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“Plus, there’s a lot on my plate…including closing the deal with the Japanese investment group before they walk away.”
The deal. I hate those two words. The reason he wasn’t there for my emergency C-section is that my Hollywood powerhouse husband was too busy at the Cannes Film Festival in the South of France hobnobbing with A-list celebrities and making deals. Okay, in all fairness, I suppose it wasn’t his fault I went into early labor—I was scheduled for my C-section later this week—but still. Lately, I feel as if his deals always take precedence over me.
I glance down. Isa has fallen asleep on my chest. I can only hope she’s gotten enough to eat. Later this morning, I’m going to call both my obstetrician and Isa’s pediatrician and share my concerns. I look up at my husband, wondering what I should do in the meantime.
“Ava, you need to get help.” He pivots on his heel and ambles to his dresser. I watch as he pulls out a pair of athletic shorts and a USC T-shirt. He slides off his pajamas, his muscular backside facing me. I feel a pang of sadness. Aren’t babies supposed to bring couples together? Bring them joy? Or is that merely an urban myth?
“Where are you going?” I ask as he sits down on an ottoman and gets dressed, adding socks and his Nikes.
“I’m going for a run. I might as well since I’m up this early.”
I get the sense he’s running away from me. From Isa. From both of us.
“What kind of help do you have in mind?” I ask as he laces up his running shoes. Maybe he means I should see a shrink. I’ve wondered myself if I’m suffering from postpartum depression.
Dressed for his run, he stands and faces me. “An agent at the office told me she hired a night nanny when she and her partner had twins. It made a world of difference, and they could both get a good night’s rest. I’ll have her text you when I get into the office.”
A night nanny! The perfect solution. And I know we can afford one.
The memory of my last visit to Starbucks flashes into my head, and a smile forms on my lips. “There’s no need. I think I may know someone who would be perfect. Honey, do me a favor…would you hand me my backpack?”
Wordlessly, he retrieves the canvas bag from my closet doorknob where it’s hung since I got home from the hospital.
“Thanks,” I say as he sets it on the bed next to me.
Without another word, he heads toward the door. At the threshold, he turns to look at me.
“Just be sure whoever you hire can start tonight.” With that he disappears. I waste no time fishing for my wallet.
Seconds later…Bingo! I find the card with her name and contact info.
For the next half hour while my beautiful Isa sleeps peacefully on my chest, I vet Marley Manners, NCS—newborn care specialist—combing my cell phone for her résumé, references, and reviews. Everything checks out beyond my expectations. She graduated the top of her class from one of the finest nursing schools, got an additional NCS certificate from a top-rated infant care academy, and has stellar recommendations on Yelp, Angie’s List, and LinkedIn. And as the morning continues, I even manage to speak with three of the moms she worked for who can’t rave enough about her. “A miracle worker.” “A godsend.” “A second mother.”
A baby whisperer.
With excitement pulsing on my fingertips, I call her number. She picks up on the first ring.
Nurse Marley Manners is available!
And she can start tonight.
What great luck! With a grateful smile and love brimming in my heart, I kiss Isa’s silky scalp.
Nurse Marley Manners is going to save my family.
THREE
NED
The cool morning air prickles my skin. Wakes me up. It feels good to be outdoors, and good to be running.
Limbered up, I head down the long, curving road that leads to Sunset Boulevard. I start at a slow pace and by the time I’ve reached the Chateau Marmont hotel, I’ve gotten into a rhythm. Because of my jet lag and lack of sleep, I’m running at a slower pace—maybe an eight-minute mile instead of seven—and my heart is beating faster than usual. Though a runner’s high eludes me, the jog is improving my mood. And it’s good for my arrhythmia—my irregular heartbeat. As I pound the pavement, the wails of my newborn evaporate from my mind.
My goal is to reach the legendary pink Beverly Hills Hotel. It’s about three miles there, three miles back. I reach it in twenty-five minutes and without stopping for a breath or a stretch, I pivot and head back to my house when a voice calls out to me.
“Hey, wait up!”
I spin around and, jogging in place, I see a woman running toward me. She’s tall, blonde, and lanky, and clad in a trendy spandex outfit. Bright-pink capris and a matching sports bra, along with pink-and-white Adidas and an all-pink baseball cap.
