How Nancy Drew Saved My Life - Lauren Baratz-Logsted Mills & Boon Silhouette

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had always believed there are keys to the inner workings of every person alive. When love is wrong or insufficient, people jealously guard those keys, preferring to play games instead, making the other person guess at what is required, knowing the other person will fail miserably. When love is right, good, you gladly hand over the keys; you trust, and let the other person know exactly what makes you tick, for good or ill. I gave Buster so many of my keys, I let him inside me. I thought I had his keys, too, and he just ransacked the whole fucking place, like the Grinch paying a call on Cindy Lou Who the night before Christmas, and left me with no more than some picture-hanging wire and a few nails sticking out of the walls. I should have seen it coming, but still…how could he do that to me? How could he do that to me in the way in which he did it?

      I could go into all the gory details, but why bother? These stories always end the same. Suffice it to say, I was the only one destroyed, certainly not Buster.

      I don’t think his wife ever knew.

      I sincerely hope she did not.

      Not that she was any great shakes as a human being herself.

      I’ll tell you one thing for damn certain: Nancy Drew never would have fallen in love with a married man.

      In the wake of my bust-up with Buster, I moved temporarily back in with my aunt Bea and her three kids. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to be there, and it was sure as rain that the four of them didn’t particularly want me back there, but I was feeling too emotionally fragile to strike out on my own right away. Plus, for one thing, my exit from Buster’s household had been too abrupt for me to find something right away—slim chance to find a decent apartment in New York City on the same day as one starts looking. Two, I didn’t intend the situation to be permanent, just long enough until I could make up my mind and clearly decide what to do next. Three, last but not least, despite that I had some savings from my long-ago glory as a commercial child star, it would dwindle with alarming speed if I took up residency for a few months—the optimum time needed, I figured, to recover from a major heartbreak—in a New York City hotel room.

      Thus it was, in the wake of my breakup with Buster and having moved back in with my aunt, that I saw the Times article that led me to Nancy Drew. It was in that same edition of the Times that I found my next nannying position, for I had indeed been the nanny to Buster’s own two kids, in his Manhattan penthouse on the Upper West Side.

      The classified ad read:

      WANTED!

      NANNY

      Full-time position.

      Applicants must be willing

      to travel to Reykjavik.

      It said the job would not start for another two months, but since there had not been any other listings in the recent weeks since I’d been checking—indeed, the recession we were supposedly not having had dried up even the nanny market—I figured it was Reykjavik or bust for me. Now, if only I knew where Reykjavik was….

      It is indeed possible to be widely read, as I am, and still have black holes in one’s knowledge. So, although I’m a nanny by profession, my sense of geography sucks. I’d thought St. Louis was in the state of New Orleans—well, wouldn’t it be better if it was, both places being great for jazz, and I used to get Las Vegas and Los Angeles mixed up on a regular basis.

      Don’t even get me started on where Michigan should really be.

      After the part about the delayed start date, the ad listed a fax number for sending résumés.

      I pulled a copy of my résumé from out of the stack in the folder on my dresser—I might not be feeling intrepid anymore, but a member of the Mary Poppins profession is always prepared—and went in search of Aunt Bea to see if she would let me use her fax machine.

      Given that I’d lived in that household, a Greenwich Village town house, off and on since my father moved to Africa when I was three—more on him and my mother later—you would not think I’d still have to obtain permission for such minor things. Oh no. I’m guessing you never lived in a household like Aunt Bea’s.

      I found her in her king-size brass bed—nothing about Aunt Bea’s desire for luxury was ever small—huddled under the frilly bedsheets, a can of SlimFast with a straw on the night table, the TV tuned to All My Children; another thing we differed on, to her unending horror, as I was a Days of Our Lives fan, born if not bred, just like my late mother.

      Aunt Bea at fifty looked about ten years older than she needed to. Not that she didn’t make every vain effort to look younger, at least as far as clothing choices and makeup, but she’d spent so much of her life frowning that she was as in need of Botox as a shar-pei.

      But she was scared of needles.

      And botulism.

      I had learned over time, through many trials and a whole slew of errors, that the best way to get something out of Aunt Bea was to appeal to her sense of her own needs. Certainly, appealing to her sense of my needs hadn’t gotten me anywhere.

      “Excuse me?” I coughed.

      “Can’t you see Erica’s about to have one of her big scenes?” Aunt Bea didn’t even look in my direction.

      It seemed to me that Erica was always having big scenes and that her big scenes were never as big as Marlena’s big scenes, but what did I know?

      I sucked it up and plowed on.

      “There’re almost no want ads anymore in the Times,” I said woefully.

      “But you have to get a job,” she said, eyes still glued to Erica. “You can’t stay here forever.”

      “True, true.”

      I let that rest for a minute. Then:

      “In that whole big paper today, there was only one job I’m qualified for. And you know there haven’t been any other ads for nannies in weeks…”

      “What job?” She looked at me sharply.

      I produced the ad from behind my back, holding the résumé in reserve.

      “Here,” I said. “But look, it’s all the way in Reykjavik.” I wrinkled up my nose. “Do you know where Reykjavik is?” Usually, the nose-wrinkling is an affectation on my part, but not this time. “Isn’t it in Yugoslavia somewhere—is Yugoslavia even still there?—or Poland? Cities in those countries always end in ‘k,’ right?”

      “Reykjavik doesn’t ring any strong bells?” Aunt Bea asked.

      I shook my head.

      “Reagan?” she prompted.

      “I know who he was,” I admitted cautiously.

      “Gorbachev?” she prompted some more. “Big summit there? Reagan proposed complete disarmament and the Pentagon went crazy because, at that time, the USSR had a huge conventional military superiority over NATO and the West needed its nuclear deterrent? Still nothing?”

      I shook my head.

      “What year was this?” I asked.

      “Nineteen eighty-six,” she snapped, as though only a fool, or someone like me, wouldn’t know the answer.

      “It was kind of before my time,” I said. “I’m fairly certain I was still mostly preoccupied with my Little People Farmhouse back then.”

      “You don’t know anything,” she said, disgusted.

      I shrugged. Maybe I didn’t.

      “It’s in Iceland,” Aunt Bea said.

      Crap, Iceland sounded cold. Oh, well.

      “Oh,” I said. “I was kind of worried you’d say that.”

      “You mean you asked me when you knew all along?”

      “Let’s just say I

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