hand a small squeeze, then push myself back up. “You want to show me inside?”
* * *
Half an hour later, we’ve nearly completed the Clovelly Cottage tour, although Paisley pulls me from room to room so fast, I’m sure I’ve missed everything. Emilia attempts to supplement Paisley’s commentary—this is the best room for playing pretend; this is the window through which she saw three baby bunnies once—with a litany of design details, but before she can finish, Paisley’s impatient and tugging me toward the next tour stop.
I learn that the kitchen counter is navy soapstone from a local stone yard, which mirrors the navy ceiling. It’s a high gloss paint that Emilia calls “brilliant,” to match the effect of the stainless steel and navy detailing throughout. My gaze lingers a moment too long on the glass-front cabinet displaying the Bellamys’ impressive collection of top shelf booze. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I tear my eyes away before Tom or Emilia catch me staring. I hope.
The living room is something called “double height,” which I take to mean it extends for the height of two floors. The family room, which houses Paisley’s complete Disney princess DVD collection, is outfitted with a “beachy” natural fiber rug in a color that matches Emilia’s linen pants and blazer. The “character grade” oak throughout gestures toward a turn of the century home. Tom points to the imperfections on the hallway floor as we crest the top of the stairs to the second level, which he notes have been retained intentionally to give the floors an older feel. Christ. Next-level privilege at its finest.
The house has six bedrooms and four full baths on the upper floor, plus a fully finished lower level complete with a game room and wine cellar with white, glazed-brick walls like you’d find in a French bistro in the city.
Outside, on what Tom calls an “adequate” two point two acres of land that look vast to me, are the tennis court we saw before and a detached garage to the side of the house. Around the back is the most beautiful swimming pool I’ve ever seen. Guess Paisley doesn’t need to splash around in the fountain. The water spills off the long end facing the tree line in what Emilia calls an “infinity edge.” There’s a hot tub on one end and a pool house on the other, which Emilia explains is a fully equipped guest cottage with its own bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen—and will be my home for the summer.
“You’re welcome, of course, to take one of the guest bedrooms instead,” she offers. “It’s entirely up to you, if you’d prefer to be in the main house. But we thought you might like a little privacy.”
“Some separation between work and life, at least at night,” Tom adds. “We know this job can be a bit …”
“… consuming,” Emilia finishes for him. “Lindsay, our last au pair, was with us for four summers. She loved the job, but she always did appreciate having her own space out here.”
Paisley squeezes my hand, and I bite my lip at Emilia’s use of the term au pair. It’s how they listed the job, what she said during our interview. I looked it up; technically, you’re only an au pair if you come to work from a different country, in a specific kind of exchange agreement. But Brooklyn may as well be a different country. There’s plenty of money in New York City, but there’s nothing like this. The wide-open green space. The quiet. The stars just starting to glint like tiny flashbulbs in the sky. The stench of privilege is everywhere, but beneath it, there’s something undeniably peaceful. I can be a new person here. Responsible, better. I can feel it.
“This will be perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
Paisley points up, and I follow her gaze. “That’s Ursa Major,” she says, tracing the stars with her fingertip. “And Ursa Minor.”
“You’re into astronomy?”
She nods. “I’m learning all the constellations. But it’s easier to practice in the winter, when it gets dark early.”
As if on cue, bright lights blink on all around the pool, and the water shimmers and shifts in the yellow glow. It’s a quarter after eight and just getting dark.
“Why don’t you drop your things inside, and then we’ll eat,” Emilia says. “We usually sit down to dinner much earlier, but tonight we wanted to wait until you arrived. Mary’s making salmon and new potatoes.”
My stomach rumbles. I was too nervous to eat lunch,