I don’t bother to deny it.

“So that’s a no on the talking about it, then?” she asks.

I shrug. We’re silent for several seconds as she goes through the now familiar routine of setting up her KitchenAid mixer and pulling out flour and sugar.

“I’m in a baking mood,” she says. “You pick.”

She doesn’t have to twist my arm. “Chocolate chip?”

Lindy rolls her eyes but smiles. “Boring but easy. Back when I used to let Mr. Paul pick, it was always some complicated tart, or a cake with three different fillings.”

“Really?” I ask, struggling to reconcile the guy who seems to exist on sandwiches and whisky with someone preferring elaborate sweets.

“Yes, well, that was before he went away,” she says, her smile fading a little. “I’m not sure he’d even notice if I made him a cake now.”

She looks so sad. I wish I could comfort her, but there’s not much to say beyond He’s an ass.

I take up my usual perch at the counter, and we sit in silence for several minutes. Lindy doesn’t reference a recipe as she makes the cookies. The process of measuring flour and sugar and salt seems as natural to her as brushing our teeth is to the rest of us.

“Hey, so I never asked,” I say, reaching out a finger to trace through a pile of spilled flour. “How was your and Mick’s vacation?”

She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s taken you two weeks to ask?”

Busted. “Sorry. I’ve been sort of wrapped up in my own stuff, I guess.”

“It happens,” she says, letting me off the hook. “But our vacation was nice. Really nice.”

This time it’s my eyebrows that lift at the inflection in her voice. I lean forward a little, and now it’s my turn to ask: “Want to talk about it?” Then I stifle a laugh, because Lindy actually blushes.

“So it’s like that, then,” I say.

“Like what?”

“No separate rooms, I take it?”

“Do I ask about your love life?” she says primly. Nice. Turning the tables.

“I don’t have a love life.” Not a healthy one, anyway.

“Don’t you?”

I narrow my eyes. “Nope.”

Is it my imagination, or does she look disappointed?

Curiosity gets the best of me. “Hey, Lindy, did you know before I came that I was younger than the other caregivers?”

“You mean did I know you were young and pretty?” She shakes her head. “Nope. Mr. Langdon is a good, fair boss, but he’s not the chatty, confiding type. Mick and I don’t get more information than is strictly necessary. A name, arrival date, et cetera.”

I nod. I figured as much. We’re silent as she cracks eggs into the batter, but she studies me as she lets the mixer do its blendy thing. “What happened that weekend while we were gone? Mick was appalled that Mr. Langdon drove himself here from the airport, but he’s never come without warning before. . . .”

She trails off, leaving room for me to fill in the blanks. I fiddle with my earring. “I’m not sure it’s my story to tell.”

“Ah,” she says. “So there is a story.”

Isn’t there always?

Lindy opens the bag of chocolate chips and surprises me by popping several in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully before offering me the bag. I take out a few myself, eating them one by one as we study each other.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me,” I say, the words coming out in a rush.

Her chewing slows. “What is it you think I know?”

“What happened to Paul. I mean, what actually happened to him while he was over there. I’m not an idiot. His leg’s not that bad, and his scars aren’t debilitating. All of the other caregivers and I aren’t brought here to care for him physically. The damage is all up here.” I tap my temple.

“I see. And I’d be giving you this information in exchange for what?”

“Why Harry Langdon showed up out of the blue that Saturday. Why Paul and I have been on eggshells since then.”

Lindy gives me a look. “I admit I’m curious as to why you and Mr. Paul have lost that easy camaraderie you were just starting to build, but that’s hardly a fair trade.”

She has me there. The story of Paul’s bar fight is hardly on the same level as figuring out what happened to Paul in Afghanistan.

“Worth a shot,” I say, giving a sheepish little smile as I scoop a fingerful of cookie dough. And then I proceed to tell Lindy the story anyway.

I tell her about how I naively thought it would be a good idea for Paul to get out of the house and see some real people, especially Kali. I tell her about the jerks from the bar, and the fight, and the name-calling. I skip the part about the kiss, obviously. And then I tell her about walking in and hearing Harry chastise his son for going out in public and exposing himself to ridicule.

I mean to stop there, but then I hear myself repeating Paul’s words: You might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she’s been.

And then, because I really don’t know when to shut up, I mention the fact that he threw Ethan in my face.

Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “Who’s Ethan?”

“My ex.”

“Ah,” she says, her tone full of something I can’t identify.

“You seem to have gotten an awful lot of information from those two words,” I say.