“Six months,” he says. “You cooperate with this woman for six months. You do as she asks, when she asks it. She tells you to get to the gym, you get to the gym. She tells you to eat f**king broccoli, you eat f**king broccoli. She wants you to wear a tux for dinner, you’ll do that too. I’ll speak with this woman every Sunday, and if you’ve so much as looked at her funny, this all goes away.”

“Break it down for me,” I say through my clenched jaw. “If I misbehave, I’m homeless?”

His eyes close for a half second. “I’m saying that after this, you’re on your own. You want to give up on life, you do it on your own dime.”

My chest tightens, and for a second I think it’s anger and feel like I might punch the man for not understanding. Did he ever have to watch a little boy’s stunned expression as his mother gets blown to kingdom come? Or see a skinny dog lose a leg to an IUD? Did he ever have a knife to his face, or seen bodies so mutilated mothers wouldn’t recognize their own son or daughter?

I snarl and push the thoughts away. All of them.

This isn’t about me. This isn’t about my dad. And it’s sure as f**k not about some stupid, useless caretaker who thinks my entire world will be fixed by eating chicken noodle soup.

This is about a woman who lost her high school sweetheart. It’s about a little girl who has cancer instead of a daddy. Talk about getting the short end of the f**king stick.

I don’t need my dad’s money.

But Alex’s family does.

“So if I make it through the six months acting like a good boy, the checks keep coming?”

He meets my eyes, and for the first time today he doesn’t look angry or disgusted. He looks sad. “Yes. The checks will keep coming.”

I inhale a long breath through my nose. The situation is beyond shitty, and for the thousandth time I rack my brain for ways to provide for the Skinners without my dad’s money. If it was just a matter of putting food on their table and Christmas presents under their tree, maybe whatever low-paying job an injured war vet could get would be enough.

But Lily’s cancer treatments require big money. Money Harry Langdon has.

“Three months,” I say. “I play this woman’s stupid games for three months, not six.”

He holds my gaze for several seconds as we silently test each other’s resolve, and to my surprise I win this round, because he nods. “Three months.”

And then, as though everything is settled and he didn’t take what pathetic life I have left and piss all over it, he moves toward the door. “Mick will drive me back to the airport. I’ll see you. . . .”

His words trail off, and I brace both hands on the desk, staring out at the water now barely visible in the almost-darkness. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

My father hesitates in the doorway, and I turn around.

“Hey,” I say, stopping him before he disappears for the next month, or three months, or however long he can make it until the guilt compels him to look at me again. “This woman coming tomorrow. What if I do my best to cooperate, but she’s like the rest and can’t handle . . . Maine?”

We both know I don’t mean Maine. The problem is that it takes more than a hefty paycheck to expect a woman to spend every single day looking at my ravaged face and bad temper for three months. The problem isn’t Maine. The problem is me.

“What if she leaves before the three months are up?” I press, thinking of Lily’s sad eyes and Amanda’s haunted ones.

My father is silent for several seconds. “Well . . . see that she doesn’t.”

CHAPTER THREE

Olivia

The flight from New York to Portland, Maine, is shorter than I would have liked.

I was hoping that by the time I stepped off the plane, I’d have my thoughts together. That I’d have pep-talked myself into a You can do this! mind-set.

The reality is something more akin to acute nausea, but it’s too late to turn back.

Harry Langdon’s last email told me to look for a sign with my name on it. Simple enough. I grew up in the land of personal drivers. In other words, I know how to find my name among a sea of waiting chauffeurs at baggage claim.

As I move through the airport I mentally correct myself. This time it won’t be a chauffeur—it’ll be a flannel-wearing fisherman from small-town Maine.

Except I’m wrong about that. There are only two people standing with signs in the baggage claim area, and as promised, one of the signs has my name on it. But the man holding it is no flannel-wearing, rough-around-the-edges concerned father who left society to care for his injured son. Instead, there’s a stately-looking man wearing a black uniform, complete with one of those little chauffeur hats.

Maybe I’m not so far away from home after all.

I’m surprised by the fancy treatment. But lucky for them, I speak Rich People.

“Ms. Middleton,” he says with a nod as I approach. “Is there more luggage to attend to?”

“Just this,” I say, gesturing at my small rolling suitcase and carry-on. “The rest is being shipped directly to the Langdons’.”

“Very good.” He holds out a hand for the rolling bag. “Shall we?”

I’m put at ease by the familiarity of this whole routine and follow him out of the tiny airport, not missing the way the women’s eyes linger on my Tory Burch flats and the men’s on my ass. I didn’t know what was the appropriate attire for a home care aide in New England, so I opted for formfitting black slacks and a pink cashmere sweater. Looking at the sleek Lincoln Town Car, I’m glad I changed out of the jeans I was wearing earlier. To think I was worried about my sweater picking up dirt smudges from a dingy pickup truck. The most I have to worry about in this car is whether to turn on the air-conditioning.