Dirty Red (Love Me With Lies)(11)

“Music heals people,” he says. “I’ve seen what it can do for a broken child, and I want to heavily incorporate it into the center, but I need to have a degree in it first.”

“So,” I say more skeptically than I intend. “You spent seven years getting a master’s degree and now you want to be a nanny?”

Caleb clears his throat and takes his arms off the back of the sofa where they were resting. “What Leah means is, why not practice part-time while you finish up the degree? Why nanny when the financial benefits aren’t nearly as great?”

I lift my nose and wait for his answer.

Sam laughs nervously and rubs the hair on his face.

“Actually, being a counselor doesn’t exactly line your pockets, if you know what I mean. I did it for reasons other than money. And, I don’t come cheap as a child care provider,” he says honestly. “Notice I’m sitting in your living room, which is a significant step up from middle-class America.”

I sniff at his mention of our money. I was taught it was bad manners to point such things out verbally.

“I have a daughter,” he adds. “Her mother and I split up two years ago, but you can say I am well versed in taking care of babies.”

“Where is your daughter?” I ask.

Caleb shoots me a warning look, but I ignore him. I don’t want some wild kid running around my house on the days that he has her. And besides, she might get the baby sick. Something I can’t point out in lieu of my latest escapade.

“She’s in Puerto Rico with her mother,” he says.

I picture a beautifully exotic Latin woman that shared his home, but not his last name. Their daughter would probably have her mother’s hair and her father’s light eyes.

“Her mother moved back there after we split up. That’s part of the reason I chose to come to Florida — so on weekends I can fly over to see her.” I wonder what type of woman takes her child so many hundreds of miles away from her father, especially when she can use him as a babysitter on the weekends.

“Sam,” Cammie finally speaks up, “is my cousin. I promised him my best job, and when Caleb called I knew it would be a perfect fit.”

“And, how do you know Caleb?” I say, finally getting the opportunity to address the question that’s been on my mind.

For the first time, Cammie looks unsure of how to answer. She looks to Caleb, who smiles at me indulgently.

“We went to college together,” he provides simply. “And, frankly, Sam, if Cammie recommends you — family or not — I believe you’re the best.” He winks at Cammie, who raises her eyebrows and smiles.

An alarm goes off in my head. Caleb was a hotshot basketball player in college. He slept his way through the cheerleading squad, and then went on to meet that home-wrecking bitch Olivia. I narrow my eyes at Cammie. Did she know Olivia? Had they competed for my husband? My questions are left unanswered, as money becomes the topic of conversation.

I half listen as Caleb offers Sam a generous salary, which he accepts, and before I can protest that I would prefer a traditional female nanny — preferably one with both a large ass and a large facial wart — Caleb is standing up and shaking Sam’s hand.

It is decided. Sam will take care of Estella five days a week, with evenings off to attend class. He will start tomorrow, as Caleb leaves in two days on another business trip and he wants to make sure Sam is settled before he goes. Which is code for: My wife doesn’t know what she is doing, and I have to teach you how to coerce her to use the breast pump.

I sigh, defeated, and remain seated as Caleb walks them to the door.

Well, I got my way — kind of.





Chapter EightPast



I was not a commitment girl. Until Caleb rejected me — then I was. We’d had the talk, the one where I asked him where we were going, and he looked at me like I was a space alien.

“You knew,” he’d said. “You knew when you got involved with me that I wasn’t looking for commitment.”

I countered that I hadn’t been looking for anything, either. That things change when people click.

But, Caleb had remained firm. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want me. He wanted her. He hadn’t exactly said that, but I knew it down to my marrow. I knew it by the way he always looked away when I brought her up. He wouldn’t even tell me her name. Whoever had ruined him had ruined everything for me.

I felt like a small piece of regurgitated potato skin. He just wanted to fuck me. I was curled up on my own sofa, after leaving his place in a fit of rage. I wanted to do something destructive. I called every single one of my slutty, ho bag friends and arranged to meet them for drinks.

I walked into the bar and had three numbers within an hour. Normally, I didn’t give any of the douchebags who approached me the time of day, but there was a doctor with an accent I found attractive. I tucked his number into my purse and had another drink.

By the time I left the bar, I was sufficiently sauced. Nothing new for me. I climbed into my car after bidding my girlfriends goodnight, and hadn’t driven five blocks when I crashed into a parked SUV. I sped off before anyone could notice me, but I was severely shaken.

I called my mother.

Her voice was impatient when she answered.

“Mom, I got into an accident. Can you come get me?”

“I’m in bed.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m drunk. I need you, Mom.”

She sighed heavily. I heard my father’s voice in the background and her snap — “It’s Leah. She’s gotten into some sort of trouble. She wants me to go get her.”

They exchanged words I couldn’t hear, and then she was back on the line. “Did anyone see you?”

I told her no.

“Good,” she said.

They spoke some more. My father sounded angry.

I waited patiently, massaging my head. It had hit the steering wheel on impact, and I felt the beginnings of a headache.

Her voice came back on the line. “Daddy is sending Cliff. He’ll bring you to the house.”

Cliff was my father’s driver. He lived in a little apartment on their twelve-acre property. I thanked her, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice, and gave her directions to where I was.

What had I expected? My mother hopping in her little, red Mercedes and driving to my rescue? A hug? I wiped the tears from my face and shrugged away the hurt feelings.

“Don’t be such a fucking little baby,” I told myself.



Cliff arrived ten minutes later. He parked his pickup in an empty lot and jumped in the driver’s seat of my car. I looked over at him gratefully.

“Thanks, Cliff.”

He nodded and shifted the car into drive. The good thing about Cliff was that he wasn’t a talker. When we pulled through the gates of the mansion, all of the lights were out. I stumbled through the front door — which was left open for me — and felt my way up to the spare room. No mother waiting, no father waiting.

I cleaned up in the bathroom, put a band-aid on the cut on my forehead and swallowed three Advil for my headache. Crawling into bed, I drifted off, thinking of Caleb.

I woke up to the sound of my name. It was my mother’s voice, impatient. I sat up quickly and flinched at the pain that zigzagged across my scalp. She was standing next to my bed, fully dressed, her hair coiffed on top of her head in a perfect chignon. Her lips were ruby red and pulled tight. She was angry with me. I flinched again and pulled the sheet up to my chin.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Get up.”

“Okay …”

“Your father is very angry, Johanna. This is the third time this year you’ve had an incident with your car.”

I shifted uncomfortably. She was right.

“He’s having breakfast. He wants you to come down so he can speak to you.”

I nodded. Of course he would send my mother. Ever his envoy, my father never spoke to me unless he sent my mother to summon me to a meeting. Even when I was a little girl, I remember being called this way when I did something naughty.



I hurriedly dressed in my clothes from the night before and followed her down the stairs to the dining room. He was sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table, with the paper spread out in front of him. At his elbow was a cup of coffee and a goat cheese and spinach omelet. He didn’t look up when I walked in.

“Sit,” he said. I scooted into a chair, and the housekeeper brought me a coffee and a small, white pill.

“Johanna,” he said, snapping his paper closed and peering at me with his hard, grey eyes. “I’ve decided that it’s in your best interest to come work for me.”

I started. I already had a job. I worked as a teller at a local bank. My father did not employ family; he called it a conflict of interest. Just last year, my cousin begged to be taken on as an accountant and my father refused.

“W — why?”

He frowned. ‘Why’ was not a word my father enjoyed hearing.

“I mean — you don’t believe in mixing family and work,” I rushed. My palms were sweating. God, why did I drink so much last night?

My father was handsome. He had olive skin and light grey eyes. He had spent ten hours a week in the gym for years and had the physique to show for it. With my flaming red hair and pale skin, I look nothing like him.

His eyes locked onto mine and in that moment, I knew what he was saying.