Page 8 of Forbidden Fruit
I’m scared shitless, but Alana Moretti scares me more.
“And Vanessa, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Alana says with a kind smile. She doesn’t offer any other platitude and I grit my teeth to stave off the tears that threaten to escape along with the grief I’ve buried deep inside.
I thank her and walk back to my flat, feeling like a shadow follows me. Probably anxiety looming over my head, reminding me that if I fail, it’s back to square one.
FIVE
A MOTHER KNOWS
I’ve known and worked for Alana Moretti for a year. Since she married her husband, Lisandru Pierce Bartoli, she’s rarely alone. But today, she is. The kids have known her for a while, but they’re still wary around her I don’t want to overwhelm them. Though maybe I’m the one who’s overwhelmed. The tiredness in my bones makes me feel like every movement is made underwater and I pray sleep will relieve me. I already know it won’t.
When I mentioned my predicament to my boss a couple of days ago, asking for time off, I never thought she’d actually find me a nanny and that I’d be in my living room waiting to meet them so soon. But if there’s one quality Alana possesses, it’s resourcefulness. And she’s fiercely protective of those she cares about, which I guess I’m part of. Or maybe I’m just too valuable as her accountant. Knowing her, it’s probably both. She’s compassionate and practical, a deadlier combo than most people realise.
“I swear, Marquesi, if I didn’t scare the girl away last time I saw her, you’re gonna do the job for me. Would you at least try to be nice?”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” I grunt.
“Your face, Lino. You’re gonna terrify her with your scowl.”
“That’s just my face,” I mutter.
Alana better not bank on my charming personality to win this person over and make sure she accepts to work for me. I’m well aware of my shortcomings. My ex-wife told me enough times that icebergs were warmer than me. I don’t need this newcomer to like me, anyway. I need my kids to like her, to not be afraid of her, to feel comfortable enough to spend time with her.
That’s it.
Anton is going to school now four days a week from nine to three, but Livia follows his lead and will only like someone if her brother approves. The nanny will be with them from early morning, bringing Anton to school before taking care of and entertaining my daughter, then picking him up before I come home from work at six.
My mother picked up Anton from school today and enters the living room with a kid hanging from each hand. They seem to be dragging her into the play area they’ve set up in between the massive dining table and the plush sofa, preferring the floor to the custom coffee table.
Anton opens his box of miniature cars to play on the race rug his mother got him for Christmas. Livia, as usual, just follows and imitates him, her little pigtails bobbing with each movement of her small arms as she moves a car back and forth.
Tension radiates through my sternum all the way to my shoulders as I think about how poorly this could go, and how I will deal with this situation if I don’t find someone to help me care for them.
“When did you say they’ll be here?” I ask Alana, looking anxiously out the large windows framed with the beige curtains I hate. Monica chose them and I haven’t got to removing them yet.
“I didn’t say, Lino, but I sent a car to pick her up. Mrs Marquesi, it’s such a pleasure to see you.”
“You as well, Alana. I hope my husband didn’t take too much of your time at that lunch you had the other day,” my mother says while hugging Alana like she’s the lovely daughter she never had rather than the drug dealer she actually is.
“Of course not, Marianne. Pasquale’s my favourite politician, as you well know,” Alana says with a mischievous smile.
Ever since she came back to Kalliste last year, she’s been one of my father’s strongest supporters, which he rewards by helping pass laws that benefit the Morettis. He’s the one who put us in touch when her previous accountant mysteriously disappeared and I needed a better-paid job to fuel my ex-wife’s extravagance and the growing needs of our children.
The doorbell rings, and Alana goes to open it.
“Who’s coming,babbu?” Anton asks.
I crouch at his level, unsure about how I can explain things with words he will understand. “You realise Mummy isn’t here right now, don’t you,picculinu?” He nods. “I don’t know when she will be back from her holiday. And Mammona and Babbone can’t take care of you all the time because they both need to rest and work. And I need to work as well. So I asked someone to come visit and see if they’ll be a good fit to take care of you and Livia. Are you okay with meeting with them?”
“Is she coming here?”
“How do you know it’s a ‘she’?”
“I heard Alana say she sent a car to pickherup.” He shrugs, like it should be evident.
Sometimes, I forget how much of a sponge these two are, how much they hear, and how easily they make connections in their little minds. “She can meet us, but I don’t know if I will prefer her to Mammona.”
“That’s okay,picculinu. No one’s asking you to prefer her over Mammona. We just want you to meet her.”