“I hire them to help you,” he says, this time hitting the desk with a full palm.
I take a large sip of the whiskey, letting it burn my throat. The shit of it is, I think the old man really does think he’s helping. He thinks that having some overweight, overperfumed wannabe nurse hovering around will somehow erase everything that happened. I just don’t know how to get it through his head that there are some things that can’t be fixed and can’t be erased. My leg, for instance. And my face.
And definitely not all the things that went fifty ways of fucked-up inside my head while I was in that godforsaken sandbox on the other side of the world.
“Dad,” I say, my voice a little rough, “I’m fine.”
He pins me with a stare, his eyes the same pale blue I see in the mirror. Back when I looked in the mirror, anyway.
“You’re not fine, Paul,” he replies. “You can barely walk. You don’t leave this house unless forced to. All you do is read and mope—”
“Brood. I prefer brood. More manly than mope!”
“Damn it, don’t be cute! You lost the right to be cute after you—”
“After I what?” I push myself upright, careful to keep all of my weight on my right leg so I don’t lean to one side. Or worse, wobble. “At what point did I lose the right to be cute? Was it after this?” I point to my leg. “Nah, that wasn’t it. Then it must be this.” I point to my face and am oddly satisfied when he looks away.
“It’s not about your leg or your face,” he says gruffly. “It’s how they came to be that way that you need to deal with. And you know it.”
I do know it.
I just don’t believe for one damned second that an outsider coming in here and trying to coax me into the gym to do lame-ass physical therapy exercises or asking me every five minutes if I’ve eaten is going to fix anything.
“Lindy is here,” I grumble.
“Lindy is here as a housekeeper. She’s here to wash the sheets and make sure the glasses are clean for the alcohol you drink all day long, not to ensure you don’t do something idiotic. And before you start, I’m not asking Mick to do that either. He’s a chauffeur.”
“Yeah, he seems to be staying real busy with that, what with your bimonthly visits.”
“He’s not here for my benefit, he’s here for yours.”
I move back toward my leather chair, too tired of this conversation to even try to hide the limp. “Well, if that’s the case, get rid of him. I have nowhere to go. You know, there are worse things I could be doing than staying out of your hair and staying out of the public eye. Do you really want all of your colleagues and country club friends in Boston to see me?”
“You’re the one who exiled yourself up here. Not me.”
“Exactly! So quit trying to coax every nanny and nurse in Boston to take care of me.”
“Fine,” he says, his head nodding once.
I open my mouth to argue before his word sets in. “Wait. Really? So you’re done trying to—”
He holds up a finger, and his eyes go stone-cold, and I realize abruptly that I’m no longer dealing with Harry Langdon the father figure. This is Harry Langdon the hotel magnate. The man who’s been described by Forbes as hard-hearted and relentless.
My father was forty-seven when I was born, which put him in his mid-sixties when I was in high school, but nobody ever made the mistake of thinking he was my grandfather. Partially because everyone knew him. And everybody who knew him knew that he’d married a woman twenty-two years his junior, knocked her up, and then divorced her before I was potty-trained. But mostly they never mistook him for a grandfather because he’s never looked like an old man. He’s always had the power and energy of men half his age.