Marrying the Virgin Nanny / The Nanny and Me: Marrying the Virgin Nanny / The Nanny and Me

“They’re asleep,” she said, moving farther into the room.

Sister looked up and smiled. “Thank you, Maggie.”

“I was just going to pour myself a cup of coffee. Can I get one for you?”

“That would be nice, dear. I just made a pot.”

Maggie knew that because Sister always made a pot for their catching-up chat, a cherished weekly ritual. She smiled as she walked over to the old white stove with the electric coffeemaker beside it. She reached up and opened the battered-oak cupboard door and pulled out a green mug for herself and a blue one for Sister. After pouring the steaming liquid and putting sugar and cream in each, she carried both to the long, picniclike table and sat down across from the nun.

Maggie wrapped her hands around the warm mug, which felt incredibly good on a cold January night, and studied the woman who’d raised her. The order she belonged to didn’t wear habits and veils. That clothing was too restrictive for their active work with the children. She was in her usual uniform of striped cotton blouse, black slacks and thick, coordinating sweater. Blue-eyed, brown-haired Sister Margaret was in her early fifties with the spirit of a much younger woman. But tonight the years were showing and it had nothing to do with the silver strands in her hair.

“Is something wrong, Sister?”

“I was just savoring the quiet. It’s such a rare occurrence in a house with so many children.”

“You can say that again.” There were times at Jason’s, when Brady was sleeping soundly, that she experienced the quiet and missed the rowdy sounds of the kids. Loud and lively were normal to her.

“You must be tired, dear. That art project with the younger children must have worn you out. I can’t believe you were up for using real paint.”

Maggie nodded. “It was a little hectic. But the kids loved it. And keeping them busy is the goal.” On Saturday there was no school so channeling the energy was an ongoing challenge for her and the other volunteers.

“Speaking of keeping busy, didn’t you just take on a new job?” Sister blew on her steaming mug. “Where are you working?”

“Spring Mountain Towers.”

The nun’s eyebrows rose. “That’s some pricey property.”

“No kidding. In the penthouse, no less. The infant is completely adorable. His name is Brady Garrett.”

The nun took a sip of her coffee and studied Maggie over the rim. “And something’s troubling you. What is it, dear?”

“I can’t stop worrying about him when I’m not there.”

“You’ve been coming to Good Shepherd on Saturday since you started working as a nanny and this is the first time you’ve ever expressed concern about the child in your care.”

“This is the first time I’ve left the infant with a father and no mother.”

“Where is his wife?”

“He doesn’t have one.” Maggie remembered him talking about dating and her vision of him with lots of women. The idea was oddly disturbing to her. “Jason—he’s Jason Garrett—”

“The billionaire developer?”

“The very one. He only said that the baby’s mother won’t be an issue.”

“If only,” Sister said.

“Amen.” Lyssa’s bedtime prayer for God to bring her mother back still echoed in Maggie’s heart. Jason had more money than he would ever need and couldn’t give his son the one thing every child wanted most.

“What’s he like?” Sister asked.

How did she describe Jason Garrett? Her pulse fluttered and skipped just thinking about him. “He’s driven. Focused. He loves his son very much.”

“You left out seriously cute,” Sister added, blue eyes twinkling.

“I beg your pardon?” Maggie pretended to be shocked.

“I’ve seen his picture in the paper. And he was in that magazine’s yearly issue of best-looking bachelors.” Sister grinned. “I’m a nun, not dead.”

“Clearly.” Maggie laughed. “You’re right. He’s seriously cute—even better looking in person.”

“So if he’s devoted to his son, why are you worried about the baby?”

“What if Brady is upset and Jason can’t quiet him? I showed him the five S’s—” Sister slid her a blank look and she added, “The five S’s of soothing a baby. I’ve taught the technique to the volunteers here who work with infants. It was developed by Dr. Harvey Karp at UCLA. Swaddling, side lying, swinging, shushing and sucking. You wrap him tightly in a receiving blanket to simulate the security of the womb, hold them on their side in your arms, swing gently back and forth and make a shushing noise.”

“That seems simple enough.”

“Maybe.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “But Jason builds big resorts. He’s not a baby kind of guy. What if he can’t handle it? What if he—”

“Needs you?”

“I know that sounds arrogant—”

Sister reached over and squeezed her hand. “Not at all, Maggie. It just shows how much you care. And I worry you’ll get hurt because of that marshmallow heart of yours. You have to be careful.”

The warning was too late, but Sister didn’t know about that. Now there was no point in making both of them feel bad. “I’m a big girl now.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t still worry about you.” Sister shook her head. “Some children never get over a deep anger and resentment about growing up in an orphanage, present company excepted. You were always a sweet child, loving easily and accepting without question.”

That may have been true when she lived here, but that changed after she fell in love and then lost even more than her heart. She still cared deeply, especially about children, but now she had parameters in place for her own protection. That way she didn’t have to hold part of herself back. But she was already more attached to Brady than she’d ever been to an infant and it had only been a week. That didn’t bode well for her marshmallow heart.

“I’m older and wiser now, Sister.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I just meant that as a working woman of the world I’ve acquired experience.”

“You sound sad.”

“No.” Maggie shrugged. “I guess all the constant moving around in my job is making me restless. Making me yearn for stability.”

Odd. It hadn’t occurred to her when they talked, but that was something she and Jason had in common.

Sister’s eyes filled with sympathy. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Maggie hadn’t, until very recently.

“It’s just that I haven’t felt like I belonged since I left here at eighteen. When I entered the convent after college—” She ran her index finger around the rim of her mug. “I think I was looking for roots, like I had here at the home.” Maggie saw the worry she’d noticed earlier in the nun’s expression. “What is it, Sister?”