Eight

Glenda Norton lived in a narrow-fronted town house near St. Stephen’s Green.

I stared up at the entrance, guarded by elegant iron railings and crowned with a fanlight, and wondered how it would feel to belong in a house like that. Also, I wondered what Mr. Professor Norton did for a living. Because having spent the better part of a week searching for someplace to live, I was pretty sure you couldn’t afford that house on a teacher’s salary.

Sophie ran lightly up the shallow stone steps. A princess, returning home.

The front door was painted bright blue with a yellow brass knob and knocker. I half expected a hobbit to answer the bell. Or a Minnipin. Or at least a butler.

But then Lily pulled a key on a lanyard from her book bag. As she fit it into the shiny lock, the door opened from the inside, and a figure stood framed in the light of the hall. Not a hobbit. Not even a butler, though he was every bit as intimidating. A tall man in tweeds, with a round, intelligent face and aristocratically graying hair.

“Daddy!” Sophie said.

“Hello, munchkins.” He patted both girls absently, smiling at me over their heads. “You must be the sitter.”

“Yeah, hi.” I hung back at the bottom of the steps, still clutching Sophie’s book bag. “I didn’t know anyone would be home yet.” “Poor James has to work late,” Glenda had said with a put-upon sigh. “So if you wouldn’t mind . . .” And of course I didn’t. Anything to earn her good opinion.

“James Norton. But where are my manners?” He stepped back from the open door. “Please, come in.”

The hall was tiled in black-and-white marble. A big gilt mirror reflected back a humongous bouquet of actual flowers, lilies and stuff, like an arrangement from a hotel lobby or a very fancy wedding reception. I stopped dead on the exquisitely patterned rug, Aunt Em’s voice in my head shouting, “Wipe your feet.” (Her standard after-school greeting. As if every day would be the one time I forgot and tracked the muck of the barnyard onto her nice clean floor.)

“I suppose you girls should get started on your homework,” James said.

Lily frowned. “But we just got home.”

“Snack first, Daddy,” Sophie said.

“Snack. Yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is . . . Sharon has already left for the day. Maybe when Mummy gets home . . .”

“What time?” Lily demanded.

“But I’m hungry now,” Sophie said, sounding like a much younger Toni. “When’s dinner?”

“Ah, dinner. That’s another domestic dilemma, isn’t it?”

“I could get them something,” I heard myself say.

“That’s very kind of you. Why don’t you girls show . . .”

“Dee,” I said.

“Dee to the kitchen.”

I followed the girls’ smooth blond heads down the narrow hallway, feeling like a total interloper.

“Make yourself at home,” James said behind me.

Right. Anything less like home would be hard to imagine. The kitchen was the size of a dragon’s cave, with concrete countertops and modern light fixtures that looked like they belonged in an art museum. Or a dungeon.

I had a flash of memory—Aunt Em, sitting me down at the farmhouse table before she shooed me outside to start my chores. Apple slices and peanut butter almost every day, the same snack that she fed Toni, the same snack she gave us on all those visits before our mother died. No store-bought treats, no homemade cookies, nothing that could spoil our dinner from Aunt Em, no, ma’am. Still, there was something reassuring about the routine. About knowing what you were getting. About watching her bustle around the kitchen making dinner while I recovered from whatever had happened at school that day.

I took a deep breath and opened the fridge. Apples. Hooray. “Do you have any peanut butter?” Did Irish children eat peanut butter?

Sophie slid off her stool. “I’ll get it.”

“I’m fairly certain I know where the tea things are,” James said. “If you’d like a cup.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Not at all. I could join you,” he suggested.

“It’s not . . .” I met his expectant gaze. Oh. “That is, would you like some tea?”

He smiled charmingly. “Tea sounds wonderful. Girls, do you want tea?”

“I want soda,” Lily said.

I looked at James, who shrugged. “I’m having tea,” I said brightly. “With milk and sugar. How does that sound?”

It sounded okay.

“This is very nice,” James said when he and the girls were all seated at the island with tea and a plate of peeled apple slices. “We’ve been lost since our last au pair left. Our housekeeper does what she can, but she’s not exactly stimulating company for the girls. However did Glenda find you?”

“Oh, she didn’t . . . I mean, I’m not . . . I’m just helping out.”

“Well, we’re very grateful. Aren’t we, girls?”

Sophie stuck an apple slice into her peanut butter.

Lily glanced from her father to me. “I guess.”

“So, what is it that you do when you’re not ‘helping out,’ Dee?” James asked.

“I’m a graduate student at Trinity. In the writing program.”

He smiled slightly. “And now all is explained. How are you finding school?”

“I haven’t started classes yet.” Sophie had spilled her tea. I wiped it up. “I’ve mostly been looking for a place to live.”

“Ah yes, the Dublin housing shortage. As global companies move in, it’s definitely increased demand for rental properties. We need more construction in this city.”

“I passed a construction site this morning.”

“Obviously, there are cranes everywhere. The skyline is a disaster. But what’s being built is offices, hotels, luxury apartments. Not a lot out there for your average renter. And the lack of planning for social housing has only made things worse.”

“Don’t get James started on the lack of urban planning. He’s an architect.” Glenda stood in the kitchen doorway. “You’re home early,” she said to her husband.

“Client decided to make it a Zoom meeting. And you’re rather late. The girls and I missed you.”

Her gaze skated over the kitchen island—four mugs, a plate, two little bowls smeared with peanut butter. “You look very cozy to me.”

I felt suddenly awkward. “I should go.”

“Don’t rush off on Glenda’s account. Dee here was telling me she’s having trouble finding housing,” James said.

Glenda sighed. “A perennial student problem, I’m afraid.”

“I thought perhaps we might offer her a solution.”

A look passed between them. “Girls, it’s homework time,” Glenda said.

Sophie slid obediently off her stool.

“I don’t have any homework,” Lily said.

“I thought you had a story due in English,” Glenda said.

“Mom. Not until Monday.”

“Which means you should get started now.”

“I don’t want to. It’s boring. School is boring. I don’t like any of my classes, except art.”

Glenda’s face froze. I felt a stab of sympathy for her. She was a senior female academic. Her daughter’s contempt for school must feel like a personal rejection.

“You like to draw?” I asked.

“Yeah. So?” asked Lily.

It was really none of my business. I rinsed my tea mug in the sink. “I was just wondering . . . Would your teacher let you tell your story with pictures? Like a comic book.”

“That would be cool.”

“Get out the assignment and we’ll see,” Glenda said.

“It’s in my room.”

Glenda raised her eyebrows in gentle reproof.

“Fine,” Lily grumbled, and stomped upstairs with her sister.

I cleared their snack bowls from the marble island.

“I don’t see how drawing pictures helps develop her writing,” James said.

I swallowed. “Well . . .”

“Comics require creating a story line, organizing and presenting ideas, and producing dialogue. All very pertinent skills.” Glenda looked at me. “You’re good with children.”

I flushed at her praise. Okay, so she wasn’t complimenting my writing or my out-of-the-box thinking. But her approval still made me feel good. “Toni—my sister?—she was sort of the same way.” Disinterested in study, always drawing in the margins of her notebooks. “I used to find things for her to do.” Keeping her busy. Keeping her happy. Keeping her quiet, so we didn’t disturb whoever we were staying with.

I put my empty mug in the dishwasher along with the girls’ bowls.

“You took care of her, you said.”

I beamed. “That’s right. Toni was only four when our mother—”

“Our previous au pair lived with the family,” Glenda continued as if she hadn’t heard. “We really had no choice. Someone had to be here full-time. James and I were both working from home during the pandemic, and with the girls learning online . . . Well, you can imagine.”

I nodded sympathetically. Online learning had been tough for Toni, too.

“Obviously, now that Lily and Sophie are attending school in person, they don’t require the same level of supervision. But the room is empty. And it occurs to me . . .”

Hope rose in my throat. I waited breathlessly. Was she offering to let me live with her?

“Perhaps you might consider helping out with the girls. Not at the same salary as our previous au pair, of course. It’s not as if you would be taking care of the girls full-time. But you did say you need a place to stay.”

“You want me to work for you?”

“I don’t want you to feel any pressure. You’re a student in the department. But there would obviously be . . . advantages to the arrangement. For both of us.” She smiled. “You’d almost be like one of the family. Temporarily, of course.”

I knew all about being a temporary member of a family. “I’d love to,” I said.

---

—

I don’t get it,” Reeti said. It was Sunday—my day off—and she had invited me for dinner. “You didn’t want to stay with me. Why are you moving in with Dr. Norton?”

“She’s paying me.”

“Au pairs make shit.”

I was making less than the previous au pair. “Every little bit helps.”

I was lucky. Our mother’s trust paid my tuition and left me a cushion to live on. But this trip to Dublin—and the extra two years I’d spent in the program at KU—had definitely made a dent in the fund.

“Anyway, it’s only temporary,” I said. “Until I find a place of my own.”

Reeti stirred the pan simmering on the stove, chicken in a thick red sauce. It smelled delicious, spicy and unfamiliar. “Living with me would also be temporary. What’s the difference?”

Was that a flash of hurt in her eyes? “I don’t want to impose,” I said. “You’ve already done so much for me.”

“Like what?”

You’re my friend. But that sounded pathetic. “You’re making me dinner.”

“You brought dessert.”

“Because the girls and I baked cookies yesterday,” I said.

“And flowers.”

“They were so pretty I couldn’t resist.”

Reeti waved her dripping spoon at me. “My point is, we’re friends. You don’t need to pay me back for an invitation. Friends do things for one another. It is my pleasure to have you.”

Her words curled warmly around my heart. It is my pleasure to have you. But the fear remained that I was somehow pushing myself on her, like an inconvenient child being dumped on a reluctant friend. Like a presumptuous girlfriend taking up drawer space, leaving a toothbrush and tampons at her lover’s house. Could I really be welcome?

Impossible to ask.

“Thanks,” I said instead. Napkins and place mats were stacked on the counter. I found forks and knives in a drawer and started to set the table. “That smells amazing. What is it?”

“Butter chicken.” She drizzled a swirl of heavy cream over the red sauce.

A sound penetrated the apartment. Banging. Knocking. “Are you expecting more company?”

“No.” Reeti lifted the lid of a saucepan filled with fluffy rice. “Just us.”

“That’s a lot of food for two people,” I said.

She smiled ruefully. “Blame my parents. My mother always makes enough for langar—community meal—at temple. And my father cooks for a restaurant full of people, so . . .” She shrugged. “You can take leftovers home.”

I thought of Glenda’s modern kitchen, the half shelf that had been designated as mine in the refrigerator.

“Unless you eat all your meals with the family,” Reeti added.

So far I’d made the girls lunch, twice. And last night, when their parents went out, I heated soup and fixed grilled cheese sandwiches for the three of us. Despite watching all six seasons of Downton Abbey, I wasn’t exactly sure of my place in the Nortons’ household. Was I a guest? Was I the help? Or was I something in between? “We don’t really have a routine yet,” I said. “But I’d love to have leftovers. Thanks.”

Another thump from the hall outside.

“Did you hear that?”

Reeti sprinkled something green on the chicken dish. “It’s just the neighbors.”

Her building was divided into four large apartments set above the street, two upstairs and two down. “Are they okay?”

“Yes. Shit. No. I should check. The lady across the hall is ninety-one.”

She banged the lid back on the pot, stalked through the apartment, and flung open the door. “What are you doing?”

A man’s voice came up the stairs. “The banister is loose.”

I stopped. That voice . . . Did I know that voice?

“Did you call maintenance?” Reeti asked.

“I did.” Cool. Clipped. Passionless. Tim Woodman.

“And?” Reeti prompted.

I edged to the doorway. Reeti was leaning over the landing rail. Below her I could see the top of Tim’s head, his thick, dark hair, and then his shoulders, filling out his dress shirt.

“Bernie tried installing a bracket, but there’s too much distance between the wall and the railing. It’s not secure. I made a standoff block to attach the bracket to the rim joist.”

“I just love it when you talk carpenter,” Reeti said. “I’m getting handyman fantasies.”

His face was wooden.

“You did it for her, didn’t you?” I said to Tim. “Your ninety-one-year-old neighbor.”

“Mrs. Kinsella,” Reeti said. “Aw, that’s so sweet. Come up when you’re done.”

“I don’t . . .” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to me. “Perhaps for a moment.”

While Reeti dished up, I set another place at the table. Five minutes later, Tim knocked politely on the open door.

“Come in,” Reeti called.

He stopped on the threshold, his gaze traveling over the table. One hand rubbed absently at his chest. “You’re having dinner.”

“We are having dinner. Consider it thanks for fixing the banister.”

“I don’t need to be rewarded for taking a simple safety precaution,” he said stiffly.

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “Reeti doesn’t believe in payback. But she does believe in friends doing nice things for one another.”

“We hardly know each other.”

“And we won’t as long as you have that giant stick up your arse,” Reeti said.

His breath gusted out, a huff of . . . amusement? Annoyance?

I smothered a grin. “Please stay. I promise I won’t put you in a book.”

“It would be a very boring story if you did,” he said dryly.

I wasn’t so sure. There were layers to this guy.

“Sit,” Reeti commanded.

“I need to wash my hands first,” he said.

She made an elaborate gesture toward the kitchen. “Be my guest.”

He washed his hands at the sink, drying them on a dish towel before rolling down his shirtsleeves. He had nice forearms, I noticed as he buttoned his cuffs.

“How long have you been neighbors?” I asked after we sat down. Smoothing things over. I was good at that.

“A year,” Tim said.

“Where did you live before?” Reeti asked.

He hesitated. “London, mostly.” No mention of his time in Afghanistan.

“I’ve been here five years.” She scrunched her nose. “My parents wanted me to live near the gurdwara. Plus, they thought a flat would be a good investment.”

“They’re right,” Tim said. “About the investment, at least. There’s a limited supply of housing in Dublin and continued growth, especially in the technology and financial sectors.”

“James says most of the new construction is offices and luxury apartments,” I offered.

“ ‘James’?” Reeti echoed.

“Glenda Norton’s husband.”

“Hm.”

“Who is Glenda Norton?” Tim asked.

“A professor at Trinity. She invited me to stay with her while I look for an apartment. I’m watching her kids.”

“The little blond girl at football practice.”

“Sophie, yes. And her sister, Lily. They’re very nice, and the house is gorgeous. It’s like living with the Banks family.”

“Who?” Reeti asked.

“Mary Poppins?”

“Blown in on the east wind,” Tim murmured.

“That’s the one with the neglectful mother and the shit dad, yeah?” Reeti said. “I heard there was a problem with the last au pair. I’d watch out if I were you. The last thing you need is some other fucker bothering you.”

I swallowed hard, conscious of Tim across the table, a heat rising in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the spice levels in the chicken. “It’s not like that. At all.” I was valued. I was needed. An integral part of the family. Temporarily.

“Don’t let them take advantage,” Reeti said.

“I won’t. I’m not. Glenda made it clear that once classes start, my first priority has to be school. I’m really lucky to be working for her.”

“Because of the room.”

“Because of the room and because she’s, like, an ally in the department now,” I said earnestly. Which I needed, since my writing instructor didn’t like me.

“Just be careful around the husband. Or you’ll not only be out of the house, you could be out of the program. Sucks, but there it is.” Her voice was sympathetic. “The girl always gets blamed.”

My throat went dry. The girl always gets blamed.

“I wouldn’t think being an au pair would leave you much time to study,” Tim said.

I took a gulp of water. “You work and go to school.”

“That’s different.” He ate neatly, knife in the right hand, fork in the left, tines down. “I have set hours.”

“And no social life,” Reeti said.

A faint flush stained his cheekbones.

“Tim coaches soccer,” I said. “Football, I mean.”

“Good for you. Where?” Reeti asked.

“We sponsor a team on the north side.”

“Reeti wants to teach English to at-risk girls in Southall,” I said, relieved at the turn in the conversation.

“I thought you were in the business school,” Tim said to her.

“I am. I’m going to work for my father after I get my diploma. Baljeet Singh, the chef.”

“Your father is Bobby Singh? I’ve eaten at his restaurant in London.”

“Daddy-ji’s very talented. I’m super proud of him. But I don’t want to be his accountant.”

Tim rubbed two fingers absently against his sternum. “I understand parental pressure. But you can work for your father and still volunteer. Our company partners with several nonprofits. Community service is good business practice.”

She gave him a feline grin. “Saving the world for investment bankers?”

He picked up his knife again. “If people with money don’t improve society, who will?”

“You do more than give money,” I said.

“It’s important to set an example,” he said stiffly. “Studies have shown that integrating volunteer programs with corporate giving improves employee satisfaction and retention, which ultimately saves the company money.”

“So, you volunteer to improve your bottom line,” Reeti said.

“My personal feelings aren’t relevant.” He set his knife and fork parallel in the center of his empty plate. “I’m not a very sentimental man,” he said almost apologetically.

“When someone tells you who they are, believe them,” Oprah said. Or maybe that was Maya Angelou. Or was it, when someone shows you who they are?

Because the heartless suit spouting corporate speak was not the Tim Woodman who coached football and repaired banisters for little old ladies.

“What are you doing?” Reeti asked.

I looked down at the stacked plates in my hands. “Clearing the table.”

“Sit down. Talk.”

“I don’t mind,” I said honestly. “I like being useful.”

“Dee, you don’t have to be useful to be liked. Not here, anyway.”

I blinked at her. “I can talk and load the dishwasher at the same time.”

Tim stood and carried his plate through to the kitchen. “Actually, multitasking has been shown to decrease productivity.”

“Only in men,” Reeti said. “Women do it all the time.”

Which is how the three of us ended up in the kitchen, doing dishes and chatting about not much of anything at all. That warm feeling around my heart was back. It took me a minute to recognize it.

Happiness.