Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Pretty,” I tell her, and she beams, seeming pleased that I like it.
“And this is your room.” She opens the door at the far end of the hallway, then stands back, letting me walk in first. The room is larger than I expected, even given the scale of the home. The high ceiling and all four walls are painted a pale taupe, the queen bed is covered in white bedding that looks plain but expensive, and there’s a seating area with a couch facing the television. There’s also an armchair by the window, which looks like a cozy spot to read a book or watch the rain fall while sipping a cup of tea. It lacks personality, but I expected that. Still… very nice.
“You can decorate it however you want. I’ve heard Dad tell the other nannies that, but Beatrice—that’s the last one—didn’t do anything but set her suitcase on the couch. Her clothes still ended up all over the place, though.” She rolls her eyes, and I get a little peek into how Grace felt about her last nanny. I make a mental note to ask Cameron exactly what happened there.
“I don’t need anything too fancy,” I tell Grace, still looking around and finding the attached bathroom with a big walk-in shower, long vanity, and a closet bigger than any childhood bedroom I had, and I shared most of those. “But I’ll definitely keep my clothes off the floor. I wouldn’t mistreat my treasures like that.” I pull at my vest, striking a pose worthy of the finest catalog model.
She scans my outfit skeptically before quietly echoing, “Treasures?” She’s virtually a mini-me of her father, the hypercritical inspection a repeat of his reaction to meeting me yesterday.
“Yeah, these threads don’t come from any regular old store at the mall. These are all authentic vintage. I have to search and search, through racks and racks, at every thrift store I can find to get this look.” I do a twirl in place, my skirt swirling around my legs, and then strike another pose. “What started because I couldn’t afford nicer stores became an obsession. I love to shop, make outfits, and even sell stuff online.”
“That’s awesome!” Grace declares, making a quick about-turn and now giving her support to the side hustle I do more for fun than cash flow, even though I make decent change doing it. “Maybe I can do it with you too?”
“If you want,” I offer with an easy shrug, “but you don’t have to. I usually hit the thrifts during school hours, but we could go on the weekend or after school if you don’t have a riding lesson and finish your homework.”
“Let me do it now, then!” Grace is already running back down the stairs, and when I follow her, I find her back in the kitchen, pulling her laptop from her backpack. “I only have a little bit of work tonight.”
“Hold up, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. How about tonight we focus on getting me moved in, getting your homework done, and making dinner for you and your dad? And we can plan a shopping trip for later, after I research the best thrift stores in the area.”
“Oh.” She looks disappointed, but after a moment of consideration, she brightens again. “Maybe we can shop and go to Starbucks too?”
I can’t help but laugh as I shake my head. “Girl, you might be addicted to Starbies, but yeah, that sounds good. Come on, help me with my stuff.”
With the two of us working together, it doesn’t take long to get my suitcase from the car and bring everything in. Grace helps me hang up my clothes on the wooden hangers already in the closet, oohing and aahing over various pieces and listening intently when I tell her about the ones that are extra special to me, like the vintage Levi’s with colorful iron-on patches, my silk leopard skirt that fits like it was made for me—no small feat with my tiny waist and curvy hips—and the original band shirts I’ve collected. Like I told her, nothing fake about my vintage.
When we’ve gotten my closet and bathroom supplies set up, she looks around and asks, “Is this basically everything you own?” She sounds vaguely horrified at the idea. “Or do you leave stuff at home and only take what you need with you to work?”
I scan the space, more than pleased with my belongings given I was once lucky if I had a trash bag to take my things with me. And honestly, the trash bag was never full. I could put my entire life into a backpack and be living somewhere else in minutes. It was a fact of life for me, so an entire oversized suitcase plus a duffel bag seem ridiculously maximalist.
But Grace doesn’t need to know all that, so I smile. “This is everything. And this is home.”