I didn’t deserve him.
I respond to my parents, letting them know that I’ve arrived safely and that everything’s okay, but don’t reply to anyone else. I don’t even know what I’d say. Although the flight from New York to Maine was only a little over an hour, I already feel completely detached from my old life. The feeling is unsettling, but also freeing. As though maybe I really can start over.
I start to go about my initial task of Googling Paul Langdon, but the coverage is spotty, and before my phone can load the search results, cell service has gone from spotty to nonexistent.
Fantastic.
I put the phone away and lean back in my seat, letting my mind wander. I alternate between worst-case-scenario visions of what lies ahead (just one more thing you can screw up) and Pollyanna pep talks (you’ve got this) for most of the drive, but I sit up a little straighter when I catch sight of water through the trees, and I strain to get a better look.
Mick sees my movement. “That’s Frenchman Bay. It’s even prettier on a sunny day.”
I nod, but I actually sort of like that it’s overcast. It seems to suit my mood. The glimpses of water become more and more frequent, and even with the gray skies, it looks like a postcard.
“How much longer?” I ask. My palms are clammy.
“Not long. The Langdon estates are right on the water outside of town.”
Langdon estates? Interesting. There’s rich, and then there’s rich. Now I’m really wishing that my online research on the Langdons had been more thorough.
And when Mick turns onto a tree-lined drive, I’m wishing I’d hired a full-on private investigator because I’m pretty sure the building to my right is an honest-to-God stable.
“How long have you worked for the Langdons?” I ask, now completely confident that Mick is a full-time employee for a wealthy family and not just an occasional luxury.
He doesn’t meet my eyes in the mirror this time. “Long time,” he says finally, his tone terser than it was before.
Got it. No chitchat about our employer.
Then I see the house. Actually, house is a stretch. It’s more like a compound.
There are at least three buildings within easy walking distance of the main house, which rivals the grandest of the Hamptons homes I’ve been to. I’m still gaping when Mick comes around and opens the door for me. The house is neither modern minimalism nor ornate ostentation. The only time I’ve seen anything like it was when my parents and I spent Christmas in the Swiss Alps at a resort chalet. It’s three stories of perfectly maintained wood, gray stone chimneys, and high-peaked roofs.
I can’t help but picture it in the snow, maybe adorned with white lights at Christmas. Not that I’m trying to romanticize the whole thing, but I have to admit…it’s not a bad place to banish oneself.
“Mr. Langdon would prefer you stay in the main house close to Mr. Paul,” Mick says, taking my suitcase out of the trunk. “But if that doesn’t work out, there’s plenty of room in the staff house—the ‘small house,’ as we call it.”
I frown a little at what I think must be a hidden meaning in those words. Why wouldn’t it work out for me to stay in the main house?