Marrying The Virgin Nanny / The Nanny And Me. Teresa Southwick

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      “I should think your curiosity would be powerful motivation to stay,” he said.

      “There’s only five weeks left on my contract and I can’t extend it.” Genuine regret darkened her eyes.

      And she wasn’t the only one. Unlike the other nannies he’d had, he actually liked Maggie. She was direct and didn’t play games. On top of that she was incredibly good with his son. He couldn’t imagine her being more loving, tender and nurturing if she’d actually given birth to the boy. In the nanny department, this time was indeed the charm. Did she really think he would let her get away without a fight?

      Not so fast, Margaret Mary Shepherd. She hadn’t seen his very best stuff yet.

      Chapter Three

      “Good job on the bedtime prayers, Lyssa.” Maggie pulled the sheet and blanket up, then leaned over and kissed the six-year-old’s cheek.

      In this wing of the home, the little girl was the youngest and the last of her ten charges to be tucked in. There were fifty children, from birth to eighteen, being cared for here and Maggie relieved one of the paid employees who took a much-needed day off. Her commitment to Good Shepherd Home for Children was unwavering because without this place, she wasn’t sure what would have become of her. The nuns continued to protect and care for kids who desperately needed them and Maggie considered it a sacred honor to assist in any way she could.

      “Maggie?”

      She felt a small hand patting her arm and looked at the blue-eyed, blond cherub clutching a tattered blanket. “What is it, sweetie?”

      “I asked God to bring my mommy back.”

      If Maggie had a dollar for every child who’d said that, she’d be a wealthy woman. The words never failed to tug at her heart because she knew exactly how the little girl felt. “I’m sure God will do His best to answer your prayer.”

      Lyssa rubbed a finger beneath her nose. “But I thought God can do anything.”

      She always hated this part. The children received religious instruction and were taught that the Lord is all powerful and merciful. The kids eventually came up with the same questions she had. If God loves me and takes care of me, then why don’t I have a mom or dad? In Lyssa’s case, her drugged-out mother and a boyfriend had abandoned the little girl at the bus station. There was no way this child would understand that God had taken care of her by making sure she was with the nuns here at Good Shepherd.

      “God can do anything, sweetie.”

      “Why did He let her go away?”

      She met the child’s innocent gaze and wondered how to explain when she didn’t understand it herself. “All I can tell you is that God always does things right, even if it seems wrong to us.”

      “Is it okay that I asked Him to bring Mommy back?”

      “Of course.” Maggie stroked the hair away from the small face. “Just remember that if you ask Him for something and you don’t get it, you have to trust.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you can be sure He’ll give you what you need at the appropriate time. God can do anything He thinks is best.”

      “I think my mommy is best.”

      Maggie managed to smile even though the words hurt her heart. “And I think you’re pretty special.”

      “I love you, Maggie.”

      “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

      When the little girl yawned and rolled to her side, Maggie let out a sigh of relief. For now she’d dodged the issue with Lyssa. But she couldn’t help thinking about the infant in the luxurious penthouse in the center of Las Vegas who would one day be asking his father a similar version of the question: Why isn’t my mother here with me? Why didn’t she love me enough to stay? In Maggie’s case, eventually the questions had hollowed out a place inside that became a need for someone to love her, someone who didn’t have to because it was their job. Someone to love her just for herself. Now she channeled that need into the extra-special care she gave every child who came into her life.

      After one final glance at the four other twin beds in the room, she was satisfied that everyone was sleeping soundly. She turned on the nightlight and left the door open in order to hear the children during the night.

      The house was a big Victorian located on Water Street in the Old Henderson section. Rumor had it that there’d been a brothel here once upon a time. Then the church acquired the property and turned it into a children’s home.

      Maggie had spent a good portion of her life here and thought how different this place was from Jason’s posh penthouse. At the bottom of the wooden stairs there was a living room on her right and dining room on the left. Neither functioned in that capacity. Worn furniture and toy boxes said loud and clear that this was a place for children.

      Her steps echoed on the wooden floor as she headed to the kitchen in the back of the house. Cold in body and spirit, she thought a cup of coffee would hit the spot. When she entered the large room with rows of tables and benches, she saw Sister Margaret sitting by herself, deep in thought.

      Maggie loved this woman—not just like a mother. Sister Margaret Connelly was the only mother she’d ever known. And she looked troubled.

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ