The Good Nanny by Ben Cheever

Author:Ben Cheever
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781596917392
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2019-11-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

Petty and Vindictive

Stepping back into the warm kitchen and kicking off his boat shoes, Stuart felt his spirits sag. He enjoyed the office. He liked Herbert Glass, looked forward to seeing his boss. He enjoyed the Four Seasons.

"Sit with us, Daddy," said Jane. "We're drawing and reading poems. You can sit with us and read the newspaper."

"Okay," said Stuart, looking up and into the face of his youngest, "I'll do that, but you've got to promise not to interrupt."

"We promise," said Jane. "We're both so glad to have you home," she said.

"Thanks," said Stuart. Ginny was also seated at the table. She had a book of Blake's poetry beside her, but was actually looking at the picture of the disk player that Louise had drawn for her. She had a pencil and was doodling around the edges of the sheet of paper. She did not look up, nor did she second Jane's enthusiasm for her father's presence. She was still wearing the pearls, but now she had them looped twice around her neck, which made the string loose enough so that she could put part of it in her mouth.

That's two thousand dollars my eldest daughter is teething on, Stuart thought, but kept the observation to himself.

He looked at the Times, drank his coffee, and finished his oatmeal. Trouble in the Middle East. He wondered idly if they'd ever thanked the Hassmans for the oatmeal. He could see the handsome tin out where Louise had placed it. Apparently the people who made the oatmeal were oatmealers to the queen.

Stomach full, he climbed the stairs, took his wife's laptop to the room designated as his office, sat disconsolately in his chair, plugged in the laptop. Turned it on. Opened a file. Titled the file "Novel" and saved it. Now his spirits plummeted. Low blood sugar, he thought. / should have had protein for breakfast. He stood, walked back to the bedroom to-die-for. He made the bed and lay on his back on the spread. I should call somebody at work, he thought. Just see what's going on.

Then he heard the muffled ring of the doorbell. He looked up at the ceiling. There seemed to be a slight discoloration. A leak?

"Mr. Cross?" It was Louise, calling to him from the foot of the stairs.

"Mr. Cross," she said again. "You have visitors."

"Visitors?" he called back, sitting up in bed.

"The police," said Louise.

"What's it about?" asked Stuart, alarmed. Now he was on his feet and heading toward the top of the stairs.

"They say it's a routine investigation," said Louise. "Shall I let them in?"

"Yes, of course," said Stuart, "I'll be right down." He returned to the bedroom, shucked off his T-shirt, put on a white dress shirt, dark socks, and a pair of cordovan loafers. He checked his face in the mirror, ran a brush through his hair, went downstairs, and turned into the great room.

A short, stout young man with a mug of coffee—Louise must have distributed beverages—had settled deeply into one of the two sofas that flanked the large-screen TV.

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