lifts her chin. “And there are no set days and I can visit as much as I want.”

I hold up my finger. “If you can wait just a moment, I’ve got the written order from the judge.” The cop nods and I scurry off to the kitchen where I have a folder of important information that includes not only the order of custody but the necessary powers of attorney that let me provide general and medical care to Bowie Jane.

I return and hand the three-page document to the officer who takes her time to read it.

She gives it back to me, then looks at Sandra. “It does not say you can take her from the home.”

“It doesn’t say I can’t,” she snaps.

“The original custody order was put in place because she was threatening to take Bowie Jane out of the country. I deemed it prudent not to let her take her out of the house, even if it was just as she said, to visit with her.”

Officer Schmidt doesn’t say anything for a moment, but her gaze focuses in on my cheek. My hand lifts and I touch the sore spot. “What happened?” she asks.

“Sandra punched me when I tried to stop her from going after Bowie Jane.”

“I was defending myself,” Sandra rushes to say. “She grabbed me first.”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Officer Schmidt says calmly, reaching for the door to open it. “I’m going to take Ms. Tanner outside to get a full statement.” Her gaze comes to me. “You stay inside with the child and I’ll come back in to get your statement after.”

I nod my understanding, relieved to have Sandra out of the house. Now I have to call Foster and tell him what’s going on. I don’t think to keep this from him, even though he’s getting ready to play a game.