The Nannies by Melody Mayer Read Free Book Online

quickly, you’ll see,” Esme told her. “Faster, if you don’t speak Spanish.”
    “I don’t want their adjustment to be too difficult,” Diane said.
    Adjustment. Esme found that notion hilarious. These children had just landed in an America where the streets really
were
paved with gold.
    “You can always ask my mom to help. Her English is better than my dad’s.”
    Diane nodded. “I hate to bother them.”
    “Well, there are a zillion Spanish speakers in L.A. you can call. And I’m available for emergency translation. Anyway, I guarantee that in three months their English will be functional. In a year, they’ll speak it better than we do. And they’ll tell you so, too.”
    Diane gave Esme an admiring look. “I just might take you up on your offer.” She stood. Esme stood, too. “Anyway, your parents are doing some painting in the guesthouse. It’s up that red-brick path past the tennis court. It was so nice meeting you, Esme.” She held out her hand again.
    “You, too,” Esme replied, shaking it.
    When Diane started up toward the main house with the girls, Esme followed the path. She passed the tennis court, where a college-age guy and girl were hitting together. With their perfect tans and tennis clothes, they looked like a magazine ad for rich, white perfection.
    A few hundred feet past the tennis court was the guesthouse. It was actually more like a second home, with its own parking area, a basketball hoop, a veranda with white wicker rocking chairs, and two orange trees flanking the entrance.
    “Mama? Papa?” Esme stepped inside. The odor of fresh paint was overwhelming.
    “Yo estoy aquí!”
She followed her father’s voice to the guesthouse bathroom. At the moment, he was contemplating an old-fashioned toilet with a rubber plunger.
    “Where is Junior?” her father asked in Spanish.
    “A long story,” Esme replied, waving away his question. “Mr. Goldhagen is having someone drive us home.”
    Her father put a hand to his lower back and winced. “Ay. Can you take this?” he asked, holding the plunger out to her. “I need to help your mama carry paint up from the basement. You know what to do here.”
    Esme had dressed for Junior, not for manual labor. “But Papa—”
    “Don’t ‘But Papa’ me, Esme. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can go.”
    Esme took the plunger from her father. She’d fixed their toilet at home many times—it wasn’t as if they could afford a plumber. Crouching, she felt behind the toilet for the water valve to check if her father had turned it off. It twisted easily to the right, which meant he’d forgotten. After turning it as far as it would go, she stood and gave the bowl a few good pushes with the plunger. Then she pulled on the antique overhead chain, to make the toilet flush properly.
    It flushed, all right. But
up
instead of down. Esme was forced to jump back to avoid the fountain of raw sewage that sprayed down onto her sandals.
    “Shit!” she exclaimed.
    “Exactly,” said a deep voice behind her.
    She whirled around. A fantastic-looking guy with short brown hair, startling blue eyes, and the rangy build of a born athlete stood outside the bathroom door. It was the guy from the tennis court—he still held his racquet. The girl he’d been playing— blond hair in a ponytail, sapphire eyes, and a heart-shaped mouth—stood a few feet behind him. The guy had a bemused smile on his face.
    God, he was hot. Why the hell did he have to be so hot?
    “Whoever you are, go away,” Esme said, her face burning with embarrassment.
    “I can’t, I live here. Need some help?”
    Esme scowled. “No.” Stepping gingerly through the muck, she leaned over and lifted the top off the tank. It was filled to the brim.
    “I think you forgot to turn off the water,” the boy said.
    “No, I didn’t,” Esme snapped. “Your valve is messed up. Do you know where I can find some pliers?”
    “Gee, I don’t think he has any pliers in his toolbox,” the blond