Free Charmed Thirds by Megan McCafferty Page B

Together, that is. While I’ve been answering phones, opening mail, and fetching lattes, Marcus has been having a blast as Marin’s unofficial manny. Every day I come home to hear about how they’ve had a grand old time with Bethany, skipping along the promenade, sharing sticky-sweet Popsicles and hours and hours of laughs. I shouldn’t be surprised that Marcus has had such an effect on my sister and niece. He’s charmed Bethany and Marin just like he won over my grandmother Gladdie. His charisma spans the generations.
    But I was tired of vying for his attention. I wanted to be alone with him. So you can imagine how crushed I was last night by the familiar sight of Marin and Marcus on the living room rug and Bethany pacing the hardwood floors with the phone pressed to her ear.
    “Okay . . . love you!” she chirped before hanging up.
    “Bethany,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be on the road already? What about all that Hamptons traffic?”
    “Grant has to launch a new store this weekend,” Bethany said, “so we decided to stay here instead.”
    Right, I thought. More brand penetration, less Jessica penetration.
    I know this is her house and she can come and go as she pleases. I know that I am the visitor here and that I should be grateful for her hospitality. But
my
turf was being violated. Or rather,
not
violated. And so, I asked Marcus to join me for a private tête-à-tête in the guest room.
    “We’ll have a barbecue on the roof,” Marcus said. “It’ll be cool. We can see the fireworks from there.”
    I made a face like I’d just taken a swig from a cesspool-flavored soda.
    Marcus touched the space between my eyes. “You’re getting a furrow right here from all your face-making.”
    “King Kong Kitchee Kitchee Ki Me Oh!” Marin shouted from the living room.
    Marcus saw my bewildered look. “It’s a song.” He hummed a few bars of the simple ditty.
    “How do you do it?”
    “Do what?” he asked.
    “How do you get down on her level?” I asked.
    “Marin’s a cool little kid . . .”
    “I meant Bethany,” I replied.
    “Oh.”
    “But Marin, too. How is it that you got along so well with my grandmother, and now Marin and Bethany?”
    “It’s not hard, Jessica.” He shrugged.
    It reminded me of when people used to ask me how I rocked the SAT . “It’s not hard,” I’d say. And they’d stare at me the way I was staring at Marcus at that moment, with slack-jawed incredulity.
    “We’re all people,” he said simply. “It doesn’t matter if you’re two, thirty-two, or ninety-two. Everyone wants to be treated with respect. Everyone wants to feel like they matter in this world.”
    I sank onto the bed. His sincerity made me feel so soulless and mean.
    “Your sister is not the banshee you make her out to be,” he continued. “I think motherhood has mellowed her out.”
    There was evidence that this was true. For the first time in recent memory, my sister was talking like a normal person, no put-on faux-Euro accents or clipped, upper-class affectations.
    “But is it so wrong for me to want to spend some time alone with you? I don’t get how you and my sister are suddenly bestest buds.”
    “To tell you the truth, Jessica,” he said, “I feel sorry for her.”
    “You feel sorry for her,” I said in a mechanized, emotionless monotone. “You feel sorry for my gorgeous, rich sister with the adorable baby and a multimillion-dollar brownstone.”
    “Well, except for Marin, you should know that none of that stuff matters,” he said. “Have you also noticed that she doesn’t really have any friends? Or that her husband is on the phone more often than he is on the premises?”
    “Well, sure . . .”
    “Did you know that the reason Bethany doesn’t have any help with Marin is because her husband refuses to pay for a nanny?”
    “G-Money won’t let her have a nanny?” I asked. “Bethany said she couldn’t find reliable child care.”
    “She’s saving face,” he said, lowering