1. Casey

Chapter 1

Casey

The gate at Westbrook Meadows opened like a portal to another world.

I’d made sure to be right on time, ready to interview for a nanny position that could change my life.

The Westbrook family were legends among Charleston’s elite. They were often featured in the local tabloids and whispered about in the pews of historic churches. Stories about their lives were too wild to believe but too ostentatious to ignore. The Westbrooks were more than just a family—they were an entity whose names had practically been etched into the city’s cobblestone streets.

By some stroke of luck, it appeared I was about to step into their lives as the new nanny.

And into more chaos than I could have ever imagined.

That was, if I could land the job.

My financial situation had become bleak. After my previous employer’s son went off to college, they no longer needed my services.

Three months.

No job.

Almost broke.

Today wasn’t just important; I needed it to be my lucky day.

As I drove down the winding driveway, my heart skipped a beat. I realized I was filled with a little more anxiety than I’d originally anticipated. The position of live-in nanny had recently become available and, much to my surprise Betsy Westbrook, the matriarch of the family, had reached out to me.

Hopefully today I’d finally meet the mysterious Logan Westbrook, my boss, if hired. Logan, a thirty-six-year-old cardiac surgeon, was a single father to Henry, his fifteen-year-old son. From what I’d read in the society gossip tabloids, Logan’s wife Gloria had passed away two years ago.

Maybe, if hired, I could be a positive presence in their lives.

Entering Westbrook Meadows, I was impressed if not a bit bewildered by the property.

Over five-hundred acres, the estate was magnificent.

The grounds impressed with massive oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, picket fences, and vast, open meadows. It was the type of place where I could spend hours doing everything and nothing all at once. Westbrook Meadows had a magical, enchanting atmosphere that both beckoned and intrigued. To live here would be an absolute dream.

Before long, Betsy’s eccentric choices caught my eye. First, I noticed a pond with a large ten-foot-tall gold statue of a duck standing in the middle.

How charming, I thought.

During my phone interview with Betsy the previous day, she had referred to it as her reflecting pond and told me that I’d simply love it.

Up next, I noticed the sculpture garden with trimmed hedges and rose bushes. Inside I saw oversized, surreal forms, all varying objects, and sizes. There was a twelve-foot-tall pair of ballet slippers and a giant teacup.

It was as if I had stepped into Alice in Wonderland with a hint of southern charm.

The dream—or nightmare—continued as my car meandered down the private road. Just outside one of the gardens was an army of gnomes, at least fifty in number. They each had hand-painted custom outfits; some held lanterns.

Finally, the house came into view.

My jaw dropped as I contemplated the possibility that I might live here.

The French Provincial mansion was bigger than any home I’d ever seen in my life. It more closely resembled a castle than a mere house. The manor exuded a stately appearance with creamy stucco walls and subtle stone accents.

Before I could grasp the full enormity of the house, the doors flew open, and out glided the one and only Betsy Westbrook. Her face was instantly recognizable because I’d seen it printed across the local newspapers dozens of times. The Charleston press loved talking about the Westbrooks, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the Westbrooks enjoyed the attention.

Part of me was disappointed as I’d wanted to meet her son Logan first, especially considering that I’d be spending the better part of my days with him and his son Henry.

“Casey!” she shouted, opening her arms and waving me over. “You made it past the gnomes!”

Past the gnomes?

I winced at the sound of my car’s squeaking brakes.

No job, no money, no new brakes for my car.

Embarrassing, especially in front of Betsy.

For a woman as wealthy as her, the sound of squealing brakes was probably foreign.

According to the press, her husband Frank passed away a year ago, bequeathing Betsy a six-hundred-million-dollar fortune. Rumor had it that Frank left a note for Betsy, requesting that she disperse one-hundred-million of the fortune to various family members. Naturally, new Westbrook family members had appeared overnight, coming out of the woodwork and clamoring for a slice of the fortune.

In some ways, I felt bad for Betsy having to constantly deal with sycophants.

Then again, gazing around at her beautiful home and lifestyle, I suspected she was doing just fine.

“Welcome to Westbrook Meadows,” she said, exuding southern charm and grace, as I awkwardly climbed out of my old, beat-up car.

“Don’t worry,” she added, “this place grows on you. Like a fever dream.”

Betsy was a vision of high-society quirkiness. Dressed in a patterned silk caftan, the fabric flowed around her dramatically as she moved, welcoming me to the estate. On her fingers were beautiful rings with different jewels, each like a wearable piece of art. Her hair was pulled up neatly, and she spoke with a slow drawl that immediately made me feel at ease.

“And it looks like Logan is right on time too,” she said with a smile and a knowing tone, pointing behind me. “As usual.”

I turned and saw a black Rolls Royce Phantom winding down the driveway. It was the kind of car that cost ten years of my salary, driven by a sharply dressed chauffeur with a black hat and white gloves. The car rolled to a stop and out jumped Henry wearing baggy jeans and a sweater with holes and various paint stains.

No pretense from this kid, I thought.

Henry breezed past us with a casual hello, headphones covering his ears.

Next, Logan Westbrook stepped out. At first glance, he was clearly the kind of man who could stop a room with his presence alone. Tall and broad shouldered in his custom-tailored suit, he seemed like someone who was accustomed to taking charge of tense situations. He scanned the area as if looking for his next task.

Effortlessly commanding, he carried himself with a quiet intensity that hinted at inner strength and fortitude.

Logan walked over and extended his arm to shake my hand.

“Mr. Grant,” he said, professional from the start. “Thank you for coming in.”

“My pleasure.”

His smile was tight, his tone was measured, and his handshake was firm. “I’m sure my mother has already given you the full welcome?”

I nodded politely.

I had to admit, Logan Westbrook was handsome. His sharp jawline was dusted with a hint of stubble, framing a face that was rugged yet refined, and his dark hair was impeccably neat.

I had expected nothing less from someone with the Westbrook name.

Polished and perfect.

Logan’s eyes were stormy gray with flecks of blue, and I immediately picked up on the contrast between his formality and Betsy’s nonchalance.

Before either of us could say anything else, Logan’s phone rang, stealing his focus.

He answered the call, nodded at the two of us, then walked inside.

I instantly felt Betsy’s hand on my back.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she said. “I know he’s not Mr. Warm and Fuzzy. But give it some time and you’ll see he’s less rigid. I tell him all the time to relax, but he’s too busy saving lives, you know.”

She winked at me, and I already felt like I was in on family secrets.

“Don’t let Logan scare you off,” she said. “He’s all bluster, really. And if my grandson Henry acts up, you just let me know. I’ve raised two Westbrook men. I can handle another!”

I smiled. “I just hope I can make a good first impression during the interview.”

Betsy chuckled. “Oh dear, were you under the misguided impression that Logan makes the hiring decisions around here? Bless your heart.”

She was a firecracker. And my earlier suspicions had been confirmed: Betsy called the shots around here.

She shook her head. “My son doesn’t know what’s good for him half the time. But he’s a good father to Henry. After his wife Gloria passed two years ago, Logan has struggled.”

I nodded. “I’m so sorry.”

“Time heals all,” she said. “My husband Frank passed away a year ago and I think about him every day. We’ve had a lot of loss around here, Casey. But we’re all decidedly ready for a big change.”

“I completely understand.”

Betsy pointed at the house. “Now all we need to do is talk over lunch. Don’t worry, nothing too formal. Just us; you, me, Logan, and Henry. Lunch will be ready soon; meet us in the dining room in half an hour. Go through the front door and down the main hallway—the dining room is the first room on the right. I have a good feeling about you, Casey.”

For the first time in months, I felt confidence coursing through my veins. If I played my cards right, this could be an incredible opportunity for me. Especially since the Westbrooks were offering almost double my previous salary.

I couldn’t say no to that.

Betsy pointed off in the distance toward the gardens. “Westbrook Meadows is the kind of place you need to experience firsthand. Head over to the greenhouse to grab some exotic flowers. When you return, I’ll place them in a vase for a beautiful table setting!”

Whenever Betsy spoke, it felt like a directive rather than a suggestion. I didn’t mind at all. She was very frank, and I admired that.

She grinned at me with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “You’ll have to go through the garden maze to get to the greenhouse for the flowers. The maze is a place of whimsy. Wonder. And… the occasional existential crisis.”

What?

“But don’t worry darling!” she added, turning to walk away. “Only two people have ever been lost in there for more than a day. I’m quite sure you’ll fare better.”

Her words caught me off guard and shook my newfound confidence.

Westbrook Meadows was already the kind of place with a forbidding element to it.

I didn’t want to humiliate myself by getting lost in a garden maze.

Then again, I didn’t want to say no to my new boss. Well, hopefully my new boss, if everything went well during the interview.

“Just remember,” she said with a playful smile as she ascended the stairs into her palatial home, “if you hear whispering, it’s probably the wind. Probably.”

A few minutes later, I was firmly planted at the entrance to the infamous garden maze.

My task: to retrieve some unnamed exotic flowers for a table setting.

Perfect, I thought. This is exactly what comes to mind when I think of typical nanny responsibilities.

But Betsy had made herself clear.

So, it was onward for me.

Wandering into the garden maze, I was initially enchanted by its charm. The mysterious hedges loomed far over my head—at least ten feet tall. They were perfectly well kept by what I could only imagine was a small army of gardeners. Light barely filtered through the leaves, casting strange, ominous shadows on the ground, shifting and moving.

Relax. Don’t be a scaredy cat. It’s just a garden.

Heading into the interior of the garden, Betsy’s affinity for peculiarities started to show. Strange statues peeked out from within the foliage—an owl here, a rabbit there, a fox in the distance.

The maze was eerie, with a watchful quality.

I found myself wondering about security cameras, but I didn’t see any around the garden. Surely a family as wealthy as the Westbrooks would have cameras all over the place. Everyone in the city of Charleston talked about them—they’d be foolish not to be protected at all times.

A few wrong turns later, I realized I was helplessly lost. Each pathway looked identical to the one I’d taken before, and it felt as if I were walking in circles.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

I had assumed the maze would be simple.

I was wrong.

It had turned into an imposing labyrinth of towering, looming hedges. Each turn brought new eccentric details: statues of flowers, whimsical fountains with trickling water.

Suddenly, Betsy’s comments about whispering came rushing back to me.

My hands shook—hell, my entire body shook.

Sunlight occasionally glimmered through the leaves, casting light on stones which were covered in moss under my feet. I’d lost track of time, and I couldn’t determine if I’d been inside the maze for five minutes or thirty.

Panic finally set in as I took turn after turn. What little poise I’d retained dissipated rapidly as the sky darkened, making it almost impossible to find my way out. My heart pounded, each thud reminding me that I was lost.

After another wrong turn, I stepped onto a stone that sank under my weight, like a hidden pressure plate.

Suddenly, a terrible, shrill alarm bell rang out. It echoed and reverberated throughout the entire estate and sent shockwaves through my body.

Shit.

I had no idea what I’d done, but I knew one thing for sure: I was definitely not going to get the job.

There was no way people as cultured as civilized as the Westbrooks would hire me after this. I’d set off the idiot alarm and now someone was going to have to come rescue me.

The alarm was old-fashioned and surprisingly jarring. Anyone in the vicinity could hear that some moron had activated it.

I winced with embarrassment, hoping someone—anyone—might come and lead me to safety.

As if on cue, the sprinklers burst to life. They shot streams of water from every direction, catching me in the crossfire as I frantically tried to dodge them. There was no escape. In just a matter of seconds, I was completely drenched. I stumbled and tried to shield my face, but it was no use.

Before I could compose myself, I heard Betsy’s voice from behind.

Spinning around, I saw her standing there, wearing rain boots, and holding an umbrella over her head.

Where the hell did she come from?

She beamed at me.

“Casey, darling!” she exclaimed over the sound of rushing water. “You activated the guest distress system. We built it to help us locate wayward souls!”

Clearly, she was proud of her maze.

She clicked a small remote in her hand and suddenly the alarm stopped.

Silence encompassed us, punctuated by the sound of loud sprinklers pummeling my face.

Betsy, on the other hand, was completely shielded by her nifty umbrella. To my relief, she gestured for me to follow her.

“Don’t worry dear,” she said sweetly. “Consider it a rite of passage.”

I couldn’t help but grin as she maneuvered the two of us out of the maze as if she had done it hundreds of times before.

There, soaking wet and surrounded by wet leaves and roses, I realized that—if I got the job—my time at Westbrook Meadows would be as unpredictable as Betsy herself.

“I think you’ll fit in fine here,” she said, obviously trying to ease my embarrassment.

Now I just needed to figure out how to get along with Logan as swimmingly as his mother. Henry would be a breeze; I could tell that from the start.

We finally emerged from the maze and Betsy gave me a sly smile and a wink.

“Consider this your first lesson at Westbrook Meadows,” she said.

Quite a lesson, I thought.

“This place has a way of testing people,” she added. “You’ll see soon enough.”