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The baby fidgets. Marley bounces her gently in her arms.
“I’ve already eaten.” Her eyes stay fixed on Isa. “But this little one here may be getting hungry again.”
“Oh, does that mean you’re going to have to bring the baby to nurse with Ava?” She must be resting or asleep in our bedroom, though I don’t ask.
“Not at all. I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Sinclair—I mean Ned—your wife’s milk production is very poor. And her body isn’t made for nursing.”
“Is that cause for alarm?”
“Hardly. It’s not uncommon. What it means is that I’ve had to put Isa on formula.”
“Isn’t that bad for her?”
Marley rolls her long-lashed violet eyes. They’re gorgeous, just like Elizabeth Taylor’s, one of my mother’s good friends, who came to our Holmby Hills house often. Even her sultry voice is a lot like Liz’s.
“Not at all. Millions of babies have grown up perfectly fine on formula.”
“Come to think about it, I’m pretty sure my mother didn’t breastfeed me. She once told me it was dreadfully messy, painful, and inconvenient.”
She shoots me a wry smile. “And just look at you, Mr. Sinclair. You’re the epitome of success. A testament to mankind.”
She makes me blush. I feel a rush of heat rising up my neck to my cheeks.
“Ned, you look flushed. Can I get you some water or wine before I give the baby her goodnight bottle?”
“Um, uh, some wine would be great. I think there’s an open bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge.”
She returns, holding Isa in one arm, a glass of wine in her free hand. She sets the wine down in front of me and then pulls out a small formula-filled bottle from a pocket. I watch as she puts it to Isa’s puckered mouth. The baby, cradled in her arm, in her cute lamb-print pajamas, one of the dozens I brought back from France in a flurry of last-minute shopping, finds the nipple and sucks vigorously.
Nurse Marley smiles. “She’s such a good eater.”
To my surprise, I get a thrill from watching my baby thriving, eating like an Olympian. I take a sip of my wine when I hear a familiar voice.
“Darling, you’re home late.”
Ava. Clad in a pink chenille robe and fuzzy slippers, her hair wound up in a messy bun, she lumbers toward us.
“Sweetheart, I thought you were sleeping,” I stammer. “What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept thinking about Isa. I missed having her right next to me. When I went to check on her, neither she nor Nurse Marley were in the nursery and I heard some voices coming from the kitchen, so I figured they were here.” With a warm smile, she sets her eyes on our new employee, then back on me. “Obviously, the two of you have met.”
“Yep.” I’m not going to tell my wife how we really met this morning while jogging. Instead I ask, “How did you find her so quickly?”
Ava explains how they fortuitously met in a Starbucks a few months ago. And how she vetted her all morning, citing her stellar credentials, recommendations, and reviews.
With a smile, I nod. “Meant to be.”
“Yes, meant to be,” echoes Marley, fluttering her long eyelashes. “Why don’t I finish feeding Isa in her nursery and let the two of you have some time together.”
“That would be wonderful,” says my wife.
I say nothing as Nurse Marley rises from her stool, the baby tucked in the crook of her arm. “Goodnight, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair. Thank you for trusting me with your baby.”
My eyes stay on our night nanny as she retreats to the nursery. I can’t get them off her.
“Don’t you think she’s a godsend?” asks Ava, startling me.
“Y-yeah, she is.”
