I breathe deeply and slowly, carefully. “I . . . I don’t know. Could I? I don’t know. Why would I do that? What was it I really did?” I trace the stitching in the leather at the edge of my seat. “Looking back, I find only dubious value in the service I performed.”
“See, I disagree. I think you performed a very valuable service. When you’re dealing with people as rich as your former clientele, parenting often gets left at the wayside. Pursuit of wealth is the only thing that matters to many of them. So . . . you end up with spoiled rich kids who have no conception of reality, who don’t value hard work or money, who have no sense of self or decency or morals or anything. And I think your real value was in taking them down a few notches. Making them realize that the world wasn’t always going to revolve around them. That it didn’t, doesn’t, and never will.” He pulls to a stop on a street, I have no idea which one or where we are, and parallel parks in front of a restaurant. Doesn’t get out, pivots in his seat and looks into my eyes. “I think you could open your own business doing the same basic thing, but maybe take it a few steps further. You’d probably make a fucking fortune, and you’d be doing the world a favor by taking the douche out of some of the spoiled assholes out there.”
I consider it. “You really think so?”
He nods. “I really do. But the thing here is that you’d be doing it on your own terms. No persona. Just you being you. You’d do what you did before, meet and assess each client, and come up with a treatment plan or whatever you want to call it. Teach them manners. Like, basic manners. Make them wait tables. Make them do charity work, like at a soup kitchen or something. Whatever you think necessary to enact the change in them.”
“Where would I find clients? I—I don’t even know where to start.”
He smiles at me and squeezes my hand. “I can help. It’s sort of what I do, you know. I can even float you a startup loan.”
“I need to consider.”
He nods. “Of course. It’s a big step.”
I put it out of my mind as we exit the SUV and sit down to eat. The food is delicious, of course. I let him order for me, and thus do not know the names of any of the dishes. I just know that everything is heavy in garlic, features rice and olives and lamb and chicken and thick crispy pita bread. It is flavorful and filling, but not heavy. As we eat, Logan brings the conversation back around to the idea of me starting my own business.
“One thing I’d say for sure is that you wouldn’t work out of your home. You need a separation of work and home. Unless you’re, like, a computer programmer or something, you need your own space that’s just for you. Especially in the line of business you’re considering. You can’t have clients coming and going from your living room. That just invites familiarity, and you need to remain aloof. Untouchable. Imposing. The atmosphere would still have to seem informal, comfortable, but separate from your personal space.” He shovels a few forkfuls of rice into his mouth and then stabs a green olive, gesturing with the fork and the olive. “I think—I think . . .” He eats the olive, and I’m noticing that the more he discusses this, the more effusive he becomes. It’s endearing and adorable and inspiring, seeing his excitement over this idea. It’s contagious. “I think if you bought a town house kind of like mine, we could renovate it to suit your needs. Make a front room, a deep comfortable leather couch, a little kitchenette and bar, a bay window overlooking the street. And then make a separate entrance leading to your space, which would take up the rest of the house, use both upper and lower levels. Maybe make the bedroom a loft over the rest. Keep it open, you know? The door to your space would need to be really secure, though, maybe use biometrics. Thumbprints and whatever, right?”
I interrupt his flow. “Logan. This all sounds wonderful, but . . .” I cannot help a sigh of defeat. “I don’t have a single dime to my name. I don’t own a single article of clothing of my own. Nothing. Where am I going to get the money to buy a town house in Manhattan, much less capital to open a business?”
He waves my objection away with his fork. “Told you, I’ll help you out. Run you a business loan.”
“I’m not taking your money, Logan. That would only—”
He sets his fork down, his gaze serious. “I didn’t say ‘give,’ Isabel, I said ‘loan.’ I’ll have my banker work up the paperwork for you. I know you wouldn’t take money from me, and that’s not what I’m offering. I’d have no stake in your business itself, other than the hope that you’re profitable so I see a return on my investment. I’m not looking to make a profit myself off this, so the terms would be pretty forgiving, low interest, make it easy for you to pay it off. This is to help you. Get you started.”