Free Nanny Returns by Emma McLaughlin Page B

corner and get in, pressing nine. And then eleven—Citrine could shoot me up with whiskey and a Valium. We can all be tranqued! God, that’s what my tenure here was missing—unilateral sedation.
    But when the door opens I obediently exit and let it slide shut behind me. Taking a deep breath, I reach out and press for the bell.
    “Cooooooomiiiiiiiing!” I hear a kid’s voice Doppler to the door, past it, and back again. It swings open and a boy with black hair and deep green eyes stands rib-height before me, leaning into the knob in an impressive arc before releasing it to spring himself upright. “I’m Stilton. You must be Nan-neh!” He makes a little Flamenco flourish on the second syllable.
    “It’s Nan, if you don’t mind, and I am charmed to make your acquaintance.” I hold out my hand and he shakes it.
    “Nan. Thanks for coming.” He stares up at me, beaming. “Grayer said you would be perfect and you are.”
    I blush.
    “I didn’t say perfect.” Grayer rounds the doorway from the kitchen, his oxford unbuttoned, his Haverhill tie loose as he passes with a silver tea service balanced on a tray. “Hey.”
    “Hi.”
    I watch as he rounds out into the living room and returns a moment later, sans tray. “You can put your bag in the coat closet.” Grayer needlessly points to the door, behind which his folded stroller used to sit.
    “So where is your mo—” I’m interrupted by the lobby buzzer ringing in the kitchen, sending both boys spinning into each other.
    “I study the Food Network and I love to watch French,” Stilton rat-a-tats. “I mean, ugh.” He pounds his forehead with his palm.
    “Stil.” Grayer grasps him firmly by the shoulders. “Take off your shoes and do a lap.”
    “Now?” Stilton asks, incredulous.
    “One lap. It’ll clear your head.”
    “Your guest is here, Mr. Grayer,” I hear a woman with a South American accent call from the kitchen.
    “Thanks, Rosa!”
    With a grave nod, Stilton pulls his feet from his loafers, swings back both elbows, and sets off in socked-foot, speed-skater circle on the polished marble of the foyer. I step aside as he corners the velvet-draped table, so unchanged that I half expect to see my own hand-prints on the glass.
    “This looks exactly like I remembered it.” I turn to Grayer, who has buttoned his collar and is now focused on knotting his crested tie.
    “Uh-huh.” Grayer tosses Stilton his loafers as he rounds back to us, cheeks flushed, face relaxed. I smile at Grayer, my mouth opening to compliment him on his brothering skills. “Please?” Frustration evident, he holds his hand out for my bag and drops it in the coat closet. “Get ready,” he instructs me as he swings his jacket off the bench with his pointer finger and flips it on in one move. “You cool, Stil?” He runs a smoothing hand over Stilton’s bangs.
    “Cool.” Stilton nods, still catching his breath.
    “We are cool, calm, collected, and smart,” Grayer murmurs, eyes locked with his brother’s as Stilton repeats him.
    The bell rings and, following a motion from Grayer, Stilton steps forward and opens the door without flourish. “Hello, I’m Stilton X, thank you for coming.”
    “Hello, I’m Chester Dobson.” The man in his midforties takes a card out of the pocket of his corduroy blazer and hands it to Stilton. “Thank you for having me.” He leans down to shake Stilton’s hand, the light from the chandelier illuminating his bald patch.
    “This is my brother, Grayer.”
    “Hello.” Grayer steps forward. “Thank you again for making the exception in your application schedule, Mr. Dobson. I know this is last minute, but my grandfather always spoke highly of his time at your institution.” Grayer shakes his hand in turn and gives him solid eye contact. Good, this is going great.
    “That’s wonderful to hear.” Chester fluffs. “He seems to have been an exceptional man, head boy and then, forty years later, head of the trustees. I’m sorry I