Such Great Heights Read online

  ©2020 Sydney Logan

  Edited by Kathie Spitz

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  “I Love My Mother” quotation by Adabella Radici and Terri Guillemets

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sydney Logan

  Don’t make me come over there.

  I roll my eyes. It’s only her thousandth text. Doesn’t Dana realize I just want to be left alone?

  Ignoring her threat, I scroll through my phone until I find my Adele playlist. I’ve always loved her voice, but I’ve never really been able to relate to her sorrowful lyrics until this summer.

  Am I being dramatic?

  Possibly.

  Do I care?

  Not a bit.

  Before I spiral into a total depression, I toss my phone aside, wrap my blanket around me, and dig in the couch for the remote. Mindlessly, I flip through the channels, settling on reruns of Friends, but not even Chandler Bing—the man of my dreams—can pull me out of my misery.

  I can’t believe this is my life.

  After busting my tail in college to get my teaching degree, I thought I’d spend this summer decorating my beautiful new classroom. Instead, it’s August, and while other teachers are busy getting ready for the new school year, I’m wallowing in my apartment—binge-watching TV shows and surrounded by pizza boxes.

  While my college degree hangs on the wall, taunting me from its frame.

  Disgusted with pretty much everything, I pull my blonde hair into a sloppy bun and reach for my trusty pint of ice cream.

  I’ve wanted to be a teacher since I was old enough to write on my chalkboard easel—a Christmas gift from my parents when I was six years old. Back in my little hometown of Chestnut Grove, I used to arrange my stuffed animals on my twin bed and teach them how to do important things, like count to ten and sing their ABCs.

  When it was time to pick a college, I knew I wanted two things—to attend a school in nearby Nashville and to major in elementary education. Both dreams came true, and after graduating with honors in May, I applied to every school district within a hundred-mile radius of my apartment. In my mind, I had a clear vision of my future classroom, filled with happy children surrounded by brightly-decorated walls.

  Not for one moment did I worry that my fantasy would remain just that.

  A fantasy.

  College doesn’t prepare you for the cold hard truth. My advisor didn’t tell me that I could do everything right and it might not matter. My professors failed to explain that I could make the Dean’s list and ace my teacher exams, and it may not be enough. Nobody told me there would be over a thousand applicants and nowhere near that many jobs available. No one told me that I, Olivia Stuart, would be a very small fish in an enormous sea of honors degrees and glowing recommendations.

  So here I sit—spoon in mouth, ice cream carton in hand. And I’m one of the most highly recommended, unemployed teachers in Metro Nashville.

  Go me.

  A relentless pounding jerks me out of my nap. I throw back the blanket and hurriedly rush to the door, still too sleepy to remember that I’m ignoring all annoying knockers. I’m quickly reminded when I open up, and my two best friends push their way inside.

  “It's about time. I was on the verge of calling your parents, and you know how much I hate calling parents. Any parents. Especially my own. Take this.” Dana shoves a bottle of wine into my hand before heading toward the kitchen. “Do you even own a corkscrew?”

  “No. I don’t drink, remember?”

  “Well, that’s part of your problem.”

  Angel smiles and offers me a bakery box.

  “Dessert. I come in peace.”

  With a groan, I roll my eyes and kick the door closed.

  “That's the spirit!” Angel beams. “I'll grab some plates and forks!”

  I ignore her enthusiasm and stumble back to the couch.

  “Can you believe I found a corkscrew in the back of your silverware drawer?” Dana asks, collapsing on the sofa and reaching for the bottle.

  “Not really, no.”

  “Good lord, Olivia, your hair. When was the last time you showered?” She glances around the living room. “Or cleaned.”

  “You showed up unannounced and uninvited. Deal with it.”

  Angel appears with plates and forks. I have no idea where she found them. I haven’t washed a dish in forever.

  “You’re depressed. We get it,” Angel says as she joins us on the couch.

  Dana hands me a plate. “Yes. We totally understand. But you’ve had the whole summer to wallow. It’s time to get back on that horse.”

  “And we are here to . . . offer you a horse, so to speak. And cheesecake. Eat up.”

  I take a bite and moan. The cherry sauce is gooey and delicious.

  “We have a job opportunity for you,” Angel says.

  I perk up. “A teaching job?”

  Dana nods. “Sort of, yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Don’t be picky, Olivia. You need a job, don't you? And the pay is excellent. Way more than you'd be making dealing with a classroom full of snot-nosed kids. Plus, I gave you a fabulous recommendation.”

  “And the best part is you'll be working with a child,” Angel says.

  “A child? As in one?”

  “Yes,” Dana says. “Cutest kid in the whole world.”

  “That's high praise coming from you. You don't even like kids.”

  She scrolls through her phone. “Well, I'm biologically required to like this one. You remember Ryder?”

  “Your nephew?”

  Dana nods and finds a picture of the little boy on her phone. He’s adorable, with bright blue eyes and sandy blond hair. I’ve never met him, but she’s always posting his pictures on her Instagram.

  “Five years old and looks just like my brother, thank God.”

  “Why? What's wrong with his mom?”

  “Don’t get her started,” Angel mumbles.

  “She’s a monster,” Dana says. “Left my brother and nephew for another man, so no, I am definitely not a fan. Jackson’s trying to raise his kid, plus wo
rk his normal hours at Dad’s law firm. Obviously, it’s all very overwhelming.”

  “So . . . he needs a nanny,” Angel says.

  This little intervention suddenly starts to make sense.

  “I am not playing Mary Poppins.”

  Dana sighs. “Just listen. Ryder’s mom left nearly six months ago. My nephew’s gone through four nannies since then. I mean, these people can’t get to the elevator fast enough.”

  Angel’s eyes grow wide. “You didn’t tell me that. I thought you said he was the cutest kid in the world?”

  “Even the cutest kids lash out when their mothers leave them,” I mutter.

  Dana flashes me a brilliant smile. “See! You get that and you haven't even met him. You are perfect for this job. Ryder starts kindergarten this year, and he's so, so smart and loves to play piano. But the kid is dealing with a lot, and Jackson is working so much. My nephew needs some stability, Liv, and my brother needs help.”

  “And you need a job,” Angel says.

  I consider my options. I do need a job. And playing nanny to a five year old couldn’t be too bad.

  Dana grins. “Plus, you won’t have to worry about paying rent for a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You'd be expected to live there, of course. Jackson has a high-rise apartment downtown. It’s totally spacious and unbelievably gorgeous. You’ll have your own room and private bath.”

  “Ooh, tell her about Hazel!” Angel says.

  “Who’s Hazel?”

  “Jackson’s maid. She’s a doll. You’ll love her.”

  A high-rise apartment and a maid?

  As the daughter of a lawyer and pediatrician, Dana had definitely been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her charmed childhood was a far cry from mine. I never wanted for anything, but my middle class upbringing couldn’t begin to compare.

  “Oh, Dana, I don’t know. I’m not used to—”

  “Luxuries?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “So? Consider it a vacation.”

  Angel nods furiously.

  “It sounds so . . . Sound of Music. I can’t be her.”

  Dana frowns. “Her who?”

  “She means Julie Andrews,” Angel replies before breaking out in song. “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens—”

  Dana clasps her hand over Angel’s mouth.

  “Olivia, nobody expects you to sing songs or make clothes out of curtains.”

  “That’s good, considering I can’t sew.”

  Dana squeals. “So you'll do it?”

  I sigh. Will I?

  “Doesn't your brother want to interview me first?”

  “Yes, but he trusts my judgment. If I say you can handle this, then he believes me.”

  “But what if I can't handle it?”

  “There’s a degree hanging on your wall that says you can.”

  I smile, because she’s right. I can do this—at least until a teaching position becomes available. It’ll be good practice. It’s just one kid. One sad boy who’s lost his mother. And if I can’t do it? Then I should probably reconsider my career choice, because when I have a classroom, I’m going to have a room full of kids just like him.

  This is just one kid.

  One father.

  And a maid.

  “You’ll help me pack, right?”

  Two high-pitched squeals echo off my walls.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  I punch the button for the 28th floor. Dana wasn’t lying when she said the building was a high-rise. She did, however, fail to mention that I’d be living in a penthouse. Not that it matters. From the outward appearance and marbled lobby of Brookstone Towers, I’m betting all the apartments in the building are spectacular.

  And I’ve never felt more out of place.

  Why am I here?

  Oh yeah. Because I need a job.

  The elevator dings and opens right in front of Jackson Healey’s penthouse door.

  Pulling my suitcase behind me, I slowly step off the elevator and hesitantly ring the bell. I take a deep breath just as the door opens, and I’m greeted by a woman with big brown eyes and soft gray hair. She’s wearing a maid’s uniform, all pressed and tidy.

  “Good morning,” she says kindly. “You must be Miss Stuart.”

  “Olivia, please.”

  She smiles warmly. “Olivia. Won’t you come in? My name’s Hazel. It’s so nice to meet you. May I take your suitcase?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  Hazel’s smile fades.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to . . . someone taking my suitcase.”

  Her brown eyes crinkle as she laughs. “I completely understand. I imagine all this will take some getting used to. I’m still getting used to it, and I’ve been with Mr. Healey for thirty years.”

  Thirty years?

  “I’ll give you the grand tour later. Would you like to see your room before you meet the boys?”

  “That’d be great. Thank you, Hazel.”

  She smiles sweetly at me and leads me through the living room. The first thing I notice is the artwork. Large framed paintings hang on pristine white walls. That’s all I have the chance to see before Hazel points me down a long hallway, filled with even more artwork. I assume these are the bedrooms, but it’s hard to tell because every door is closed. I wonder if that’s because Mr. Healey likes his privacy or because the house is symbolic of their moods.

  Closed-off. Cold. Unwelcoming.

  Except for Hazel, of course.

  “Here you are,” she says, waving me inside.

  My new bedroom is bigger than my apartment’s living room and kitchen . . . combined. The bed is covered with a beautiful black and white chevron bedspread. Otherwise, the room is completely bare, except for the black bedside table, lamp, and dresser.

  Oh, and the giant flat screen.

  Nice.

  “I'll let you get settled. You'll let me know if you need anything at all? I’m happy to help you unpack if you need it, but I get the feeling you might like some time to yourself. I know this is probably a little overwhelming. Just let me know if you need me.”

  “I will, Hazel. Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Olivia.”

  With a warm smile, she closes the door behind her.

  I roll my suitcase over to the massive walk-in closet. In truth, I really don’t have much to unpack since I’d only brought enough clothes to last the week. While Dana’s confident in our arrangement, Mr. Healey insisted I only bring the essentials for now . . . just in case it doesn’t work out.

  I can’t blame him for being cautious. After all, his son has already scared off four other nannies.

  According to Dana, the first two girls had each lasted about a month. Deciding gender was the problem, Mr. Healey then hired a couple of male college students who majored in everything from child psychology to mechanical engineering. Josh, the last nanny, survived the longest. On his final afternoon of employment, he had picked up Ryder from summer camp. As they pulled out onto the highway, Ryder decided to call shotgun. The boy climbed out of his booster chair and into the passenger seat right next to Josh.

  The nanny was fine with it. The state trooper was not.

  Josh showed Mr. Healey the ticket.

  Mr. Healey showed Josh the door.

  I’ve just finished unpacking when I hear a knock. I nervously reach for the knob and breathe a heavy sigh of relief when I find Hazel on the other side.

  “If you’re ready, Jackson would like to meet you before introducing you to Ryder.”

  “Okay.”

  My hands begin to tremble. I hurriedly stuff them in my pockets.

  Hazel’s eyes fill with sympathy for me.

  “I’d tell you not to be nervous, but really, who are we kidding? You have every right to be.”

  Comforting.

  There’s a mirror hanging on the wall right next to the door. Anxiously, I smooth a strand of my
hair into place.

  “Hazel, do I look okay?”

  I’d chosen a nice cranberry blouse and black slacks to wear today. A dress or skirt seemed too formal at the time, but now I’m wondering if maybe I should’ve dressed up a little.

  “Oh, you look lovely, Olivia.”

  “Thanks. I wasn’t sure what to wear.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t wear anything expensive—not until we see how Ryder behaves at dinner.”

  I fidget with my blouse.

  “Olivia, I promise casual dress is fine. Unless of course, there’s a function or dinner party.”

  Dinner party? What kind of function?

  “Ready?”

  No. But I nod anyway.

  “Jackson’s in his study. I’ll show you the way.”

  After taking one last look in the mirror, I follow her down the hall and back through the massive living room. Hazel stops, giving me the chance to get my first real look at my new home.

  A gigantic television screen graces the far wall. Intricate works of art are scattered about, and oil paintings hang from the walls. There’s a grand piano resting in a corner, flanked by windows that lead out onto the terrace.

  It’s a beautiful home—if you want to live in a museum.

  “You look confused,” Hazel says.

  “I was just wondering . . . does Ryder play? I don’t see any toys or . . . really any sign that a child lives here at all.”

  “Natasha—I mean, Mrs. Healey—required that Ryder play in his room. And only in his room.”

  Her tone is hushed and clipped. If the sour look on Hazel’s face is any indication, she’s not a fan of the wife, either.

  As she leads me down a small hallway on the other side of the apartment, Hazel tells me that playtime wasn’t encouraged until Jackson came home from work. Even then, it was very structured—per Mrs. Healey’s orders.

  “You call him Jackson?”

  She stops in front of a set of closed double doors.

  “Yes, but you should probably call him Mr. Healey unless he tells you otherwise.” Just before she knocks on the door, she turns to give me a wink. “I can get away with calling him by his name. I used to change his diapers.”

  I laugh nervously.

  “Ready?”

  I take a deep breath and nod.

  Hazel knocks on the door. We hear a muttered, “Come in,” before the two of us head inside.