So why me?
Of course, it’s a little late to be having these thoughts. I’ve known about this for three months, but in my mind I’ve pretty much been glossing over the reality, the same as I do whenever someone asks what it is I do as a home care specialist: an extra hand for those who need it.
So basically it’s the dictionary definition of vague. But people totally eat it up, and it’s not exactly a lie. Harry Langdon’s email said there was no nursing experience required, just companionship, basic cooking skills, and willingness to relocate to Bar Harbor.
I nailed the lack of nursing experience. I don’t think handing out ice cream bars at St. Jude’s counts. But, surprisingly, I do like to cook. I mean, I’m not destined for my own cooking show or anything, but Mom always insisted on giving our chef the weekends off if they weren’t hosting a party, which means she showed me the basics. Grilled cheese. Scrambled eggs. Chili. Spaghetti.
As for that willingness to relocate? Please. I’d pay them to take me away. My only complaint is that the job isn’t in LA or Seattle or somewhere in a different time zone from everything I’m trying to leave behind. Although, judging from the number of “watch for deer” signs I’ve seen so far, I’m definitely a long way from home.
Basically it all comes down to the fact that one rich dude told another rich dude to find some rich ditz who wouldn’t mind acting as a paid companion.
Not exactly the stuff Nobel Peace Prizes are made of, but I can’t bring myself to care. Whether I got the job because of connections or because of sheer luck (it’s certainly not because of skill), it’s still a ticket out of New York. It’s still an escape.
But all that being said, I don’t know much about my client. I mean, I know Harry Langdon is an elderly businessman with a shit-ton of money. But as for his son? No idea.
Not because I wasn’t curious. Google would have told me what I needed to know in a heartbeat. And God knows, a little research would have been prudent. But honestly? I’ve been scared to death that all it’ll take is one gruesome picture or detailed account of his injuries to have me backing out of the whole thing.
I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m not used to ugly. And from what Mr. Langdon has implied so far, whatever happened to his son was very ugly indeed.
I barely managed to get myself on the plane this morning as it was. The last thing I needed was to know what I was getting into. But now I’m here with no chance of backing out, and keeping my head in the sand is no longer an option.
I can’t stop thinking about how sad Mick’s voice was when he talked about Paul. No, Mr. Paul. Maybe it’s time to figure out exactly what I’m dealing with here.
I pull my cellphone out of my purse, scrolling through the barrage of texts awaiting me.
Mom: Call me as soon as you’re settled. Remember, nobody will think less of you if you decide you want to come home early.
Dad: Olive. Call if you need anything. Proud of you.
Bella: Miss you already. You’re the hottest Florence Nightingale I know.
Andrea: U there yet? my aunt and uncle have a summer home in Vermont if u get creeped out taking care of an old dude and need an escape. xoxoxoxoxo.
The rest, from my friends, are a mixture of support and skepticism that I’ll see this through. I freeze when I get to Michael’s, though: Call me when you quit running. I delete it.
But it’s the last message that really eats at me. Ethan and I haven’t had any contact since I tried—and failed—to get him back a couple of months ago, yet he cares enough to reach out with a simple Good luck, Liv.
I read those three simple words about five times, but I’m unable to find any hidden meaning. That’s the kind of guy Ethan is. He’s simply good.