Chapter 8

Mazzy

Foster and Bowie Jane are due here at any moment and I resist the urge to do a quick walk-through of the house. They caught a red-eye flight back to Pittsburgh and it’s almost seven a.m., so I fixed a quick breakfast casserole to have ready for them.

I’ve been in frequent contact with Foster since he landed in San Francisco yesterday morning. We didn’t talk by phone, I presume so Bowie Jane wouldn’t hear, but via text he gave me a pretty thorough update of how things went. He wanted me to know that it was a rough transfer in that his ex-wife made things very difficult on their daughter, but more importantly… Bowie Jane was immensely sad to be leaving her mom despite the circumstances.

I can’t even begin to imagine the emotions circulating through that little girl but I’m here for it and ready to help however I can.

Foster has explained to her who I am but he doesn’t have a whole lot to share. I’m going to be a stranger and I imagine coming from a fairly secure environment—until this most recent custody blowup—to being cared for by someone she doesn’t know will be a bit rocky. Add to that, Foster is leaving in two days for an away game so Bowie Jane will only have me. I’ve got a lot to accomplish to build trust in that short time.

During our last text exchange while he was on the plane, I made a suggestion. I know you’re excited to have Bowie Jane here, but I think for the next two days, it would be good if I can spend as much time with her as possible so she can get to know me before you leave for the away game on Friday.

Foster is continually proving to be such an easy-going—and smart—guy because his response was immediate. Absolutely. I can stay out of your hair.

I paused to consider that offer, unsure if it’s the exact right approach. I don’t think you have to be scarce. Just let me be around her as much as possible.

Understood, he texted back. We’ll figure out some fun things to do.

I sent a thumbs-up emoji and didn’t hear from him again until he texted me that they’d landed, along with their ETA.

I sit in the living room, perched on the sofa, waiting for the garage door to roll up, which will indicate their arrival. I shopped earlier today, stocking the house with a list of Bowie Jane’s favorites that Foster provided me. And I made chocolate chip cookies because those always make every situation better.

I glance around at the house I’ve only been living in for a day. Moving in took no time at all. I packed a single suitcase along with my toiletries to get me going but figure I can bring more stuff over from my parents’ house as needed. I’ll most likely be going there on any evenings off I have, although Foster was clear to me that this should be considered my permanent home seven days a week.

I like this house. It’s not overly ostentatious, even though I had prejudged it to be when I knew I’d be interviewing with a professional athlete. I mean… don’t get me wrong. It’s really nice and I love the white clapboard siding and gentle slopes to the roof that give it a cozy quality. The living room is so comfy, I expect Bowie Jane and I will spend a lot of time in here, especially since it flows right from the kitchen area where I can see her doing homework while I cook dinner.

As I wait on the plush, cream chenille couch, I marvel at how un-bachelor-like Foster’s house is. The living area alone screams of a female touch, done in a soothing blend of grays and soft whites, large pillows, and a casual throw rug that contrasts the glossy hardwood floors. He chose a gray ottoman that actually acts as a serving table with a beautiful tray on it with decorative but expensive fake flowers. There are two sets of built-in shelves on either side of the TV, and they’re overflowing with books, plants and knickknacks.

It’s the plants that surprise me most of all because they’re all healthy and thriving and I wonder if Foster has the green thumb or maybe he has a weekly cleaner handle it. I’ll have to ask him as we didn’t get into other service vendors that might have access to the house while I’m here.

The motion sensor for the garage chimes and then I hear the distinct rattle of it opening. I imagine Foster pulling his big white truck in, another thing that surprised me—no fancy sports car, which is me unfairly stereotyping all rich athletes. In fact, I’m doubly shocked because his truck isn’t a newer model. I have no clue how old it is, but it’s definitely been around a handful of years. I’m guessing he prefers utility over show.

It’s going to be a tight fit in the garage… his truck and my Audi, but one of the last things Foster did before he left for the airport yesterday was give me the remote control for the far left garage and told me to park there rather than in the driveway or on the street.

“For safety,” he added.

I move into the kitchen, which is so bright and airy given the expanse of windows that look out over the backyard. The white cabinetry has glass fronts where neatly stacked plates and bowls are displayed along with pretty glasses. The substantial kitchen island is done in a royal blue and the counters are white-speckled granite. There are four high-back barstools with woven rattan seats that lend a bit of rustic charm to the otherwise clean lines. The pendant lights are vintage with Edison bulbs which hang from a coffered ceiling, but best of all is the six-burner Viking stove that has me itching to cook all the things. I love experimenting with food, creating recipes out of my own head. I firmly believe if I weren’t so passionate about childcare, I would’ve gone to culinary school to become a chef.

I hear footsteps coming up the short flight of stairs that lead from the garage into the kitchen and then the door swings open. Bowie Jane walks in first, a little red backpack with white unicorns on it slung over her shoulder. Her dad trails behind, carrying only one suitcase, and closes the door with a kick of his foot.

Setting down the case, he moves to Bowie Jane and puts a hand on her shoulder. I smile at the little girl who is a miniature Foster McInnis with long brown hair and large hazel eyes. She ducks her head slightly, as if overcome with a case of shyness.

“This is Mazzy,” Foster says, making the initial introduction.

I move closer to her, bend at the waist, and after only a brief glance at Foster, I hold my hand out. “Hi, Bowie Jane. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She tentatively takes my hand, a small smile playing at her lips. As we shake, I lightly tease her. “Now… handshakes are great ways to meet new people but I’m hoping you and I become fast friends. That means we might progress to some fist or hip bumps, possibly a hug or two, and if we’re feeling really sassy, the always-popular jumping chest bump, which could potentially knock both of us on our booties.”

Bowie Jane giggles and I waggle my eyebrows at her. I nod at her dad and add, “But that’s just for us girls. Your dad’s so big, if he tried a hip or chest bump, he’d knock us into the next neighborhood.”

The little girl’s giggle turns into a bubbling laugh and I pull my hand from hers. “Are you hungry?”

She nods and lets the backpack slide from her shoulder where it lands on the floor. I don’t look at it but casually say, “Perfect. I made a breakfast casserole and I’ll start dishing that up. But first… why don’t you pick up your backpack and at least place it on the stool and then go wash your hands.”

“Okay,” Bowie Jane says as she heads to the half bath down the short hall. I’m relieved that the very first boundary I put in place—not throwing stuff on the floor—was easily accepted and didn’t make her wary of me. I’m nice like Mary Poppins but I can be a stickler for neatness.

“Well done,” Foster says as he nods to the backpack she placed on the stool. He holds his fist out and I laugh as I bump it.

I move to the foil-covered glass pan on the stove, having already pulled three plates from the cabinet. “I’m kind of a neat freak so I’m not going to let stuff like that slide.”

“And I’m glad of it,” Foster says as he moves to the single-brew fancy coffee machine. “Want a cup?”

“Sure,” I reply as I dish up the concoction of shredded potatoes, eggs, ground sausage and cheese. I was relieved to hear that Bowie Jane isn’t a picky eater, so I have latitude in what to cook.

Foster puts a cup in the machine, presses a few buttons and it starts grinding beans. He leans a hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “Although admittedly, you might have to yell at me a time or two for leaving things where they shouldn’t be.”

“As long as you don’t fire me over it, I’ll get you turned around in no time. And… I don’t yell, although I’ve been told I’ve got a very firm, no-nonsense stare.”

Foster laughs and it’s rich, punctuating the deep timbre of his voice. “I cannot see you looking no-nonsense at all. You look like you’re always on the verge of some unexplained joy or about ready to have the time of your life. It’s a vibe.”

I blink at him in surprise, putting a last heaping serving of the casserole on a plate, which will be Foster’s because he’s bigger and needs more food. “I’ve never heard anyone describe me that way.”

“People aren’t paying attention then,” he says breezily as he pulls out a brewed cup of coffee and slides it across the counter toward me. He grabs another cup and starts the process all over again. I’ll need him to teach me how to use that machine. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Just cream, but with a heavy hand.” I move the plates to the placemats before each island stool and then grab utensils before pulling off three paper towels from the roll.

Yesterday I walked through the entire house, except for the master bedroom, and opened every single closet and cabinet to familiarize myself with where everything is. I need to know what over-the-counter medications he has available for Bowie Jane, as well as where the fire extinguishers are. I examined the basement and found the main water shutoff valve in case there’s a water leak, and then I started a list of questions to go over with Foster.

Of utmost importance is to find out when he last replaced the batteries in the smoke detectors as well as if he and Bowie Jane have a fire escape plan in place.

Just as Foster is bringing his coffee to the island, Bowie Jane walks back in.

I pull out the middle stool where I’d placed her plate and pat the seat. “Hop on up and tuck in. What do you want to drink? Cranberry juice, orange juice or a brilliant sunrise?”

Bowie Jane’s face lights up in surprise that I know her favorite breakfast drinks. Her dad told me she’ll either drink cranberry or orange but on occasion she likes them mixed and they call it a sunrise because the melded colors sort of look that way.

“Sunrise, please,” she says, and I’m pleased to note that the please comes naturally, meaning it’s a manner she was taught early on and it’s been enforced.

“I’ll get it,” Foster says and turns for the fridge. I start to argue, because my job is to take care of Bowie Jane. All the other households I’ve worked for before would have expected me to be the one to do it. And as dear as some of my employers were to me, they never would’ve served me coffee.

I ultimately let Foster get her juice because that’s also an important role he needs to fulfill… being a dad. I expect he’ll be the type that even if I’m standing right here, ready to jump to Bowie Jane’s needs, he’ll want to undertake some of it himself. I make a mental note to talk to him about that and let him know that I won’t step on his toes but that I’m here to be his primary go-to person for all of Bowie Jane’s needs.

“Your dad is going to register you at school today so that leaves you and me to get in all kinds of trouble.” I nudge Bowie Jane with my arm and she giggles. “What would you like to do?”

She glances hesitantly at her dad. “Can we go clothes shopping?”

Foster laughs. “Of course you can.” His gaze goes over the top of Bowie Jane’s head to me. “Just be prepared for a long day. This child loves trying on clothes and putting together funky outfits. And trust me when I say she didn’t get that from me.”

Bowie Jane’s smile slips a little and I expect that just dredged up fresh feelings of loss. I go out on a limb and suggest, “We can take lots of photos of you while you’re trying on clothes and then text them to your mom for her opinion.” I look at Foster. “Think that would be cool?”

His expression is untroubled and I can tell by the respect shining in his eyes, he loves the idea. “I’ll do a text introduction between you and Sandra. You’ll need her contact information anyway.” Foster puts a hand on top of Bowie Jane’s head and ruffles her hair. “I bet your mom would love that.”

“I guess,” she whispers, and I wonder about the lack of enthusiasm. I know things weren’t good yesterday when Foster was getting his daughter but surely Sandra will still be present and involved in all ways with Bowie Jane. Miles might separate them but with phones, text and FaceTime, she can be right there with Bowie Jane for all sorts of things. By all accounts, mother and daughter are close, despite this little hiccup they seem to be experiencing.

I’ll pull Foster aside later and ask more about that dynamic so I understand it and, most importantly, so I know how to communicate with Bowie Jane if and when it comes up. I’ll look to Foster to give me very clear instructions on how he wants me to handle this issue.

“I’ve got an idea,” Foster says and then takes a bite of the casserole. He groans with delight over the taste, rolling his eyes once as he chews. When he swallows, he says, “This is amazing.”

“Just eggs, sausage, potatoes and cheese. Nothing earth-shattering. What was your idea?”

Foster plunges his fork back into his food, pulling up another huge bite. Holding it aloft before him, he says, “Let’s go to the game tonight. I’m not dressing for it but it will be fun to go cheer them on.”

“Yes!” Bowie Jane exclaims, pumping a fist.

“That’s my hockey girl.” Foster grins and they fist bump with his free hand before he shoves the casserole in his mouth.

I don’t know much about hockey but I am curious. “Since you made it back in time, won’t they want you to play?”

Foster holds up his finger and I wait patiently as he chews and swallows. After wiping his face with a napkin, he says, “This is preseason and the Titans invite players not under contract to evaluate in training camp and then to see how they do on the ice. Those of us under contract still attend camp and will sometimes play in the games, but I’ve sort of been assured my position is solid, so they planned not to dress me tonight anyway. Even if I did, I wouldn’t see much ice time because they want to see the players who they’re considering adding to the team.”

“When are decisions made and how many are on the team?”

“Training camp continues through next week and there are two more games. After that, the coaches and management will set the final roster. We’re allowed a maximum of twenty-three players, but we can sign a total of fifty players to contracts.”

“And all twenty-three play?”

Foster laughs and shakes his head. “You don’t know anything about hockey, do you?”

I smile sheepishly. “Sorry. Not my sport.”

“Well, we’ll fix that.” Foster then taps Bowie Jane on the shoulder who is busy wolfing down her breakfast. He nods at me. “Educate Mazzy on how many players dress for a game.”

Bowie Jane grins through her eggs and swallows them down. “Twenty. Twelve forwards, six defensemen and two goalies.”

“Impressive,” I drawl. “And what is your dad?”

“He’s the center on the second line and the best player in the league.”

I frown in confusion. “What’s a center?”

Bowie Jane rolls her eyes and tips her head toward Foster. “She has a lot to learn.” She then turns back to me. “Forwards are the offensive players. You have a center and then a left and a right wing.”

It’s true I don’t know much about hockey. I have seen parts of a game on TV so I know my next question is silly, but I want to keep the conversation going. Anything to build rapport with this cutie-patootie. “If there are twenty total dressed for the game, how do they all fit out there on the ice?”

I get another eye roll and she informs me there are only three forwards, two defensemen and a goalie out there at a time. She explains about line shifts and then rattles off the names of the other players on her dad’s line.

My eyes cut to Foster only once. He is focused on his food but he’s smiling with pride over her knowledge. You can tell that Bowie Jane is very much into her dad’s career, not just as a Titans fan but as a fan of Foster McInnis. It’s utterly adorable and incredible at the same time because not many kids know their parents’ occupations that well.