Which is a good thing, because even lathered up with SPF 50, the sun will burn me to a crisp in no time. Like her father, Paisley is already tan, something my skin just doesn’t do. I position myself on my stomach in full shade beneath the Bellamys’ red-and-white-striped beach umbrella, chin propped on my hands to get a clear view of Paisley splashing around in the surf. The beach is small—another surprise—long, but narrow, and it’s easy to keep her in sight. In under five minutes, Paisley’s found a friend, a tall, red-haired girl. They seem to know each other, presumably from school. I catch snippets of their conversation, something about sand crabs and Moana.
I take a deep breath in, and my lungs fill with the salt air I’ve been craving since I was offered the position last month. Here, finally, is my fine sea mist. My thin gull cries. Blue water lapping at white sand. It’s crowded, but in an exclusive, permit-only kind of way, nothing like the busy city beaches Kaylee and I used to haunt on long summer afternoons.
Under the umbrella, I free my hair from its elastic and let it blow free, then plop an oversize sun hat on my head. Can’t be too careful. I accepted Emilia’s offer of a couple magazines to bring along, but I’m too nervous to take my eyes off Paisley. What if she runs off when I’m reading about this summer’s hostessing trends? I’m reassured to see lifeguards stationed every few yards, but it’s my first day nannying. I’m not taking any risks.
I keep my eyes trained on Paisley but can’t stop my mind from wandering. The Bellamys’ lives seem so effortless. Tom does whatever makes him his millions in the city while Emilia runs her graphic design business from her home studio. They’re both pursuing their passions; they have this beautiful kid and a beautiful house minutes from the beach. It’s everything I never had growing up in Bay Ridge with Mom. She’s a tech at a medical lab part time, but they can’t give her enough hours, so she cleans apartments too. The work hurts her back, so she takes too much Oxy, Demerol, Vicodin … the stream of pills is endless. I used to be thankful she was too out of it to care when the school complained about my spotty attendance record. When the cops brought me home for partying, again. When I’d pocket a few pills for Kaylee and Starr and me. Until I kind of started wanting her to care.
At least she stuck around, kept me fed, got me through high school. I have to give her that. But I think if I had as much money as the Bellamys, I’d move somewhere new to settle down. Herron Mills is beautiful, but I’d go somewhere far away from NYC, where no one would have to spend four nights a week in an apartment in the city, where the whole family could stay together.
I fantasize about Nashville, San Diego, Seattle. Any of the cities that might house my father, who got as far away as possible as soon as I started kindergarten. Guess he didn’t want to raise a child in the city either. Or at all.
My gaze skates across the shoreline in front of me, and for a moment, I can’t find Paisley. In my mind’s eye, I see her floating facedown too far out, where the water is dark and choppy, blond hair framing her small head like a halo. The sun is beating down on the umbrella overhead, but I’m suddenly cold. I’d had my eyes locked on her, but then … somewhere around Vicodin and cop cars I must have lost my focus. I’m about to scramble to my feet and start shouting her name when, a few yards to the left, Paisley and her friend burst out of the ocean and onto the beach, holding hands and shrieking. In a minute, they’re kneeling on the sand, sifting for shells. I let out a slow, shaky breath.
“Z?” My head jerks up. A couple feet in front of me, a boy is leaning over, hands propped on knees, head tilted to the side to peer under my umbrella rim. He’s a year or two older than me, scrawny but muscular, wearing red lifeguard trunks with the Herron Mills Guard insignia sewn on in white. He’s blocking my view of Paisley. I roll off my stomach and shove myself up to a sitting position. With Paisley back squarely in my sight, I tug my shades down to the tip of my nose and squint at him.
“Do I know you?” I ask. He’s another redhead, hair buzzed short and freckles dusting his nose. I’m pretty sure I don’t know him.
“Oh.” He takes a step back, then sinks into a squat, one freckled hand pressed to his chest. After a minute, he scrubs it across his face and blows a long stream of air through his lips. “Christ, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
I slip my sunglasses back on and gather my hair in my hands, taming it again with an elastic. “That’s okay. I’m Anna. I’m nannying for the Bellamys this summer?”
“Oh sure,” he says. “That’s my little sister Paisley’s playing with. I’m Kyle.” He extends his hand toward me, and I have to reach out to grasp it. “Welcome to Herron Mills.”
“You’re a guard?” I ask, for lack of anything better to say.
“On my break. I was just raiding the cooler.” He grins, then motions toward Paisley and his family with his chin. “Come on over, I’ll introduce you.”
I grab a gauzy swimsuit cover from my bag and slip it over my shoulders. Paisley has joined Kyle’s family on their recliners a few feet over, and it hits me that I probably should have made a point to introduce myself to her friend’s parents on my own. What if they turned out to be creeps? What if Emilia asked me who Paisley met up with at the beach today, and I didn’t even know her friend’s name? My stomach clenches with the queasy certainty that I got this job by mistake, that despite my best intentions, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m going to mess this up just like I mess everything up. New, improved scenery, same old Anna.
But before I can shrivel into a puddle of shame, Kyle is introducing me. “Everyone, this is Anna …”
“Cicconi,” I supply. “Paisley’s nanny.”
I smile wide and shake the hands of the Paulson-Gosses, who introduce themselves as Hilary and Elizabeth. Raychel, Paisley’s friend, raises her fist for me to bump.
“Want some?” Paisley extends a bag of sweet potato chips toward me.
“I think those are probably Raychel’s chips,” I say because it sounds like something a responsible nanny would say. “Shouldn’t you ask her?”
“It’s fine,” Raychel says. “We’re all about sharing.”
I’m still full from Emilia’s breakfast spread, which involved about four more components than I’m used to at home, but I take a few chips to be polite.
Kyle swoops in for a fistful, then checks his chunky waterproof wristwatch. “I’d better get back. It was nice meeting you, Anna.” He grabs a can of soda from the cooler at his moms’ feet, and then he’s gone.
“How are you finding Herron Mills, Anna?” Hilary asks. She’s tall and willowy like her kids and shares their red hair and freckled complexion.
“I just got into town last night, so I haven’t had much of a chance to explore. But it’s lovely so far.”
Elizabeth, petite and curvy in a navy blue one-piece, explains that they’re taking a few days of “family stay-cation,” which I guess is what you do when you live at the beach. I look out, eyes skating across the water, and I’m struck suddenly by an intense wave of nostalgia. The fine white froth of the surf against the shore. The ocean’s wide maw. The narrow ribbon of sand.