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?

I follow Mick through the front door, doing my best not to gape. I’ve been in so many nice homes that I’m generally sort of immune to all the bells and whistles that money can buy, but this is gorgeous in an unfamiliar way. There’s none of the ostentatious snobbery of Park Avenue, nor the trying-too-hard casualness of Hamptons beach homes. Instead it’s sort of this rustic beauty. In place of a marble foyer with a crystal chandelier, there’s a spacious entryway opening to a wide wooden staircase. There’s almost nothing in the way of home decor save for a hunter-green area rug, but that actually kind of works. Too many frills would take away from the natural beauty of the exposed wood.

It definitely feels like a man’s home, and I find myself wishing I’d bothered to look up what happened to Mrs. Langdon. Because while it’s gorgeous in an imposing sort of way, it’s clear that no woman has called this home in a long time. Maybe ever.

I follow Mick into the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen. The stove in the middle of the room has like eight burners, and the fridge is at least twice the size of our one at home.

Mick is murmuring something to a middle-aged woman whose apron over her jeans and button-down blue shirt identify her as the one responsible for whatever smells so delicious on the stove.

“Ms. Middleton, this is Linda Manning.”

“Olivia, please,” I say with a smile.

“Call me Lindy,” the gray-haired woman says, shaking my hand in a friendly enough manner, although it’s clear that I’m being assessed. “You’re a good deal younger than the rest of them.”

“The rest of . . . the staff?” I ask, not following.

Mick and Lindy exchange a glance. I’m obviously missing something.

“There’s really not much in the way of staff,” Mick says with a forced smile. “I take care of the driving and estate management. Lindy doubles as cook and housekeeper, although a couple of girls from town come over every week to help with the more extensive cleaning. Scott takes care of the land and the stable.”

“Oh,” I murmur, still confused about what they’re not saying. And stable? Really?

Luckily, Lindy doesn’t seem like the type to be needlessly mysterious. “When I said you were the youngest, I meant you were younger than the other home care aides. I’m used to seeing fuddy-duddy old women or thirtysomething charity workers.” She pauses. “Have you and Mr. Langdon met in person?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m eager to meet him. Is he around?”

Mick and Lindy exchange yet another of those glances, and I narrow my eyes just slightly at the familiarity in the look. Something tells me Mick and Lindy are more than colleagues. I guess that’s a good thing, considering they’re out here in the middle of nowhere all by themselves.

“Mr. Langdon only comes up to Bar Harbor every few months or so,” Lindy replies cautiously. “Did he tell you he’d be here?”

I feel a little stupefied. Every few months? I mean, I knew that he didn’t live here, but I thought he’d at least be here when I arrived to provide specific direction on what’s expected of me.

“I guess he didn’t say so specifically,” I say, trying not to totally freak out on them. “I just assumed . . .”

“Well, no matter,” Lindy says, giving me a confident smile. “We’ll give you the lay of the land and introduce you to Mr. Paul, and you’ll feel right at home.”

I’m pretty sure Mick mutters something under his breath, but then he’s wheeling my suitcase out of the kitchen, nodding in acknowledgment at Lindy’s instruction that I’m to be put in the Green Room.

“It’s got a fantastic view of the water,” she says, tugging off her apron. “And it’s close to Mr. Paul’s room should he need anything.”

“Where is, um, Mr. Paul?” I ask, following their naming convention even though it feels like something out of another century.

Lindy’s confident expression slips slightly, and for a second I think she wants to warn me about something, but her smile returns. “He spends most mornings in the library reading,” she says, indicating with a nod that I should follow her. “He’s probably there.”

“Isn’t it afternoon?” I ask.

Lindy doesn’t turn around. “He spends the afternoons in there too. And the evenings.”

Yikes.

“Hey, Lindy,” I ask, moving between her and the door of what I assume is the library before she can knock. “What, um . . . what is it that I’m expected to do? Nobody’s really told me any specifics.”

She purses her lips. “Mr. Langdon didn’t outline any expectations?”

“Oh, sure. He said I’m to encourage his son to get to physical therapy—”

Lindy snorts.

“—and that I’m to ensure he eats regularly.”

Another snort.

“But mostly just that I should be a companion. Keep the man company.”

Lindy doesn’t respond to this last bit, and too late I realize she isn’t looking at me. She’s looking behind me.

I spin around and barely stifle a shriek when I see the silhouette of a man standing in the darkened doorway.

I can’t see his face, but his voice is ice cold. “Sounds like my father forgot to mention the most important part of your job. But then, he never tells my babysitters what they’re really doing here.”