Majoring in French makes for an enjoyable college experience but as far as a career … well it’s clearly a brilliant move that has landed me exactly zero jobs in the three years since graduation.
“Mm-hmm, sure,” Denise says. “Are you wearing something soft and lacy underneath your Mrs. Doubtfire uniform? Ooh! you’re wearing those red panties I got you for Christmas, aren’t you?”
The lingerie, purchased as a gag gift, is all part of Denise’s grand plan to get me to rethink my physical appeal. My body is not the round body from sixth grade anymore but the word thin will never come to anyone’s mind when they look at me. As a matter of fact, I am wearing the lacy panties she got me, but Denise doesn’t need to know that. I wear them because they’re comfortable, and not because I have any illusions that Mr. Billionaire Restaurant Tycoon will be seeing me in them.
“It’s not like that!” I say again. “I’m taking care of Ryan Blythe’s kids. It’s a serious job.”
“Oh, right, and I’m sure you haven’t noticed how incredibly sexy he is. Come on, Regina, I’ve seen the commercials. No amount of hand-tailored Italian silk can cover up that perfect specimen of god-like beauty in human form.”
I have noticed, of course. Ryan Blythe is tall and strikingly handsome, with dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a physique that would put Hercules to shame. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had a fantasy or two about what might be underneath those Italian suits, but those idle fantasies do not control me. I am here for a job, not to indulge some harebrained dream about being swept off my feet by a modern-day Adonis.
“I’m here to work, Denise,” I remind her, laughing. “Besides, Mr. Blythe probably has a hundred supermodels in his phone he can have anytime he wants. I seriously doubt he’s going to get the hots for the frumpy babysitter.”
“God, I hate when you do that!” Denise says, “You’re beautiful, Regina! Any guy, and I mean any guy, would be lucky to have you. I’ll bet you anything when Ryan sees you, he upgrades you from babysitter to baby mama before the month is out.”
“You’re crazy!” I say laughing. I don’t believe a word she says, of course, but it’s nice to hear it anyway. “This is a job, nothing more. I’m going to watch his kids, teach them French, and keep my lacy panties to myself.”
Denise giggles too.
“Okay, okay. How does the house look?” she asks. “You mentioned it’s a mansion?”
“Hmmm,” I murmur. “Let’s just say this neighborhood is nicer than anything I’ve ever seen. It’s totally different from we live. It’s hard to believe my parents have a place only twenty miles south of here.”
“That is your house now, Reggie,” Denise says. “You live there.”
I snort.
“I guess you’re right, although I’m sure I’ll be relegated to the servant’s quarters in the basement. My God, I’m here in the driveway, Denise, and my Civic looks totally out of place. The lot is enormous, but the house is large enough it doesn’t even seem small. And you know you’re the only one who can get away with calling me Reggie, right?”
I can almost hear Denise’s smirk.
“That’s because I’m special.”
I smile.
“I guess so.”
I’m relieved we’re no longer fantasizing about my new boss, but Denise is like a dog with a bone.
“So is Ryan Blythe as hot in real life as he is in his commercials? I swear, I watch TV just to see those Mama Pasta commercials.”
I blow out air in a stream again.
“Denise, I haven’t even met him yet.”
She laughs on the other side and says, “I just want to make sure we’re keeping our priorities straight.”
“So what are you saying? When I see him, I have to immediately report back?”
She chortles.
“Sounds like a plan. I need to know if Mr. Blythe is as hot in real life as he is in his commercials. I’ll expect a full report, signed and delivered in triplicate.”
I giggle and ask if I’m allowed to keep the goldenrod copy. She ignores me and makes me promise. But I’m still gazing with wonder at the estate.
“I think this yard was in one of the Mama Pasta commercials,” I say. The lawn is jade green and perfectly manicured. “You remember the one where his grandma feeds all the workers back in Italy?” A vision of an army of Sicilian gardeners marching along in their flat worker caps, suspenders and exaggerated mustaches fills my head.
“Yeah.”
“Well, this is as big as the vineyard where they show them all working. It’s huge.”
Denise giggles.
“I’m going to Mama Pasta’s tonight, I think. I’m going to get me some lasagna and ricotta biscuits. I bet it’s just as good as his grandma’s.”
I laugh and say, “You know Mr. Blythe’s grandmother probably wasn’t ever a vineyard owner in Italy and I doubt the ricotta biscuits are authentic.”