Sophie (The Boss 8)

Of course, there were lots of things Emma and Michael hadn't known. The fact that we'd dated a man on and off for several years, for example.

El-Mudad continued. "If part of that care includes more adults in Olivia's life who are there specifically to nurture her, that can only be for the best."

That statement could easily be applied to him. It could have been subconscious; maybe it was the reasoning he used to justify our unconventional arrangement to himself.

The fact that we even had to make those internal justifications infuriated me. El-Mudad was right. Of course, he was right. Olivia had gained a family full of loving people. She had no reason to think that her life was strange or scandalous.

I refused to think of it that way, either.

As El-Mudad had reassured me, we arrived just as school was letting out. Mothers waved to each other as they crossed the parking lot in casual hiking clothes that had never walked farther than their car and into Starbucks. Even though they’d probably spent the same amount of time on their hair and makeup as I did every day, they somehow blended into the scene better than I did. Across a meticulous lawn, gone yellow with the cold, the main school building—a late 19th-century farmhouse that had been expanded with a matching addition—stood as a gateway to a world of nature trails and greenhouses and bright, inviting playgrounds.

The school was less formal than the education Neil had envisioned for his granddaughter, but it was exactly the kind of place Emma and Michael would have wanted her to attend, which is why I’d insisted on it. Rather than traditional, sit-in-your-chair, color-inside-the-lines teaching, the kids got to direct a lot of their own learning through various activities like gardening or cooking. Their class pets were some goats that Olivia loved.

The goats came up frequently when Neil doubted the efficacy of the learning environment.

The school’s smallness was another big plus; there were less than a hundred children there, preschool through fourth grade. That meant that being just a few minutes behind gave us the advantage of not navigating through the crush to reach Olivia. She stood on the porch in her puffy coat, glancing around nervously. She spotted me, I waved, and she didn’t return it.

"Where's Mariposa?" she demanded as I came up the steps.

"She had to go to the doctor. I'm here to pick you up," I explained, turning to smile at the woman holding a clipboard with a sign-out sheet on it. Her uncertain expression met mine at the exact moment I realized that what I'd said sounded a lot like the script to a stranger-danger video. "Hi. Sophie Scaife. I'm—"

"You must be Olivia's mother." The woman put her mittened hand out to shake mine.

I involuntarily recoiled with guilt. "Sorry. Um, no. Guardian. Her mom—"

"My mom is in heaven," Olivia spoke up. "I drawed a picture of my family. On the first day, I had to drawed a picture."

"You drew a picture," I corrected her. "But yes, it was lovely."

It was a super grim picture that had taken some explaining when the counselor had called about Olivia's emotional state. Our aspiring Goya had drawn two crude bodies with straight-line eyes under the strip of green grass upon which Neil, El-Mudad, the girls, and I stood. Olivia had depicted herself as a giant, smiling head looming over us all.

The woman blanched. "I'm sorry. I just started here. Olivia, you must have drawn that before I got here."

"It's okay. I'll do it again," she promised, and I really, really hoped that she would not. "Come on, Sophie."

I signed her out quickly and wobbled down the steps. If I'd known I’d be making a campus visit, I wouldn't have worn pumps with such tall heels.

Or my Tattersall-check Givenchy romper. I looked out of place among the glam-casual first wives of Long Island.

"Excuse me," a voice asked as I approached the car.

I turned, puzzled.

The woman who'd spoken was slim, blonde, and not one of the moms, judging by the fact that her Kate Spade bag was a knock-off. Maybe she was an au pair. The woman asked, "Are you Sophie Scaife? The author?"

Oh, right. That's me. I'd career hopped so much that I sometimes forgot one. "Yes, that's me."

She pressed a hand to her chest. "I loved your memoirs. Loved them." Her gaze flicked to the car, where El-Mudad scrolled through his phone in the driver's seat, then back to me. "I saw you in Page Six."

"Yeah, well. It was a bad photo. I don't have a lot of experience with, um, that kind of thing," I stammered.

"Sophie, let's go," Olivia demanded, pulling on my hand.

I would have a conversation with her about interrupting later when I wasn't so grateful for her interruption.

"Sorry, I'm not trying to hold you up," the nanny apologized. "I just wanted to let you know I enjoyed the books." She looked at the car again. "I hope you write another one."